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I have run through what any river or strait of the globe has run through,
I have taken my stand on the bases of peninsulas and on the high embedded rocks, to cry thence: Salut au monde!
What cities the light or warmth penetrates I penetrate those cities myself.
All islands to which birds wing their way I wing my way myself.
Toward you all, in America’s name,
I raise high the perpendicular hand, I make the signal,
To remain after me in sight forever,
For all the haunts and homes of men.
The title of Whitman’s poem is “Salut au Monde!”. In the nineteenth century, American poets spoke French. I am writing this book because I’m sick of bigoted anti-Americanism. My favorite French philosopher is Patrick Juvet: “I Love America.” Since war has been declared between France and the United States, you have to be careful when choosing sides if you don’t want to wind up being fleeced later.
My favorite writers are American: Walt Whitman and therefore, but in his own right, Edgar Allan Poe, Herman Melville, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, John Fante, Jack Kerouac, Henry Miller, J. D. Salinger, Truman Capote, Charles Bukowski, Lester Bangs, Philip K. Dick, William T. Vollmann, Hunter S. Thompson, Bret Easton Ellis, Chuck Palahniuk, Philip Roth, Hubert Selby Jr., Jerome Charyn (who lives in Montparnasse), Jay McInerney (whom I met in Paris).
My favorite musicians are American: Frank Sinatra, Chuck Berry, Bob Dylan, Leonard Bernstein, Burt Bacharach, James Brown, Chet Baker, Brian Wilson, Johnny Cash, Stevie Wonder, Paul Simon, Lou Reed, Randy Newman, Michael Stipe, Billy Corgan, Kurt Cobain.
My favorite film directors are American: Howard Hawks, Orson Welles, Robert Altman, Blake Edwards, Stanley Kubrick, John Cassavetes, Martin Scorsese, Woody Allen, David Lynch, Russ Meyer, Sam Raimi, Paul Thomas Anderson, Larry Clark, David Fincher, M. Night Shyamalan.
American culture dominates the planet not for economic reasons, but because of its quality. It’s too easy to ascribe its influence to political machination, to compare Disney to Hitler or Spielberg to Satan. American art is constantly renewing itself, because it is profoundly rooted in real life. American artists are constantly searching for something new, but something new which speaks to us of ourselves. They know how to reconcile imagination and accessibility, originality with the desire to seduce. Molière was in it for the money, Mozart wanted to be famous: there’s nothing shameful about that. American artists churn out fewer theories than their European counterparts, because they haven’t got time, they’re too busy with the practice. They seize the world, grapple with it and, in describing it, they transform it. American authors think of themselves as realists when in fact they’re all Marxists! They’re hypercritical of their own country. No democracy in the world is as contested by its own literature. American independent and underground cinema is the most subversive in the world. When they dream, American artists take the rest of the world with them, because they are more courageous, more hardworking and because they dare to mock their own country. Many people believe that European artists have a superiority complex when it comes to their American counterparts, but they’re mistaken: they have an inferiority complex. Anti-Americanism is in large part jealousy and unrequited love. Deep down, the rest of the world admires American art and resents the United States for not returning the favor. A compelling example? Bernard Pivot’s reaction to James Lipton (presenter of the program The Actor’s Studio) on the last Bouillon de Culture. The host of the finest literary program in the history of French television seemed completely intimidated by Lipton, a pompous, toadying hack who chairs sycophantic discussions with Hollywood actors on some minor-league cable channel. Pivot, who created Apostrophes, a man who has interviewed the finest writers of his generation, couldn’t get over the fact that he was quoted in the States by a sycophantic creep.
