Game of Tomes: An Alternate History of Brooklyn’s Literary Tribes
“The mistake of the cold war was that it was cold,” Kunkel mused, moving to the thermostat and rubbing his hands, the perfectly manicured cuticles clicking together. “This fight is ours to win—so long as we turn up the heat.” On cue, Kunkel spun the thermostat upwards until it stopped well above 90 degrees. He quickly turned it down, however, as the building’s gas bill could only be paid with grant money. “Interns!” He bellowed. “Un cafe con leche, como biben los portenos!”
Gessen moved to a desk in the corner of the room, toward a long brown robe decorated with Cyrillic glyphs that appeared to glow and dance in the low light. An intern moved from the shadows to help clothe the editor, “it feels as heavy as lead!” she squeaked, scurrying back to a dusky corner of the office as Gessen brushed dust from the fabric. Suddenly, a pale fire sprung from his palms. “Tonight, my friends, all that is solid turns to air.”