Insomniac City: New York, Oliver, and Me(29)

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?

_____________________

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.”

_____________________

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

_____________________

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.