These Things Happen Read Online Free PDF Page B

out, somehow. And in the morning I'll talk to him and my dad, unless, of course, my dad's needed somewhere. It would be amazing— as amazing as my dad is— if he isn't.
       "But that's New York," I say out loud, to George's flowers, and cheeses, and butternut squash. "That's New York."
       And then someone knocks at our door.
       "Who is it, please?"
       "No one." It's George.
       "You're not no one."
       "Me, then."
       I open the door. There he is, holding a bread basket covered with a napkin.
       "Focaccia," he says. "It's hot."
       "Focaccia! Ah!" I try Theo's knowing laugh.
       "What's the matter?"
       The laugh needs work, I guess. I should practice. What if Brown likes laughing?
       "It's personal," I say. "Thanks for the focaccia."
       He doesn't go, though. "You reach your dad?"
       "Not yet." Why did I just lie?
       "You good?"
       That's not like George, to forgo a helper verb.
       "I okay," I say, also forgoing the helper verb, because I can be an asshole, sometimes, ha. More than sometimes. I know who I am; I have warts, and all.
       "Just checkin'," he says. With no g; unlike him, again. What could that mean? One of my hobbies is close listening; Theo and I both believe in it. How many words are spoken in New York every day, just in Manhattan alone, say? And how many are really heard ? Seventeen, maybe. On a good day.
       "Okay," I say.
       "I'm here."
       "Okay, again."
       "Just so you know."
       He waves. Everyone's waving at me today, like I was someone actually going somewhere. I wave back, then I turn on Jimmy and Bunk. Fuck. Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck. T he bread is warm, delicious, with little bits of prosciutto baked into it. Which is my favorite. Which George knows.

    *

2. George

    T his is us, then, at night. Two men, slowly crumbling, minding our business in the bed we flip four times a year to extend its life. I've got my side, Kenny's got his, and from time to time we meet in the middle to do what Men Like That (like us) do in a bed; it's not always hot, not after all this time, but it's reassuring. Mostly, though, we sleep. We like to. We work hard. We need it.
        But I can't sleep like I used to, at least lately, that is. Kenny can; he always can; for him there's awake, or asleep; the sheep he counts gather to make him a soft, warm bed. Mine chatter, and dart, and ask for dressing on the side. Have I been in restaurant work too long, maybe? There's that, all the worrying about whether we can keep it going in our little patch of underground Tuscany, and then there's the fact that, tonight, or this morning, technically, something's above us, on the roof. Greetings, Prophet! I played Prior, in Angels , one of my last acting gigs; those were the Angel's words when she cracked my ceiling and made her descent. So it's either her up there, or it's a fat pigeon, or it's Wesley, and I'll bet on him. Wesley, stepping lightly, sleepless himself, poor kid. Maybe he just needed some air. He's packed in so tightly with us here, in the bowling alley flanking us that dares to call itself a second bedroom. We're used to it, but his being here has showed us how cramped we really are; New York's a place where, sometimes, you're too easily grateful. Now's the time to look, people say. But we won't, because after a lot of time with someone, in familiar rooms, the things you need— more space, a closet, a drip repaired— become conversation, and if you met the need, what would be left to talk about? We live and work here, or I do, like a Chinaman over his laundry, if you can still call them that. And it's not a laundry but a restaurant, for theater folk and theater lovers. "Will you be going to the theater," I ask at endless tables, "in spite of its having become a grotesque, cynical, commercialized shithole?" Or, later in the evening, I ask, "How was the show? Overrated and disappointing?" With these questions I make my living. If you can