The Sixties
Today I embark on my sixties as a child of the sixties, with five decades of filler in between. I began the day in kinesthetic reflection of the past with a bike ride down my most memorable of memory lanes: NYC’s west side.
I landed in New York in the fall of 1984—Orwellian irony—and left in the spring of 1987. It felt like a lifetime. Hell, it was a liftime. A lifetime spent primarily on the west side.
As I biked the Hudson River Greenway, memory upon memory rushed by; my chaotic two years on upper west side; my three roommates from those years — Gasby, Marcia, and Larry — who couldn’t have been more different; the view from my apartment at Lincoln Square; the smell of 112th (Larry was a smoker); a lazy afternoon sunning on the lawn of The Cloisters; the post-collegiate genius to hang a hammock above my paisley futon as a guest bed (never used); stopping our airport-bound cab to make snow angels in Riverside park with Raquel, my 2am breakup with Jim; my teary-eyed barefoot sprint home down Central Park West afterward; Jim’s death of HIV/AIDS two years later; a Christmas Eve with Marcia in our shoebox apartment on 77th, our dwarf ficus trees strung with lights; a surprise birthday dinner (again, with Marcia) of soft shell crab at Café des Artistes; an overpriced, disappointing lunch at Tavern on the Green; reading Anna Korenina atop Hernshead Rock (apparently it looks like a heron’s head); the daily temptation of Sheep Meadow (thought it was Sheep’s until today); bogarting the adult-friendly swing sets at Hecksher Playground (who the heck was Hecksher?); hungover Sunday brunches at Ruperts; the roller-skating waiters at Saloon; a week of consecutive lunches at the Lincoln Center cafe with my visiting Aunt Charlotte’s in the hopes of spotting a soap opera star (never did); myriad classes at Broadway Dance Center; early, cold, dark mornings teaching step classes at Molly Fox Studios; all the photo shoots; all the auditions; Canal Street Jeans; bumping into a just-taking-off Madonna at the Pineapple gym; meeting both Raquel & Tony on the same day at the gym across the street; my “bisexual years; Tony’s squalid “garden” apartment on the 300 block of Mott Street (building still looks the exact same); my heartbeat the first time we had sex on his squalid couch; a sexless sleepover with Richard Grieco; The Duplex; The Tunnel; the Limelight; 2-hr piña colada lunches with Nikki at the Tribeca cafe; TriBeCa before Tribeca; SoHo before Soho; spying a shorter-and-more-beautiful-than-expected Jaclyn Smith momentarily alone in the Shubert lobby after some play; spotting a taller-and-just-as-fierce-as-expected Lucy Liu one Sunday strolling with her pack down some random street in The (beloved) Village; 121 Charles street; 75 ½ Bedford; dinners at Grange Hall; lunches at Pastis; the meatpacking nomansland before Pastis; Jeffery (the store); dancing with abandon to Waterlillies in David’s painstakingly soundproofed Bretton Hall apartment (before he got all fancy and moved down to London Terrace); dancing with even more abandon to Donna Summer at the Universal Grill; my first migraine the following day; the beginning of the end of red wine; missing Hedwig and the Angry Inch at the Jane; kicking myself ever since; coming years later with Nick to see its revival with John Cameron Mitchel and almost missing the show as second time; Scott & Margaret’s over-the-top 3-day millennium party; the spring ‘01 meeting with Mary and some VC high up in Twin Towers; arriving early and buying a magic wallet in its subterranean mall; my reflection on that day while watching the towers collapse; the devastation we all felt; NYC’s comeback; all the scrumptious dinners (and breakfasts at the Gee Whiz Diner) with Peter and Renee during their 7-yr tenure in the city; the stack and almonds in Laura’s fridge; the intensity and noise of the radiated heat of my and Diane’s initially adorable Airbnb; the freshly painted chocolate brown walls of Adam & Jerre’s bohemian apartment, the contrast of Adam & Joe’s Battery Park City apartment, a weekend at Zahid and John’s fabulous 22nd Street home; the first glorious stroll down the High Line; drinks at the equally glorious Boom Boom Room after; and the gradual evolution of the Hudson River Park itself.
When I had the protagonist of my first novel, Able Was I, take a daylong, leisurely stroll down Hudson River Park, I didn’t realize how symbolic this was. Of course, like most first-time novelists, I loosely built my story and my protagonist upon personal experience. And, yes, I situated my protagonist’s apartment lived on Jane Street, nextdoor to The Jane, to vicariously console myself for having missed seeing Hedwig there. But I had no relationship to the Hudson River Park. It was built long after I had left. It was simply a literary device, no hidden meaning. Silly me.
Later that afternoon, the first day of my sixties abruptly emerged from shadows of the the past into those of the present when my friend Tim and I went to see the Donmar Warehouse production of José Saramago’s Blindness at the Daryl Roth Theater. I had read the novel years ago and had seen the movie, so I was prepared, or so I thought. How I failed to anticipate my psychological comparison of the blindness pandemic of the book / movie to our current reality is beyond me. The theater’s pitch black instantly negated this oversight.
I won’t spoil the ending—or the beginning or middle for that matter—but let’s just say the play effectively immerses you in a pandemic’s extremes. Afterwards, we were unceremoniously shunted out of the dark theater onto a bright, busy 15th Street (5pm performance) where our currentday pandemic still lurks. Tim was shell-shocked (he hadn’t read the book or seen the movie) and after taking instagrammable “Theater is back!” photos, we went our separate ways. Tim went home and regained hope. I did as well, but elsewhere. I ended the night in the future.
Like most people, I’ve spent the 95% of the last two years at home. During this time, I can count the number of strangers I’ve met on one hand. Two of them I met recently in a chance encounter. We shared a meal, a boat, a beach, and a lot of laughs. They asked me to look them up if I ever came to New York — a cordial salutation of a bygone era. I graciously replied that I would even though back in March New York felt worlds and eons away. Now. just two months later, I was indeed in New York. So I called them. Again, we ate, drank, and laughed. Instead of a beach, their rooftop garden. Nico shared his grand vision of hydroponic farming while Aldara discussed her upcoming exhibit. And I thought,
This is exactly what I want my sixties to be.
