WHITE NOISE

I decide to go to Apple on 14th Street to look at laptops.
The bike ride there is difficult because of traffic on the westside along 9th, 10th and 11th Avenues.

I'm infuriated.
It's 5pm on Sunday.
There is public transportation.

(It ignites my growing rage about Americans lazy ass driving habbits; wasting gas, clogging up the roads,
wasting resources, ruining my world! I walk and use public transportation... SO CAN YOU!

(in your dumb-ass BMW SUV'S)

Traffic is so tightly packed, people can't cross the streets.

I learn today (in the Times) that there was a real estate fore-closure auction at the Jacob Javitz Center.
The biggest one to date.

I try to squeeze through cars on my orange vintage Schwinn bicycle.,
but I get stuck between cars, lose my balance, and fall onto the hood of a car.

The young driver puts her hands to her mouth in horror.
I right myself, and mouth silently to her, "I'm okay".
She drops her hands and releases her scrunched shoulders, making it a big gesture, like she's doing it for the camera.

But I'm NOT okay, I feel the familiar pain of a sprained ankle.

I bike down to Apple at 14th street and interview a child about Apple's next generation of computers.
I feel alone and suspect.
Jason Bourne in THE BOURNE IDENTITY.
Like, I'm a menace to the streets because of my terrible secret.

This morning I cancel a VO audition and work.
I lie on my sofa with a grocery bag of ice cubes on my naked ankle and read WHITE NOISE by Don Delillo,
a post modern novel. Funny, but not easy to read. Dense, comic, smart and detached.
It's a great book to read if you were in Manhattan during 9/11. (And thinking about mortality)

As I read, a distracting voice wonders if my ankle can heal.