Long Made Short Read Online Free PDF Page B

precious, and I can just see it, and we
     never even talked about your own family—are there any others?” and I say “My wife,
     a younger boy,” and she says “Two—you got your hands full,” and I say “Not so far,
     and yours turned out okay, or will—but Leonard…he told you he saw me with my baby?”
     and she says “Someone else I know had the same experience with him in a Soho restaurant—it’s
     hilarious how he’s typecast,” and she laughs. “But he’s such a sweetie—they should
     have had children when they could.” “And Myron Rock?” and she says “Three kids, two
     divorces, slew of groupies.” “I meant—but anyway, so you see him,” and she says “When
     I come in sometimes—he in fact said he got a nice letter from you regarding his last
     book,” and I say “I saw it advertised and wrote him care of his publisher something
     like ‘Glad you hung in there, I couldn’t.’” “So you haven’t?” and I say “Gave it up
     for good some fifteen years ago, though I’m always reading it.” “Any success?” and
     I say “A few times at reading it.” “Ho-ho, but the one you wrote him about was his
     best, didn’t you think?” and I say “Flat, forced, fake and familiar and with a stupid
     commercial title— In Bed With Clark Gable or something.” “It was Hollywood Here I Come —his experiences screenwriting there, and a double meaning which you, the teacher,
     got, if not even a triple, but why’d you write him if you thought it so bad?” and
     I say “Just what I told you: because he stuck with it—crummy book but a book every
     three years or so and apparently able to live fairly well off his work, which I would
     have loved but didn’t have whatever it is to do it.” “So you never had a book published?”
     “One little measly one—I’ve plenty of copies I bought for a dollar each so I’ll send
     you one if you like.” “That’d be nice, thanks, and your friend Henry?” “Henry Greenfield?”
     “Yes.” “How’s he doing?” “That’s right,” and I say “I see him about once every eighteen
     months—he’s completely changed: skinny instead of stocky, shaved his skull, big beard,
     wears an earring and kiddy clothes and has become a visual artist—he made enough in
     antiques to retire—and he and Gilda split up after twenty-five years,” and she says
     “I liked her, lots of spunk and smarts, even if she didn’t care for me—remember?”
     and I say “Even where and when she said it—they and I were subbing together at a Bronx
     junior high school and it was on the train to work and she said ‘What do you think
     Ramona has against me?’” “I never had anything against her.” “I know, which I told
     her then—I think it was all out of envy—your profession, personableness, income and
     that you didn’t have to hack it out as a sub every day. Anyway, I see her now even
     more than I do Henry—he’s become a bit too odd, the new face and costume each time
     and hip talk and woman after woman after woman and each five years younger than the
     previous one till they’re now younger than his daughter, who’s first-year med school,
     by the way.” “How could it be—shy little Phoebe?” “Little Phoebe who’s about ten feet
     tall.” “In size?” “Both…but how’s your old acting-school friend Thalia?” and she says
     “Thelma—it was at her party, in fact, where we met, wasn’t it?” and I say “It was
     a friend of my brother Peter’s, which is how I came to it, and you came with Thelma,
     so maybe she knew the host or someone who knew him—that was some night, Christmas
     Eve, snowing, and you and I talked awhile and then left for midnight services at Saint
     Patrick’s because you wouldn’t mind praying and I’d always wanted to be on the line
     there outside with someone like you who’d cuddle into me because of the cold, and
     it happened—well, I’ve told you this before, nothing