What bothers us is not American imperialism, but American chauvinism, its cultural isolation, its complete lack of any curiosity about foreign work (except in New York and San Francisco). France has the same relationship with the United States nowadays as the provinces do with Paris: a combination of admiration and contempt, a longing to be part of it and a pride at resisting. We want to know everything about them so that we can shrug our shoulders with a condescending air. We want to know the latest trends, the places to be seen, all the New York gossip so that we can emphasize how rooted we are in the profound reality of our own country. Americans seem to have made the opposite journey to that of Europe: their inferiority complex (being a nouveau riche, adolescent country whose history and culture have, for the most part, been imported) has developed into a superiority complex (lessons in expertise and efficiency, cultural xenophobia, corporate contempt, and advertising overkill).
As for the cultural exception to American cultural hegemony that is France, contrary to what a recently dismissed CEO had to say, it is not dead: it consists in churning out exceptionally tedious movies, exceptionally slapdash books and, all in all, works of art which are exceptionally pedantic and self-satisfied. It goes without saying that I include my own work in this sorry assessment.
8:35 (#ulink_62764321-c30c-57f8-b709-98064a006f7b)
The lobby in Windows on the World is beige. Everything important in America is beige. The walls are comforting, the carpet is thick, eggshell with a geometric pattern. Your loafers sink into the deep wool pile. The ground seems soft; that should have set us thinking.
“Keep it down!”
Half past eight and already the kids are hyper. How old are we when we start to wake up exhausted? I can’t stop yawning while they’re running around all over the place, zigzagging between the tables, almost knocking over an old lady with lilac hair.
“Stop it, guys!”
I try glaring at them, but still they don’t behave. I have no control over my sons; even when I get angry, they think I’m just kidding. They’re right: I am kidding. I don’t really believe it. Like all parents of my generation, I’m incapable of being strict. Our kids are badly brought up because they’re not brought up at all. At least, not by us, they’re brought up by cartoon channels. Thank you, Disney Channel, the world’s babysitter! Our kids are spoiled rotten, because we’re spoiled rotten. Jerry and David wind me up, but they have something over their mother; at least I still love them. That’s why I’m letting them cut class this week. They’re completely ecstatic about skipping school! I slump into my rust-colored chair and look round at the incredible view. “Unbelievable,” the brochure said: for once the advertising doesn’t lie. I’m blinded by the sunlight on the Atlantic. The skyscrapers carve out the blue like a cardboard stage set. In America, life is like a movie, since all movies are shot on location. All Americans are actors and their houses, their cars, and their desires all seem artificial. Truth is reinvented every morning in America. It’s a country that has decided to look like something on celluloid.
“Sir…”
The waitress is none too pleased at having to play cop. She brings back Jerry and David, who’ve just stolen a doughnut from a pair of stockbrokers and are using it as a Frisbee. I should slap them, but I can’t help smiling. I get up to apologize to the doughnut’s owners. They both work for Cantor Fitzgerald: a blonde who is sexy despite her Ralph Lauren suit (do girls really dress like that anymore?) and a stocky dark-haired man who seems cool in his Kenneth Cole suit. You don’t need to be a P.I. to work out they’re lovers. Would you take your wife to breakfast at the top of the World Trade Center? No…You leave your old lady at home and invite a colleague from the office for an early-morning tryst (the yuppie version of an afternoon tryst). I eavesdrop, I love listening at keyholes, especially when there aren’t any.
“I’m pretty bullish about the NASDAQ at the moment…” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.
“Merril’s been upgrading the banking sector just on spec,” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.
“Leave your wife,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.
“So we can be a normal couple?” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.
“We’d never be a normal couple,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.
“You don’t hear me asking you to leave your husband,” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.
“I would if you asked me to,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.
“What we’ve got is special because it’s impossible,” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.
“I’m sick of only getting to see you in the morning or the afternoon,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.
“I’m worse at night,” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.
“Jeffrey Skilling invited me to L.A. in his private jet this weekend,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.
“Yeah? And how are you going to get that one past your husband?” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.
“None of your business,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.
“If you do that, you’ll never see me again,” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.
“You’re jealous of Mike but you don’t care about my husband?” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.
