It’s a cool fall day and I’m sitting on a bench just above Columbus Circle. I’m just far enough away to be out of earshot of the bicycle rental hustlers and the shrill music emanating from the food carts that crowd the entrance to Central Park. Directly across from me is the Trump Tower and Hotel, and I watch as several groups of young men in MAGA hats stop and pose for photos in front of the building. There was a Trump rally in the city the day before, which accounts for the unusual and incongruous number of pro-Trump visitors. Suddenly, a cyclist cuts through this crowd, traveling the wrong way down Central Park West. He’s riding a Citibike and he’s shirtless. A cigarette is dangling from his mouth, which is frozen in a kind of maniacal grin. He rides up onto the sidewalk, forcing people to part ways as he makes a B-line for the intersection of Central Park West and Columbus Place. When he reaches the corner he jumps of the bike, sets the kickstand, and flops down on his back. He lays there, spread-eagle on the sidewalk next to the Citibike, shirtless, smoking, while confused MAGA tourists step cautiously around him.