An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress.
Yeats, "Sailing to Byzantium"
Usually, I would not have been up so late. These past few years, I've gotten into the habit of going to bed early.
For a long time, during my youth, I stayed up late. I got a kick out of being up when everyone else was asleep. For me, the night was a time of ease. Days were filled with worry, with tension, with performing, and succeeding, and proving myself. Nights were a respite. I had myself to myself. And I couldn't waste them on sleeping. I wrote, I danced, I cruised the streets looking for love. I played the imaginary cello. I went through the looking glass. I dreamed on the water and went to the stars.
I feel different about it now. Now sleep is the respite. No, more than the respite; it's the time for living. My dreams are full of activity and emotion and grace. My hours awake, I have to put up with them, resign myself to them. I'm glad when they pass. They are the fiction. Dreams are the reality. Freud was right. Pleasure is the absence of pain. Isaiah Berlin was right. The best we can hope for is negative liberty. Nobody should bother us.
But at night, at night, in my dreams, it's like the revolution has happened and utopia is everywhere. And what's the ultimate utopia? That life should revolve around me. That I should be charged with pleasurable sensations.
In the morning, I say, Ach, here it is again. Good day, good riddance. May we be done with it quickly. I stretch my eyes in the afternoon and look for signs of darkness. That's why I like the winter even though I can't abide cold weather. Oh but once under the comforter, caressed by it, transported by its feathers I swim to the dolce far niente and emerge on the sable sands a young man in a strong bronze body.
But that night I was up late because although I almost never watch television, that night there was a movie on that I had seen almost forty years ago when I was young with a friend who had been very dear to me then but who subsequently stopped seeing me, who turned like sour milk, and who had been dead now -- I learned about it from the obituary page in the newspaper when it happened -- for nearly seven years.
Suddenly there was such a racket in the hallway outside my apartment that I really got scared. There was shouting and screaming, and it sounded like someone was getting hit. What could I do? I'm not young, and even when I was, I wasn't a fighter.
But I also can't let something that shouldn't be happening happen, and just outside my door, too.
Now some doors would have a peep hole in them to look out, but not mine. If you knew the woman who owns my apartment, you'd guess it already that everything that could possibly be wrong with an apartment was wrong with this one. That I, near the end of my days, had to be living in it was not the least of the things that were wrong with it, with everything. But now wasn't the time to go into that lament.
So I fastened the chain so I could open the door just a crack, and I stood behind the door; except with my head I just peeked out.
What's this racket late at night? An old man can't even watch a movie in peace.
I don't know where I got so much nerve.
Hey, tough guy, leave him alone. You don't live here. You want me to I'll call the cops.
Fuck you, man, the one doing the beating shouted. I don't know if it was at me or at the boy he was beating. And at the same time he gave him a violent shove against my door, shouted faggot, and fled down the steps and away. His victim slammed against my door from the push, the door trembled on its hinges and gave me a jolt, but luckily it did not knock me off my feet. A broken hip at my age was all I needed. The boy's body ricocheted off the door and he was sprawled on his back on the floor in the hall.
I closed the door in order to loosen the chain, and then I opened it.
Are you in one piece? I asked. Get up. Come in, come in, I said, extending a hand he did not take. I recognized him. He lived in the apartment above mine, top floor.
I'm ok, he said, grasping the banister with his right hand instead and hauling himself to his feet.
He smelled of alcohol and his nose was bleeding, but otherwise, it looked like he actually was ok.
Come in, I repeated. I pulled a clean dish towel from the rack by the door. The apartment door opened into the kitchen. I held the towel out to him.
Here, wipe yourself. I'll make you a cup of tea.
But he refused my offer of hospitality. He had better things to do? And he said he'd better go upstairs and just go to bed.
Well, just take care of yourself. And if you should need anything or if I can do anything for you, just let me know.
He mumbled a thanks, and then good night and made his way a little unsteadily up the stairs. I watched, twisting my head to look around up the staircase until he got into his apartment, and then I went back into mine and double locked the door with the Fox lock.
I went over to the window and looked out onto the corner of Essex and Houston Streets. It was snowing and it had begun to stick. Under the moonlight it looked pretty. I was glad to be inside. The world was as crazy as it always was.
Saturday morning it was still snowing. I put on a pair of corduroy pants and a flannel shirt over my long underwear -- a far cry I can tell you from the underwear I used to wear -- my galoshes, my old mackinaw, and a beat-up Rex Harrison hat, and went down to get some fresh butter, pumpernickel bread, soy milk, a half dozen eggs, two grapefruits, four apples, almonds, prunes, hummus, tabouli, and figs. I especially like figs. You can see from my shopping list that as gentrified as it was becoming, the old neighborhood has not entirely lost all its polyglot charm.
Isaac! Sam called as I entered the store, wiping his right hand on his long white apron. What can I do you for? he added predictably from behind the counter, and I read off my list to him. As he gathered the things we passed the time.
More snow, I said.
More snow, he echoed.
It'll be a white Christmas, I joked.