“You haven’t fucked your husband for two years,” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.
“Leave your wife,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.
“You really feel bullish about the NASDAQ?” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.
8:36 (#ulink_e25cd15e-3cc7-51e6-b742-05891d97c443)
“The Windows of the World” is the title of a song by Burt Bacharach and Hal David released by Dionne Warwick in 1967. The lyrics? They were written in protest at the Vietnam War.
The windows of the world are covered with rain.
Where is the sunshine we once knew?
Ev’rybody knows when little children play
They need a sunny day to grow straight and tall.
Let the sun shine through.
The windows of the world are covered with rain.
When will those black skies turn to blue?
Ev’rybody knows when boys turn to men
They start to wonder when their country will call.
Let the sun shine through.
I wonder whether the owner of Windows on the World was familiar with the song.
8:37 (#ulink_3047fb9a-5d59-5fd2-b4ae-56928d402930)
The kids are bored now and it’s my fault, bringing them to places for oldsters. But they were the ones who insisted! I thought the view would keep them occupied, but that’s done and dusted pretty quickly. They’re like their dad: they get bored with everything pretty quickly. A generation of frantic channel-hopping, schizophrenic existentialism. What will they do when they find out they can’t have everything, be everything? I feel sorry for them, because it’s something I never got over myself.
I always feel weird when I see my kids. I’d like to be able to say “I love you,” but it’s too late. When they were three, I would tell them I loved them until they fell asleep. In the morning I’d wake them by tickling their feet. Their feet were always cold, always sticking out from under the duvet. But they’re too macho now, they’d tell me to get lost. And I hardly ever look after them, don’t get to see them enough, I’m not part of their routine anymore. Instead of saying “I love you,” this is what I should say:
“There are worse things in life than having an absent father: having a present father. Someday you’ll thank me for not smothering you. You’ll realize I was helping you find your wings, pampering you from afar.”
But this time, it’s too soon. They will understand when they’re my age: forty-three. It’s strange, two brothers who are inseparable but always fighting. There’s no need to pity us this morning. The Rice Krispies keep them occupied for a bit: Snap, Crackle, Pop. We talk about this stolen vacation when they should be back at school. David wants to go to Universal Studios again. He spent the whole year showing off in his “I survived Jurassic Park” T-shirt. He didn’t even want to put it in the wash. Is there anything more arrogant than a seven-year-old? Later, kids learn self-discipline, there’s less showing off. Take Jerry for example, two years older and already he’s a man, he has self-control, he knows how to compromise. He thinks he’s all that, too, in his Eminem sweatshirt, but at least he makes less of deal of it: he’s the big brother. David’s always sick with something, I hate hearing him coughing all the time, it winds me up, and I can’t work out if it’s the sound of the coughing that winds me up, or whether it’s anxiety, some sort of paternal love. Deep down, what annoys me is never being sure that I’m good, but being absolutely certain that I’m selfish.
A Brazilian businessman lights a cigar. You have to be mad to smoke at this time of the morning. I beckon the maître d’, who rushes over to him since, like every other public space in the city, Windows is non-smoking. The guy pretends this is the first he’s heard of it, pretends to be shocked, demands to be shown the smoking section. The maître d’ explains that he’ll have to go down to the street! Rather than stub out his cigar, the smoker gets up and does just that, sprinting toward the elevator; no doubt a matter of principle.
8:38 (#ulink_be4e67fc-85c9-537a-b3f6-5d271abdae91)
…thereby proving that a cigar can save your life. They should put a new health warning on cigarette packs: “Smoking can cause you to leave buildings before they blow up.”
I would like to be able to change things, to scream at Carthew to get the fuck out of there, fast, GET OUT, TAKE THE KIDS AND MAKE A RUN FOR IT, TELL THE OTHERS, QUICK, GET A FUCKING MOVE ON, THE WHOLE PLACE IS GOING TO BLOW! GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE FUCKING BUILDING!!
