Insomniac City: New York, Oliver, and Me

by Bill Hayes

I had simply reached a point in my life where I had to get away from San Francisco—and all the memories it held—and start fresh.

Reckon not upon long life: think every day the last, and live always beyond thy account. He that so often surviveth his Expectation lives many Lives, and will scarce complain of the shortness of his days. Time past is gone like a Shadow; make time to come present—’”

We have no power, no running water, no phone service, no gas, no heat. We drink champagne. We say a toast. We count our blessings.

What is the opposite of a perfect storm? That is what this was, one of those rare moments when the world seems to shed all shyness and display every possible permutation of beauty.

I: “What else can I do for you?” O: “Exist.”

“I don’t know who that was, but she seems like a very remarkable person.”

I’ve lived in New York long enough to understand why some people hate it here: the crowds, the noise, the traffic, the expense, the rents; the messed-up sidewalks and pothole-pocked streets; the weather that brings hurricanes named after girls that break your heart and take away everything. It requires a certain kind of unconditional love to love living here. But New York repays you in time in memorable encounters, at the very least. Just remember: Ask first, don’t grab, be fair, say please and thank you, always say thank you—even if you don’t get something back right away. You will.

I am strongly anti-museum-map and militantly in favor of getting lost. While there’s nothing wrong with navigating straight to the old masters, I believe it’s far nicer to lose your way in a labyrinth of galleries and suddenly find yourself, as I did one Saturday evening, face-to-face with an Odilon Redon bouquet looking so fresh I could have sworn the paint was still wet.

Yet not wanting to forget something is not the same as wishing to remember it better.