Today started out ominously. First, a crazy man on the subway, in the elevator down to the Q train, was smoking a cigarette and cursing Tourettes style. Then, while sitting on the train, a man suddenly ran to the spot between cars and proceeded to throw up, really wretching, from Times Square to West 4th Street.
Then we had all sorts of server and computer problems all afternoon at the height of production. I didn't leave the office until 7 pm. So, clearly, I needed to take myself to dinner.
On my way up, I see my friend Oscar, who's been unleashed from the basement of the deli. Yes, I am a queer old cat lady. I have to pet the cat in whichever store I go to. New York has a lot of stores guarded by cats. I try to get to know as many of them as I can. At Alabaster Books, there's Houl. At an Afghani treasure shop in the West Village there are two black and white cats, named White and Black. When Mano a Mano was on Broadway in the Village, one of the store cats had a Knogo on its collar, to trip the shoplifting alarms if it got out. That cat convinced me to get two of my own. At Moustache in the West Village there's a silver tabby who has her own agenda. At Caffe Sha Sha there's Mimi, the wee calico who flirts with everyone. And now, there's Oscar.
Oscar is a red tabby whose red hair has lightened for some reason, so he looks sort of pink. He's a good boy. When I see him at the bottom of the stairs to the deli cellar, I call him and he comes running up for lovin'. Oscar likes it when I pet him. He's such a sweet, desperately lonely little boy. I wonder if anyone ever plays with him. The forgotten employee.
I often want to go to Sapore, but it's constantly crowded these days. The failure of success. I find myself attracted to those smaller, possibly dumpier places that offer a little quiet. Between my office and the heart of the Village, there is such a place, which I certainly won't reveal here. I need some secrets for my seductions.
The place is fairly quiet, even during dinner hour. The woman who clearly runs the place often dines when I am. There are two cats. One tends to sleep on the table where she does her bills. She says the cats are "roommates." What they do is their business. I don't ask questions.
So, having my dinner, I start reading from Paul Monette's Last Watch of the Night. The epigram from Frank O'Hara says, "There's nothing so spiritual about being happy but you can't miss a day of it, because it doesn't last."
This leaves me a little mystified now, as at first I thought it was an admonition to not just seize te day but love it. Amore diem. But now I wonder if it's not the day that won't last, but happiness.
The first essay in the book is "Puck." Puck is the dog Paul Monette shared with his three lovers: Roger, Stevie, and Winston. I met these men in a moving documentary called Brink of Summer's End, which naturally got me teary. The only whole book of Monette's that I have read is Becoming a Man: Half a Life Story; and a short story But even when Monette is quoted elsewhere, I find myself very moved.
So Puck survives two deaths, and quite possibly Paul Monette, I suspect, who has come to equate his aging in dog years as well. Seven years to every "twelvemonth," as he calls it.
Puck stands in for something else along the way, of course. "Puck" is one of those essays that will bear repeating. I was not all teary-eyed when I left the restaurant, as the proprietrix said, "See you soon," but I sure was close.
I don't know how I could adequately tell you what reading Paul Monette's "Puck" was like. It has nothing to do with being gay, though gay people are in it, but also, only a gay writer, and a good writer, could have written it. It's hard to read these books, these orphaned works, without wanting to call up the authors, or write to them, and thank them. David B. Feinberg's anguish. Tim Conigrave, who fell in love every day. Paul Monette, who observed with depth, who could write about his dog and somehow write about life, and not be maudlin or sentimental, and leave a universal message.
I read some pages, and I am just amazed at what I feel. It's like a miracle. It's as good as looking at nature, or hearing two crows caw-cawing to each other in conversation in a tree, or finding yourself in your dog, or the store cat.
Most of all, I am glad I am 36 and still have some wonder and admiration left in me. I am also glad I can fee anguish, and love, and depth. I hope I never reach an age when that ceases.
Next entry... The Big M: Seth Goes to Mexico City