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 "Tell the house physician the bullet is only in her leg," said Scarsdale Vibe helpfully.

* * * * * * * * * *

Sure, he shot her in the leg with a small-caliber bullet instead of outright killing her but let us not forget that this is 1893! She could easily die from infection. I'm sure he wouldn't take the blame if that happened though. Just like how The Batman claims he doesn't kill but he beats the living shit out of criminals all the time and you have to assume that at least a few of them eventually succumb to their injuries. The Batman has to believe that if a criminal is still breathing when he leaves the scene, he's not at fault for their eventual death. You'd also think that somebody would have died during a beatdown simply due to some other factor in their medical history. But then I guess The Batman wouldn't blame himself for that, either! "Well, they should have gotten that heart condition taken care of," mutters Bruce Wayne as he sips a cup of tea spiked with Peppermint Schnapps and signs some more documents that take health care away from the employees at Wayne Enterprises.

Not that I should be comparing Scarsdale Vibe with The Batman! Shooting an old lady in the leg for insulting him is Penguin or Riddler nonsense! Probably Riddler nonsense more so than The Penguin since The Penguin would have shot her in the face.

"helpfully"
Just such a great word to undercut the entire scene. Vibe's "helpfully" is barely helping at all. But he almost certainly sees himself as being helpful. "I could have let her bleed out!" he might be thinking. "Or I could have shot her in the heart!" Or perhaps he simply thought, "I could have had my bodyguards tear her limb from limb. Oh, the things I could have done to her! If only people could see the real me and how restrained I am with my power!"

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 The old woman tilted, swayed, and went down like a tree.

* * * * * * * * * *

Well, it wasn't a warning shot!

Having the woman fall over like a tree might be a metaphor for how Scarsdale Vibe treats the entire world. If it's a living organism and it's in his way, it's gone, whether an old lady in a hotel room or a vast forest in some far off country.

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 Calmly Scarsdale Vibe nodded, raised his ebony air-cane, cocked it, and pressed the trigger.

* * * * * * * * * *

Did I not nail this asshole?! Yes, I admitted to having previously read this chapter before starting this blog. But that was over three months ago! I barely remember any of this beginning stuff! I was judging Scarsdale purely on his name, his wealth, and his accoutrements! Pynchon did a swell job saying exactly who this man was through a limited amount of text. Sure, he also flat-out called him evil at one point but that doesn't really count! You can hear some hyperbolic statement like that and still not believe the person labeled evil would shoot somebody for a simple (although scathing!) insult!

Of course reading one line at a time, I'm left wondering for a bit this question: did he kill her, maim her, or simply fire a warning shot?! How evil will he turn out to be?!

Chapter 1: Section 4: Page 31: Line 107 (479)

 On the way into the lobby, an elderly woman, respectably though not sumptuously dressed, approached him, crying, "If I were your mother I would have strangled you in your cradle."

* * * * * * * * * *

Holy shit. I thought I was being harsh with Scarsdale Vibe just on account of his name and his wealth! Apparently I was spot on! Good for you, soon to probably be dead woman!

This woman will probably never get a name but she's my favorite character in the book. Now I'm going to sound like my super nerdy friend whose favorite character in a popular movie franchise or television show always had to be some obscure character (at least obscure before the Internet made nothing obscure at all). So his favorite character in Star Wars was Wedge Antilles and his favorite character in Star Trek: The Next Generation was Reginald Barclay. This was also my friend who ruined Magic the Gathering for everybody by bringing the first stupid Scrye magazine into the house. Suddenly everybody had a monetary value for each of their cards and they refused to play for ante. It became less a game and more of an investment in a collector's pastime.

I wish somebody had said this to Donald Trump's face. Man, what a great line. "If I were your mother I would have strangled you in your cradle." The fucking shade of it. I'm in awe. Bravo, poor woman! Hoorah!

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 A sealed motor conveyance awaited him, and he was translated as if by supernatural agency to the majestic establishment defined by State, Monroe, and Wabash.

* * * * * * * * * *

"A sealed motor conveyance"
I don't know exactly what this might have been in 1893, especially considering the "sealed" portion. How sealed does it mean? I imagine if it were just covered, it would say covered. It's not necessarily a car, and probably not since Pynchon didn't use the word car or automobile. But even in the timeline of cars, 1893 was the center of the start of the automobile. In 1893, the Duryea brothers built the first American gasoline powered car.

This thing isn't sealed so it probably wasn't this. Plus, it wasn't commercially available. Although a rich and powerful evil villain mogul could probably have gotten their hands on one.

Before the Duryea brothers, there were certainly many steam-powered automobiles but, again, if Pynchon meant a steam engine, he probably would have said steam-powered.
       For a second, I considered "sealed" modified "motor" but if that were so, Pynchon would have connected them with a hyphen. He's much better about the proper rules of grammar than I am (when he's not writing dialogue). If Pynchon fucks up grammar outside of dialogue, there's probably a secret subtextual reason why that explains the entire meaning of the book.
    Ultimately, I'm sure the "sealed motor conveyance" was some kind of evil genius turbo rocket on wheels.

