Insomniac City: New York, Oliver, and Me(9)

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11-11-09:

Knee surgery has exacerbated other problems—sciatica and disc pain so severe O cannot sit to write. He might have to have back surgery. I construct a standing desk on the kitchen counter made from stacks of books and a nice flat piece of wood I found in the basement. He works nonstop through the night on his new book, The Mind’s Eye.

“Writing is more important than pain,” he says.

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Undated Notes—December 2009:

My head on O’s chest, he caresses my biceps, very, very softly. I think the Dilaudid has kicked in.

“You like those?” I ask.

“Oh yes—they’re like … beautiful tumors—”

I chuckle—how flattering.

“—voluptuous tumescences … !”

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I: “Do you need anything?”

O: “Could you pull off my socks?”

I smile, and do so, kiss him on the forehead, and say good night.

“I feel beautifully comfortable with you,” O says.

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11-21-09:

Note to self, on the back of a Verizon envelope: “Sometimes it will be difficult and you’ll question why you ever moved here. But New York will always answer you.”

Yes, remember that: New York will always answer you.

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12-22-09:

On my way to the airport to visit family for the holidays, I stopped by O’s office to say goodbye. I found myself confessing something that has been gradually formulating in my mind for many weeks now, but never expressed: “I am in love with you, Oliver.” He fought back tears. I kissed his head, held him, told him it’s going to be okay, I’d be back from Seattle soon. He nodded. We walked out to the main room, where his two assistants, Kate and Hailey, work. “Watch over this guy,” I said. Then O and I (no longer having privacy) shook hands.

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12-26-09: O, on the phone from NY, stutters to speak: “I know that I put up all kinds of restrictions. Barriers. And was reluctant to go places with you in public. I now want to say that I love you, too, and I would be happy to go anywhere with you.”

I am smiling broadly on the other side of the country.

“And I, with you, young man,” I tell him.





Young Love in the Park





A FISHERMAN ON THE SUBWAY


I met a fisherman on the 1 train one night.

It would have been hard to miss him even in a packed subway car. His two large fishing rods, like a pair of periscopes, towered a good head above anyone else. He had gotten on one stop after me. Gripping his poles with one hand, a train pole with the other, he studied the subway map over my shoulder. He was tall, maybe six-two, in his mid-twenties, and could have been part Dominican, part Vietnamese—island countries.

I watched his face as his scrunched-up eyes traced his route on the map and he got his bearings. Satisfied, he looked around then settled into the empty seat next to me. He corralled his poles between his knees.

You can’t be sitting next to a fisherman on a subway and not say something.

“Catch any?”

“Not today.” This did not appear to trouble him.

I was coming from work. The idea of coming from fishing instead of your job seemed pretty sweet. “Where would one go—where would I go if I wanted to fish?”

“Staten Island. Great fishing there—striped bass. But today I went to Battery Park—off the pier. Didn’t have much time. Just an hour.”

“Not even a nibble?”

“Oh yeah, lots, but no catches. They take a bite, feel something, feel the hook, spit it out. They’re smart, those fish. You’re sadly mistaken if you think you’re in control when you go fishing.”

He sounded like he knew what he was talking about.

I said I’d take his word for it.

“You gotta be patient,” he elaborated. “You can’t go out there for just an hour and expect to catch. They feel you out. I went today just to be out there—”

“—with the fish?”

He nodded. “And on the water.”

You can get so caught up in your life in New York that you forget: We live on an island, I thought to myself—an island. “That’s cool,” I murmured.

“Night’s the best time—if it’s clear, the stars are out, fish are running—”

I could almost picture it. I saw the Empire State Building in the background.

“Once I got a shark,” he said, more animated. “A basking shark—ugly thing. This was during the day. Took hundred-pound line and over an hour to pull him in.”

“Sharks in New York—now somehow that does not surprise me.”

He laughed.

The fisherman looked at his wristwatch and said he was just going to make it in time—just barely. He had to be at work in the Bronx at six.

I noticed that his watch already said six and mentioned this.

“Yeah, I keep it fifteen minutes fast—I’m always running late. I can’t stand to stop fishing.”

“Man, that’s love.” I stood up. “I wish you no subway delays—and no more sharks.” I said so long and got off at my stop.