Insomniac City
Page 9
Now, the pain was setting in, darkness falling. But where he’d been before—behind that fence, where boys live in the air? There’s no pain there, nothing’s broken.
He asked me where I was going, and I said I was going home. I wasn’t sure, but I again thought he might be flirting with me. It wouldn’t be the first time a street kid had tried to hustle me.
There was a pause, in which anything might have been said. And indeed, what he said next was completely unexpected: “A dollar for a slice of pizza?”
It took me a good two seconds before I understood how wrong I’d been. I had to laugh at my middle-aged vanity. I reached for my wallet. “Sure, of course, that’s a reasonable price for the lesson you gave me.”
“Cool, man. I was working up my nerve to ask for that.”
That takes nerve? I thought. What about diving down those concrete walls? “No problem. What’s your name?”
“Cube.”
“Cube? Really?”
He grinned, found out. “Chris.”
I asked Chris how old he was.
“Twenty-two. I am new to everything,” he added; it both did and did not sound like a non sequitur. “New to skateboarding, new to New York, new language.”
I took this in.
“What’s your name, sir?”
“I’m Billy.”
“What is it again?”
I took off my sunglasses for the first time all afternoon. He looked straight into my eyes.
“Now I see you,” he said. “Billy. Thank you, Billy.”
A Small Parade
NOTES FROM A JOURNAL
11-15-12:
I saw a young woman on a Manhattan-bound subway train wearing a knockoff Louis Vuitton head scarf and false eyelashes long enough to make a daddy longlegs envious. Her look—a sort of Sally-Bowles-does-Brooklyn—was complete with a matching knockoff L.V. handbag and umbrella. She was seated next to a young man as dashing in his way as she was adorable, but she took no notice of him at all as she was completely absorbed in a paperback titled something like, Becoming a Practical Thinker.
I had an impulse to tear the book from her hands.
“Don’t do that!” I wanted to say. “Practicality will not get you where you want to go. Believe me—I speak from experience!”
Looking back, every life-altering decision I’ve ever made has seemed, at first blush, misguided, misjudged, or plain foolish—and ultimately turned out to be the opposite: every seemingly wrong person I’ve fallen for, every big trip I’ve splurged on, every great apartment taken that I could not realistically afford. And, really, what is pursuing writing but a case study in an impractical career …?
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12-30-12:
On a red-eye to Reykjavik for New Year’s Eve:
Leaving New York, the city looked embroidered in gold thread.
Now, clouds and stars, and what sounds like a hymn:
“Craving miracles …” Björk sings.
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1-1-13:
Supper of Skyr, biscuits, and tea in our tiny hotel room. Recovering. Snow falling.
Last night, a New Year’s Eve dinner at Björk’s, was like being safely in the middle of a very happy war; a huge bonfire on the beach across the street from her home encircled by people singing; fireworks going off in every direction, from every home, all night long, and culminating in a chaotically beautifully, or beautifully chaotic fireworks display at midnight in the town square.
As if the sky were full of shooting stars.
As the church bells pealed twelve times.
As the ground was snow-covered, white, the floor of a cloud.
As everyone kissed and hugged one another.
Bottles of champagne and Brennivin, an Icelandic schnapps—clear and strong.
As the New Year began.
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1-13-13:
Home a week and still adjusting, wishing in some ways we were still in Iceland. The gentleness of life there suits me … suits us.
People even swim gently there, not kicking and splashing—never—as swimmers do in New York, where all seem to be training for triathlons in their minds.
From Reykjavik, we took a little prop plane up north to Akureyri. It was already dark at three in the afternoon, and we went directly to the community pool. I swam some laps then stood in the shallow end. I saw an almost miraculous sight: in the adjacent lap pool, where a swim team was practicing, the outreaching arms of swimmers doing the backstroke and crawl—there must have been twelve or so—and from my pavement-level view, all I could see were the motions of the arms, so elegant, smooth, rising, arcing, falling, like the hands of a dozen clocks, all set at slightly different times, in slightly different time zones.
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1-23-13:
9:40 P.M., 17 degrees;
Such a clear night, you can see stars in Manhattan.
The gurgling sound of my heater.
The comical kerplunk over and over of cabs on Eighth hitting a metal plate on the avenue. I imagine the plate itself: feeling every single hit, bemoaning its fate, putting up with it…
I go to my window, watch the dance down below:
How every step taken by every person seems to have a purpose, to be part of a larger purpose, a rhythm moving us forward, life forward; what appears random isn’t—the choreography of pedestrians:
An old man’s gait changes; suddenly he’s scampering across the street.
A girl dashes, frantic.
A woman in a wheelchair smoothly rolls.
And all the while: Kerplunk. Kerplunk. Kerplunk.
A WOMAN WHO KNEW HER WAY
I once met a young woman at a party who almost got into a fight over directions.
