Story of My Life
Authors: Jay McInerney
Jay Mclnerney’s Story of My Life
“As a tour de force in the fast lane, it’s a perfect Sunday afternoon read—swift-moving, witty, and full of Alison’s own zest for life even in hell.”
—The Plain Dealer
(Cleveland)
“Mclnerney not only jests at our slightly tawdry life, but also celebrates its abiding possibilities.”
—The New Republic
“Mr. Mclnerney’s earlier novels
(Bright Lights, Big City
and
Ransom)
attested to his playful sense of humor, his observant, well-trained eye, and
Story of My Life
once again demonstrates his gift.”
—The New York Times
“Story of My Life
is about people who were given the toga of citizenship and threw a toga party . . . a very good book.”
—The Wall Street Journal
“Mclnerney is a hugely talented young writer . . . head and shoulders above most of his contemporaries.”
—Newsday
“His is a true talent.”
—The Christian Science Monitor
story of my life
Also by Jay Mclnerney
FICTION
Bright Lights, Big City
Ransom
Brightness Falls
The Last of the Savages
How It Ended
Model Behavior
The Good Life
NONFICTION
A Hedonist in the Cellar: Adventures in Wine
Bacchus and Me: Adventures in the Wine Cellar
A Novel by Jay Mclnerney
The author wishes to thank the Corporation of Yaddo, where this book was written
.
Copyright © 1988 by Jay Mclnerney
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003 or [email protected].
Story of My Life
is based on a story that appeared in
Esquire
. An excerpt from the novel was published in the premiere issue of
Smart
magazine.
Printed in the United States of America
Published simultaneously in Canada
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data:
McInerney, Jay
Story of my life : a novel/by Jay McInerney
TitlePS3563.C3694876 1988 813’.54—dc19 88-10323
ISBN:978-0-8021-9756-6(e-book)
Grove Press
an imprint of Grove/Atlantic Inc.
841 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
Distributed by Publishers Group West
For Gary
1 Getting in Touch With Your Child
2 Scenes for One Man and One Woman
8 Scenes for One Man and Two Women
The age of Cronos was in general characterized as the age of anarchy, the time before the institution of property, the establishment of cities, or the framing of laws. We may fairly infer that it was not gods, but humans, who first became dissatisfied with the blessings of anarchy.
—Philip Velacott,
Introduction to the Oresteian Trilogy
story of my life
Getting in Touch With Your Child
I’m like, I don’t believe this shit.
I’m totally pissed at my old man who’s somewhere in the Virgin Islands, I don’t know where. The check wasn’t in the mailbox today, which means I can’t go to school Monday morning. I’m on the monthly payment program because Dad says wanting to be an actress is some flaky whim and I never stick to anything—this from a guy who’s been married five times—and this way if I drop out in the middle of the semester he won’t get burned for the full tuition. Meanwhile he buys his new bimbo, Tanya, who’s a year younger than me, a 450 SL convertible—always gone for the young ones, haven’t we, Dad?—plus her own condo so she can have some privacy to do her writing. Like she can even
read
. He actually believes her when she says she’s writing a novel but when I want to spend eight hours a day busting ass at Lee Strasberg it’s like,
another one of Alison’s crazy ideas
. Story of my life. My old man is fifty-two going on twelve. And then there’s Skip Pendleton, which is another reason I’m pissed.
So I’m on the phone screaming at my father’s secretary when there’s a call on my other line. I go hello and this guy goes, hi, I’m whatever-his-name-is, I’m a friend of Skip’s and I say yeah? and he says, I thought maybe we could go out sometime.
And I say, what am I, dial-a-date?
Skip Pendleton’s this jerk I was in lust with once for about three minutes. He hasn’t called me in like three weeks, which is fine, okay, I can deal with that, but suddenly I’m like a baseball card he trades with his friends? Give me a break. So I go to this guy, what makes you think I’d want to go out with you, I don’t even know you? and he says, Skip told me about you. Right. So I’m like, what did he tell you? and the guy goes—Skip said you were hot. I say, great, I’m totally honored that the great Skip Pendleton thinks I’m hot. I’m just a jalapeño pepper waiting for some strange burrito, honey. I mean,
really
.
And this guy says to me, we were sitting around at Skip’s place about five in the morning the other night wired out of our minds and I say—this is the guy talking—I wish we had some women and Skip is like, I could always call Alison, she’d be over like a shot.
