On Maxine Gillon
Or, How I Met My Father
My dad used to crunch the books for a huge company. He worked his way up from the 70hr weeks of gruntdom, accounting for this company. A point of tension for my parents, young in their new relationship, he’d worked for months at this capacity then the company would take their team of grunts away for a team building holiday, Mum wanted time with him but he was a wrapped up by this company - I’m surprised I was conceived given the amount time the ol’boy spent away from his loved ones.
As he worked through the ranks he’d travel more frequently for work and travel internationally. The 70 hrs weeks of grunt work turned into 70 hrs of travel time and work events, however by this point in time he’d return with plenty of time to spend with us and upon his return he’d always be lighter in mood, more playful and free of the shackles of his work-life demands - always sharing where in the world he’d found a welcoming drink or meal.
Across my early adulthood, i’d travel to the places that he’d mentioned upon his return. Partly as a way to get to know my somewhat-absent father and partly as a way to measure time, to measure change amongst the cultural touchpoints of my forebears. I remember one trip to New York City, I tick a lot of boxes. I visited 53rd and 3rd to see what The Ramones were singing about; it turns out that it’s a fresh fruit stand now - I bought a banana. I also stood of front of the Hotel Chelsea and imagined a young string-bean Patti Smith flitting about in a poetic whimsy upon the fire escapes, all whilst listening to the likes of Richard Hell or Suicide.
One evening, I reconnected with an old friend from university, he was on exchange when I was trying my hand at academia at some backwards campus in the sub-tropics. We met up in the East Village and ate and drank and nibbled and drank until I was lubed enough to confess my cultural checkbox agenda and how it doesn't really add up to a good New York experience. What I was really after was my own Tom Waits story, strange nooks, curious characters, somewhere that my normal existence was expanded by the fringe and my generally accepting demeanour enabled me to connect with the unshackled.
Dive bar by dive bar, we found ourselves lower in New York’s venues and deeper underground, ever darker, ever louder as the nooks found us closer together and with very accommodating strangers who we really couldn’t see clearly (if at all). Regardless, I found my connection. Heavily adorned with reflective material, their accoutrement was able to give me a good outline of my new friend, thin but board and an ornate hairdo. A vaguely familiar perfume brought me in closer, I couldn’t remember if it was an ex-girlfriend. An expat Aussie, we revelled in the serendipity, sipping and sharing notes on New York between requests to repeat ourselves - adding to the closeness and excitement of our time in the dark.
My new friend was becoming increasingly affectionate and I was becoming exceedingly intoxicated. Feeling the need for light, space and fresh air I gestured out and began to get out. A mix of mature concern and innate attraction followed me up the stairs to the street. As I toppled towards the gutter in an embarrassing display of relief, two strong and familiar hands grabbed me and propped me up against a phone booth. I’ve never felt so excited by something so