Jay McInerney - Bright, Precious Days

Back in New York, Marty carefully managed and rationed press access, the idea being not to overdo it, to give me just enough exposure to drive up the price of the memoir without letting the public and the press get tired of me. He played the Today show against Good Morning America, Larry King against Anderson Cooper. I couldn’t help wondering if Briskin had suspicions about my story, but like a good defense lawyer, he never asked me any questions, although he eventually told me that Random House had some concerns that seemed to derive from sources in the State Department, and I think that’s why he decided to go with you for less money than he might have gotten from the big boys. As for me, you have to believe I somehow imagined that I was doing you a favor, making up for my shitty behavior the last time around. It’s hard to explain, but by that time I almost believed my own story, with the help of a steady diet of drugs and alcohol. I was genuinely indignant when the reporter from the Times started dogging me after that ridiculous jihadist Web site questioned my account. As the evidence mounted, I became angry, and bitter, feelings that culminated in my disastrous appearance on Charlie Rose. That was the peak of my delusion — and, as many suggested, I was indeed drunk and high. The next morning, I knew it was all over and I felt strangely relieved. This is something you hear about over and over in AA and NA meetings, actually. Exposure of a great secret, of a pattern of lying, can be curiously liberating. But I realized, eventually, that my catharsis was your crisis, and I’m terribly, terribly sorry for the position I put you in. And I hope to find ways to make amends to you in the future.

Sincerely,

Phillip

THAT NIGHT IT WAS POSSIBLE, for once, to walk into almost any Manhattan restaurant at prime time — including those with secret phone numbers and those with phone numbers that always rang busy — and find a table for two or an empty seat at the bar. Traffic flowed smoothly up and down the broad avenues, and despite the mild weather, there were fewer pedestrians than usual, although here and there, in Times Square and at the intersection of Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard and 125th Street, crowds began forming not long after the polls closed, in anticipation of the celebration to come, although the mood remained subdued, the jubilation kept in check by the knowledge that the future of the republic would be decided elsewhere, far to the south and the west, where people were still driving to the polls in pickup trucks with gun racks in rear windows, or in burgundy Dodge minivans with MY KID’S AN HONOR STUDENT bumper stickers, or in rusted-out 700-series Volvos with faded GIVE PEACE A CHANCE and Grateful Dead STEAL YOUR TERRAPIN bumper stickers.

Meanwhile, in TriBeCa, five floors above West Broadway, in an old-school loft with warped hardwood floors and a tin ceiling veined with wires and pipes, the children had been granted a special dispensation to stay up until the decision was in, the high-pitched din of their play competing with the steady drone of Brian Williams on the television set. Election-night coverage had just begun, but it was far too early to pay attention. Three of their four parents were drinking Sancerre as they prepared for what they hoped would be a historic night, although the incipient euphoria was kept in check by the memory of disappointment four years before, and by the suspicion that the rest of the country, in the end, despite the tentative evidence of the polls, was not ready to elect an African-American president, and, in this particular eighteen-hundred-square-foot sector of lower Manhattan, the mood was also tinged with a melancholy undercurrent, an unspoken sadness due to the conspicuous absence of the fourth parent.

Russell topped off the wineglasses and tasted his Bolognese sauce, which needed salt. Keeping it simple tonight — salad and spaghetti with a choice of two sauces, Bolognese and marinara, the latter for the two teenage girls, who were both vegetarians, although Storey ate so little lately, it was hard to tell; she seemed to have suddenly adopted her mother’s slightly hostile attitude toward food since the separation.

“They just called Kentucky for McCain,” Washington said, looking at his BlackBerry.

“Pennsylvania’s going to be key.”

“And Ohio.”

“I’m so nervous,” Veronica said.

“Remember how we all thought Kerry was going to win?”

“Come to think of it,” Washington said, “weren’t you supposed to move to France if Kerry lost? Whatever happened with that?”

“We knew you’d miss us,” Russell said reflexively.

“We miss you now,” Veronica said.

After an awkward silence, Washington said, “At least we’re drinking French wine.”

“Actually, I’m opening a Chianti with the pasta.”

“You’re so geographically correct, Russell.”

Jeremy rushed over to the adult side of the loft to inform them that Obama had won Vermont.

“We’re on the board,” Washington said, holding his palm out toward Jeremy. “High five, my man.”

“Are we pretty sure Obama’s going to win?” Jeremy asked.

“It’s not a done deal,” Russell said. “I think there’s a lot of white voters who won’t admit to a pollster that they’d never vote for a black man.”

Washington said, “No shit, Sherlock.”

“But I’m cautiously optimistic.”

“I think you were right the first time,” Washington said. “No fucking way this country’s going to elect a blood president.”

“Washington, please,” Veronica said. “The kids.”

He was getting a little strident; Russell wondered if he’d had a few drinks before coming over.

—

“Can I have wine?” Jeremy asked after they were all seated at the dinner table. Russell had lately taken to giving him a small glass on special occasions.

“You can have a sip of mine afterward. Now clink glasses — lightly, no smashing — with the person next to you.”

The kids managed not to break any stemware, though a fair amount of water was spilled.

“Are we going to win?” Storey asked.

“You haven’t touched your spaghetti,” Russell said.

“I had some salad.”

Mingus was looking down at his phone. “Obama just won Pennsylvania.”

“That’s huge,” Russell said.

“Does that mean we win?”

“It means the odds have just improved considerably.”

Veronica said, “Hope you put that bottle of Dom we brought on ice.”

After the dinner plates were cleared, the TV was again turned up. The kids watched briefly, cheering further Obama wins before disappearing into the bedrooms.

A perfunctory hometown cheer went up when New York was placed in the blue column, though there’d never been any suspense about that.

“Anybody else see that interview Brian Williams did with McCain and Palin?” Veronica asked. “Where he said New York and Washington, D.C., were the headquarters of the elitists? Whatever happened to the good McCain? Remember him, the maverick of the 2000 primaries?”

“After the primaries, he hired all the old Bush/Rove apparatchiks,” Washington said, “the same hit men who slimed him in the 2000 primaries with nasty rumors about his war record and his love life. The same assholes who helped smear Kerry with that whole swift boat thing.”

When Russell went to fetch another bottle of wine, Washington followed him to the kitchen.

“Listen, Crash, I hate to bring it up now, but I couldn’t catch you at the office. It’s nothing definite, but Anderson called me in today and gave a big speech about retrenchment and cost cutting. He hasn’t made up his mind yet, but he said we shouldn’t be making any capital expenditures in this climate. I made a strong case for you all over again. He told me he’ll give me a decision next week.”