“C’mon man, you gotta drop me off,” Seth says after donning the paint. “If I have to walk it ruins the effect.”

Carlton, sprawled expansively on the futon, groans. “Can’t you drive yourself?”

“My car’s in the shop until next week. I told you that.”

“So is this a one-time thing, or will you be asking me again tomorrow and the next day?”

“One-time deal. Promise.”

Carlton sighs. “Just drop you off?”

“…and pick me up,” Seth says with a sheepish grin. “Same spot.”

Another sigh, theatrical in scope. “Fine. But bear in mind that I know exactly what you’re doing. This is classic foot-in-the-door. Next you’ll be asking me to paint you.”

“Only the hard-to-reach spots.”

Carlton scowls.

“Joking! Joking.”

“Everything’s a racket with you.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is riot.”

“Why don’t you switch things up for once? Try talking at work and playing mute inanimate object around the apartment.”

“You’d like that wouldn’t you, you sicko.”

“Eff off. And will you stop leering at me like that? With the paint on, it’s ghoulish.”

“So you’ll drive me?”

“Fine.” Carlton sits up with a laborious grunt. They’ve roomed together since college and, although Seth is technically the performer, Carlton is far more performative by nature. “Let me grab my keys.”

Seth grabs his hand-painted cardboard sign and a ratty beach towel to keep the paint from rubbing off on the seats of Carlton’s Honda Civic. His usual spot on the corner of 9th and W 53rd is all but deserted at this hour, which is the point. Busking permits are nonexistent in NYC; for street performers it’s first-come, first-serve. For this and other reasons, he avoids Times Square and Union Station like the plague. Higher foot traffic means stiffer competition, and the veteran breakdancers may as well have a monopoly there. Plus, a guy can only listen to “Empire State of Mind” so many times before he loses his.

He thanks Carlton for the ride and gives him a pickup time and promises pizza for payment. As Carlton pulls away from the curb, Seth props his sign against the fire hydrant along with his cookie tin and assumes the first in a long repertoire of static poses he’ll hold throughout the afternoon. Thinking man, to kick things off. Why tire out the legs before the streets get busy? The sign reads:

‍ ‍For $1 I wave. For $10 I go crazy!

Seated on the nearest stoop with an elbow propped on his knee and his chin rested on his knuckles, he locks his muscles in place and lets his eyes glaze over. His mind wanders. Pedestrians pass by and some deposit crinkled ones in exchange for selfies and a friendly wave. Going rates strictly maintained. He gets his first tenner of the evening on the sly from a young mother with two exhausted children in tow—one a puffy-eyed, towheaded boy of four, the other a dour-faced girl of five or six. Both look in need of a nap. Their faces light up when he springs to life behind them and does an impromptu jig on the sidewalk. Every twenty minutes or so he changes position, compelled by $10 donations, the buildup of lactic acid, or, sometimes, by happy coincidence, both.

At the end of the night, he unfreezes and takes his sign and tin full of cash and heads to the agreed-upon alley to wait for his ride. However, Carlton never shows. He calls and gets no answer, which could mean anything. Hangs up the phone, sighs, and grumbles to himself, “Guess I’m walking after all.”

It’s unseasonably hot for April, and within a few blocks, his paint starts to run from sweat. At least it doesn’t look like rain. Working his way towards home, he decides to deviate from his original plan by ordering a slice instead of a whole pizza. He’s earned it. Carlton, on the other hand…

Gold my paint and coal my soul, he thinks. Who wants to carry a whole pizza all the way home anyways?

The line outside his usual spot snakes down the sidewalk and around the corner, so he skips it and heads to Paolo’s on W 45th. Paolo himself is working the counter like always. “Aye, look who it is! Goldie Hawn himself! She ate here once back in ’92, you know.”

“So you’ve told me. How’s it going, Paolo?”

“It’s goin’, it’s goin’. The usual?”

“Yessir.”

“You got it. Slice of pep and a root beer, comin’ right up. Want any action while you’re at it, Goldie? I see your piggybank there. Couple a good fight cards coming up this weekend. MMA and boxing. Take your pick.”

“Just the food,” he tells the over-the-counter pizza afficionado and under-the-counter bookie. He pays and stuffs a tip in the jar. Shakers containing red pepper flakes and grated parmesan stand in a caddy beside the register. He chooses one of the former and, upending it over the slice, dispenses seven precise shakes. He takes the glass bottle of root beer, nods to Paolo, and leaves with his dinner, a handful of napkins, and his cookie tin tucked against his side like a football. Steam rises from the pizza, which overlaps the grease-soaked paper plate. The bottle of root beer sweats in the humid evening air. He blows on the slice and takes a couple experimental bites to reduce it to a more portable size and sets off for home. It’s good, thin, New York pizza, slightly crispy, laden with cheese and pepperoni, both charred just enough. He eats the whole slice and washes it down with the root beer.

By the time he finishes his dinner, he’s a third of the way home and feeling inclined toward further deviations. Turning down a side street he stops by Friendo’s Public House for a drink. Friendo’s Pubic House, some call it. Not him. He’s got a hometown love for the neon-lit dive much like a mother for her ugliest child.

