Stephen Mejias

I should have just slept here. It certainly would have been easier. And, of course, it would have saved me the commute. However, the thought of enormous roaches warming up against my thighs throughout the air conditioned evening kept me from crashing on JA's couch.

And to sleep here would be a kind of surrender, a submission of all else. I already forget to eat. I've already begun using 261 Madison Avenue as my mailing address. If only I could find a shower somewhere in the building, I could stop paying rent and get so much more done.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing something wrong. Everyone else goes home. What's my problem? Am I slow? Do I manage my time poorly? I don't know.

In any case, "Recommended Components" is keeping me here even later than usual. Last night, I was finally ready to leave the office at just after 10pm. I began a quick note to Jon Iverson when a flash of lightning illuminated my office. The New York City heat, like an endless blast of bus exhaust, had been downright stifling throughout the day and was now ready to burst. Soon, from 38th Street, I could hear the sound of tires treading water. It was pouring.

I had no umbrella. Completely drained and set against spending the entire night here, I made my way downstairs. In the lobby, the night shift greeted me, "Mucho agua!"

I nodded.

Outside, a crowd gathered beneath the entrance of our building. People waiting for buses and trying to hail cabs — in wet jeans and holding pieces of cardboard over their messy heads — taking up their own little bits of night air, pretending not to notice.