by Bill Hayes
INSOMNIAC CITY
For Nancy Miller,
and in memory of Oliver
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
The Anatomist
Five Quarts
Sleep Demons
CONTENTS
PART I: INSOMNIAC CITY
Insomniac City
Sleep: Loss
Black Crow
O and I
On Becoming a New Yorker
Subway Lifer
The Summer Michael Jackson Died
A Fisherman on the Subway
A Poem Written on the Stars
The Moving Man
For the Skateboarders
PART II: ON BEING NOT DEAD
The Thank-You Man
The Same Taxi Twice
The Weeping Man
On Being Not Dead
On a Typewriter
At the Skateboard Park
A Woman Who Knew Her Way
Driving a Supermodel
Lessons from the Smoke Shop
A Year in Trees
On Father’s Day
PART III: HOW NEW YORK BREAKS YOUR HEART
My Afternoon with Ilona
His Name Is Raheem
A Monet of One’s Own
But …
Everything That I Don’t Have
A Pencil Sharpener
Home
Postscript
Acknowledgments
A Note on the Author
“I don’t so much fear death as I do wasting life.”
Oliver Sacks
Cross Streets with Snow
PART I
INSOMNIAC CITY
INSOMNIAC CITY
I moved to New York eight years ago and felt at once at home. In the haggard buildings and bloodshot skies, in trains that never stopped running like my racing mind at night, I recognized my insomniac self. If New York were a patient, it would be diagnosed with agrypnia excitata, a rare genetic condition characterized by insomnia, nervous energy, constant twitching, and dream enactment—an apt description of a city that never sleeps, a place where one comes to reinvent himself.
I had brought very little with me from San Francisco, my home for twenty-five years, in part because I wished to leave behind any reminders of the life I’d had there, but also for more practical reasons. My new apartment was a virtual tree house, a tiny top-floor walk-up at eye level with the ailanthus boughs. There was not room for more than a desk, a chair, a mattress. Nor a need: You see, the place came furnished with spectacular views of Manhattan.
What I didn’t know when I rented the place was that the French restaurant located straight below my apartment had outdoor seating till two A.M. Lying awake in bed, I could literally hear glasses clinking and toasts being made, six stories down. This was irritating at first. But it wasn’t long before I discovered a phenomenon heretofore unknown to me: Laughter rises. Hearing happy, laughing people is no cure for insomnia but has an ameliorative effect on brokenheartedness.
Sometimes I’d sit in the kitchen in the dark and gaze out at the Empire State and Chrysler buildings. Such a beautiful pair, so impeccably dressed, he in his boxy suit, every night a different hue, and she, an arm’s length away, in her filigreed skirt the color of the moon. I regarded them as an old married couple, calmly, unblinkingly keeping watch over one of their newest sons. And I returned the favor; I would be there the moment the Empire State turned off its lights for the night as if to get a little shut-eye before sunrise.
Here’s another wonder I discovered about life here: In the summertime, late into the night, some leave behind their sweat-dampened sheets to read in the coolness of a park under streetlights. Not Kindles, mind you, or iPhones. But books. Newspapers. Novels. Poetry. Completely absorbed, as if in their own worlds. As indeed, they are. I had never seen anything like this until I took a shortcut through Abingdon Square Park one night while walking off my own mild agrypnia.
First I saw an old man reading a newspaper from which someone (his wife?) had snipped numerous articles; it looked like a badly botched doily. I tiptoed past, as if wearing slippers, and he, as if at home in his La-Z-Boy, did not glance up.
Next I spotted a young man reading a paperback with a distinctive brick-red cover. I was pretty certain I knew what classic he had in hand but had to make sure. I fake-dropped my keys nearby and crouched down for a better look. Just then, the young man shifted in his seat, denying me absolute proof. That’s okay. I was left to imagine him imagining himself as Holden Caulfield.