Powerlessness, a writer’s vanity. A useless book, like all books. The writer is like the cavalry, always arriving too late. The Maine-Montparnasse tower is wider on the Rue du Départ side: if you wanted to fly a plane into it, you should aim for that side. I’m beginning to fall in love with this building that everyone loathes. I love it at night as much as I loathe it in daylight. Darkness is good for its complexion. In daylight, it is grayish, sad, hulking; only the night makes it brilliant, electric, with the little lights at each corner like a lighthouse in Paris. At night, the tower makes me think of the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey: the tall, black rectangular slab which is supposed to symbolize eternity. Last night, I took my fiancee to the nightclub in the basement of the tower. The club used to be call Inferno, but they’ve just renamed it Red Light. There was a twenty-fifth anniversary party for VSD magazine: the place was heaving, queues for the coat check, sponsors, DJs, a couple of VIPs, nothing special. I hugged my darling to me and kissed her at the French equivalent of Ground Zero. I’d quite happily have had her in the restroom, but she refused. “Sorry, tonight my pussy is observing Ramadan!”
I’d like to apologize to the Muslim authorities in advance for the preceding joke. I know perfectly well that it is permitted to eat at night during Ramadan. Be magnanimous. There’s no need for a fatwa: I’m famous enough already. The year 2002 was a pretty complicated one for me. I had a great time and made a complete fool of myself. Let’s not add to that in 2003, if you don’t mind. Apparently, the Tour Montparnasse is in no danger of an attack by Islamic fundamentalists because it houses the French offices of al-Jazeera. I focus on this lightning rod as I dip my toast into my coffee.
The Tour Montparnasse is 656 feet high. To get an idea of the size of the World Trade Center, stack one Tour Montparnasse on top of another and it would still be smaller than the World Trade Center. Every morning, the elevator takes thirty-five seconds to take me to Le Ciel de Paris (fifty-sixth floor); I’ve timed it. In the elevator my feet feel heavy and my ears pop. The rapid elevator creates the same sensation as a plane in an air pocket—without the safety belt. Le Ciel de Paris is all that remains of the Windows on the World: an idea. The preposterous and pretentious idea of a restaurant at the top of a tower which dominates the skyline. Here, the decor is black with a ceiling mimicking a starry sky. There aren’t many people this morning because the weather is miserable. People cancel their reservations when visibility is poor. Le Ciel de Paris is in a sea of fog. You can see nothing but white smoke from the windows. Pressing my nose up against the glass, I can make out the adjoining streets. When I was little, people often told me off for having my head in the clouds; nothing’s changed. The Parker Knoll chairs probably date from the seventies; they’ll be back in fashion soon, the black-and-tan carpet looks like something out of a no-budget indie movie. There is a continual background noise: the air conditioning purrs like a nuclear reactor. I press my face to the glass: a layer of mist shrouds the Rue de Rennes. I’m sitting in a booth padded with brown leather like the ones in the Drugstore Publicis in Saint-Germain (a place which, like Windows on the World, has also disappeared), I’ve ordered freshly squeezed orange juice and some “viennoiseries” (three shriveled mini chocolate croissants), the waitress wears an orange uniform (she’ll come back into fashion too). She brings me the croissants wrapped in a beige napkin. Maybe the al-Qaeda terrorists are simply sick to death of beige, orange uniforms and the businesslike smile of the waitresses.
I feel like shit, sitting here all alone in Le Ciel de Paris at 8:38 AM, a long way above the motorists honking their horns in front of the cinemas in Montparnasse, high above the employees of the Banque National de Paris, 656 feet more stratospheric than ordinary mortals. My life is a disaster, but nobody notices, because I’m too polite—I smile constantly. I smile because I think that if you hide your suffering, it disappears. And it’s true, in a sense: it is invisible, and therefore it does not exist, since we live in a world that worships what is visible, demonstrable, material. My suffering is not material; it is hidden. I am my own revisionist.
