This is the writer's voice, new fiction from The New Yorker.

I'm Deppar Treasman, fiction editor at The New Yorker.

On this episode of The Writer's Voice, we'll hear David Gilbert read his story underground

from the February 6th, 2017 issue of the magazine. Gilbert is the author of one

story collection and two novels, The Normals and Sons, which came out in 2013. Now

here's David Gilbert.

Underground. Underground

On went his sharpest three-piece, the Saxony tweed, followed by the double monk straps in burnished caramel,

which Michael knew would trigger a coup from dear old mom, her stylish son so handsome, a throwback from

her side of the family, those oh so attractive fifers with their thick manes and their broad

shoulders and their clear complexions, none of the men standing below six feet one.

No doubt she would comment on how he was graying. For the past few years, this had been

a regular topic of conversation. Then tell him how distinguished he looked. Like Carrie Grant,

or no, George Clooney, yes, yes, George Clooney, she would amend, as if George Clooney made

all the difference.

And Michael would smile the smile he had perfected in boarding school.

Around the time that a tuxedo was first introduced into his wardrobe, and he had insisted on learning how to tie a bow tie, rather than using a cheap clip-on like his older brother and his

father, those amateurs. Mr. Collins, his Latin

teacher, had taught him, and after an hour of practice, Michael had the knot mastered, along

with a boner-sized bruise on his backside. Remember, nothing genuine ever comes easily,

Mr. Collins told him, adjusting, then readjusting those silky lobes,

especially in a world populated by fakes and fakers.

...