This is the writer's voice, new fiction from The New Yorker.

I'm Deborah Treasman, fiction editor at The New Yorker.

On this episode of The Writer's Voice, we'll hear David Means read his story,

Are You Experienced, from the October 21st, 2019 issue of the magazine.

Means is the author of the novel Histopia and five story collections, including the

spot and instructions for a funeral, which was published earlier this year.

Now here's David Means.

Are you experienced? They dropped late in the morning and then sat for an hour, silently waiting for the kick in Billy's boarding house room,

the grove of aspen trees on the edge of the field outside quivering in the summer breeze.

The house was situated along the old road to the beach, not much more than 10 miles from Lake

Michigan.

Inside, she sat looking at the poster of Billy attacked to the wall, a cartoon figure with

a big leg extended, presenting an oversized shoe and below the heel. The words keep on trucking.

She was waiting for it to move, which it did eventually, dancing in a way that seemed remorseful,

trying to lure her in until it turned into an aberration that somehow mirrored Billy himself,

thinning out into a slim boy with a never-ending

array of plans, brilliant with his own energies, performing a little gyrating dance, the heavy

shoes falling away, becoming dainty little feet, because Billy did have small feet, the hand

waving at her to come on in, to join the fun, the way you'd expect

an older man to lure a girl in. And she was a kid that summer, just 16, and Billy was at least

19, and unbeknownst to either of them at the time about to head off to war. Billy held himself

over her dramatically, tossing back his hair,

...