Twilight in Reverse

I know I’ve already written a lot this weekend, but… whoa.

Last night was… amazing.

Stay with me here, because this is going to take a while. And this probably isn’t going where you think it’s going.

First off, Wes has gone on a week’s vacation with his parents. I think it’s good I have some time away from him. But yesterday evening I got an e-mail from him. Strangely, this was the first e-mail he’d ever sent me. See, we didn’t get around to exchanging e-mail addresses until about two weeks after we’d met, and we’ve never used them. Strange, huh? Actually, in a world in which e-mail is the primary form of communication, it’s pretty refreshing.

It said:

Hey —

Just wanted to drop you a quick note. Had a really fun time with you last night.

Hope you enjoy your time off.

Start thinking of something cool to do when we get back.

Talk to you soon — [Wes]

Okay. Interesting. It looks like one of two things is going on here.

One: we’re not on the same page at all. He’s completely oblivious to what happened the other night.

Or, two: he knows full well that I was upset the other night, and he’s trying to do damage control because he’s concerned I might meet or hook up with someone else while he’s gone. Don’t do anything stupid, he’d said.

But in either case, all he can say is Had a really fun time with you last night. Oh, god. I think he’s one of those people who, instead of confronting problems, prefers to sweep everything under the rug and pretend everything is just peachy. I can’t deal with people like that. People who can’t communicate. People who aren’t emotionally aware.

A little alarm bell is starting to go off.

Anyway, moving on.

I decided to go back to the East Village last night by myself. In the back of my mind I intended to hook up with someone. After all, we’re not boyfriends.

Earlier in the evening, I’d got a much-needed haircut. My hair is now closely-cropped again, the way I like it.

After I changed into appropriate bar attire last night — jeans, a white ringer T, and contact lenses — I looked at myself in the mirror.

Hmm.

On a whim, I decided to shave off the goatee. I’d shaved it off for an interview a couple of weeks ago and had grown it right back. But last night I decided, screw it — I’m tired of it. So I took off my t-shirt, shaved, put my t-shirt back on, and looked at myself in the mirror again.

Wow.

In all honesty, I looked adorable.

I put on a dash of cologne and walked out the door feeling terrific.

I went to the East Village. First I went to Wonderbar, but it was way too crowded. I’m not as fond of that place as I used to be — it’s small, you can never move, and there’s never anyplace to stand or sit. So I left.

I decided to go back to the Phoenix, site of the previous night’s trauma. I figured that instead of associating the Phoenix with trauma for the rest of my days, I should replace bad memories with new ones. The Phoenix will rise. So I walked in — and it, too, was packed. I don’t really like being in bars by myself, so I thought about leaving. But then I spotted a guy from Twentysomething and went up to him and said hi. He was with a friend of his, someone who’d just moved to New York a month ago. The three of us talked for a while.

Eventually, the guy from Twentysomething went home, but his friend and I continued to talk. And talk. And talk.

He moved here four weeks ago from Pittsburgh, where he’d just received an MFA in poetry at the University of Pittsburgh. Before Pittsburgh, he lived in Boston. He’s just begun a job here in New York as an editor for a publishing company. He grew up in a fundamentalist Christian family in West Virginia. I wouldn’t have known — he didn’t seem at all like I’d expect someone from a fundamentalist Christian family in West Virginia to seem like. He had no accent and didn’t seem at all rural. I couldn’t figure out his background.

After much talking, we looked at our watches. It was three in the morning. Holy shit. We’d been talking forever. He decided it was time to go home to Brooklyn, but he seemed worth knowing, so I asked him for his phone number. We exchanged digits, and he left. He’s planning to start going to Twentysomething, so I’ll probably see him there at any rate.

I was still horny. I bought another beer and stood around the Phoenix for a while. By some weird logic I figured it might be easier to meet someone now that it was getting late and people were getting more desperate to pair off. Low self-esteem, party of one?

