Bullet Park. Suburban area of stately homes, manicured lawns interrupted by swimming pools, and the buzz of chain saws and lawn tractors. At the heart of the town is the train station where the commuter railroad connects residents to New York City, the great magnet of purpose, reputation, and money. At 7:46 a.m. every weekday morning, the commuters, in their business uniforms and with their folded newspapers, obeying the code of privacy that allows them only to nod to each other, rush into the city. Aboard their trains, they zoom past local stops and past the bedroom windows of Harlem into Manhattan’s Grand Central Station, from which they run to their various subways and taxis. In the evening, the reverse migration is more relaxed. The train’s bar car is open, and more cocktails await them at home in the company of wife, children, and dog. On weekends, cocktail parties, with all kinds of dalliances within them, dot Bullet Park’s landscape. Local police keep an eye out for those who drink too much and obligingly guide them home.
So goes John Cheever’s satirical portrait of Bullet Park—overprivileged, overindulgent, and empty of significant feeling, which at first the author seems to confirm. At the train station one morning, Mr. Shinglehouse is sucked up by the Chicago Express barreling through—literally lifted out of his loafers. However, no one on the platform knows him well enough to allow the strange event to...
(The entire section is 586 words.)