At the far end of the park, I found a middle-aged woman bathed in a light Vermeer would have loved, reading what looked like a textbook. Was she a teacher preparing for tomorrow’s class, a student cramming last-minute, or neither of these? Perhaps she was simply teaching herself.
Of course, not everyone awake at this hour is an insomniac. The city is alive with doormen, delivery boys on bikes, street sweepers, homeless people, hustlers, prep cooks popping up out of trap doors in the sidewalk. I make a point of waving or nodding hello when I can. I have come to believe that kindness is repaid in unexpected ways and that if you are lonely or bone-tired or blue, you need only come down from your perch and step outside. New York—which is to say, New Yorkers—will take care of you.
One night I was walking down Hudson Street, on my way home from a friend’s, when I spotted a dollar bill on the sidewalk. Even at my age, such a find seemed magical. Free money! I leaned down to pick it up just as a woman opposite me was doing the same thing: “A dollar,” I heard her murmur, and our heads practically bumped. We both laughed. I happened to reach it first, but it seemed ungentlemanly to take it. “Here, it’s yours,” I said, offering it to the woman.
“No! No, it’s yours, you got it first.”
“No, I insist, you take it,” I said, but by this point she was walking away, arm in arm with a handsome man; she already had her prize. Suddenly, inspiration struck: “I’m going to leave it for someone else!” I called back to her.
“Perfect!” she said, over her shoulder. “Good night!”
I dropped the dollar back onto the sidewalk. It was liberating: To throw money away or, more accurately, throw it to the fates, as I had with my life by moving to New York City at age forty-eight.
I walked a few steps and, I kid you not, hid behind a tree to watch what would take place. One couple passed by without noticing the dollar, then another. Finally, a man about my age came walking in my direction. Hunched shoulders, troubled look, pulling on a cigarette. Definitely an insomniac, I thought. I want you to have it. It’s yours. You deserve it.
From my secluded vantage point, I watched as the fellow spotted the dollar. He stopped, looked around to see if anyone was in the vicinity. Perhaps someone in front of him had dropped it? No, the sidewalk was empty. He picked up the dollar and pocketed it with a small smile, then went on his way. As did I, back to my tree house.
Winter Trees
SLEEP: LOSS
I used to think that the only thing worse than having insomnia was having insomnia next to someone who falls fast asleep and stays soundlessly so till morning.
That was my life for more than sixteen years. In San Francisco I lived with a man who slept, yes, like a baby. There were nights, many nights, when I literally wanted to steal his sleep—slip beneath his eyelids and yank it out of him; a kind of middle-of-the-night Chien Andalou moment. Instead, I spent the equivalent of at least a tenth of our relationship lying awake or reading in bed. In the end, that I happened to be in a deep sleep when Steve went into cardiac arrest next to me now seems beyond irony. If I had not taken half a sleeping pill that night ten years ago, might I have been awake and saved him?
I can no longer remember the sound of his laughter but I clearly recall what he looked like
while sleeping: his head propped on a scrunched-up pillow, his muscular arms, his breath blown in warm puffs from the corner of his mouth, the place where Popeye’s pipe would go. I suppose this is the upside to insomnia. I clocked a lot of time studying Steve in repose.
His death had been as swift as it was inexplicable: He had been only forty-three and remarkably fit, with no history of heart problems. At first, I’d thought he was having a nightmare, but he was thrashing so violently and unable to speak. I called 911, began CPR, EMTs came. I remember how they kept asking me if we’d been doing drugs; the question seemed absurd; Steve was so clean-living, so wholesome really, he never even drank a beer. They got him to an ER just a few blocks away. But by then he was gone.
My upstairs neighbor had heard the commotion and gotten herself to the hospital. Vicki virtually scooped me up off the floor of the ER and did her best to console me, then turned to Steve. She swaddled his body in a nice clean sheet, making sure that every edge was neatly tucked, and she quietly said a prayer as I closed his eyelids with my fingers. I don’t know how long passed before I told her I was ready to leave. I had to sign some papers, but there was nothing more to do. Vicki walked me home.
