Read Online Bright Lights, Big City by Jay McInerney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jay McInerney
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Rittenhouse announces that he’s just had a call from Clara, who is sick and won’t be in: the reprieve you have been waiting for. The boa constrictor wrapped around your heart eases its grip. Who knows? The illness might prove serious.
“Actually,” Rittenhouse continues, “what she said is that she would not be in this morning . She’s not certain if she will be feeling well enough to come in this afternoon. She can’t say at this point.” He pauses and tugs on his glasses, considering whether further qualification is necessary, and then concludes, “Anyone wishing to consult her may call her at home.”
You ask Rittenhouse if there are any messages.
“Nothing specific,” he answers.
Here is your chance to redeem yourself. A day’s work might pull you into the clear with the French piece. You could get the guys in Typesetting to cut you a few hours’ slack on the deadline. You could get the Penguin thing out of the way in half an hour and then buckle down to it.
Alors! Vite, vite! Allons-y!
An hour later, the Polar Explorers are put to bed. It’s a little after noon, and your energy is flagging. What you need is some lunch to set you right. Return to the French elections with renewed vigor. Maybe pick up une baguette with ham and Brie to get you into the proper frame of mind. You ask if anybody wants anything from the outer world. Megan gives you money for a bagel.
On the way out you see Alex Hardy standing in front of the water cooler staring into the aquamarine glass. He looks up, startled, and then, seeing it’s only you, he says hello. He turns back to the water cooler and says, “I was just thinking it could use some fish.”
Alex is a Fiction Editor Emeritus, a relic from the early days, a man who speaks of the venerable founders by their nicknames. He started out as an office boy, made his rep as a writer of satiric sketches of Manhattan high life that abruptly stopped appearing for reasons which are still the subject of speculation, and became an editor. He discovered and encouraged some of the writers you grew up on, but he has not discovered anybody in years and his main function seems to be as the totem figure of Continuity and Tradition. Only one story has emerged from his office in the time you have been on the staff. No one can say whether his drinking is a function of his decline or whether it is the other way around. You expect cause and effect are inextricable in these cases. Mornings he is thoughtful and witty, if somewhat ravaged. In the afternoons he sometimes wanders down to the Department of Factual Verification and waxes nostalgic. You believe he likes you, insofar as he likes anyone. He attached detailed memos to several of your short-story submissions, critiques both blunt and encouraging. He took your work seriously, although the fact that it ended up on his desk was perhaps an indication that it was not taken seriously in the Department of Fiction. You are fond of this man. While others view him as a sunken ship, you have a fantasy: Under his tutelage, you begin to write and publish. His exertion on your behalf renews his sense of purpose. You become a team, Fitzgerald and Perkins all over again. Soon he’s promoting a new generation of talent—your disciples—and you’re evolving from your Early to your Later Period.
“The old crew would have thought of that,” he says. “Siamese fighting fish in the water cooler.”
You try to think of a retort along the lines of “a scale off the fish that bit you,” but it doesn’t quite come.
“Where are you headed?”
“Lunch,” you say, before you can think better of it. The last time you told Alex you were on your way to lunch you needed a stretcher to get you back to the office.
He consults his watch. “Not a bad idea. Mind if I join you?”
By the time you compose an excuse it seems too late, indeed rude, to say that you’re meeting a friend. You don’t have to match him drink for drink. You don’t
Rittenhouse announces that he’s just had a call from Clara, who is sick and won’t be in: the reprieve you have been waiting for. The boa constrictor wrapped around your heart eases its grip. Who knows? The illness might prove serious.
“Actually,” Rittenhouse continues, “what she said is that she would not be in this morning . She’s not certain if she will be feeling well enough to come in this afternoon. She can’t say at this point.” He pauses and tugs on his glasses, considering whether further qualification is necessary, and then concludes, “Anyone wishing to consult her may call her at home.”
You ask Rittenhouse if there are any messages.
“Nothing specific,” he answers.
Here is your chance to redeem yourself. A day’s work might pull you into the clear with the French piece. You could get the guys in Typesetting to cut you a few hours’ slack on the deadline. You could get the Penguin thing out of the way in half an hour and then buckle down to it.
Alors! Vite, vite! Allons-y!
An hour later, the Polar Explorers are put to bed. It’s a little after noon, and your energy is flagging. What you need is some lunch to set you right. Return to the French elections with renewed vigor. Maybe pick up une baguette with ham and Brie to get you into the proper frame of mind. You ask if anybody wants anything from the outer world. Megan gives you money for a bagel.
On the way out you see Alex Hardy standing in front of the water cooler staring into the aquamarine glass. He looks up, startled, and then, seeing it’s only you, he says hello. He turns back to the water cooler and says, “I was just thinking it could use some fish.”
Alex is a Fiction Editor Emeritus, a relic from the early days, a man who speaks of the venerable founders by their nicknames. He started out as an office boy, made his rep as a writer of satiric sketches of Manhattan high life that abruptly stopped appearing for reasons which are still the subject of speculation, and became an editor. He discovered and encouraged some of the writers you grew up on, but he has not discovered anybody in years and his main function seems to be as the totem figure of Continuity and Tradition. Only one story has emerged from his office in the time you have been on the staff. No one can say whether his drinking is a function of his decline or whether it is the other way around. You expect cause and effect are inextricable in these cases. Mornings he is thoughtful and witty, if somewhat ravaged. In the afternoons he sometimes wanders down to the Department of Factual Verification and waxes nostalgic. You believe he likes you, insofar as he likes anyone. He attached detailed memos to several of your short-story submissions, critiques both blunt and encouraging. He took your work seriously, although the fact that it ended up on his desk was perhaps an indication that it was not taken seriously in the Department of Fiction. You are fond of this man. While others view him as a sunken ship, you have a fantasy: Under his tutelage, you begin to write and publish. His exertion on your behalf renews his sense of purpose. You become a team, Fitzgerald and Perkins all over again. Soon he’s promoting a new generation of talent—your disciples—and you’re evolving from your Early to your Later Period.
“The old crew would have thought of that,” he says. “Siamese fighting fish in the water cooler.”
You try to think of a retort along the lines of “a scale off the fish that bit you,” but it doesn’t quite come.
“Where are you headed?”
“Lunch,” you say, before you can think better of it. The last time you told Alex you were on your way to lunch you needed a stretcher to get you back to the office.
He consults his watch. “Not a bad idea. Mind if I join you?”
By the time you compose an excuse it seems too late, indeed rude, to say that you’re meeting a friend. You don’t have to match him drink for drink. You don’t
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