The Life of the World to Come by Dan Cluchey Page A

wandered that inglorious wen down to new-to-me sectors like a ghost, hip shop to hip shop, the King of Nothing, looking for a feeling in the callous faces of strangers, listening only for her brisk mezzo lilt among the crowd noises. How could I possibly be expected to listen to anything else? What was I supposed to find here when she’s gone? Old books. Winter coats. Dishware. A new watch. Walking home, the sky was almost completely black. How many years until I’d be back, hitting on the shopgirls?
    *   *   *
    â€œWhat’s the game?” asked Gracie from behind the echo chamber of her empty wine glass.
    It was a winter night—our second year of law school—and the universe was fine.
    â€œNo game, sweetie,” Sona murmured with moony eyes. “I think Fiona here was asking a serious question. Right?”
    â€œOh, it’s quite serious,” chimed Fiona from high atop the kitchen counter. “Quite serious indeed. Should we open another bottle?”
    Gracie was perplexed, and also drunk.
    â€œThat was the game—should we open another bottle?” she asked.
    â€œIt isn’t a game,” snapped Sona.
    â€œSorry! I meant: that was the question?”
    Fiona slid down to join me on the loveseat, corkscrew in tow.
    â€œThe question,” she explained furtively, “was this: if you could live at any time in history, when would it be, and why?”
    â€œOh that old chestnut,” groaned Boots.
    â€œIt’s like summer camp!” Grace added giddily. “You know? Everyone goes around and answers some random deep question before you fall asleep? This is how you really get to know people, you know.”
    â€œHow much wine did you have at summer camp?” I asked her as I plucked free the cork from our last four dollars’ worth of red.
    The study group had migrated from the William Burnham Woods Room of the law library to Our apartment, as it was wont to do in thirsty moments. Traditionally, it took just a couple of hours before we came to resemble the aftermath of a particularly devastating carbon monoxide leak—Boots glued to the hardwood, Emily, Sona, and Gracie sprawled out on the couch, Fiona and I sluggishly entwined on the loveseat—and this evening was no exception. Any pretense of legal education always yielded before long to Fiona’s insistent whim: what verb is saddest? Would we rather be fish or birds? Which poet would we most like to box?
    â€œBoots, you’re first,” Fiona declared. “When are you going to live?”
    â€œGood question,” he droned back from his spot on the floor. “But seriously folks. I’m going with 1977.”
    â€œThat’s awfully specific,” said Emily.
    â€œIt’s a no-brainer,” he replied. “You got Station to Station -era Bowie. You got The Clash just starting up. Jimmy Carter’s still in the White House. I probably could’ve played drums for The Pretenders. It’s everything you need. Uh, what else? Velcro, I think. Velcro’s pretty popular. Pet rocks.”
    â€œBootsie,” said Sona, “I think you’re supposed to pick a time when you weren’t actually alive.”
    â€œGood one,” he said.
    â€œThat was a joke about how old you are,” Sona clarified.
    â€œWe got it,” I assured her. “Boots is super old.”
    â€œEmily’s turn,” announced Fiona.
    â€œIf you insist, darling. Let’s see … I think maybe I’ll go to 1977 and make sure this one doesn’t overdose on anything.”
    Boots rolled over to object, then paused.
    â€œThat’s probably smart,” he conceded.
    â€œIf not,” Emily continued, “then I’ll go to Paris in the 1920s.”
    â€œWhat was going on in Paris in the 1920s?” asked Gracie.
    â€œOh, lots of things. Theater and cinema and jazz. The Folies Bergere. Picasso and Matisse. Fitzgerald and