Just a couple of hours after leaving for the hospital, I reentered our apartment. I’d say I was in shock or numbed but, no, I felt everything—everything—and it all hurt. In our bedroom, it looked like an earthquake had hit—a lamp knocked over by the EMTs, the bed askew, a broken glass, books—Steve’s stacks of beloved sci-fi paperbacks—scattered. The floor was littered with strewn Epinephrine syringes and caps from the defibrillator charges. Vicki and her husband began cleaning up the mess, and called my friends Jane and Paul to come over. I collapsed in the other room. If Steve had died in an earthquake, it would have made more sense to me.
A few days later, I went to see a minister. Neither Steve nor I was religious but I wanted to talk to someone. She did not bring up God or heaven or the afterlife. She was wonderful, more like a doctor explaining a diagnosis. “Suffering a devastating loss is like suffering a brain injury,” she said. She spoke really slowly, which I appreciated. “You walk around like a zombie. You can’t think straight. You feel drugged—”
Sometimes you are drugged, I thought to myself.
To be safe, I started keeping a notepad inside the medicine cabinet. “Yes, you took an Ambien at 11,” I would jot, answering a question I knew I would ask myself when I woke four hours later. Or: “2 X @ 3,” meaning two Xanaxes at three A.M.—no wait, maybe it was three in the afternoon? I don’t remember now.
In those early days of grief, short on sleep, forgetting to eat, I felt as though I were in a liminal state, not quite alive myself, which made me feel remarkably close to Steve. During that same period, I was continually having amazing encounters with strangers—people who would pop up and offer help, whether at the post office or grocery store, or just say something kind. At the time, I never doubted that they were embodiments of him.
One day I met a man with the name of an angel. He was French. His accent was so thick it sounded fake. We got to talking and I told him what had happened. “You’re going to be fine,” Emmanuel said right away. “Something bad always leads to something good.” He spoke from personal experience. His partner had died six years earlier. But he did not use that word, died, as he told me his story. Nor did he say passed away, a euphemism I had come to hate. Instead, Emmanuel said, “When my partner disappeared …”
I knew this was not a case of poor English, a bungled translation. Still, I had to say something. “You said ‘disappeared’—”
He nodded.
“That’s exactly how it feels for me, too.”
One might think that for someone who has lost a partner or spouse, nights would be hardest, loneliest. For me, this was not the case. I was used to being alone at night, the only one awake. I didn’t even have more than the usual trouble sleeping after the first few weeks. I suppose this was partly because Steve and I had never been bedtime cuddlers or spooners, so I was not missing something I’d once had. That said, it was a long time before I was able to take his pillow from his side of the bed. I did not dare. The night after he died, I found that a sliver of light from a streetlamp shone through the blinds just so and cast a single yellowy tendril across his pillow. It was the opposite of a shadow. Which is as clear a definition as I can come up with for the soul.
With morning, the light was gone, and I found the days empty and agonizing. It would take about three years for this feeling to pass—a thousand days, give or take—people who had been through this told me. As it turns out, they were right. What no one said is something I discovered on my own: A thousand days is a thousand nights is a thousand chances to dream about him.
Usually it went like this: Someone digs up his corpse and initiates CPR; he revives in an instant, no problem. I see him walking, talking, a latter-day Lazarus with a flattop and a beautiful body and a crooked grin. Back from death but unchanged by death, with one crucial difference: He does not recognize me. It is I, not he, who has been transformed.
For a while, I tried going on dates—dinner, a movie, that kind of thing. I met a few nice guys. But I could not disguise my lack of interest. There was one man I saw for about a month. His name was, you guessed it, Steve. Even though we had been intimate from the start, we didn’t end up spending the night together until the fourth week. I can still picture the moment when he turned over to go to sleep. His back, illuminated by moonlight, reminded me of the disappeared Steve’s.
That was the last time I tried that for a long spell. From then on, I would send them home or, depending on the situation, leave myself. Insomnia was my excuse: I would rather not-sleep in my own bed, I explained. This was not altogether true. I would have liked to stay but could no more imagine falling asleep with someone else than I could imagine falling in love again.
