Bill Hayes - Insomniac City: New York, Oliver, and Me

For Nancy Miller,

and in memory of Oliver

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

The Anatomist

Five Quarts

Sleep Demons

I dont so much fear death as I do wasting life.

Oliver Sacks

Cross Streets with Snow

I moved to New York eight years ago and felt at once at home. In the haggard buildings and bloodshot skies, in trains that never stopped running like my racing mind at night, I recognized my insomniac self. If New York were a patient, it would be diagnosed with agrypnia excitata, a rare genetic condition characterized by insomnia, nervous energy, constant twitching, and dream enactmentan apt description of a city that never sleeps, a place where one comes to reinvent himself.

I had brought very little with me from San Francisco, my home for twenty-five years, in part because I wished to leave behind any reminders of the life Id had there, but also for more practical reasons. My new apartment was a virtual tree house, a tiny top-floor walk-up at eye level with the ailanthus boughs. There was not room for more than a desk, a chair, a mattress. Nor a need: You see, the place came furnished with spectacular views of Manhattan.

What I didnt know when I rented the place was that the French restaurant located straight below my apartment had outdoor seating till two A.M. Lying awake in bed, I could literally hear glasses clinking and toasts being made, six stories down. This was irritating at first. But it wasnt long before I discovered a phenomenon heretofore unknown to me: Laughter rises. Hearing happy, laughing people is no cure for insomnia but has an ameliorative effect on brokenheartedness.

Sometimes Id sit in the kitchen in the dark and gaze out at the Empire State and Chrysler buildings. Such a beautiful pair, so impeccably dressed, he in his boxy suit, every night a different hue, and she, an arms length away, in her filigreed skirt the color of the moon. I regarded them as an old married couple, calmly, unblinkingly keeping watch over one of their newest sons. And I returned the favor; I would be there the moment the Empire State turned off its lights for the night as if to get a little shut-eye before sunrise.

Heres another wonder I discovered about life here: In the summertime, late into the night, some leave behind their sweat-dampened sheets to read in the coolness of a park under streetlights. Not Kindles, mind you, or iPhones. But books. Newspapers. Novels. Poetry. Completely absorbed, as if in their own worlds. As indeed, they are. I had never seen anything like this until I took a shortcut through Abingdon Square Park one night while walking off my own mild agrypnia.

First I saw an old man reading a newspaper from which someone (his wife?) had snipped numerous articles; it looked like a badly botched doily. I tiptoed past, as if wearing slippers, and he, as if at home in his La-Z-Boy, did not glance up.

Next I spotted a young man reading a paperback with a distinctive brick-red cover. I was pretty certain I knew what classic he had in hand but had to make sure. I fake-dropped my keys nearby and crouched down for a better look. Just then, the young man shifted in his seat, denying me absolute proof. Thats okay. I was left to imagine him imagining himself as Holden Caulfield.

At the far end of the park, I found a middle-aged woman bathed in a light Vermeer would have loved, reading what looked like a textbook. Was she a teacher preparing for tomorrows class, a student cramming last-minute, or neither of these? Perhaps she was simply teaching herself.

Of course, not everyone awake at this hour is an insomniac. The city is alive with doormen, delivery boys on bikes, street sweepers, homeless people, hustlers, prep cooks popping up out of trap doors in the sidewalk. I make a point of waving or nodding hello when I can. I have come to believe that kindness is repaid in unexpected ways and that if you are lonely or bone-tired or blue, you need only come down from your perch and step outside. New Yorkwhich is to say, New Yorkerswill take care of you.

One night I was walking down Hudson Street, on my way home from a friends, when I spotted a dollar bill on the sidewalk. Even at my age, such a find seemed magical. Free money! I leaned down to pick it up just as a woman opposite me was doing the same thing: A dollar, I heard her murmur, and our heads practically bumped. We both laughed. I happened to reach it first, but it seemed ungentlemanly to take it. Here, its yours, I said, offering it to the woman.

No! No, its yours, you got it first.

No, I insist, you take it, I said, but by this point she was walking away, arm in arm with a handsome man; she already had her prize. Suddenly, inspiration struck: Im going to leave it for someone else! I called back to her.

Perfect! she said, over her shoulder. Good night!

I dropped the dollar back onto the sidewalk. It was liberating: To throw money away or, more accurately, throw it to the fates, as I had with my life by moving to New York City at age forty-eight.

I walked a few steps and, I kid you not, hid behind a tree to watch what would take place. One couple passed by without noticing the dollar, then another. Finally, a man about my age came walking in my direction. Hunched shoulders, troubled look, pulling on a cigarette. Definitely an insomniac, I thought. I want you to have it. Its yours. You deserve it.

From my secluded vantage point, I watched as the fellow spotted the dollar. He stopped, looked around to see if anyone was in the vicinity. Perhaps someone in front of him had dropped it? No, the sidewalk was empty. He picked up the dollar and pocketed it with a small smile, then went on his way. As did I, back to my tree house.

Winter Trees

I used to think that the only thing worse than having insomnia was having insomnia next to someone who falls fast asleep and stays soundlessly so till morning.

That was my life for more than sixteen years. In San Francisco I lived with a man who slept, yes, like a baby. There were nights, many nights, when I literally wanted to steal his sleepslip beneath his eyelids and yank it out of him; a kind of middle-of-the-night Chien Andalou moment. Instead, I spent the equivalent of at least a tenth of our relationship lying awake or reading in bed. In the end, that I happened to be in a deep sleep when Steve went into cardiac arrest next to me now seems beyond irony. If I had not taken half a sleeping pill that night ten years ago, might I have been awake and saved him?

I can no longer remember the sound of his laughter but I clearly recall what he looked like while sleeping: his head propped on a scrunched-up pillow, his muscular arms, his breath blown in warm puffs from the corner of his mouth, the place where Popeyes pipe would go. I suppose this is the upside to insomnia. I clocked a lot of time studying Steve in repose.

His death had been as swift as it was inexplicable: He had been only forty-three and remarkably fit, with no history of heart problems. At first, Id thought he was having a nightmare, but he was thrashing so violently and unable to speak. I called 911, began CPR, EMTs came. I remember how they kept asking me if wed been doing drugs; the question seemed absurd; Steve was so clean-living, so wholesome really, he never even drank a beer. They got him to an ER just a few blocks away. But by then he was gone.