Wonder Boys

by Michael Chabon

The overcoat was a trademark of his. It was an impermeable thrift-shop special with a plaid flannel lining and wide lapels, and it looked as though it had been trying for many years to keep the rain off the stooped shoulders of a long series of hard cases, drifters, and ordinary bums. It emitted an odor of bus station so desolate that just standing next to him you could feel your luck changing for the worse. “I’m not supposed to be here, in case you were wondering,” he said.

It’s always been hard for me to tell the difference between denial and what used to be known as hope.