8:39 (#ulink_87b7b4e3-c81e-5d21-956d-b61b4d7fed27)
As I finish my cappuccino, I look at the other customers, who do not look at me. A lot of sporty redheads. There’s a table of Japanese tourists taking photos of each other. There’s the adulterous stockbrokers. There are American tourists like me, nouveau riche rednecks and proud of it, WASPs wearing suspenders, yuppies with brilliant-white teeth. Boys in striped shirts. Women with ultra blow-dried hair, their pretty hands sporting long manicured nails. Most of them look like Britney Spears twenty years from now. There are Arabs, Englishmen, Pakistanis, Brazilians, Italians, Vietnamese, Mexicans, all of them fat. What the customers of Windows on the World have in common is their paunches. I wonder whether I wouldn’t have been better off taking the kids to the Rainbow Room, on the sixty-fifth floor of the NBC building. The Rainbow Room: twenty-four windows in the heart of the city. The architects of the Rockefeller Center wanted to call it the Stratosphere. But my kids wouldn’t have appreciated the thirties mirrors, the reflections of Manhattan, the legacy of jazz big bands, the whiff of the roaring twenties. All Jerry and David want is to stuff themselves with sausage and muffins in the highest restaurant in New York. Luckily for my wallet, the Toys
Us in the lobby was closed otherwise they’d have cleaned the place out. My kids are tyrants and I have to follow their orders to the letter. As I bolt my breakfast, I look down: from this height it’s impossible to make out people. The only moving things in Lower Manhattan are the cars coming and going across the Brooklyn Bridge, tourist helicopters over the East River, and the boats passing each other under the suspension bridges. I’d copied a quote from Kafka into the guidebook: “The bridge connecting New York with Brooklyn hung delicately over the East River, and if one half-shut one’s eyes it seemed to tremble. It appeared to be quite bare of traffic, and beneath it stretched a smooth empty tongue of water.” Amazing how he can so accurately describe something he never saw. Directly in front of me, I can see the Chase Manhattan building, to the left Manhattan Bridge, and to the right, at the end of Fulton Street, South Street Seaport, but I would be incapable of describing them. And I realize that I love this crazy country of mine, the fucked-up times we live in, my annoying kids. A surge of affection overwhelms me—probably last night’s vodka catching up with me. Candace took me to Pravda, and we kind of overdid it on the cherry vodka. Candace did a photo shoot for Victoria’s Secret, I mention it just to give you an idea of how hot she is. But things aren’t going too well between us: she wants us to get married, have a baby, live together, and these are precisely the three mistakes that I want to avoid making again. To punish me for wanting to stay single, she doesn’t come anymore when we fuck. They say some women say no when they mean yes, Candace is the opposite: when she says yes, she means no.
“Why are you so bullish about the NASDAQ?” asks the guy in Kenneth Cole.
“You can’t lose now the Internet bubble’s burst,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren, “pretty much anything’s gonna run up three sticks, the stocks have completely crunched.”
“Yeah, but look at the cash flows, it’s all off-balance-sheet transactions,” says the guy in Kenneth Cole. “I’d be worried about getting jigged out.”
“I bought some stock in Enron,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren. “The company’s a scalper’s dream. Have you seen their earnings?”
“I’m with you there, almost worth holding a position on. WorldCom, too. Their EBITDA is sweet as a million-dollar bill,” says the guy in Kenneth Cole. “Otherwise I don’t fancy being a bottom fisher in that market.”
“Yeah, well, one way or the other, 2001 is gonna be shit, all the bonuses are going to be slashed,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren. “You can kiss your villa in Hawaii goodbye.”
“I think it’s pretty simple: fuck the Porsche, I’m holding liquid,” says the guy in Kenneth Cole. “But 2002 has got to be better, we just have to wait and see what Greenspan does on rates.”
