Tuesday, June 21, 2011
michael chabon | summer
At the beginning of the summer I had lunch with my father, the gangster, who was in town for the weekend to transact some of his vague business. . . . He asked me what my plans were for the summer, and in the flush of some strong emotion or other I said, more or less: It's the beginning of the summer and I'm standing in the lobby of a thousand-story grand hotel, where a bank of elevators a mile long and an endless row of monkey attendants in gold braid wait to carry me up, up, up through the suites of moguls, of spies, and of starlets, to rush me straight to the zeppelin mooring at the art deco summit, where they keep the huge dirigible of August tied up and bobbing in the high winds. On my way to the shining needle at the top I will wear a lot of neckties, I will buy five or six works of genius on 45 rpm, and perhaps too many times I will find myself looking at the snapped spine of a lemon wedge at the bottom of a drink. I said, "I anticipate a coming season of dilated time and of women all in disarray."
My father told me that I was overwrought and that Claire had had an unfortunate influence on my speech, but something in his face said that he understood.
The Mysteries of Pittsburgh