Insomniac City: New York, Oliver, and Me(53)

As he reached for his wallet, he remembered something—I could see this in his body even before he uttered any words: “Oh! I almost forgot—and one of your pencil sharpeners!”

This I did not expect—would not ever have expected—him to say. I watched in disbelief as Ali directed him to a back corner of the smoke shop.

A pencil sharpener? Who buys pencil sharpeners anymore? Who sells them?

Ali read my mind: “Left from the stationery store,” he said in his deadpan way.

Ah, yes, the failed stationery store that his boss had for six months before giving up on it—more money in lotto tickets and cigarettes than in paper clips and notepads, I guess.

Ali and I watched silently as the young man in the seersucker jacket reached up to take something from a high shelf and returned to the counter holding, yes, a pencil sharpener. It was purple. “Last one,” he murmured with a tone of amazement.

I don’t remember if I asked the young man, or if he simply saw the questioning look on my face, but he turned to me and said, “This is the best pencil sharpener.” But he didn’t stop there. “The best. You can’t find another one this good.”

I nodded in agreement, convinced.

“I ran over my old one.” He looked at Ali. “That was the last one you had, too, wasn’t it?—My lucky day.”

Ali looked completely blasé: “Hundreds more in the basement.”

This made me laugh.

I watched the young man pay Ali and noticed just then that the pack of American Spirits was exactly the same light blue as the stripes on his jacket, the same light blue as his lighter, and the same light blue as his dazzling blue eyes. I had no doubt that every detail of his appearance had been thought out, refined, tested on previous nights—selfies taken and studied—until he had arrived at this curated version of himself, equal parts Mad Men, Entourage, and This American Life. I could easily envision his apartment, with its retro touches, and his Kate Spade-accessorized girlfriend, and his terrier dog.

But still, I had a question for this young man: “Why a pencil sharpener? Why a pencil?”

“Hey, I make mistakes sometimes.”

“Excellent answer,” I said.

The young man waved “so long” and was out of there, probably meeting friends at the Art Bar next door.

I said good night to Ali and headed south on Eighth toward a favorite neighborhood restaurant. On my way, I walked through Abingdon Square Park. To enter was to step back in time—twice: once, to an earlier age in New York, the early twentieth century, with the wrought-iron lampposts and benches, and secondly, to 2009, when I first moved here and discovered this park on walks on insomniac nights. A wave of nostalgia washed over me. I couldn’t just dash through on my way to the restaurant. I had to sit down for a moment and soak it in.

The light here was so pretty—the yellowy light from the lampposts, light from apartment windows, some stars overhead. At this hour, just before closing, there were only a few people here in the park. None were talking on cell phones or even looking at cell phones. There was a homeless man splayed out on one bench, a couple talking quietly, a guy with a dog, and to the far right, sitting right under a lamppost, a tall, dark-haired, bearded man reading a book and smoking a cigar. He was perhaps in his mid-thirties. His wife and baby daughter were at home nearby, I imagined. He was stealing a little time for himself. The cigar had just an inch or two left—he had been here awhile. He was the very picture of a man, a certain type of very masculine man: a New Yorker, but somehow imbued with the spirit of his European forebears, too.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. It was such a beautiful picture, him sitting there under that light. He was such a beautiful picture. He pulled on the cigar, leaned over, studying his book. I wished, I so wished, I had my camera with me; I would have taken a photo. I tried to dissuade myself from doing so but couldn’t—I had to at least go talk to him.

I asked him what he was reading. He showed me the cover: Moonwalking with Einstein. “It’s supposed to help you remember better,” he said.

I nodded as if I understood, but I didn’t, not really. Remember what? I wondered. Moments in his baby’s life? Passages of poetry? Facts, numbers, figures that would help him make more money? Or maybe even nights like this?

I left him to his book and his cigar and said good night.

As I walked away, I pulled a pencil from my pocket and made some notes for my journal.





Good Fella





NOTES FROM A JOURNAL

7-11-15:

Woke at 2:30 A.M. to O’s restlessness in bed and whispered, groggily, “You okay? What’s going on?”

“Hot! So hot!”

His skin was indeed hot to the touch and damp, even though the room was cool.

I pulled back all of the bedclothes, helped O remove his pajama trousers and T-shirt, went to the bathroom and got a cold, wet washcloth, put the cloth to his brow, then used it to cool and wash his naked body. I put a dry bath towel on the bed, changed his pillowcases, got a glass of water. Then I split a Xanax in two, and gave him half.

“Here,” I said, “put this under your tongue.” I didn’t ask, I told him. He did so, and I gave him some water to wash it down. We got back into bed, cuddled.

“Is this what you did with Steve,” he asked, “when he had night sweats?”