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From the Archives
My Greatest Regret
I find it hard to focus on specific regrets in my life. That doesn’t mean that I don’t have regrets. It means that they tend to be so broad that they cover months or years of repeated mistakes. I do not have a one-that-got-away. I never watched some great opportunity slip through my grasp. There are dozens of people I wish that I had treated better, sooner—and I regret that. But, when I worry over the many mistakes I have made, the moments that haunt me do not arrange themselves into some hierarchy of major and minor regrets. Instead, they twist and combine into a knit blanket of cringing dread. So, it is hard to zero in on any one choice I wish that I had made differently.
But I do have one.
When I was in college, I volunteered at an archives for avant-garde cinema. I think that they would call it interning, but that would make it sound like what I was doing was adjacent to a job. Mostly, I just sat around with nothing to do. Every once in a while, our boss would come by and chide us for not looking busier. As if it wasn’t his fault.
With these types of art institutions, there is often a divide between those run by high powered donors and those run by nerds. With high powered donors, you tend to get a sleek interior design; a modern, well kept website; and a small bar/cafe with overpriced drinks and boutique snacks. This archive was not run by high powered donors. It was run by nerds. The interior design screamed, “abandoned community center basement.” The website looked old when I worked there ten years ago, and it still looks pretty much the same today. You can’t even bring food in because it poses a threat to the archived materials. And thank goodness this place was run by nerds. Most of the movies in the archives are non-narative films made over fifty years ago by poets, perverts, and stoned math majors. Anyone who cares about money would be a fool to get involved.
The best reason to volunteer at the archive–besides getting your foot in the door of the competitive non-narrative film world–was that it also showed movies. The programmers kept a really interesting mix of classic experimental fare (Chelsea Girls, Wavelength, Walden), interesting art movies (Celine and Julie Go Boating, Spider’s Stratagem), and movies the staff liked (Blue Velvet, Bevis and Butthead Do America). I worked until 6pm and the first movie of the night usually started at 7pm. I would finish volunteering, eat skinny sweet potato fries at the chicken finger place across the street, and then watch whatever was playing next. I started coming in on Saturdays, too. The more I hated the job, the more important it was to be sufficiently paid in movies.
One day, after volunteering, I was in my seat waiting for a movie to start. The movie in question was a documentary (Whatever Happened to Gelitin) about a sexually explicit performance art troupe who eventually found themselves tangled up in some 9/11 conspiracies. But I didn’t know that yet. I just knew that the poster was covered in fake, bathroom-style graffiti.
In the row behind me were three friends. At least, I assume that they were friends. To be honest, one of them was doing 95% of the talking, so I don’t really know anything about the other two. The chronic talker, though, was feeling nostalgic. He said that he used to come down to this neighborhood all the time because it had the two best gay bars in the city: The Cock and The Hole. According to this guy, The Cock used to have the best glory hole in New York City. Then, through a long, slow process of sexual erosion, it grew bigger and bigger until you could make eye contact through it. “And then, it’s like, what’s the point?”
Around this time, I noticed the man sitting three seats to my right. He was a suave septuagenarian wearing a tan suit, sweater vest, and cravat. And here is where I start making unfair assumptions about people. Because now, I know that it is often the cravat wearers in the world who are having the most sex. They fall somewhere in the venn diagram of former band kids, larpers, and polyamorous sex clubs who rent out campsites for Mayday. And, as I now know, this man had knowingly purchased a ticket to see a documentary about a sexually explicit performance art collective. But, as a small minded twenty year old, I started to wonder whether this older man in a suit was bothered by the glory hole talk behind us.
Then the chatterbox started talking about The Hole. The great thing about The Hole, you see, is that they sold ass juice. Ass juice is a cocktail made out of the booze spilled while pouring other drinks. The bartenders would squeegee the rubber mats on the bar into a bucket and then sell the slop for two dollars a red solo cup. “It tastes like shit, but it’s worth it because you get fucked up after two sips.”
At this, the man to my right turned around. He said, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to listen in. I’m really trying not to. I don’t mean for this to come across negatively, but you’re right behind me and you’re talking pretty loudly and it’s kind of hard to tune out. You know, I come here just hoping to watch a movie, and what do I hear right behind me…but you talking about the exact sort of thing that I write about.” He then hands the blabbermouth a business card and offers to buy him coffee.
And here is where my biggest regret comes in. Because I did nothing. Didn’t ask his name. Didn’t ask for a business card of my own. He had a stack! Which means that I will never know who this man is or what he has written. I’ve wondered about it for ten years now. I don’t even know how I could possibly find out at this point. The world of American literature is filled with aging perverts. How am I supposed to narrow it down?
I think that there are two best case scenarios. The second best scenario is that it was a writer named Andrew Holleran. I don’t know what he was doing in 2016, but he has spent a lot of his life in New York City and looks vaguely like the guy I remember. If it were Andrew Holleran, then, for a very specific niche of queer literature lovers, I have the ultimate party story.
The best case scenario is that it is a self published author with a dense and easily accessible library. He has spent fifty years cataloging weird bars, sweaty basements, and smokey bedrooms, and–because in this fantasy I actually asked for his business card–I get to read it all. I learn about his old friends, the apartments where he used to smoke weed, the restaurants he’d go to at 2am. I’d cry when his friends start dying of AIDS and cry again when he gets tear gassed at an ACT UP rally. And while New York keeps changing and the queer community keeps changing, this guy is writing it all down. Not just because he was there, but because he is interviewing every fucking loudmouth he can find. This fantasy man in my head has built an entire universe of literary nonfiction, but I’ll never read a word of it because I was too socially awkward to introduce myself. So yeah, I guess you could say that I regret that.
