a new yorker writer

I was in New York on business. As I had been before, as I would be again. The whole thing seemed to have a circular reason to it. But, being in New York on business meant a very particular thing. I couldn’t make plans before 6pm. Which, effectively, meant I couldn’t make plans.

So I found myself in an old hotel room, smoking cigarettes (a smoking room in NYC is key- unless you want to be accosted by ladies of the night while trying to enjoy a solemn cigarette outside), and ruminating on life.

I had quite the bookshelf in front of me, and I was seriously tempted for a moment. But just a moment. I saw one book that reminded me of an old college friend, took a picture, and sent it on its way. But I wasn’t seriously tempted to read any- I’m just not that much of a fan of hardcovers. But I did appreciate their presence. I wondered about their lineage, how they came to be marooned in a _smoking_ room.

There was a Holy Bible. There was a book by William F. Buckley Jr. Then there were the softcovers, which at first I hadn’t noticed, spines sacrificed for readers. Who had spent their time pouring over them in this room? Or was the staff instructed to break the spines to make the room look lived in? Neither seemed like a good option.

I turned the music up, sparked another cigarette, and wrote this little non-story.