I won't know, he said. Next week I'll be in Florida.
You'll be closed?
My brother-in-law from Philly'll come down to keep the place open.
I wasn't sure I should ask the next thing, but why not? He knew I knew. He had told me one night, several years ago when he was closing up. We even went over to Clancy's and had a few ales and talked about it. So I ventured.
You going to see your son?
Staying with him, he said, smiling half foolishly half proudly.
Good for you, I said.
Time, he said and shrugged. And since his mother's death, who else have I got?
Give him my best.
He remembers you.
Why shouldn't he?
Fondly.
Same here.
I paid for my things and we wished each other a Happy New Year.
I bought the Voice and The New Yorker -- you gotta have some vices -- and I went back upstairs.
I unpacked the bag and spread out what I'd bought; then I went upstairs to see how my unfortunate young neighbor was. After such an eventful night I had slept late and since it was almost noon, it seemed to me I wouldn't be disturbing him if I knocked.
He was bleary-eyed and tousle-haired, and he opened the door the same way I had the night before, only a crack, secured by a chain.
Good morning, I said. I hope you're alright. I want to invite you to breakfast.
After a round of Abbot and Costello, he said he'd be down. He just had to get dressed.
Nothing formal, I said. And if I don't see you in five minutes, I'll be back.
I know, I know. I was pushy. But I had my reasons. You don't let a boy who's messing himself up go on like nothing is wrong. You think I don't know what I'm talking about?
Anyhow, my intuition was right.
He was a good looking boy. The kind I used to look at from a distance but couldn't figure out how to approach. Now desire had abandoned my loins and was only a memory that lurked like a shadow in my mind. Sublimation, which had never had such good press with me, in the long run had triumphed by default.
So how can I help? I asked as I handed him a grapefruit section and a cup of coffee?
What? he said looking at me a little funny.
I'll be blunt, I said. What's to lose? -- And time is short. How can I help?
He hung his head for a moment in silence -- weighing his options?
And don't tell me you don't need help.
Everybody needs help...
Thank you, Bertolt Brecht.
He grinned in spite of himself. But...
Don't But me. I'm too old for But. What happened last night?
You saw it, he said.
Before.
Before? I was looking...
And you found it.
Not for that.
No?
Jesus Christ!
Not exactly a denial.
What do you want?
What do you want?
I don't know any more.
Good, I said. That's a beginning.
Look, I got out of work, spent an hour at the gym, came home, took a shower, shaved, grabbed something to eat, went out to a bar on Prince Street, met some friends, had a few drinks and then met this guy. You saw him. I thought everything was cool. He said he was into leather and he noticed me because of the leather jeans I was wearing. He told me he liked them. He said they made me look powerful and that he wanted to feel what it was like to have a powerful man in his power.
He hesitated for a minute, and then he continued, looking straight at me, almost defiantly.
It gave me an involuntary shiver. There was something exceptionally attractive about him. His confidence. His use of the word power. Every time I heard him use the word power, I felt his power, and it excited me. It made me feel weak when I looked into his eyes. But it was a good feeling, almost sweet. His voice lulled me into a kind of trance. I felt like I could just surrender myself entirely to him.
We sat in a booth by ourselves. He bought drinks, and I felt like I was just drifting away. I told him everything about myself. Maybe more than I should have. But it didn't seem that way when I was doing it. I trusted him. He clasped my hand which rested on the table. I felt proud to be seen with him. He said he wanted to go back to my place, and even though I don't take strangers home with me, I said sure. He didn't seem like a stranger, even though I didn't know anything about him. But that didn't matter. Or it did, but I couldn't get myself to focus on it.
When we got to the downstairs door, I unlocked it. When we got to your landing, he asked me where my apartment was. I pointed upstairs, and he said I should give him the keys. I was about to, I reached in my pocket, but then something snapped. I felt dizzy, disoriented, like I'd just busted out of a dream and was sitting straight up in bed startled, unsure where I was. My heart was pounding, and I sensed danger. I said I wouldn't do that, and he said those were the rules of the game. I said that if those were the rules of the game I didn't want to play. Before I knew it I felt a blow to my chest and one to my jaw, and I felt a jolt and then I was sprawled out on the floor and you were there instead of him.
You want to be bossed around?
Not like that.
You're not bossed around enough at your job all day?
That's something else. And actually, no, I'm not. My job is pretty good. I like my job. And I'm the boss. There's pressure sometimes, that's true, but that only makes it exciting. I thrive on challenges.
I can see that.
O stop. He blushed. Blushed.
Look, he said, you've been really nice to me. And you saved me from what could have been something really bad. But I'm imposing on you.
Yeah. I've got a lot to do. The New Yorker magazine is going to go away if I don't read it in the next half hour and the snow outside will melt if I don't stare at it.
Ok, ok. So I've told you about myself. What about you?
He was a polite young man, with good manners and very handsome.
What about me? What about me? I used to be young and now I'm old. That's about me.
You're not so old.
Too old for you.
How old are you? He was almost teasing me.
Sixty-three, I answered.
