Michael Chabon by The Mysteries of Pittsburgh

to. But do you know what those Christians told me? They told me I would have to learn to live without sex. I can’t live without sex, Art. It’s ridiculous. If Jesus really loves me, then He wants me to sleep with boys.”
    “Amen,” I said. “So what other things have there been?”
    “Well, let’s see. I’ve done the punk thing, the biker’s girl thing, the seamstress thing, the prep school thing, and sort of the housewife thing, although I wasn’t married. I’ve never done the marriage thing.”
    “You were a seamstress?”
    “I sew like an angel.”
    “What’s next?” I said, thinking that this was a glaring straight line.
    “I don’t know,” she said, lightly. “Probably a broken heart.”
    “Ha,” I said.
    That evening I rode downtown on an unaccountably empty bus, sitting in the last row. At the front I saw a thin cloud of smoke rising around the driver’s head.
    “Hey, bus driver,” I said. “Can I smoke?”
    “May I,” said the bus driver.
    “I love you,” I said.
    In the big, posh, and stale lobby of the Duquesne Hotel—in a city where some of the men, like my father, still wear felt hats—one can still get one’s hair cut, one’s shoes shined, and buy a racing form or a Tootsie Roll. When I was a kid, and we would come into Pittsburgh to visit with my mother’s relatives, I used to think that my father, who was perhaps born forty years too late, had had the Duquesne built for him. My father believed in the sports page brought up to his room on a tray with the Java in the morning, and in the cigarette girl who prowled the bar with her Luckies and Philip Morris Commanders. Although he was in many ways a man of modern tastes, for music, hats, and hotels he looked to the Depression, and loved nothing but Goodman, snap brims, and the Duquesne.
    The door to his room was unlatched; I pushed against it and found him sitting in a chair by the window, talking on the telephone. I made a noise as I came in, so that he could end the call if it was something I ought not to hear, but he half-waved, puckered his lips at me, and kept on talking. From his muttered replies I tried to guess to whom he was talking.
    “Fine, fine,” he said. “Listen, Artie just walked in. Yeah, yeah, he looks great. I’ll tell him hello, sure. Right. Thirty-seven five. Right. See you tomorrow. Good-bye.”
    “Uncle Lenny,” I said.
    “He says you should come for dinner.”
    “I can’t stand Aunt Elaine.”
    “Neither can he. My God, Art, your hair—you look terrible. Do you want me to give you the money to buy a comb?”
    “No, thanks, Dad. I’m going to make one at home. Out of common household items. You look great.”
    “Business is good.”
    “Oh.”
    We both frowned. I never knew what to say upon hearing that business was good; it was always as though my father had just gleefully told me that he’d taken out a huge life insurance policy on himself, with me as beneficiary.
    Then we said we were hungry and went out, down the laborious old elevator and into the street. A thunderstorm was imminent; big dusty rings of newspapers and the straw-pierced plastic lids of paper cups blew along Smithfield Street. We walked across the Smithfield Street Bridge to the South Side, and my father reminded me of the day fifteen years before when we’d driven across this bridge and I had astonished him by spelling Monongahela, unbidden.
    “You were a smart boy,” he said.
    “What happened?” I said, and laughed, and he laughed, and said, What indeed.
    I had decided to ask him about Cleveland, though I knew that if Cleveland had not met my father, a fairly important man, it was unlikely that my father would even know of Cleveland, whom I supposed to be an errand boy for the Stern family. Rarely did I ask my father about his work, and I didn’t like to do it.
    “Pops,” I said, trying to imply my nonchalance by dipping a morsel of French bread into my enormous bowl of lobster bisque, “do you know any of the