I’m walking aimlessly through my town to give this 55-year-old body some light exercise and fresh air before sitting in a chair most of the day, staring at a screen telling me what I need to do to be productive. I’m thinking about the giant plastic tubs of peanut butter that sat on our dining tables at Camp Taconic in the early 1980s. They were so big they had a carrier handle to lug them to and fro so young minds could gobble their innards instead of beef stroganoff. A kid once sneezed into a fork at one of these tables. That peanut butter was definitely not organic.
I’m sitting on a bench in the park at the end of my block, staring aimlessly into the tree line and the clouds. I’m observing nature and letting it be free in front of me. A man comes by, walking his dog, and lets it pee on the corner of the bench. It wasn’t close enough to me to catch my sweatpants leg, but it was too close for comfort. I look at him. He shrugs as if to say, “I have no control over where this dog goes to the bathroom. There are only eighteen nearby trees and a full grassy lawn for him to use.” In one of the houses nearby, a couple decides to get divorced.
I’m sitting in bed doing absolutely nothing. I am tired of the laptop, bored with my phone, and I just had one small blob of naan on the way upstairs. I’m not thinking, but my brain is moving things around like the inside of a cotton candy machine. I’m thinking about the time my dad took me and three of my friends to a Broadway play for my birthday. I think I was five. It was three boys and one girl. I am friends with her on Facebook now. I don’t remember having a good time, but I think it’s because I already knew I liked girls and was catatonic, trying to create some five-year-old rhythm. There were Shirley Temples at some point.
I’m on an airplane watching a kid pick his nose with a determination that can only conclude that he will one day create a startup that fails. He pulls out a stringy booger that could measure three inches. He is very proud of himself. His mom looks at him in disgust while the plane hits a patch of turbulence. I can see him wondering whether to eat it, rub it under the seat, or wipe it on his mom’s arm. He chose violence.
I’m sitting at my work computer, listening to a webinar I signed up for but hoped would get canceled, while looking at basketball box scores in a separate window. A bird flies into my front glass windows, but doesn’t die. I walk over to see if he’s okay, and he looks at me as if to say, “Who put a fucking window here?” I shrug. It’s clear he was trying to go to Chipotle a few doors down and doesn’t realize he needs to call ahead if he wants a warm tortilla.
I’m sitting in a hospital room holding a cup to my mom’s mouth so she can drink water from a straw because she had neither the energy nor the strength to do it herself. I was just glad I made it from Long Island to Los Angeles in time. Other people were around, talking and probably feeling bad for me. That night, I went back to the hotel with my dad and my mom’s best friend. They got me a pizza. My mom died the next day holding my hand. The pizza was mid.
© Jonathan Greene, November 2, 2026