I drank my beer and stood with my back to the bar and looked around. But nothing happened. Nobody came up to me, and I didn’t see anyone who was both alone and attractive. So I finished my beer and left.

From there I went back to Wonderbar, where I had some water and ran into an acquaintance and a friend of his. We chatted for a while. It was now four in the morning. I decided to leave.

And at that point I decided to fulfill another goal of mine.

See, I’d always wanted to walk around Manhattan all night long until the sun came up. There was something romantic and soothing about the idea. It made me think of Catcher in the Rye. Since I’m on vacation for the next two weeks, I don’t have to worry about screwing up my sleeping schedule, so I decided this was the perfect night to be Holden Caulfield.

I left Wonderbar and walked over to Broadway, up Broadway, past Union Square, and up to Park Avenue South. Park Avenue seemed the safest bet, because the street has row after row of luxury buildings, each with a doorman just inside the lobby, so I figured nothing bad could happen to me.

I strolled up Park Avenue, leisurely. I walked up into the East 20s, into the 30s, into the 40s. I saw random small groups of straight guys wearing their straight clothes after picking up straight women in straight clubs, probably on their way back to their straight cars so they could drive back to New Jersey. Blech.

I continued walking and soon the streets were practically empty. It was indeed romantic and soothing. I walked slowly, thoughtfully, taking the time to look at everything around me. I reached the Met Life Building and walked past Grand Central Station, then continued along Park Avenue.

I really, really had to go to the bathroom, so I stopped into the Waldorf-Astoria at five in the morning to use the men’s room in the lobby. There was a big separate bathroom with its own door. It was so spacious. I sat there in peace. After I was finished, I washed my hands with Caswell-Massey Almond and Aloe Liquid Soap. It was truly one of the most satisfying restroom experiences I’ve ever had.

I walked around the lobby. Did you know the Waldorf-Astoria has a rare bookshop? Did you know that in the window of the bookshop there’s a first edition of Huckleberry Finn? And a first edition of the score to Wagner’s Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg? And a first edition of Plato’s Republic in English? And a first edition of Wordsworth’s poetry, opened to a page containing an autograph from Wordsworth himself? And an early edition of Milton’s Paradise Lost?

Way cool.

I left the Waldorf-Astoria and continued walking up Park Avenue. I felt like I was in New York in the 1940s, or maybe the 1950s. After I few minutes I realized that I’d had a song going through my head, for who knows how long, without my realizing it. I realized it was from “Guys and Dolls”:

My time of day is the dark time

A couple of hours before dawn

When the street belongs to the cop

And the janitor with the mop

…and the homeless people sleeping on the steps of St. Bartholemew’s.

It was still dark. I kept walking. I walked past a travel company with a detailed model of a Cunard Line cruise ship in the window. I walked past a banking company with brochures in the window about how to make the transition to retirement. Outside a luxury building, a middle-aged man in a suit with a suitcase and a briefcase was getting into a cab, presumably on his way to the airport. I imagined his holdings — his stocks, his investments, his Park Avenue condominium, his long life of experience, his business meeting in Stockholm. But hey, I’ve got stuff too. Student loans and credit card debt.

I strolled up through the East 50s. Then the 60s. Occasionally I’d stop and stare up at the half-moon in the sky. I’d see a solitary window lit up on the otherwise dark facade of an apartment building.

I zoomed out from a mental map. I saw the entire island of Manhattan from above, and then the entire city, and then the entire East Coast, and then the entire nation. An entire nation filled with people asleep in their homes. In the Mountain Time Zone it was 3:30; in the Central Time Zone, 4:30. Across the nation — except maybe in L.A. — the only other people awake right now were gay people, teenagers speeding along highways, families sitting anxiously by hospital beds, and solitary beings worrying about failing marriages and how to pay the bills.

