new york public library

Here in my current office, the stately reading room of the New York Public Library, the one at 5th Ave at 42nd that is one of the largest libraries in the world, with columns and sculptures and huge murals of the sky on the ornate ceiling fifty feet overhead, the man on the computer next to me is using his cell phone to take pictures of scantily clad chicks on the
internet. This one’s a blond on a beach. “Say che-eese!” his cell phone says before it clicks. They're not even naked! I prefer the aesthetic of the guy in front of me, staring at real porn in full view of about 20 people.

On the ground floor is an exhibit of centuries-old Japanese prints. One of them shows three women hiding behind a screen masturbating while peering out at a prince gazing at the moon. One can barely make out the contours of the arms and hands under the folds of fabric, although the hand of one is clear.

On the third floor, across the hall from where I sit, is an exhibit on the history of fashion and costume. Here in the reading room a fancily dressed European woman kicks a homeless man off a computer at the appointed time. He asks her for more time and she points to the clock.

I go into the bathroom and there's this young brother with cornrows and no shirt washing his face in the
sink. Really scrubbing. He's got a tube of honey and oatmeal facial scrub beside him. "Is that stuff good?"
I ask.

"It's good for me," he says.

"What does it do?" I ask.

"Well, I got bad skin," he says, his face white with
foam.

"It doesn't look so bad to me," I say. I'm cringing at this one, and waiting for the gay-bashing to begin.

"You see, this part up here (forehead) is dark, and this part down here (nose, central) is light. Now, I
don't give a fuck about the dark part, because I'm black. But I just want it to all be the same color."