The New Yorker - eBook Free Download

The New Yorker - Popular eBook Free Download

Ghost Boat 

The Dolans, the owners of Cablevision and Madison Square Garden, have put on a fireworks display on the Fourth of July for more than twenty years. A barge is moored off Cove Neck, in front of the neighboring estates of Chuck Dolan (the patriarch) and Jim Dolan (his youngest son, the C.E.O.), on Oyster Bay, and they throw a big party. The fireworks are usually accompanied by recorded music,which blares from speakers on the lawn and is also piped into speakers on the other side of the bay, at the Seawanhaka Yacht Club.The show always attracts hundreds of boats, from either side of the Long Island Sound. They begin appearing in the afternoon, and by dusk the stretch of water where the entrances to Cold Spring Harbor and Oyster Bay meet is a welter of anchored sailboats, cruisers,yachts, and outboards, many of them lashed together, five or six wide, in a kind of floating block party known as a tie-up. 

As night falls and the running lights go on, the giant armada twinkles in the dark—a Bud Light Hong Kong.After nine, the fireworks begin. They are always beautiful, and they always go on longer than you expect. The finale, after several feints,
is an onslaught of noise, and then, after a few seconds of silence, the bravos begin: the boats blare their horns, in irregular, mournful bleats that bring to mind a giant herd of elk. And then it’s time to go home. The boats start moving. Suddenly, all the lights slip their moorings and begin zigging and zagging, at various speeds. A long parade of green ones (Red Right Returning) indicate those heading into Oyster Bay; the reds are bound for other harbors. Other lights zip in and out. Boat wakes collide and pile up. It is maritime mayhem.

The Cheater’s Guide to Love 

Your girl catches you cheating. (Well, actually she’s your fiancée, but hey, in a bit it so won’t matter.) She could have caught you with one sucia, she could
have caught you with two, but because you’re a totally batshit cuero who never empties his e-mail trash can, she caught you with fifty! Sure, over a six-year
period, but still. Fifty fucking girls? God damn! Maybe if you’d been engaged to a super-open-minded blanquita you could have survived it—but you’re not
engaged to a super-open-minded blanquita. Your girl is a bad-ass salcedense who doesn’t believe in open anything; in fact, the one thing she warned you
about, that she swore she would never forgive, was cheating.

 I’ll put a machete in you, she promised. And, of course, you swore you wouldn’t do it. You swore you wouldn’t. You swore you wouldn’t.And you did.She’ll stick around for a few months because you been together a long, long time. Because you’ve gone through so much together—her father’s death, your tenure madness, her bar exam (passed on the third attempt). And because love, real love, is not so easily shed. Over a tortured six-month period you fly together to the D.R., to Mexico (for the funeral of a friend), to New Zealand. You walk the beach where they filmed “The Piano,” something she’s always wanted to do, and now, in penitent desperation, you give it to her. She is immensely sad on that beach and she walks up and down the shining sand alone, her bare feet in the freezing water, and when you try to hug her she says, Don’t. She stares at the rocks jutting out of the water, the wind carrying her hair straight back.On the ride out to the hotel, up through those wild steeps, you pick up a pair of hitchhikers, a couple so giddy with love that you almost throw them out of the
car. She says nothing. Later, in the hotel, she cries.You try every trick in the book to keep her. You write her letters. You drive her to work. 
 

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