That’s pretty much exactly what she said when she came up to me: “I almost just got into a fight with a guy out there over directions.” She glanced at the sidewalk. She was still incensed. She had long blonde hair and wore a newsboy cap. I didn’t know her name. We hadn’t met yet. She wasn’t really even talking to me. She said what she’d said to the young woman to whom I had been talking. We hadn’t met yet, either. I had been standing in a corner by the window; it was a very crowded room; the first woman asked me how I knew the guys who were hosting this party.
“I don’t really know them,” I admitted. I told her I liked the shop, I liked the clothes here, I lived in the neighborhood.
Only the last part was true. I had actually just been out taking a walk, looking at the Christmas lights on people’s houses and fire escapes—it was a clear, cold night, about ten o’clock—when I came upon this shop at the corner of Perry and West Eleventh. It was a surf shop—surfboards visible through the large plate-glass windows—that much I knew. The little shop was filled with people, a holiday party clearly, and the party had spilled out onto the sidewalk; it looked warm and inviting. Why not? I thought. I opened the door and slipped in.
I headed right to the bar like I knew exactly where I was going. I was handed a drink, a sweet and very strong holiday punch. Five parts rum or something: perfect. Everyone at the party seemed to be outstandingly good-looking, women and men alike, so much so one might wonder if this was a criterion for getting invited. I pushed my way through the crowd, around the circuit once, then retreated to a corner to take it all in. That’s how the first woman and I started talking. But my claim that I liked the shop, liked the clothes, hadn’t satisfied her. “You don’t surf?” she said.
I considered lying, saying, “Yeah, sometimes I surf,” or, “I used to surf, but not anymore.” She might have believed that. I could’ve told her about California, where I used to live. But in the instant I knew my lie would somehow be found out. So I said I liked the clothes—they also sold T-shirts and sweaters and stuff. She took a sip of her drink then said, “You really don’t surf?”
That’s when the blonde in the newsboy cap walked up. The two said hi, like they knew each other, and the
n she said the thing about almost getting into a fight over directions.
It was very noisy so I wasn’t a hundred percent sure I’d heard right. I asked if that’s what she’d said.
She nodded, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I was so pissed off. We’re talking and he nods in that direction”—she pointed toward the northeast—“and he says he’s going to a party in the East Village, just sort of nods his head. You know?”
I nodded.
“And so I say, ‘That’s not the East Village. If you go that way, you’ll run into, like, Sixth and Twelfth.’ Right?” She was talking to us now.
The other woman and I looked out the window toward where she’d pointed, and then we both said, “Yeah, right.”
“‘That is not the East Village.’ And he just looks at me and does this dismissive thing with his hand, as if saying I’m a girl and I don’t know what I’m talking about. He shows me his phone, his fucking phone, and says the phone says that’s the East Village. And it really pissed me off. I mean, I’ve lived here five years—”
“I know what you mean,” I interjected, “you have managed to live here for five years. You have earned the right to give good directions. You don’t need a phone telling you.”
“Exactly. I know how to get to the East Village, and that is not how. I don’t care what your fucking phone says.” She sighed, took a long sip of the fruity drink. “I just had to walk away; I almost wanted to hit him.” Suddenly the taste of the rum punch hit her; I could see the recognition on her face. “Wow, this drink is really strong.”
The other woman and I agreed. We had figured this out a couple sips ago: we were all very quickly getting very buzzed. Then the blonde in the newsboy cap looked at me with a puzzled expression as if it suddenly struck her that she had been talking to me all this time but didn’t know me. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Billy.”
“I’m Liz.”
“I’m a fan of anyone who gives directions,” I added.
She nodded, and smiled mildly. We stood there for a minute not talking. It was really loud. The other woman looked out at the crowd, scoping where to go next; she clearly didn’t want to be standing there talking to two people about the value of good directions, especially since one of them was old enough to be her dad. I couldn’t blame her.
Liz asked how I know the guys who were giving the party.
I said what I’d said to her friend: I like the store, I live in the neighborhood.
“He doesn’t surf,” added the other.
I could have kicked her. What I wanted to say was: A surf shop in Manhattan? For real? It must be a front by some clever guys to pick up cute girls.
Liz asked where I lived exactly and, when I told her, she asked if I’d been impacted by Hurricane Sandy. I told her how I was—no power, water, lights. She said she was similarly affected, but there was not a trace of complaint in her voice. It was like she was now standing up for the storm. I’m not saying she was pro-storm, but let’s say, pro-storm-experience.
The other woman had a look on her face like she didn’t understand a word either of us was saying.
“I mean it, I’m really glad. To go without power or water or heat for a few days? It gave me a feeling for what it’s like for a lot of people every day. Every goddamn day!” She paused to take a sip. “It transformed me. It really did. It transformed me.”
By now, the windows behind us were all fogged up, it was so hot in there and so cold outside. Suddenly she stepped up onto the banquette, and she used her finger as a pen on the fogged-over glass. In cursive letters, she wrote, “Love Liz.”
She did it slowly and carefully; they were the most elaborate capital letter L’s—very fancy, with exaggerated curls, like a young girl might do when practicing writing her autograph in her journal.
