Insomniac City: New York, Oliver, and Me(17)

I looked at him. He seemed lost in thought. I wasn’t sure if I should say what I wanted to say next, but, what the hell: “And that’s a good smell.”

“Thank you,” he said.

I loved that he took this for what it was—a compliment on his patch of the world, odors and all. I asked him directions to the club, and he obliged.

I told him to have a good night and went on my way.

At the door of the club, the security guard asked me for my ID. “You think you look too old just to get in?” he teased.

I dug it out of my wallet and he took a look. “Fifty?”

“Fifty-one.”

“Don’t look it.”

“Don’t feel it,” I replied. “What about you?”

“Guess,” he said.

I eyed him. “Thirty-eight.”

“Nope. I’m older than I look.”

By then, a very young-looking girl was at the door, fishing in her purse for her ID, at the guard’s request. She looked underage, frankly. “Can you guess his age?” I said to her.

She looked confused. Wasn’t this about her age?

She got frazzled. She couldn’t decide. She was taking this very seriously. She didn’t want to offend him, but she also really had no idea. She said she could never judge age, she never thought about it.

“Just guess,” the guard prodded, “just try. How old am I?”

She studied him carefully. “You’re … comfortable,” she finally said.

This thought floated in the air.

“That is such a good answer,” I said.

“Yeah,” the guard agreed, “very good.”

“That’s how he looks. I don’t know his age, but he looks comfortable.”

The guard checked her ID; it was legit. We all introduced ourselves: Raymond, Billy, and Crystal. Crystal told me to come by the bar, where she’d be working, and she would give me a free Heineken.

“Cool.”

_____________________

Hailey—O’s assistant by day, musician by night—and her band were fantastic. They played as if they were in a stadium, not a two-bedroom-sized bar. I stayed too late and had one more beer than I should have. When I left, I passed by the warehouse. The Thank-You Man was still there, accompanied now by two other people and several more bottles of beer.

“You’re still here,” I said, not knowing what else to say. All three looked at me calmly, openly, as if thinking: Of course we’re here, where else would one want to be?

“Yeah,” he answered, “just making sure everything is operating correctly.”

“I feel safer already.”

“Thank you,” he replied.

I said good night, and the three said good night in return.

As I walked back toward the subway, I looked at the sky and there were great white cumulus clouds visible. Bright clouds at night, backlit by the moon, have always thrilled me. They seem so surreal, and yet make you feel very much like you are part of a planet, part of a universe, not just in a random city. Then I did something I do sometimes when maybe I feel a little lost or need to remind myself of exactly where I am in my life: I sort of clear away the junk and do a quick metaphysical inventory: “Consciousness that this is a planet,” I whispered to myself, “and of the sky and the clouds.

“Consciousness of my mother, who loved clouds and who died a year ago tomorrow.

“Consciousness that I am lucky to be here.

“Consciousness that I got myself here.

“Consciousness that I am thankful.”





Lovers on the Grass





NOTES FROM A JOURNAL

Undated Note—2012:

O: “I sometimes think things are not enough until they are too much. There is no in between for me.”

_____________________

6-17-12:

I met a go-go boy tonight. He was on a break, downing a Red Bull at the bar where he works. His name was Vinnie, and he was twenty-five.

“I put myself through school doing this, dancing,” he told me. “F.I.T.—I just graduated.”

I congratulated him and shook his hand, still wet with sweat. “And what amazing things can the world expect from you next?”

He smiled. “Photography—fashion photography—the sickest.”

He took out his iPhone and showed me pictures from a recent shoot. I was surprised by how good they were—highly stylized; Art Deco meets the 1980s, somehow suggesting a Madonna influence, I commented.

“Exactly. Madonna saved me. My first album was Ray of Light, and I loved the photography. I knew then, that’s what I wanted to do.”

The go-go boy asked me about myself. I told him what I do, about the piece I have in the Times this weekend, my books.

He said he wanted to read the piece in the Times. “It sounds romantic.”

“It is romantic,” I told him, “deeply so. You’re a romantic, too?”

His helpless expression answered.

Vinnie told me he’d grown up “on the Island”—Long Island, a skinny kid with thick glasses—“I’m practically legally blind, honestly; I can’t see anything when I’m dancing”—and dreamed about one day living in New York. Madonna was part of his dream.