No, he said. I told you he was polite.
Yes, I said. But you're changing the subject. You haven't really told me anything yet. You want to be bossed around?
Not like that, he said.
Yeah, ok, not like that, but like what?
You don't give up.
Hah, long ago I gave up. But we're not talking about me now. What about you. Do you give up?
What do you mean?
You know perfectly well what I mean. Do you give up?
Give up?
Ok. Surrender? Submit? Do you crave to be owned, to be possessed?
He looked down into his coffee cup and kept stirring long after the lump of sugar had been dissolved.
You're pretty sharp.
For an old man.
You said that.
So.
So it's not what I was saying.
I shrugged. This is going nowhere.
Now who's giving up? he said, grinning.
You're not so dull yourself, huh? I said.
You need help, too, he said.
Each creature needs the help...
But he stopped me.
Now you're quoting Brecht.
How do you know that? I asked.
I majored in theater in college.
And now?
Now I'm part owner of an antique store.
So what are you doing living here?
What's wrong with here? You know what it costs to pay rent in New York. I bought the apartments upstairs -- both of them. I have the whole floor. I connected both apartments. I put in new floors, new walls, new plumbing, new fixtures, new windows -- everything. Come on up. I'll show you, if you like.
Sure, I like, I said, and taking my keys from the hook by the refrigerator, I followed him upstairs.
Where mine had been bricked over, his fireplace stood exposed, framed by polished plates of pink marble upon which rested an oak mantle shelf. The floors were of a grainy deep-hued oak, and he had replaced the small tenement windows with floor to ceiling French windows which opened into the apartment, although now of course, they were closed and gave out on to the snow tumbling through the grizzled air.
The kitchen was the size of two kitchens, big enough for an old thick pine Shaker trestle table and two chairs. Above the gas range, suspended from the ceiling was an iron rack for hanging pots. The cabinets were oak. Kitchen herbs in small pots grew under a violet grow light.
It's very homey. Very comfortable. What you need to go out looking to get beat up? You guilty for something?
He took hold of me gently by the neck and pulled me to him. I thought maybe he was going to kiss me. He didn't. He was smiling. It was friendly.
Isaac, he said. You go on like that and I'm going to think you've got a hang-up of your own and you're not just thinking about me. You want to see the bedroom?
Show me the bedroom, I said, desisting from any further comment but unable entirely to dismiss the absurd feeling that he was being flirtatious.
Like the kitchen, one room had been made from two. On either side of a queen size bed covered with a plush scarlet spread were Deco tiger maple night tables with tops made of beveled blue glass. A four branched brass candelabra stood on each side table. A tall oak chest of drawers stood across in one corner and an armoire of tiger maple stood in the other. There was also an old grandfather clock with a glass door and a long brass pendulum in a mahogany case. It worked. A chandelier with crystal tear drops hung from the center of the ceiling. There was a Persian rug at the foot of the bed and two small ones on each side, but much of the oak floor was uncovered. The room smelled of lavender. The window looked down onto a city garden that was covered with snow now. A beautiful and tasteful erotic painting of an aroused, half-smiling, slender, muscular, male nude reclining like an odalisque on a divan with another male figure facing him, his lovely back to us, done in a way that mixed chinoiserie with Aubrey Beardsley, hung in a plain silver frame on the wall opposite the window.
Very nice, I said. Very romantic.
The decor in the bathroom, twice as large, again, as mine, was also worthy of admiration and again showed his taste for antique furnishings.
Anyhow, I'm beginning to sound like a writer for House and Garden. So in modesty, I'll leave the bathroom, though with its beveled mirrors, terra cotta wall tiles, stone floor, large claw-footed tub, brass fixtures, green plants, and glass-enclosed shower stall, it actually looked like a magazine spread.
There were two living rooms. The one in the back was a study -- the walls lined with book shelves. There was a teak desk with a laptop. A cabinet held a cd player and a stereo and there was a wall full of records as well as cds. He had good taste -- a lot of Bach, Schubert, Brahms, Bartok, Mahler, Beethoven, Stravinsky, even Purcell, Monteverdi, and Josquin des Pres. All the Verdi, Puccini and Wagner operas. Lots of Callas. And Kathleen Ferrier.
That's quite a collection you've got.
He acknowledged my recognition with a slight bow of his head.
The front living room was very handsomely furnished, too. The walls were painted a pale butter color, and plush jade-colored velvet curtains hung richly on either side of the French windows. Jacob, for that was the young man's name, told me about each piece, but I don't remember enough to repeat what he said, except to tell you that an ancient ram's horn, reputed to be a relic from the first temple of Solomon, was set in front of the gilded mirror upon the carved oak mantle shelf above the fireplace. Regarding the rest of the room's furnishings, the best I can do is to tell you that the pieces were much easier to look at than they are to describe.
Well, I said, finally, it looks like you have a lot better taste in music and furniture than you do in men.
Do you include yourself in that estimate? he replied with a grin.
[When you write to me, please put the name of the story on the subject slot. Thanks.]