The guy working the bar tonight is unfamiliar. He looks about thirty-five going on fifty, furrow-browed with a Romanesque nose, and an unfortunate hairline on the verge of retreat. A small scar on his upper lip, faded almost to the point of being imperceptible, might recall a schoolyard fistfight or surgery to correct a cleft palate. Fit, in a ghoulish way. Gollum-like build, lean and muscular but with a decidedly subterranean complexion. As if he did most of his exercise indoors or by night, likely alone. “What’ll it be?” the barman asks as Seth slides onto a stool and sets his cookie tin on the bar. To the guy’s credit, he takes the golden getup in stride.

“Bulleit Rye. Make it a double.”

The bartender locates the squat green-labelled bottle after a momentary search, pops the cork, and pours a generous two fingers of the amber liquid into a whiskey glass. Slides the glass across the bar to Seth and says, “Can I ask you something?”

Seth shrugs. Between the paint and the tin full of cash, questions seem inevitable.

“How much does your act rake in per day? Ballpark.”

“I do okay,” he deflects.

“Over or under three hundred?”

“Some days over, some days under.” He sips the rye and sniffs at the burn that lingers on his palate. The whiskey tastes of woodsmoke and spice, and it cascades down his throat, warming his belly. The glass clinks against the bar as he sets it down. The rye loosens his tongue. “You considering taking up busking?”

“Just curious. I’ve got my own thing.”

“Who doesn’t?” He drains the glass and taps it twice for another. The bartender retrieves the bottle and uncorks it with a thunk like a mortar round exiting the tube. As he pours, Seth says, “Let’s put it this way: I do my act Thursday through Sunday, and I don’t have to work the rest of the week if I don’t want to.”

“Just sitting there like a statue, huh?” The pale man grins, bottle in hand. “How’s that for passive income?”

Seth smiles wryly and raises his glass in acknowledgment of this joke. “I prefer static income. Besides, it’s the movements that make me money.”

“Touché.”

He takes another sip, smacks his lips, and says, “Where are my manners. Want a drink? Pour one for yourself.”

“Do people do that anymore? I don’t usually bartend.”

“Why not?” Seth looks around. “I don’t see anyone who’s going to tell you otherwise.”

“True.” The bartender gets himself a glass and a generous pour. “So, you got a name for your act, or should I call you C-3PO?”

“I’m Seth. Since we’re drinking together, I’ll pretend that’s the first time I’ve heard that one.”

“Sorry, couldn’t resist. Wendell.” He offers his hand over the bar and they shake, leaving smears of gold on the barman’s palm. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Don’t mention it.” Setting his glass down, Seth sucks his teeth and says, “So, what’s your shtick?”

“What makes you so sure I have one?”

“C’mon, man. It’s New York. Plus, you already said you’ve got your own thing.”

“What would you say if I told you I paint myself silver and do the robot for cash?”

“Do you?”

Wendell smiles, shakes his head. “Nah. Social media. I’ve got a semi-successful fitness page.”

“Good for you,” Seth says. He means it. “How many followers?”

“Well, it’s still in its infancy. But I’d say it’s a healthy baby.”

“More power to ya. I don’t have the patience.”

“For social media? This from the guy who pretends to be a statue all day?”

Seth laughs. “Maybe I do that because I don’t have anything interesting to say.”

“Oh, so you’re a sad drunk.”

“Not generally.” He takes another sip, and his new drinking buddy follows suit.

“My Ma likes to sue people,” Wendell volunteers. “She’s what you might call litigious.”

“That so?”

“Big time.”

“Does she ever win?”

“She wins enough. That’s the problem.”

“Kinda like a gambler, I guess.”

Wendell snorts. “Sort of. I’d rather she gambled, frankly. Less ill will.”

“I hear you.”

“Another one for the road? You’re not driving, are you?”

“Maybe a small one. Not driving, no.”

“Good. This one’s on the house.”

Seth amends his uncharitable assessment of earlier. Not Gollum after all. Sméagol.

The last rye of the night goes down smoothest. Feeling lubricated and ready to give Carlton a stern but fair dressing-down for ditching him, he asks Wendell to close his tab. Outside, the night blues and the city lights blot out the stars. Sirens blare and horns bleat, the sounds of traffic permeating the empty restaurant in an attempt by the streets to reassert themselves.

“You’ll be paying cash, I assume,” Wendell says with a glance at the cookie tin.

“Card, actually. Gotta build my credit somehow.”

“Right. Well, card machine’s broken. I’ll have to run it in the back.”

Seth removes the lid from his cookie tin and fishes out a ten-dollar bill, which he leaves on the bar for a tip. When Wendell returns, he takes his card with the receipt wrapped around it and pushes back his stool. “Good luck with the social media thing.”

“Same to you. And uh, stay golden, Ponyboy.”

“That’s two cheap shots.”

“Sorry. Hey, thanks for the tip!”

Seth nods and heads out the door. The humidity has coalesced into a haze that mingles with the neon-tinted smog of the city and enshrouds it. Boozily armored against this oppressive atmosphere, he resumes his walk home. He slips his wallet from his pocket and returns his credit card to its dedicated sleeve. He’s about to toss the receipt in the nearest trashcan when something written on it catches his eye. A slow grin spreads across his golden features. Scrawled in fine-point Sharpie below the total are a string of social media handles and an overwrought John Hancock.

What a racket.

He laughs softly and pockets the receipt instead. Then, picking up the pace and tightening his grip on the cookie tin, he makes for home. At the intersection across from his building, the traffic rushes past in a steady blaring stream unbroken and unforgiving to would-be jaywalkers. He plants his feet on the sidewalk and stands swaying, waiting for the stoplight to turn red and secures his safe passage. It takes some time, but eventually it does.