Sketch 3

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She liked to study atop the low prod of a straight beat—determined, laid back, but low. She thought it genius that, during the 90s, old music was made new; sampling records from earlier decades, musicians fashioned elderly hits into contemporary jams. These songs often had the characteristics she preferred to study with: that low beat, the skidding tempos, the jazzy chords, the sexy soft whispers...

And yet, her music was infused with a thin sense of nostalgia; the first time she’d heard these songs was when she was only eight, nine, ten, eleven—when life was simple. Tangy orange sodas. Free little legs kicked back in sprint. Smooth skin and scraped knees. The awe of summer fireflies.

Late afternoon. The big, west-facing glass door and the hanging pollen melted by thick, golden-red sun.

The more she worked, the more distracted she found herself. Tonight, the subtle tones of Slick Rick, Color Me Badd and Everclear were pulling her farther away from homework and into a different realm: she stood up, walked away from her carrel desk, and lost herself in an unpopulated aisle.

Her iPod turned up and eyes closed, she walked soft circles around a step stool.

Aww tick tock, you don’t stop—stop

Each step, each measure, each line... she felt warmer and warmer. Leaves were falling outside. The library never had adequate heating. Her boundless but sometimes jailed imagination was let free to stretch for a moment, and the bookshelves around her faded away.

Disconnect the phone so nobody knows

It’s a public library. What am I doing?

That booky smell wasn’t too far away from the round smell of freshly cut grass, or hot shingles and half-melted tar...

That gray sound of bicycle wheels skidding across rocky pavement. The quick flash of a white smile, a tiny line of freckles—and then the hair, pulled back by the wind but now hanging along his ears and electrified by sunlight...

Just lay back, enjoy the ride... yeah

In that moment, she experienced something she’d never felt before. All the worry of her world, all the stress of exams, grades, papers, work, and responsibility simply faded away. Almost instantly, and in the last fourteen seconds of “I Wanna Sex You Up,” she discovered her place in the universe, the meaning of life, what people want, the harmony of Earth, and everlasting love—all at once.

Her childhood rushed back. The power of her memory its aid, a smile of sizes never before discovered swam across her chin. She didn’t care if anyone was watching—if they were.

And when the song ended, it slipped away. She opens her eyes, adjusts her sweater, and stares down the aisle.

Her iPod starts playing “This Is How We Do It.” Her sense of belonging is on the other side of a foggy mirror. Now, she has the humbling understanding of individuality, soleness, Einzelgängerheit.

It’s the attitude she has to take to be an Adult. A real Citizen of the world. A working Man.

What’s so good about that again?

Sketch 2

The legislators in Harlem decided, speedily and with great self-inspired satisfaction, to immediately task city workers with replacing the red lights at every intersection along Adam Clayton Powell, Jr. Boulevard with red lights three times their original size in hopes of deterring uptown-bound taxis from unceremoniously ignoring them when they saw no crossing traffic along the streets. After completing their work, the workers did not notice a decrease in such moving violations among taxicab drivers but instead observed a sudden increase in their illicit behavior.

One of the workers was asked to speak at a meeting of the policy makers, and when they asked her to testify, she merely imparted this: “By making the red lights larger, we’ve made them easier to see.” A particularly haughty politician responded with, “Well, that was the point! We called you here not to summarize our efforts but to provide insight into why these taxicab drivers continue to break the law.” 

She replied, “The laws no one wants to follow are best left un-enlarged.”