Like Life by Lorrie Moore Read Free Book Online

pressure here, no design. We’re just getting to know each other.”
    “Actually I’ve been working on this play that I feel pretty good about, but it’s long and is taking a lot out of me.”
    “You know, I used to want to write plays. What’s this one about, or can’t you talk about it?” Scarp started in on his drink, settling back into a listener’s sit.
    “I’m primitively secret about my work,” said Harry.
    “I respect that, absolutely,” said Scarp. He scowled. “Your family from this country?”
    Harry stared at Scarp: His eyes were lockets of distraction. What did it mean? “Yes,” said Harry. He had to get Scarp back, get him interested, and so he began telling Scarp, in the most eloquent sentences he could construct, the story of the town his ancestors had founded in the Poconos, and what hadbecome of it recently with radon gas, and the flight to Philly and Pittsburgh. It was a sad, complicated tale, jeweled with bittersweet wisdom, and he was lifting it in its entirety from the central speech of his play.
    “That’s amazing,” said Scarp, apparently impressed, and it gave Harry confidence. He barreled on ahead, with the story of his parents’ marriage, his father’s alcoholism, his cousin’s sex change operation, and a love affair he had once had with one of the Kennedy girls. These were fragile tales he had managed to hone carefully in the writing of his play, and as he spoke with Scarp the voices of his characters entered his mouth and uttered their lines with poignancy and conviction. One had to say words, and these were the words Harry knew best.
    “Astonishing,” said Scarp. He had ordered another round of drinks, at the end of which Harry was regaling him with the play’s climactic scene, the story of Aunt Fussbudget Flora—funny and wrenching and life-affirming in its way.
    “The lights went dim, and the moon spilled onto her pillow in pale oblongs. We were all standing there, gathered in a prayer, when she sighed and breathed her very last word on earth: ‘Cripes.’ ”
    Scarp howled in laughter. “Miraculous! What a family you have. A fascinating bunch of characters!” Harry grinned and sat back. He liked himself. He liked his life. He liked his play. He didn’t feel uneasy or cheaply spent, using his work this way, or if he did, well, he pushed that to one side.
    “Harry,” said Scarp, as he was signing for the check. “This has been a real pleasure, let me say.”
    “Yes, it has,” said Harry.
    “And though I’ve got to run right now—to have dinner with someone far less engaging, let me tell you—do I have your word that you will consider writing something for me sometime? We don’t have to talk specifically now, but promise me you’ll give it some thought. I’m making a troth here.”
    “And it shall set you free,” said Harry. “Absolutely.”
    “I knew I would like you,” said Scarp. “I knew we would hit it off. In fact, where do you live? I’ll get a cab and drop you off.”
    “Uh, that’s OK,” said Harry, smiling. His heart was racing. “I could use the walk.”
    “If you’re sure,” said Scarp. “Listen, this was great. Truly great.” He shook Harry’s hand again, as limply as before. “Fabulous.”
    THERE IS A WAY of walking in New York, midevening, in the big, blocky East Fifties, that causes the heart to open up and the entire city to rush in and make a small town there. The city stops its painful tantalizing then, its elusiveness and tease suspended, it takes off its clothes and nestles wakefully, generously, next to you. It is there, it is yours, no longer outwitting you. And it is not scary at all, because you love it very much.
    “Ah,” said Harry. He gave money to the madman who was always singing in front of Carnegie Hall, and not that badly either, but who for some reason was now on the East Side, in front of something called Carnegie Clothes. He dropped coins in the can of the ski-capped woman propped against the