The Man Beside Me At Starbucks Is Fondling Himself

Or, Whither Art?

People, there are tremendous issues in the world right now. The world seems to have gone crazy, and we face great challenges. Elections, wars, climate disaster. Civilization itself seems to hang on the balance, and yet I am possessed of the strong if naïve conviction that our salvation will be born from neither politics nor science nor technology, but in the courageous, determined self-reflection of the arts. And so I come here, this morning, to this Starbucks, to write, to wrest from the thorny thicket of my soul one honest sentence.

But the the man beside me is fondling himself.

He’s two tables away, and he’s fondling himself.

Like, right there.

He’s been at it for some time.

Writing, for me, is neither vocation or avocation; it is neither glorious nor noble; it is the basest survival. No day passes without it, for if it should, I spiral; I lose my sense of self, my sense of the world, the weathercock of my being spins with no end. All turns to fog and shadows, all light turns to dark.

But the man beside me is fondling himself.

My rational mind tries to make sense of this. I’m in Los Angeles, so it’s definitely not a cold thing; he’s not trying to keep warm, he doesn’t have frostbite, like some desperate hiker lost in the Alps. Nor is just a simple “I don’t have pockets so I guess I’ll just put my hand in my waistband” thing, because his hand, well - Reader, it’s moving.

One of the dark ironies of Los Angeles is that the only people who can afford to rent an office space here are the people who don’t actually do the work. And so, being but a lowly writer, I take my place each morning at one café or the other and try to write, to think, to investigate my Self. I am not of the school that preaches a writer’s focus ought to be on the larger world; I am from the Kafka school of writing, that the greatest service a writer can do for the world at large is to examine his or her own internal self, ferociously, mercilessly, to shatter the ice of his or her own soul, and by such shattering, gain a greater understanding of that most indelible mystery of all: Us.

But the man beside me is fondling himself.

He’s not watching pornography. He’s not masturbating. He’s typing with his free hand. The fondling is mindless, which only irritates me further, because his mindlessness is causing my mind to cloud over. And at least masturbation has a purpose, a goal; we’re moving towards some definitive end. His one-handed juggling act could last all day.

The novel I have come here to work on at this early hour has been inspired in some part by the war in Gaza, and concerns my deeply conflicted emotions regarding it: worry, grief, sadness, guilt, shame - but also moments, dare I admit them, of pride, of a base, animalistic desire for revenge. What are we to make of these emotions? What do we do with them? How do we keep the wings of our soul level through the turbulence of existence?

His hand is moving faster now. It’s not rhythmic or masturbatory; it’s keeping time with the typing he’s doing with his free hand. The more progress he makes on his laptop, it seems, the faster he fondles his genitals, like a dog wagging its tail.

Only testicles.

In a coffee shop.

Did Kafka have to deal with this? Did Beckett? No. Kafka had TB and Beckett had Nazis, but I have a man in a coffee shop fondling himself. I think Sam and Franz would both agree I have it worse.

I’m running out of writing time, which only clouds my mind further; soon I will have to return home for the dull chores of the non-writing life.

I try to focus, but cannot. He seems to be in his 60’s; he’s possessed his genitals for some time now; they are not new to him, he didn’t get them yesterday. Surely his fascination should have subsided by now; surely by now, like his fingers and toes, he should be bored with them. Grow up, I think, get over it. Them. I’m a decade younger than he, at least, and I’ve already lost interest in mine - proudly so. My relationship to my genitals is already akin to my relationship with the motorcycle in the garage; it’s fun to ride now and then, but I’m not sure it’s worth the hassle to keep it running. I don’t want a vagina - I’m not crazy - but I wouldn’t mind a smooth patch of Ken Doll Nothingness for a few years.

At last he pulls his hand from his pants. Huzzah. Whatever he’s working on now requires both hands to type (surely in the history of Hell only Hitler was sent back to Earth as the keys on a modern-day laptop).

An irony of its own: his progress in his work has forced him to cease his fondling, which in turn allows me get to progress in mine.

But it’s too late.

I cannot.

I’m too angry, too distracted.

Plus, he’s now at the counter, checking all the mobile orders with the hand that was down his pants, and all I can think is that of all God’s lousy ideas, external genitalia was the worst.

And not to order mobile anymore.

So today I wrote nothing but this.

Today, art waits for tomorrow.

Sometimes all you can do is go home, lie down in the fetal position and wait for the morning.

Yours in the fetal position,

S.

artwork by orli auslander

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