“I love you,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.
“God, I want to launch a hostile takeover bid on you,” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.
“Leave your fucking wife,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.
“Okay, okay, I promise I’ll dump her tonight, soon as I get in from the gym,” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.
And they launch into a pretty hot kiss, all tongues and spit like a good California porn movie or a perfume ad.
8:40 (#ulink_5f4ee4b3-8312-5d49-90fa-088e99164bfc)
The guidebooks all gave Windows on the World glowing reviews. Here at the top of the Tour Montparnasse on a September morning in 2002, I leaf through them. A year after the tragedy, they take on a strange resonance. For example, the Michelin Green Guide 2000 writes:
Windows on the World, One World Trade Center (107th floor). This elegant restaurant bar boasts the most stunning panoramic views of New York. Since the infamous bombing attempt in 1993, considerable renovation has allowed it to reinvent itself with a sumptuous new interior.
The World Trade Center was a target; something even the guidebooks realized. It was no secret. On February 26, 1993, at 12:18 PM, a bomb in a pickup truck in the parking lot exploded. The basement of the World Trade Center collapsed. A deep crater, six dead and a thousand injured. The towers were refurbished and reopened within a month.
Frommer’s Guide 2000 is more effusive:
Windows on the World (West St between Liberty and Vesey). Main $25-35; Sunset menu (before 6 PM) $35; Brunch $32.50. Cards: VISA. Subway: C, E, World Trade Center. Valet parking on West Street, $18. The interiors are sober but pleasing. In any case, they are of little importance as, just outside the “Windows” all of New York is unfurled! The restaurant offers unassailable views of the city. And with Michael Lomonaco, former chef at Club 21, now at the helm, the Modern American cuisine is second to none. The cellar, too, is full to bursting. The sommelier is happy to point you in the right direction, whether you are a connoisseur or simply an amateur looking to perfectly complement your Char-grilled cutlets or Homard de Maine, two of Lomonaco’s specialties.
In a magazine article, I read that two inseparable brothers worked side by side cleaning shellfish in the kitchens. Two Muslims.
What we know now leads us to look for portents everywhere; it’s a foolish exercise which gives a restaurant review written in 2000 a prophetic significance. If we pick apart the second review word by word, the text reads like something out of Nostradamus. “Just outside the ‘Windows’“? An oncoming plane. “Unassailable views”? On the contrary, they were all too assailable. “The cellar, too, is full to bursting”? Absolutely: it will soon have 600,000 tons of rubble piled on top of it. “The sommelier is happy to point you in the right direction”? Like an air-traffic controller. “Char-grilled cutlets”? Soon to be charred at 1,500 degrees. “Homard de Maine,” you mean Omar the Mullah? I know, it’s not funny, you don’t joke about death. I’m sorry, it’s a form of self-defense: I write these jokes at the top of a tower in Paris, flicking through pages and pages of reviews for a sister site that no longer exists. It’s impossible not to see portents everywhere, coded messages from the past. The past is now the only place where you can find Windows on the World. This unique restaurant where you could enjoy haute cuisine at the top of the world; where you had to reserve a table to take your mistress to admire the view so you could leer into her low-cut blouse as she leaned down to check she had condoms in her handbag, this magnificent place, unique, unscathed, this place is called the past.
The Hachette Guide 2000 commented, oblivious to the cruel irony that the remark would one day have:
The restaurant operates as a sort of private club at lunchtime, but for a small consideration, will admit you even if you are not a member.
Sic.
The paradox of the Twin Towers is that it was an ultramodern complex in the oldest neighborhood in New York at the southernmost tip of Manhattan island: New Amsterdam. Now, the New York landscape has once more become as it was when Holden Caulfield ran away. The destruction of the Twin Towers takes the city back to 1965, the year in which I was born. It’s strange to realize that I am exactly as old as the World Trade Center. This is the Manhattan in which Salinger wrote The Catcher in the Rye (1951), which takes place in 1949. Do you know where the title of The Catcher in the Rye comes from?
