Free All This Life by Joshua Mohr Page A

pardon from their childhood in the Deep South. It had never occurred to Noah that Tracey would want to move with him. It didn’t seem possible that anybody made such a huge life decision on a whim.
    â€œReally?” he said. “You’ll leave?”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œIf it was anyone else, I’d have serious questions. What will you do?”
    â€œI’ll figure it out.”
    â€œHow much does that pay?”
    â€œIt’s pro bono.”
    â€œSo I pay.”
    â€œYou pay the rent,” she said, “and I pay with elbow grease, taking care of you.”
    They got an apartment in the Mission District, Noah immediately pouring himself into his new gig, excited to prove that he was the best hire they ever made. Tracey was living on the exact opposite schedule, staying up late, sleeping in, exploring. But she did keep her promise of taking care of their place. She didn’t seem to know how to do her own laundry, and yet she made sure their common rooms were spotless, the fridge stocked with food.
    They’d go out to dinners a few nights a week and she’d tell him all about her adventures. Spoken word shows. Warehouse parties. Underground circus performances. A punk rock squat doing illegal literary readings in a condemned apartment building.
    â€œWhere do you even find out about these things?” Noah said, while they were out at Pho, bowls of soup in front of them, the smell of basil and lime ripe in the air. The front windows of theshop were steamy from the bogs of broth. “Is there a website called ‘Things That Might Get Me Arrested’?”
    â€œI find out about them the old-fashioned way,” Tracey said. “I talk to people. Do you remember talking to people?”
    â€œWe’re talking right now.”
    â€œNot people you know already. Opening yourself up to the experiences a stranger might offer you.”
    â€œThat idea makes my palms sweaty,” he said.
    â€œIf I can give you some advice . . .”
    â€œOh, I can’t wait for this.”
    Tracey used her chopsticks, pointing them at her brother and clamping them together periodically, like jaws, to punctuate her thought. “My advice would be to follow your sweaty palms. See what happens if you live a life that makes your palms sweat all the time. See what wonders await you.”
    â€œDid Forrest Gump say that?”
    â€œPoor Noah,” said Tracey, pouting, then sticking her chopsticks back in the soup and coming up with a bushel of noodles.
    About six months ago, his sister ran into the apartment, tousled and screaming his name. He was at the kitchen table, spreadsheets all around him, a prison of columns and rows. The S&P had dipped eleven points and he was preparing to deal with spooked clients. Tracey kept calling his name from the hallway. He heard her throw down her keys, set what sounded like a weighty duffel in the hall, and finally scramble into the kitchen with something behind her back, blurting out, “Haven’t you always pictured me playing music because I totally have?”
    â€œWhere have you been?”
    â€œAt Ivan’s.”
    â€œIs that a new guy you’re dating?”
    â€œNo, silly,” she said, revealing the clarinet she’d been concealing, “I joined a band.”
    â€œYou don’t know how to play that, Trace.”
    â€œYou don’t have to know. He teaches you.”
    â€œSo I guess you guys aren’t very good,” said Noah.
    â€œOff to hone my craft, skeptic,” she said, going to her room, screeching awful birdcalls on the clarinet all night.
    History had taught him that Tracey would be excited about the clarinet for a few months until she lost interest and the next shiny idea infiltrated her life. That was the pattern, and Noah had seen it many times: jewelry making, culinary school, photography, poetry. Tracey tried a bite and moved on.
    Now she was learning the clarinet and