He said that? I say. I can hear his voice exactly, it’s not like I’m totally amazed, but still I can’t believe even
he
would be such a pig and suddenly I feel like a cheap slut and I want to scream at this asshole but instead I say, where are you? He’s on West Eighty-ninth, it figures, so I give him an address on Avenue C, a rathole where a friend of mine lived last year
until her place was broken into for the seventeenth time and which is about as far away from the Upper West Side as you can get without crossing water, so I tell him to meet me there in an hour and at least I have the satisfaction of thinking of him spending about twenty bucks for a cab and then hanging around the doorway of this tenement and maybe getting beat up by some drug dealers. But the one I’m really pissed at is Skip Pendleton. Nothing my father does surprises me anymore. I’m twenty going on gray.
Skip is thirty-one and he’s so smart and so educated—just ask him, he’ll tell you. A legend in his own mind. Did I forget to mention he’s
so
mature? Unlike me. He was always telling me I don’t know anything. I’ll tell you one thing I don’t know—I don’t know what I saw in him. He seemed older and sophisticated and we had great sex, so why not? I met him in a club, naturally. I never thought he was very good-looking, but you could tell
he
thought he was. He believed it so much he could actually sell other people on the idea. He has that confidence everybody wants a piece of. This blond hair that looks like he has it trimmed about three times a day. Nice clothes, shirts custom-made on Jermyn Street, which he might just casually tell you some night in case you didn’t know is in London, England. (That’s in Europe, which is across the Atlantic Ocean—oh, really Skip, is that where it is? Wow!) Went to the right schools. And he’s rich, of course, owns his own company. Commodities trader. Story of Skip’s life, trading commodities.
So basically, he has it all. Should be a Dewar’s Profile, I’m like amazed they haven’t asked him yet. But when the sun hit him in the morning he was a shivering wreck.
From the first night, bending over the silver picture frame in his apartment with a rolled fifty up his nose, all he can talk about is his ex, and how if he could only get her back he’d give up all of this forever—coke, staying out partying all night, young bimbos like me. And I’m thinking, poor guy just lost his main squeeze, feeling real sympathetic and so like I go, when did this happen, Skip? and it turns out it was ten years ago! He lived with this chick for four years at Harvard and then after they come to New York together she dumps him. And I’m like, give me a break, Skip. Give yourself a break. This is ten years after. This is nineteen eighty-whatever.
Skip’s so smart, right? My parents never gave a shit whether I went to school or not, they were off chasing lovers and bottles, leaving us kids with the cars and the credit cards, and I never did get much of an education. Is that my fault? I mean, if someone told you back then that you could either go to school or not, what do you think you would have done? Pass the trigonometry, please. Right. So I’m not as educated as the great Skip Pendleton, but let me tell you—I know that when you’re hitting on someone you don’t spend the whole night whining about your ex, especially after like a decade. And you don’t need a Ph.D. in psychology to figure out why Skip can’t go out with anybody his own age. He keeps trying to find Diana, the beautiful, perfect Diana who was twenty-one when
she said sayonara. And he wants us, the young stuff, because we’re like Diana was in the good old days. And he hates us because we’re not Diana. And he thinks it will make him feel better if he fucks us over and makes us hurt the way he was hurt, because that’s what it’s all about if you ask me—we’re all sitting around here on Earth working through our hurts, trying to pass them along to other people and make things even. Chain of pain.
Old Skip kept telling me how dumb I was. You wish, Jack. Funny thing is, dumb is his type. He doesn’t want to go out with anybody who might see through him, so he picks up girls like me. Girls he thinks will believe everything he says and fuck him the first night and not be real surprised when he never calls again.
If you’re so smart, Skip, how come you don’t know these things? If you’re so mature, what were you doing with me?
Men. I’ve never met any. They’re all boys. I wish I didn’t want them so much. I’ve had a few dreams about making it with girls, but it’s kind of like—sure, I’d love to visit Norway sometime. My roommate Jeannie and I sleep in the same bed and it’s great. We’ve got a one-bedroom and this way the living room is free for partying and whatever. I hate being alone, but when I wake up in some guy’s bed with dry come on the sheets and he’s snoring like a garbage truck, I go—let me out of here. I slip out and crawl around the floor groping for my clothes, trying to untangle his blue jeans from mine, my bra from his Jockeys—Skip wear’s boxers, of course—without
making any noise, out the door and home to where Jeannie has been warming the bed all night. Jumping in between the sheets and she wakes up and goes, I want details, Alison— length and width.
