New Yorkers whose formative years were spent in more rural environments are frequently troubled by their inability to spot seasonal change. Deprived of such conventional signs as caterpillars, yellow leaves and the frost on the pumpkin, these bewildered citizens are quarterly confronted with the problem of ascertaining just exactly when it is what time of year. In an attempt to dispel this sort of confusion I offer the following guide:
AUTUMN
Autumn refers to the period beginning in late September and ending right before January. Its most salient visual characteristic is that white people all over town begin to lose their tans. New Yorkers, however, being somewhat reserved, it is not good form to try to rake them up and jump in them. Recent air-pollution control laws have also prohibited their burning, no matter how nostalgic one is for the homey scent of a roaring bonfire. Another marked feature of this season, and one not unrelated to the aforementioned, is that there are white people all over town, a fact worth noting in this context as it signals a mass return from the Hamptons (see Summer).
Nubbier, more textured fabrics start to make an appearance and shoes begin gradually to become more bootlike.
Politicians begin to spout brightly hued wild promises, but it is unwise to pick them, particularly early in the season, and on the whole one is far safer in sticking to the cultivated varieties.
WINTER
Winter begins where autumn leaves off, but has a lot more staying power than its quicksilver antecedent. As this season progresses one begins again to note fewer white people on the street (see Barbados) and more black people on television (see landlord’s attitudes toward supplying heat; see landlords in person in Barbados).
Outdoor fashion shootings become sparse and are replaced by illegal aliens selling outsized pretzels and cold chestnuts.
Due to the dangers of the chill air, buses tend to band together in herds and Checker cabs pair off and retire to their garages for mutual warmth and companionship.
Although the frozen ground is hard and unyielding, often city contracts covering vital services come up for renewal (see Autumn, Spring and Summer) and mayoral press conferences are abundant.
Along about February, literary agents begin to turn green while talking on the telephone to their cinematic counterparts, and almost as one fly West to negotiate. Shortly after their return they will begin to lose their tans, but this is merely an example of the exception proving the rule and should not be taken by the novice as a sign of autumn. It is still winter, so try to regain your bearings by determining which out-of-season fruits are the most expensive.
SPRING
Rumored to be a season separating winter and summer, spring is, in New York, a rather mythical figure, and as such attracts a slightly rarefied crowd. Around April, art directors and aesthetic realists begin shedding their sweaters, and very constructed young men start to plan next autumn’s colors. Property values on eastern Long Island rise sharply (see white people), while the level of reason and good will recedes from the banks.
Newsstands become more delicately tinged as magazine covers once again sport their seasonal pastel look and the word “relationship” is in the air, although fortunately not in the water.
Along about May, movie agents in Los Angeles begin to turn green while on the telephone to their literary counterparts and as one fly East to negotiate. Shortly after their arrival they will begin to lose their tans, but this will compel them to leave before even the rawest novice can think that it’s autumn.
SUMMER
Although the most hard-nosed element maintains that summer is that time which is not winter, it technically describes the interval between spring and autumn, and most quickly manifests itself by a luxuriant growth in Con Edison bills. The air becomes more visible, and a great many adults, stunned by the bountiful harvest of roving street gangs and sidewalk domino players, forget that they look terrible in shorts. Daylight-saving time blossoms once more and is welcomed heartily by insomniacs who now have less night to be up all of.
Wits thicken, urban flesh turns a vivid gray and the word “relationship” is in the water, but not, fortunately, in the city.