It comes from a Robert Burns poem: “Gin a body meet a body coming thro’ the rye.” Holden Caulfield (the narrator) mishears the poem: he believes it runs “if a body catch a body coming through the rye”. He decides he is “the catcher in the rye.” This is what he would most like to do in life. On page 179, he explains his vocation to his little sister, Phoebe. He imagines himself running through the fields of rye trying to save thousands of kids. This would be his ideal profession. Darting around the field of rye, catching all the children running along the clifftop, clusters of innocent hearts tumbling into the void. Their carefree laughter whipped away on the breeze. Running through the rye in the sunshine. “Ev’rybody knows when little children play / They need a sunny day to grow straight and tall” (“The Windows of the World”). The most perfect of all possible destinies: catching them before they fall. I too would like to be the catcher.
The Catcher in the Windows.
8:41 (#ulink_2a7edb78-6d21-50e7-9bbd-52f4fa993af9)
I pretend to sneer at the people at the nearby tables. It’s one of my favorite games when the kids are getting on my nerves. Look at this bunch of nonentities: they’re forgetting they’re descended from Dutch, Irish, German, Italian, French, English, and Spanish settlers who came across the Atlantic three or four centuries ago. Well Yee Ha! I hit the big time! I’ve got a house on Long Island, two rosy-cheeked kids who say “shoot” instead of “shit”! I’m not some hick off the boat anymore. Soft expensive sheets, soft expensive TP, soft expensive flower-print curtains, and enough domestic appliances to make my wife with her lacquered hair drool. The American dream: American Beauty. Sometimes I think the movie’s hero, Lester Burnham, is me. The cynical, phlegmatic guy bored shitless with his perfect family is “so me” a couple of years ago. Carthew Yorston walked out on his life from one day to the next. Actually, I arranged to have myself kicked out of my own house: I’m not sure if it was cowardice or respect for Mary. In the film, his wife wants to kill him but in the end he’s murdered by his homophobic ex-army neighbor. Let’s just say that for the moment, at least, I’m doing better than Lester. But, Jesus, I jerked off so much in the shower. And then there’s that brilliant phrase in the voice-over: “In a year, I’ll be dead, but in a way, I am dead already.” We have a lot in common, Lester Burnham and me.
Before long, I hope, my sons will be introducing me to their girlfriends. Uh-oh, I’m not too sure I’ll be able to resist hitting on them like some dirty old man. I wonder what Jerry and David Yorston will do when they grow up. Will they be successful artists, rock stars, Hollywood actors, TV presenters? Maybe industrialists, bankers, ruthless businessmen? As a father, I hope they choose the second option, but as an American, I can’t help but fantasize about the first. And, in reality, they’re most likely to end up realtors like their father. Forty years from now when I’m incontinent and bedridden in Fort Lauderdale they’ll be changing my diapers. I’ll eat dry crackers and fritter away their inheritance in some Florida gulag! It’ll be great: I’ll have my groceries delivered, order food online and some hooker who looks like Farrah Fawcett in Charlie’s Angels will suck my cock and smile. I love this country. Oh, yes, I forgot: I’ll play golf, if I can still walk. Jerry and David will caddy for me.
Looking down through the telescope I can see a white cube: the piazza where minuscule restaurant employees are putting chairs out on the terraces for people to lunch in the midday sunshine. I assume ice-cream sellers are putting out their blackboards, and hot-dog and pretzel vendors are setting up their carts round the WTC Plaza. That tiny cube? A stage for open-air rock concerts. That metal ball? A bronze globe sculpted by Fritz Koenig. There’s a bunch of hideous contemporary sculptures: mountains of tangled, stacked, warped metal girders. I have no idea what the artists were trying to say. It’s Indian summer; I hum “Autumn in New York.”