But I do have one.
When I was in college, I volunteered at an archives for avant-garde cinema. I think that they would call it interning, but that would make it sound like what I was doing was adjacent to a job. Mostly, I just sat around with nothing to do. Every once in a while, our boss would come by and chide us for not looking busier. As if it wasn’t his fault.
With these types of art institutions, there is often a divide between those run by high powered donors and those run by nerds. With high powered donors, you tend to get a sleek interior design; a modern, well kept website; and a small bar/cafe with overpriced drinks and boutique snacks. This archive was not run by high powered donors. It was run by nerds. The interior design screamed, “abandoned community center basement.” The website looked old when I worked there ten years ago, and it still looks pretty much the same today. You can’t even bring food in because it poses a threat to the archived materials. And thank goodness this place was run by nerds. Most of the movies in the archives are non-narative films made over fifty years ago by poets, perverts, and stoned math majors. Anyone who cares about money would be a fool to get involved.
The best reason to volunteer at the archive–besides getting your foot in the door of the competitive non-narrative film world–was that it also showed movies. The programmers kept a really interesting mix of classic experimental fare (Chelsea Girls, Wavelength, Walden), interesting art movies (Celine and Julie Go Boating, Spider’s Stratagem), and movies the staff liked (Blue Velvet, Bevis and Butthead Do America). I worked until 6pm and the first movie of the night usually started at 7pm. I would finish volunteering, eat skinny sweet potato fries at the chicken finger place across the street, and then watch whatever was playing next. I started coming in on Saturdays, too. The more I hated the job, the more important it was to be sufficiently paid in movies.
One day, after volunteering, I was in my seat waiting for a movie to start. The movie in question was a documentary (Whatever Happened to Gelitin) about a sexually explicit performance art troupe who eventually found themselves tangled up in some 9/11 conspiracies. But I didn’t know that yet. I just knew that the poster was covered in fake, bathroom-style graffiti.
In the row behind me were three friends. At least, I assume that they were friends. To be honest, one of them was doing 95% of the talking, so I don’t really know anything about the other two. The chronic talker, though, was feeling nostalgic. He said that he used to come down to this neighborhood all the time because it had the two best gay bars in the city: The Cock and The Hole. According to this guy, The Cock used to have the best glory hole in New York City. Then, through a long, slow process of sexual erosion, it grew bigger and bigger until you could make eye contact through it. “And then, it’s like, what’s the point?”
Around this time, I noticed the man sitting three seats to my right. He was a suave septuagenarian wearing a tan suit, sweater vest, and cravat. And here is where I start making unfair assumptions about people. Because now, I know that it is often the cravat wearers in the world who are having the most sex. They fall somewhere in the venn diagram of former band kids, larpers, and polyamorous sex clubs who rent out campsites for Mayday. And, as I now know, this man had knowingly purchased a ticket to see a documentary about a sexually explicit performance art collective. But, as a small minded twenty year old, I started to wonder whether this older man in a suit was bothered by the glory hole talk behind us.
Then the chatterbox started talking about The Hole. The great thing about The Hole, you see, is that they sold ass juice. Ass juice is a cocktail made out of the booze spilled while pouring other drinks. The bartenders would squeegee the rubber mats on the bar into a bucket and then sell the slop for two dollars a red solo cup. “It tastes like shit, but it’s worth it because you get fucked up after two sips.”
At this, the man to my right turned around. He said, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to listen in. I’m really trying not to. I don’t mean for this to come across negatively, but you’re right behind me and you’re talking pretty loudly and it’s kind of hard to tune out. You know, I come here just hoping to watch a movie, and what do I hear right behind me…but you talking about the exact sort of thing that I write about.” He then hands the blabbermouth a business card and offers to buy him coffee.
And here is where my biggest regret comes in. Because I did nothing. Didn’t ask his name. Didn’t ask for a business card of my own. He had a stack! Which means that I will never know who this man is or what he has written. I’ve wondered about it for ten years now. I don’t even know how I could possibly find out at this point. The world of American literature is filled with aging perverts. How am I supposed to narrow it down?
I think that there are two best case scenarios. The second best scenario is that it was a writer named Andrew Holleran. I don’t know what he was doing in 2016, but he has spent a lot of his life in New York City and looks vaguely like the guy I remember. If it were Andrew Holleran, then, for a very specific niche of queer literature lovers, I have the ultimate party story.
The best case scenario is that it is a self published author with a dense and easily accessible library. He has spent fifty years cataloging weird bars, sweaty basements, and smokey bedrooms, and–because in this fantasy I actually asked for his business card–I get to read it all. I learn about his old friends, the apartments where he used to smoke weed, the restaurants he’d go to at 2am. I’d cry when his friends start dying of AIDS and cry again when he gets tear gassed at an ACT UP rally. And while New York keeps changing and the queer community keeps changing, this guy is writing it all down. Not just because he was there, but because he is interviewing every fucking loudmouth he can find. This fantasy man in my head has built an entire universe of literary nonfiction, but I’ll never read a word of it because I was too socially awkward to introduce myself. So yeah, I guess you could say that I regret that.
Copyright © 2015