This Side of Paradise

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

He was going to live in New York, and be known at every restaurant and café, wearing a dress-suit from early evening to early morning, sleeping away the dull hours of the forenoon.

He awoke laughing and his eyes lazily roamed his surroundings, evidently a bedroom and bath in a good hotel. His head was whirring and picture after picture was forming and blurring and melting before his eyes, but beyond the desire to laugh he had no entirely conscious reaction. He reached for the ‘phone beside his bed. “Hello—what hotel is this—? “Knickerbocker? All right, send up two rye highballs——”