Curiously, though, the reverse sometimes occurred: I would be with a lover, before I made my exit. I’d have him wrapped in my arms as we talked in the aimless, dreamy way that lovers do, like two analysands to an unseen Jung. A pause stretches into a long lull and I hear that unmistakable change in breathing—he has fallen asleep, and improbably, I feel responsible, as though I, of all people, possess the arms of Hypnos. It seems like a small miracle. But here’s the rub: As I draw him closer and nuzzle his neck, I cannot help remembering what the Greeks so wisely knew: The god of sleep has an identical twin, Thanatos, the god of death.
Spring Shadows
BLACK CROW
Five or six months after Steve died, I got involved with a guy named Luke—nothing serious, a casual affair. I met him at the Whole Foods in Pacific Heights, where he worked as a clerk. Luke was two decades younger than me and different from Steve in every conceivable way except one: He looked like him. Tall, built, with a boxer’s nose, a prominent jaw, and hands as large and heavy as catcher’s mitts. I did not see the resemblance until a few months and many tequila shots later. Actually, a friend—concerned by my infatuation with Luke, a hard-drinking, motorcycle-driving, tattooed Texan with a temper fueled by enormous amounts of steroids—pointed it out to me. By then, I had long since learned that Luke not only had a boyfriend but also another job and went by another name. He was a porn star, a phrase I do not use lightly. He really was a star, his made-up name appearing above the title, in dozens of hard-core films. I would not have known because watching porn had never been my thing, but I did not care any more than I cared about the boyfriend. Truth is, I found it fascinating. The very idea of reinventing oneself—giving oneself a new name, new body, a radically different life—held great appeal. I had begun unconsciously doing so myself.
One night around that time, I cruised a good-looking guy at the gym, as did he cruise me. I saw him in the shower, and then he followed me out of the gym and into the parking lot. “My name’s Shane,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand.
“I’m Bill,” I said, then added, “Billy. You can call me Billy.”
; It just came out; I didn’t even think about it. The name fit in a way that Bill, what I had been called almost my whole life, no longer did. The name is considered a diminutive; I’m aware of that. I was called Billy as a boy. But in middle age, it did not sound that way to me. On the contrary: Billy sounded bigger than me, tougher, invulnerable.
Along with the name came a shaved head, a beard, more muscles, and a tattoo. I had always loved tattoos and, were it not for Steve, who found them repellent for some reason, I would have had at least a sleeveful by then. But something unexpected—unexpected to me, at least—had come with Steve’s death. What he thought or would have thought, which used to seem more important than how I viewed myself, had changed entirely. I still felt Steve looking on constantly, but with death he had left behind all judgments. He no longer approved or disapproved. He didn’t cast a vote. He wanted for me, I felt, one thing, only one thing: To be happy.
I designed a tattoo that symbolized the end of one life and the beginning of another—Roman numerals for 10/10, the month and day Steve died—and had it inked on a pulse point. It hurt like hell but I loved it. I went over to Luke’s afterward to celebrate, tequila and weed serving as my anesthesia. Upon getting home very late that night, I pulled the blinds in every room of my apartment. I had recently taken everything off the walls, all our old pictures and posters, and gotten rid of a bunch of furniture, including the bed Steve and I had slept in all those years, the bed he’d died in, leaving only a foam-rubber mattress on the floor. It looked like a place where someone was only half-moved in or half-moved out, either scenario being plausible to explain my current state. The hardwood floors gleamed in the moonlight. Cool, foggy air blew through the open windows. I got stoned and put on my iPod. This was a period when I would listen to the same few songs over and over again—Björk’s “Hyperballad,” “Unravel,” and “Undo,” Radiohead’s “There, There,” and Joni Mitchell’s “Black Crow,” an undanceable song to which I would dance for so long I would sweat. Music, I found, was the most effective balm to my grief.