Insomniac City

Bill Hayes' arrival in New York was preceded by death. His decision to remain there and call it home would eventually be prompted by one too. Arriving in the summer of 2009 with a one-way ticket and only the vaguest idea of how he could make a living, he quickly settled on an apartment- a tiny top-floor walk-up with little space for his belongings but furnished with epic views of Manhattan.

Those first few nights were spent with the windows flung open to the balmy evening air, revealing that he had settled above a French restaurant with an abundance of outdoor seating and a closing time of 2am. The clinking of glasses and low hum of voices were a welcome soundtrack to his sleepless nights but a stark contrast to his previous life in San Francisco. Mostly it was the absence of a figure lying next to him, the comforting outline of a sloped shoulder previously belonging to his partner, who had died of a heart attack some months before.

Leaving his sweat-dampened sheets behind at 3am he would emerge onto the streets of New York and discover...people. Not the  barren streetscapes of Edward Hopper but a muddled image of bike messengers, doormen, prep cooks dipping below kitchen hatches and perhaps most appealing to Bill, individuals sat on various dimly illuminated perches, reading. He noticed the absence of lit-up screens and devices and relished the chance to see what they were reading. As an author by day and evident insomniac by night the presence of these reading materials comforted him, something in the outdated approach reminded him of meeting Oliver for the first time.

It had been a few months after the publication of his second book, The Anatomist, when Bill received a letter. Somewhere in its contents it stated; 'I meant to provide a blurb', but 'got distracted and forgot'. This endearing confession was signed by Oliver Sacks and marked the beginning of one of the greater love stories of the 21st century.

The first meeting took place over mussels, fries and several rounds of dark Belgian beers and like most unintended first dates witnessed them linger, talking well into the evening, hardly pausing to consider the boundaries of this quickly-formed friendship. All that Bill knew was that Oliver was shy and quite formal- two qualities he did not possess. That and the 30 year age gap.
'Do I seem like from another century?' he would ask. 'Like from another age?'. For Bill this was part of the fascination. Dates weren't spent going to see the latest indie film or must-see exhibition at the MoMa but consisted of a delicate exchange of interests and pastimes. After one particular confession from Oliver it became apparent why such gentle courting was needed, not only had he never publicly come out as a gay man, he had been celibate for over three and a half decades.

In the words of Sir Thomas Browne, 'a handsome Anticipation of Heaven', awaited them both, one of long walks all over New York, getting stoned together, surveying the city's skyline and swigging wine straight from the bottle, watching each other bathe and every so often squabbling like amateurs, they achieved something akin to conjugal bliss.

One particular evening Bill taught Oliver how to open a bottle of Champagne, something that the neurologist had never done before. His eyes widened, at first in surprise then joy, as the cork burst from the bottle and ricocheted off the ceiling. He had insisted on wearing his swimming goggles the whole time, naturally, just in case.

Another time Bill lay soaking in the bath watching Oliver, seated atop two pillows, bite huge chunks out of an apple. 'Bite me off a piece', he said and chuckled as a mouthful was dislodged and handed to him. They kept talking, Bill adding more hot water and then, all of a sudden, the bathroom was shrouded in steam and a thick silence. Oliver, seemingly apropos to nothing announced: 'I am glad to be on planet Earth with you. It would be much lonelier otherwise'.

Insomniac City is written in fragments, interspersed with Hayes’ poetry and photographs. It will only take you a few pages to see how Hayes is Sack’s logical touchstone. Although possessing such different temperaments, both are alive to difference, variety; both are avid chroniclers of our species — Sacks in his case studies, and Hayes in his photographs and musings of the people he meets in the street. Ultimately it’s a love story between two gentle men.

Review of Insomniac City: New York, Oliver and Me by Bill Hayes. Published by Bloomsbury.

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