While making an inventory of all of my books in preparation for an alphabetization marathon (I’m up to 465 so far, with about 20-30 that I plan to get rid of), I stumbled upon this, written in an old, barely used notebook. If anyone can identify the writer I was most sophomorically and transparently attempting to emulate here, I’ll buy you a falafel.
Upon gathering his various notebooks and loose papers into his messenger bag and expressing his condolences and salutations to Mrs. Shauermeyer regarding her favorite cat’s euthanasia and her niece’s newly discovered pregnancy, respectively, Lior Walsh left the office of the Shauermeyer Literary Agency, descended to the street level by means of the elevator, and stepped outside into a terribly pleasant April evening. Though every idiosyncrasy of Lior’s manner while in his agent’s office suggested that he was in the utmost of hurries—his toe tapping, his fast talking, his neglect to even shake his agent’s hand—he in fact had no pressing appointments, and in all reality, nothing to do. So instead of hailing a cab, or even retreating to the confines of a subway car, he decided to walk home, all the way from Times Square to his room in the Upper Eighties. He quickened his pace at first, of course, in case the old lady happened to peer out her seventeenth floor window and spot the young man who did not offer his hand slovenly shuffling his feet up the street. That would be dreadful. “It is imperative that we stay on the best of terms,” he thought. So he continued along at a near run until he was almost out of breath, but certain that she would not see him.
When he reached the halfway point between 67th and 68th streets, Lior reached into his pocket and produced a cigarette, which seemed to stop him cold in the middle of the sidewalk. He placed the cigarette in between two very thin lips and lit it. Lior made it a practice to never smoke while walking. “That’s precisely what leads to addiction,” he could habitually be heard saying.