As she stood up there, I began thinking about how I happened just to wander in here, by chance, without an invitation, without a thought, but also not without feeling welcomed, and how I had ended up connecting with this spirited blonde woman with improbably nice handwriting. I thought about how few people nowadays really value getting good directions from someone, how they’d sooner believe their phone, and how few of us have really nice handwriting anymore, how this is no longer valued, because we communicate mostly by e-mail and text, and rarely write letters or postcards or in handwriting on fogged-over windows.
I told her how beautiful it was. You could see the lights of the city sparkling through the letters.
Liz stepped down. I gave her my drink to hold. I stepped onto the banquette and, using my finger as a pen on the fogged-over glass, I added my autograph to hers: “& Billy.”
I took my glass back. “Cheers,” I said, and the three of us toasted. “Here’s to knowing your way. Here’s to knowing New York.”
Liz put her head back and finished her drink until the ice in the plastic glass fell into her mouth. She licked her lips. She said she had to get going.
I asked her where.
“That party in the East Village.”
She said I should come but I said thanks, no, not tonight.
I watched her walk out and, as she passed by him, say something to the guy on the sidewalk. I could just imagine.
I slipped out the door and headed the other way.
Sam at His Newsstand
NOTES FROM A JOURNAL
2-6-13:
On a crowded 1 train up to 168th Street after work. I have my iPod on but notice an elderly woman nearby motioning to me and saying something. I take off my earphones. “Excuse me?”
“Would you like my seat?”
I demur, and ask why she offered.
“Because you look so tired.”
How sad is that?
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2-9-13—11:15 P.M.
“I hope I get a good night’s sleep and then have a rush of thoughts, as I did this morning,” says O. “It is very delightful when that happens—all of them rushing to the surface, as if they have been waiting for me to become conscious of them…”
I help him get ready for bed—“de-sock” him, fill his water bottle, bring him his sleeping tablets, make sure he has something to read.
I: “What else can I do for you?”
O: “Exist.”
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2-10-13:
Thank You, Snow
Thank you, Snow, says O
Echoing Auden thanking Fog
For keeping us in
The low rumble of a plow on Eighth
A man with a camera fixed on the sky
Trying to capture a blizzard
Streetlamps tripled in the double-pane windows
The silent comedy of delivery boys on bikes
Even still
We eat sea bass and apples
And take a bath
I first, then he
Sharing the water
104 degrees
While sipping shots of Brennivin
And cool down before a wide-open window beside the bed
When was the last time you tasted snow? I say
And scoop a handful from the sill
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2-17-13:
A meteor has fallen to earth, I hear on the TV news. It’s good to be reminded that we’re not in charge. That we live in a solar system.
I bundle up and go to the roof of our building. It is bloody freezing—the wind chill is below zero.
I count exactly half a moon and a hundred stars.
The Empire State, lit in red, white, and blue, and the Chrysler, in its creamy crinoline, peek out from behind other buildings and seem somehow to say hello.
I can imagine why that meteor pulled away from its orbital belt and crashed to earth. The lights alone here are so inviting.
Beauty on Eighth
DRIVING A SUPERMODEL
Oliver and I went to a small chamber orchestra concert at the Irish-American Historical Society, a jewel bo
x of a building directly across the street from the Metropolitan Museum. He knows the Irish gentleman who organizes these concerts, Kevin. They feature students from Juilliard. Very intimate. Unpretentious. Free of charge. A handful of people in folding chairs—maybe forty. Kevin had saved seats for O and me in the front row. Just as he was making his introductions, a woman rushed in by herself and plopped onto the cushy rose-colored sofa right next to our seats: Lauren Hutton, the model from the seventies: I recognized her instantly by her gap-toothed smile and slightly crossed eyes. Now in her late sixties, still beautiful, her face naturally lined. And, one couldn’t help but notice, she had a big bruiser of a black eye.
The concert began with no further ado, and we all sat back and enjoyed the program—Brahms, Haydn, Ravel—by these enchanting musicians. Even if you were deaf, it occurred to me, you could still “hear” every note, so expressive were they—moving with the music, delicately interacting with one another by glance, their faces expressing the colors and tones they were creating with their instruments—eyes widening or narrowing, smiling, pursing lips, necks craning, as if moving the music forward. I found myself thinking back on how healing music has been for me over the past six years. Beauty is a balm to grief, I once wrote.
With the final note, Lauren Hutton was the first to pop up and give the trio a standing ovation. “Do you have a fan club?” she sort of yelled above the clapping; it was a little startling, like someone yelling in a church. “I’m starting your fan club. You’re fantastic, you’re going places!”
The musicians bowed shyly and departed.
There was a small reception afterwards. Nothing fancy—two bottles of San Pellegrino and a couple bottles of wine—but no bottle opener. O and I were talking with Kevin when Lauren Hutton walked up to us holding the Pellegrino bottle: “Do one of you kind gentlemen have an opener? Even a knife would do—I could pry it open with a penknife.”