Man At the New York Public Library

On that particular day at the Mid Manhattan Library, a man began raising a ruckus over by the copying machine in the fourth floor reading room.

The man shouted, “Sons of bitches!" and hit the top of the machine with the bottom of his fist. The guards came over, watched him for a few moments then gently tried to move him away from the machine. He gripped the edges and refused to let go. Each guard took one of his arms and tugged, but the man still refused to let go.

“Sons of bitches!” he yelled. “Sons of goddamn bitches!”

They pulled him harder and harder until the first guard grabbed the man's legs and pulled them straight out from under him. 

That precise moment, when the shouting man was fully extended, still holding onto the machine with the guards holding him horizontally by the legs, was what I always remembered. That and what I saw the very next day.
The man did maintain his grip on the corners of the copying machine. The machine tipped forward then rocked back and forth. By that time, everybody in the reading room had stopped what they were doing and were watching the copy machine tip forward one last time and topple over with a loud crash and tinkling of glass.

Now, the very next day, I opened the door to the fourth floor men’s room, which had four stalls and five sinks, and there was that same man, standing in front of the center mirror, pants around his ankles, holding up his scrotum and scrubbing himself with a paper towel. He turned and stared at me. I stopped in the doorway,

 took a step backwards and let the door swing close.