Now I'm picturing the conveyance as the Turbo Terrific. If the Turbo Terrific and the Compact Pussycat ever had a head-on collision, it would be X-rated.

"he was translated as if by supernatural agency"
This almost sounds like he was beamed to the hotel. I suppose it's expressing the fact that the motor vehicle in question, in 1893, was ridiculously ahead of its time. So much so that it seemed occult or other worldly.

"the majestic establishment defined by State, Monroe, and Wabash"
I'm not looking this up but I imagine State, Monroe, and Wabash are the streets that define the block on which the Palmer House resides.

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 He carried an ebony stick whose handle was a gold and silver sphere chased so as to represent an accurate and detailed globe of the world, and inside of whose shaft was concealed a spring, piston, and cylinder arrangement for compressing a charge of air to propel a small-caliber shot at any who might offend him.

* * * * * * * * * *

Just more pure evil super villain action here. Scarsdale Vibe sounds more Simon Stagg than Lex Luthor but I wouldn't quibble with somebody choosing to compare him to Lex Luthor. I'd secretly just think, "They just aren't nerd enough to be familiar with Simon Stagg."

Scarsdale Vibe owns a cane that's a miniature version of the world made out of precious metals and secretly hiding a weapon. It's how he sees the world. First off, he owns it. Second, it's only worth how rich it can make him. And lastly, it's his weapon to use as he sees fit. And a weapon not for protection at all! It's explicitly stated that he will use it on anybody who offends him. Imagine that! Imagine living in a time when "taking offense" was satisfactory excuse to commit murder? Oh, excuse me. That was my white privilege speaking out before I fully considered the ramifications of what I was saying. Obviously if you're a Black American, you already understand a world where white people believe they should be able to murder if a Black American slightly offends them in any way. Hell, they don't even have to offend them. The offense and reasons for their right to murder simply has to exist in the mind of the white person for the courts to see the murder as self defense. Every police officer in America understands that if a Black American disrespects them, they have carte blanche to murder that person and the legal system will give them the benefit of the doubt. And in some states, white Americans were so jealous of this freedom to commit murder bestowed upon our law enforcement that they supported Stand Your Ground laws which are ultimately just laws that allow a person to murder any other person (as long as the murderer is white and the victim is Black. They all understand this part of the law implicitly because you rarely see cases of a white person just murdering another white person and claiming Stand Your Ground).

God that phrase "shot at any who might offend him" is just so offensive that I wish I owned a cane like that right now!

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 As usual, he was in disguise, accompanied by bodyguards and secretaries.

* * * * * * * * * *

Oh boy! The Chums of Chance are going to have a right jolly super villain evil nemesis! Although I suppose everybody not on Scarsdale Vibe's payroll sees him as their nemesis. It's always nice, especially in a boys adventure novel, to have an obvious villain without any shades of gray to force the reader to have to think too deeply. Especially in the 21st century! People are tired of having to say things like "But the evil, vile dude who has destroyed half of the Amazon Rain Forest is so nice to little kids, dogs, and his neighbors! He's actually a really nice guy!" We're now living in a time where we can say, "Fuck you, dad. You don't love me. If you did, you wouldn't hold the political positions you do which make my life a living Hell. Isn't it convenient for you to be seen as a kind person to family and friends while maintaining the most ludicrously villainous political beliefs that we aren't allowed to talk about. As if those beliefs aren't the real you. As if the real you is the façade you put on every day while claiming you care about me. Not anymore, asshole."

Man! We're living in the best of times!

I'd probably travel in disguise too if showing my face anywhere meant getting beaned by rotten tomatoes or being shivved in an alley or having people scream out despicable and vulgar names right in my face in public! And just in case I do get recognized and harassed by people who have every right to harass me because I'm so awful, I'd always have a few bodyguards to teach them civility, if you know what I mean.

To kill them. I'd have them killed. Especially since it's 1893. Money makes right, baby!

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 Earlier that day Vibe had stepped out of his private train, "The Juggernaut," onto a personally reserved platform at the Union Station, having only the night before departed from the Grand Central depot in New York.

* * * * * * * * * *

"The Juggernaut"
Imagine the set of balls your brain has to have to name your lavish, expensive, "fuck you, common man" transport "The Juggernaut." It's not enough to simply have enough money to own a private train taking up time on a set of railroad tracks which has access to private platforms taking up valuable real estate reserved for only the wealthiest of people. And to not just think that you deserve this aspect of your life, that you deserve the wealth and believe you got it through some combination of divine provenance and hard work rather than taking advantage of your fellow human beings by exploiting government, laws, and social mores. And then have the fucking nerve . . . the fucking gall to call your private train (just think about that two word phrase for a second. A private fucking train! (Sorry I made it a three word phrase) "The Juggernaut," meaning not only do you think you deserve it but fuck anybody trying to stand in your way! "I'm going to call my train (an extension of myself and, being a Pynchon novel, my penis) 'The Juggernaut' because I (and it (and my penis)) am (are?) an unstoppable force that will crush anybody who tries to stand in my way."
    What a fucking dick!
    Now imagine something even worse: a reader of this book who admires Scarsdale Vibe! I mean, sure, you can't argue that he hasn't got a cool name or that his dick must be huge! But admire the guy?! I know, he's rich and powerful and probably the only good looking mogul at the meeting while the others will be fat and pasty Boss Hogg types. And I bet he's a really selfish lover which you've got to love if you love having orgasms without doing a lot of work. But you just need to keep reminding yourself (and me, apparently, because I'm starting to swoon over here!) that he's a terrible person! The worst!

