yup yup

An Imaginary Profile of the Very Real Man Up Above

It is a cloudy Saturday. I enter Tom McGillian’s apartment and there doesn’t seem to be anyone home. This is odd, since a distinctly mellifluous voice buzzed me up from downstairs just a minute ago. I wait awkwardly for a few moments in the doorway and cough sporadically. Then, I heard the same smooth vocals beckoning, and Tom appears, floating outside the window.

Even outside a third floor window, Tom McGillian doesn’t look anywhere near his 72 years. His hair is white but neatly trimmed, and his body is lean – if a bit saggy. He credits his physique to his daily yoga and cleaning routine: “Darling,” he tells me, as I join him on the fire escape, “I’ve been doing these moves since 1976, and it’s what has kept me fit and fierce. Every afternoon I put on my workout pants, step out onto this little porch as I like to call it, and take in the fabulous, intoxicating life that bustles down below.”

Tom leans inside the window and pulls two champagne flutes from a table inside. “Bellinis” he tells me, “it’s peach season somewhere.”

I do not argue with Tom’s reasoning.

Tom wipes the glass’ sweat on his shirt and begins to explain his outfit to me.

Tom’s workout attire consists of one perfectly white “wife tickler” (“I don’t approve of domestic violence, so I’ve modified my language to reflect my morals”) a standard pair of loose, stretchy black pants, high white socks, and an even tan (“all 4 seasons I make sure to get my sunshine – and sometimes, if I’m losing color, I’ll just take a bath in a nice little mixture of India ink, carrot juice, and champagne”). His routine is visible from the street, as he always does it on the narrow iron fire escape that we sit on.

I feel that the platform will break any second and both Tom and I will plunge to our dramatic death, but I keep that to myself.

“It was a little tough three years ago when I broke my wrist,” Tom tells me, “I had more trouble climbing out the window, and almost slipped once, but I eventually go the hang of it.”

I ask Tom to describe his routine for me.

“Well, darling, it ‘s a bit of cleaning, a bit of stretching, a bit of jazz, and a bit of people watching. I clean my windows first – that helps me exercise my wrists, and also allows me to grapevine from side to side. Then it’s a bit of yoga – while I’m holding poses I just look at all the busybodies down below. And then it’s just a bit more dancing. The NYSC is right across the street and I can see straight into their treadmill and dance room level. If a tight-ass dance class is going on I just sort of follow along. If it’s just the hamsters – that’s what I call all those raisin ladies in there – well, then I just try to remember some of the old disco moves my boyfriends liked.”

I ask Tom to tell me about the origins of his routine.

“Well darling, 1976 was a long time ago, a very long time ago. And one night in February, when it was so cold my tits were frozen, I was sitting out in the park over there. I remember the day exactly – it was the night between when that earthquake hit Guatemala and everyone went race crazy and rioted down in the sunny state. I was sitting in that park and just shivering but I got this feeling that I had to stay right there on my ass because something was going to happen. My boyfriend had broken up with me a few days before and I didn’t really have anywhere to be after that, so I cried a bit and kept my eyes open as wide as I could. Maybe around 2 am, when things were silent except for the moaning of some drunks, a tiny little boy walked into the center of the square. He was all bundled up in just the cutest little outfit you ever saw but no one was with him. I watched him as he stopped in the dead center, lifted his arms, and began to pirouette around the fountain. And I’ll be damned if that little boy just didn’t look happier than the man in the moon, just dancing by himself. A minute or so later a nanny came running and hollering and smacked that boy and took him back to wherever he belonged but I kept sitting there. The next day I started dancing, in my own way. Darling, I never really had a plan, it just felt right.”

Tom picks up his window cleaning cloths with a particular flourish and begins to circle and jive in his elaborate patterns across the length of the fire escape. I look down below to see if anyone notices, but then again, no one really needs to.