The Brooklyn Follies by Auster Paul

Author:Auster, Paul [Auster, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780571246137
Publisher: Faber and Faber Ltd
Published: 2008-09-03T22:00:00+00:00

OUR GIRL, OR COKE IS IT

There are two ways to travel from New York City to Burlington, Vermont: the fast way and the slow way. For the first two-thirds of the trip, we chose the fast way, a trajectory that included such urban roads as Flatbush Avenue, the BQE, Grand Central Parkway, and Route 678. After we crossed the Whitestone Bridge into the Bronx, we continued north for several miles until we came to I-95, which led us out of the city, through the eastern part of Westchester County, and on through lower Connecticut. At New Haven, we turned off onto I-91. That was where we spent the bulk of the journey, traversing what remained of Connecticut and all of Massachusetts until we reached the southern border of Vermont. The quickest route to Burlington would have been to stay on I-91 until White River Junction and then turn west onto I-89, but once we found ourselves on the outskirts of Brattleboro, Tom declared that he was sick of superhighways and preferred switching over to smaller, emptier back-country roads. And so it was that we abandoned the fast way for the slow way. It would add another hour or two to the trip, he said, but at least we would have a chance to see something other than a procession of fast-moving, lifeless cars. Woods, for example, and wildflowers along the edge of the road, not to mention cows and horses, farms and meadows, village greens and an occasional human face. I had no objection to this change of plans. What did I care whether we made it to Pamela’s house at three o’clock or five o’clock? Now that Lucy had opened her eyes again and was staring out the side window in back, I felt so guilty about what we were doing to her that I wanted to put off getting there as long as we could. I opened our Rand McNally road atlas and studied the map of Vermont. “Get off at Exit Three,” I said to Tom. “We’re looking for Route Thirty, which squiggles up diagonally to the northwest. After about forty miles, we’ll start bobbing and weaving until we get to Rutland, find Route Seven, and take that straight to Burlington.”

Why do I linger over these trivial details? Because the truth of the story lies in the details, and I have no choice but to tell the story exactly as it happened. If we hadn’t made that decision to get off the highway at Brattleboro and follow our noses to Route 30, many of the events in this book never would have taken place. I am thinking especially of Tom when I say that. Both Lucy and I profited from the decision as well, but for Tom, the long-suffering hero of these Brooklyn Follies, it was probably the most important decision of his life. At the time, he had no inkling of the consequences, no knowledge of the whirlwind he had set in motion. Like Kafka’s doll,

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