I wonder how many kids have been named "Scarsdale" since 2006? It would be a terrible name but probably no worse than all the fucking Saxons running around these days.

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 Along with the obvious appeal of its thousands of commercial possibilities, the Chicago Fair also happened to provide a vast ebb and flow of anonymity, where one could meet and transact business without necessarily being observed.

* * * * * * * * * *

The main reason a person might do business anonymously and without being observed is because they know they're doing the wrong thing. They must hide in the shadows; they must act only in darkness. For if the world knew what they were up to, they would be vilified and shunned. At least that was the case before 2016. In 1893, decorum still ruled the day. Sure, people knew who was screwing other people over and how they were gaming the system to gain insane wealth but as long as they kept their actions secret, it was often too difficult to prove exactly how illegal and unethical they were acting.

But by 2016, something wonderful had transpired (wonderful if you're a piece of shit, that is). The biggest piece of shit ever decided to run for president. All of the other pieces of shit who were doing their piece of shit business in dark hotel rooms full of tobacco smoke and empty of potted plants stood up in the daylight and said, "No, no! We are not affiliated with this huge piece of shit. He is what is wrong with business and politics and civility and everything! He does not represent us!" But then the little pieces of shit discovered that the teeny tiny pieces of shit (the ones with no real money and no real power) seemed to love the huge piece of shit and how he acted terribly right out in the open. It was then that the little pieces of shit had the scales fall from their eyes and a chorus of heavenly angels sang down in a thunderous voice, "You can finally and truly be yourselves! The huge piece of shit has made a leap of faith and it has paid off!" Then all of the little pieces of shit began worshiping and loving the huge piece of shit because he had freed them of their self-imposed manacles. He had taught them that they did not need to hide their unethical behavior behind dog whistles and half-truths. The teeny, tiny pieces of shit would believe whatever the larger and more powerful pieces of shit told them to believe.

So for future generations who might read this line and think, "Why would anybody care about anonymity and not being observed while acting like greedy miscreants? So weird!", just know it wasn't always that way.

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 One could hardly have expected a widely celebrated mogul like Scarsdale Vibe not to attend the World's Columbian Exposition.

* * * * * * * * * *

"mogul"
A powerful and influential business person. A prick. A monster. A user of mankind for their own gains. A despicable ruin of a person.

"Scarsdale Vibe"
Thomas Pynchon's choice of name to declare, "This character is an evil jerk!" "Scarsdale" would mean a valley full of healed over wounds. And "Vibe" means an emotional state or the feeling given off by a person or place. So the "vibe" most people get from this mogul is that of a valley full of scars. In other words, he's a piece of shit and everybody he meets knows it.

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 In the suite upstairs, they found heavy curtains drawn against the festive town, lamps sparsely distributed in perpetual twilight of tobacco smoke, no cut flowers or potted plants, a silence punctuated only rarely by speech, and that generally telephonic.

* * * * * * * * * *

"curtains drawn against the festive town"
They are shutting out fun and excitement and life. This is a room of dour attitudes and dark machinations. The business of the fair isn't what the tourists' enjoy; whatever the real business of the fair takes place in dark rooms with fat and glaring men who know no joy other than their own boot on somebody else's throat and multiple stacks of currency.

"lamps sparsely distributed"
The kind of business these men are up to would disintegrate in light. I'm not even sure I should be using the term "business." They are surely up to cheating and conniving and gaming the system. Like the use of the word "free" in "free energy" in science, the use of the word "free" in "free enterprise" doesn't mean anything near what common sense would dictate. In business, it means "free to do whatever anybody will allow us to get away with after having given them a reasonable amount of money which is next to nothing compared to the amount of money we'll make by buying all of these people's silence and complicity."

"perpetual twilight of tobacco smoke"
These types all smoke because life holds no real joy for them. They cannot see the point of whimsy and joy. Nicotine is the only thing that ignites any kind of spark in their brain, and then, of course, only for a short time before they're simply addicted without the rush or the high. Smoking tobacco is a fitting metaphor for the type of person who has killed all the joy from life. It's just a rote action of a memory of something that once caused a fleeting feeling of excitement or a brief moment of optimism. Now They just sit in clouds while they grump and glower and play with other people's lives for their own selfish desires.

"no cut flowers or potted plants"
No beauty and no life. It would be sacrilege to introduce either to their depraved idolatry of capitalism.

"a silence punctuated only rarely by speech, and that generally telephonic"
No idle chatter. No friendly discussions. No getting to know anybody else. These are not friendly men. All They need to know must arrive from some other place by telephone. All the knowledge They must convey needs go out via telephone to some business partner or factory or gold rush town in some other far away location. They are simply conduits to keep a dark kind of power flowing, a kind of power that takes away light and imposes darkness and despair.