Read Online Bright Lights, Big City by Jay McInerney - Free Book Online
Authors: Jay McInerney
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Rastafarians get on, and soon the car reeks of sweat and reefer. Sometimes you feel like the only man in the city without group affiliation. An old lady with a Macy’s bag sitting across from you looks around as if to ask what the world is coming to between these Dracula Jews and zonked-out Africans, but when you smile at her she quickly looks away. You could start your own group—the Brotherhood of Unfulfilled Early Promise.
The Post confirms your sense of impending disaster. There’s a Fiery Nightmare on page three—an apartment blaze in Queens; and on page four a Killer Tornado that ravaged Nebraska. In the heartland of the country, carnage is usually the result of acts of God. In the city it’s man-made—arson, rape, murder. Anything that goes wrong in other parts of the world can usually be attributed to the brutishness of foreigners. It’s a nice, simple world view. The Coma Baby is buried on page five. No developments: “ COMA BABY LIVES .” The doctors are considering a premature Caesarean delivery.
It’s ten-ten when you come up on Times Square, ten-sixteen when you enter the building. The first elevator down is operated by a kid who looks like his last job was purse snatching. You say good morning and step into the back. After a minute he turns around.
“You gonna tell me what floor or do I gotta be psychic?”
You tell him twenty-nine. Accustomed to Lucio and his gracious peers, this kid strikes you as a rude interloper. He swings the gate closed and latches the door. Halfway up he takes out a Vicks inhaler and snorts on it. This makes your nose twitch sympathetically.
“Twenty-nine,” he says when you get to the floor. “Ladies’ undies and accessories.”
No armed guards waiting for you. You ask Sally, the receptionist, if Clara is in yet.
“Not yet,” she says. You’re not sure if this is good news or bad. It could be a case of prolonging the agony. Your colleagues are all huddled around a copy of the New York Times , the newspaper of record and of choice here in Fact. Clara told you when you were hired that all members of the department were expected to read the paper thoroughly, excluding the new features sections, but you haven’t looked at it in weeks.
“Is it war,” you ask.
Rittenhouse tells you that one of the magazine’s writers, a favorite among members of the Department for her scrupulous research and general lack of snottiness toward underlings, has just won a big award for her series on cancer research. Cancer . Rittenhouse is particularly pleased because he helped research the articles. “How about that?” he says. He holds up the paper so you can see the article. You are about to nod your head and impersonate enthusiasm when you see the ad on the facing page. You take the paper from Rittenhouse. There are three women modeling cocktail dresses and one of them is Amanda. You feel dizzy. You sit back on the desk and look at the picture. It’s Amanda, all right. You didn’t even know she was in New York. The last you heard she was in Paris and planning to stay. She might have had the decency to call as long as she’s here. But, then, what is there to say?
Why does she have to haunt you like this? If she would just work in an office like everyone else. Right before she left she mentioned a billboard contract, and you have dreamt of seeing her face, monstrously enlarged, on the wall across from your apartment.
“I think we can all be proud of her,” Rittenhouse says.
“What?”
“Is anything wrong,” Meg asks.
You shake your head and fold up the paper. Leukemia, Tad said . Meg tells you that Clara hasn’t come in yet. You thank her for the wake-up call. Wade asks if you finished the French piece and you say, “More or less.”
On the first Tuesday of the month, everyone gets one of the short pieces from the front section of the magazine. The articles have already been divvied up: yours is a report on the annual meeting and reception of The Polar Explorers
The Post confirms your sense of impending disaster. There’s a Fiery Nightmare on page three—an apartment blaze in Queens; and on page four a Killer Tornado that ravaged Nebraska. In the heartland of the country, carnage is usually the result of acts of God. In the city it’s man-made—arson, rape, murder. Anything that goes wrong in other parts of the world can usually be attributed to the brutishness of foreigners. It’s a nice, simple world view. The Coma Baby is buried on page five. No developments: “ COMA BABY LIVES .” The doctors are considering a premature Caesarean delivery.
It’s ten-ten when you come up on Times Square, ten-sixteen when you enter the building. The first elevator down is operated by a kid who looks like his last job was purse snatching. You say good morning and step into the back. After a minute he turns around.
“You gonna tell me what floor or do I gotta be psychic?”
You tell him twenty-nine. Accustomed to Lucio and his gracious peers, this kid strikes you as a rude interloper. He swings the gate closed and latches the door. Halfway up he takes out a Vicks inhaler and snorts on it. This makes your nose twitch sympathetically.
“Twenty-nine,” he says when you get to the floor. “Ladies’ undies and accessories.”
No armed guards waiting for you. You ask Sally, the receptionist, if Clara is in yet.
“Not yet,” she says. You’re not sure if this is good news or bad. It could be a case of prolonging the agony. Your colleagues are all huddled around a copy of the New York Times , the newspaper of record and of choice here in Fact. Clara told you when you were hired that all members of the department were expected to read the paper thoroughly, excluding the new features sections, but you haven’t looked at it in weeks.
“Is it war,” you ask.
Rittenhouse tells you that one of the magazine’s writers, a favorite among members of the Department for her scrupulous research and general lack of snottiness toward underlings, has just won a big award for her series on cancer research. Cancer . Rittenhouse is particularly pleased because he helped research the articles. “How about that?” he says. He holds up the paper so you can see the article. You are about to nod your head and impersonate enthusiasm when you see the ad on the facing page. You take the paper from Rittenhouse. There are three women modeling cocktail dresses and one of them is Amanda. You feel dizzy. You sit back on the desk and look at the picture. It’s Amanda, all right. You didn’t even know she was in New York. The last you heard she was in Paris and planning to stay. She might have had the decency to call as long as she’s here. But, then, what is there to say?
Why does she have to haunt you like this? If she would just work in an office like everyone else. Right before she left she mentioned a billboard contract, and you have dreamt of seeing her face, monstrously enlarged, on the wall across from your apartment.
“I think we can all be proud of her,” Rittenhouse says.
“What?”
“Is anything wrong,” Meg asks.
You shake your head and fold up the paper. Leukemia, Tad said . Meg tells you that Clara hasn’t come in yet. You thank her for the wake-up call. Wade asks if you finished the French piece and you say, “More or less.”
On the first Tuesday of the month, everyone gets one of the short pieces from the front section of the magazine. The articles have already been divvied up: yours is a report on the annual meeting and reception of The Polar Explorers
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