Lit Riffs by Matthew Miele Read Free Book Online Page A

shit.”
    “Well, hell, look—do yourself a favor, go on down and try out for it anyway. What’ve you got to lose?”
    Answer, of course: nothing. What she’s got to lose is one king-size albatross, as he gets hired and the rest is history or what passes for it. He ends up one of the biggest superstars in the world, while she goes back to the bars and stays alive on the occasional check for not all that many bucks he sends along….
    Now, you’d think after she went to all that trouble for him, practically made him what he is today, that he’d be more grateful, but he’s not. One day he shows up with an acetate, looking kinda sheepish, and says, “I thought it only fair you be one of the first persons to hear this….”
    She takes the St. Matthew Passion off the box and slaps on this circle of black plastic without even a label. What is it? Whadda you think?
    When it’s over, she very calmly takes it off, hands it back to him, pours another tumbler full of Johnnie Walker, and says, cool as you please, “Well, I certainly gotta hand it to you: you’ve come full circle: from SOB by minded nature to reeducated rather sweet fella, which I guess never really suited you inasmuch as your entire personality disappeared into mine and you became merely an adjunct of my apathy, clear through to your present status as SOB who knows just exactly how big a slime he is and is gonna clean up off it I have no doubt.”
    “Yes, and I owe it all to you.”
    “Well, not exactly. Though the thought is certainly touching. I’m not sure exactly who you owe it to, but please leave my name out of it. Just send a check every now and then….”
    “Good as done …” He slides the acetate back in its sleeve and splits pronto, a little nervously methinks. But so what? You’d be nervous, too, if you had to go through life worrying that somebody might spill the beans on you at any moment. She’s not about to do so, of course, because she couldn’t care less as long as she never has to listen to it, and he keeps sending what after all is only her fair share of the royalties for, uh, “inspiring” his biggest hit. As long as he does and she keeps her mouth shut in public, he’s happy, she’s happy, the record industry’s happy, and all’s well with the world.
    Of course, she still laughs about it: “Yeah, poor old guy … only man I ever knew with real potential. Trouble is, if he’d’ve told the truth in that stupid song, not only would nobody’ve bought it, but instead of World’s Foremost Casanova Tinseltown Division he would today be a mere drugstore clerk in South Kensington. His sex life would be more satisfying, as I’m sure he recalls it was for a while there. I guess in the end it all boils down to a matter of priorities: Would you rather be the ship or the cargo? He made his choice, I made mine, and I hope you’ve all made yours. Cheers.” And she raises her glass again.
    From Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung by Lester Bangs, edited by Greil Marcus, copyright © 1987 by the Estate of Lester Bangs. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc.

THE NATIONAL ANTHEM
    jonathan lethem

    Dear M.,
    Our long letters are pleasing to me, but they do come slowly. Lulled by the intrinsic properties of email, I’ve been willing to let most of my other correspondences slide down that slippery slope, into hectic witty ping-pong. But our deep connection, for twenty years or more now unrefreshed or diluted or whatever it would be by regular communications in person or on the phone, is precious to me, and demands more traditional letters. I suppose three-month breaks are not so much in a friendship once treated so casually that we let nearly a decade go by, eh?
    You asked about A. We’ve finally broken it off, the end of a nearly three-year chapter in my life, and a secret chapter as well. For, apart from you, safely remote in Japan, I’ve confided in no one. Her horrible marriage survived us, a