The sky was turning from black to dark blue. Doormen were outside, spraying sidewalks and watering plants. I walked up through the 70s. In the east, over in Queens, the dark blue started to become light blue. It was twilight in reverse. I walked up through the 80s. And then into the 90s. I knew I’d have to stop soon, because I was getting closer to the edge of Harlem.

Finally, at East 96th Street, the luxury buildings ended, really abruptly.

I’d walked from 6th Street all the way up to 96th Street. Ninety blocks.

I turned back and walked along 95th Street toward Fifth Avenue. I felt like doubling back and sitting on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

As I turned onto Fifth Avenue, a flotilla of bicycles appeared out of nowhere. There were hundreds of them. Rider after rider. They kept coming and coming. Apparently it’s Bicycle Awareness Day. It wouldn’t end. They went on and on, hundreds of cyclists riding silently down Fifth Avenue.

I got to the museum and walked up to the top of the steps. I sat down at the exact center of the very top step. Do you know how surreal it is to sit on the steps of the Metroplitan Museum of Art, completely alone? The steps of the Met are usually jam-packed.

A few dog-walkers walked by. The sky grew lighter and lighter. One by one, the automatic street lamps shut off.

I stood up again. Oh my god. My feet were killing me. I’d probably worn out my Kenneth Coles completely.

I descended the museum steps and walked along 82nd Street, past Madison Avenue, and turned onto Lexington. I wanted either to go to the subway or to find a diner. I wasn’t sure.

I walked down Lexington and got to 77th Street. The sky was light now, but it was a weak morning light; the sun wasn’t up yet. A woman was walking into a deli. A man was unwrapping newspapers.

I thought about going down into the 77th Street subway station, but across the street I saw a diner and a small bagel shop. I decided to cross over. It was 6:30 in the morning.

As I crossed the street I saw a guy crossing from the other direction. He was wearing a ringer T as well. He was pretty cute.

As he approached, I looked at him. I realized he was looking at me, too. A faint smile appeared on his face. He walked on.

Wait. Whoa!

I turned around to look back at him. He was looking back at me, too. He stopped walking, turned around, and walked back toward me. He followed me to the corner.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

“What are you up to?” he said.

“Oh, just walking,” I said.

“Cool… where have you been tonight?” he said.

“Well, I was at the Phoenix, and then Wonderbar for a bit, and I just felt like walking around the city and I wound up here,” I said. Um, yeah. Seventy blocks north of Wonderbar.

“Where do you live?”

“Jersey City, actually, across the river,” I said, a hint of apology in my voice, like, I know, how pathetic.

“Okay. Let’s go back to my place,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. Oh my god. I can’t believe this is happening.

We walked down Lexington. I was hard. I asked him where he lived. He said 70th and First. So, not like right around the corner.

“What’s your name?” he said.

“I’m Jeff.”

“I’m Kevin.”

He sounded like he had a slight accent, almost East European. “So, where are you from originally?” I asked.

“Connecticut.”

Oh.

“Have you done anything tonight?” he asked me. I assumed he meant had I fooled around with anyone. But I was wrong. “Drugs,” he said.

“Oh. Uh, no,” I said, because I hadn’t, I never have, and I never will. “Have you?”

“Ecstasy.”

Oh, great. Should I still do this? What does ecstasy do to a person? Is ecstasy a capsule or a tablet? Will there still be some on his tongue if I kiss him?

He said he needed some water, so I felt better. If he had some water, that would probably wash anything away.

At 72nd Street he said, “Jeff, I don’t think this is such a good idea after all. I’m kind of fucked up right now.”

“Okay,” I said.

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey, not a problem.”

So we went our separate ways.

At 77th Street I’d been picked up and at 72nd Street I’d been dumped. It was a five-block romance. Ah, New York.

When I finally got back to Jersey City the sun was up. It was eight in the morning. I crawled into bed and fell asleep.

Wow. What a magical night.

I finally got to be Holden Caulfield.

Except Holden Caulfield never got picked up by a cute guy on the corner of 77th and Lexington.
—–