I don’t know about you, but when I get The New Yorker,
I go through a rut-worn series of steps, “stations,” if
you will, as I cruise the cover, Table of Contents, cartoons, and
odd article on down the way to the movie reviews. This is not to
say that reading The New Yorker is like bearing a cross.
No, I’m just curious about the form. Why do I think that the
fourteen stations of Christ’s journey to Calvary apply to my
reading The New Yorker? Oh—thanks for asking!
†
The First Station
Jesus is Condemned to Die.
Or, I receive The New Yorker in the mail! A much better convention
than being condemned to death. In fact, I’ve been given a reprieve.
Aura returns. I can tell by the flashing lights in the corners of
my eyes.
The Second Station
Jesus is Made to Bear the Cross.
I carry the magazine from the mail box back to the living room.
The Third Station
Jesus Falls the First Time.
I drop the issue and subscription inserts fly everywhere.
The Fourth Station
Jesus Meets His Mother.
I’m about to sit down to go through the issue and my mother
calls.
The Fifth Station
Simon, the Cyrenean, Helps Jesus Carry His Cross.
While my mother and I are on the phone, my roommate picks up the
issue and starts to read it. I give them the Heavy. No one should
read the new issue before me. It’s like someone reading your
newspaper and causing it to loose its fold, turn brown from air
and light. Simon—back off.
The Sixth Station
Veronica Wipes Jesus' Face (Veronica is “the true icon,
Verus Iconus”).
I remember a girl named Veronica. I should have married her. She
made me cry and gave me a tissue. Now I sit at home reading The
New Yorker.
The Seventh Station
Jesus Falls the Second Time.
A second load of subscription inserts is released.
The Eighth Station
Jesus Speaks to the Women of Jerusalem.
My ex-girlfriend calls and asks for advice on her new boyfriend.
I answer as succinctly as possible to get back to reading.
The Ninth Station
Jesus Falls the Third Time.
Just when you think the last insert has fallen . . .
The Tenth Station
Jesus is Stripped of his Garments.
I change into my pajamas and fall on the couch with more to go!
The Eleventh Station
Jesus is Nailed to the Cross.
I’m deeply into the magazine by this time . . . and a measure
of brandy.
The Twelfth Station
Jesus Dies on the Cross (the giving up of the Spirit).
I’ve read just about all I can that interests me. And I’m
out of brandy. Sigh.
The Thirteenth Station
Jesus is Taken Down from the Cross.
I go back into the issue—looking for life. I reread “Constabulary
Notes.” Nothing. The aura is gone.
The Fourteenth Station
Jesus is Laid in the Tomb.
I toss the issue into the recycle bin and go to bed. My friend Mary
calls in the morning to see if I want to go to breakfast. I get
out of bed, take a shower and head to the restaurant. Running late,
Mary pops by the apartment to try and hook up. My roommate lets
her in. She goes to my room to look for me, but my room is empty.
