Death Before Facebook

on.”
    “Well, the family frowned on it—after they sent me to Yale and all.”
    “Yale! I thought Joel was the first Boucree—” She stopped, realizing she was blundering.
    “What? Headed for a profession? Now one thing he is: he’s the first to go to one of your fancy white folks’ private high schools. Went to Fortier myself. And, unlike Joel, I actually wanted to be a musician. Also, I’m better at it than he is. But, see, I was good at other stuff too. So they gave me this scholarship and there was no stopping the Boucrees. They wanted their little black boy to go up to New Haven, Connecticut, and freeze his scrawny butt for four years.
    “So I did it. I was a good boy. What I didn’t do, I didn’t do the rest of it.”
    “You certainly don’t talk like a Yalie.”
    “Jeez, don’t you hate the way they talk? It’s enough to make you lose your chitlins and greens. Excuse me; chitterlings and verdant vegetable matter. Anyway, I didn’t go on to better things—like law school or something.”
    “So what’s your day job?”
    “I’m back at Fortier—teaching English and creative writing, which turned out to be what I really liked. ’Course, you should hear me in the classroom—I still don’t talk like a Yalie, but I try not to drop my g’s. Those kids don’t know shit, you know that? Gotta set an example, however tiny. Anyway, when I was in high school I went to the cop lecture on career day.”
    “When did the bartending come in?”
    “Oh, well, I lied about that.”
    “You weren’t a bartender?”
    “No, I said I used to be one. Still am. You should try getting along on a schoolteacher’s salary. Besides, I like the variety.”
    “Two jobs is murder, though. You have kids?” That, she thought, might be a reason for doing it. Surely that was it, she thought. But his answer was a clear challenge:
    “Not married. You?”
    She looked into her drink and shook her head, desperately trying to think of a way to change the subject. There was something high-octane about this guy, a kind of magnetic masculine energy she couldn’t help responding to. But for one thing, she was already involved; for another, she felt slightly squeamish about the uncharted territory of dating a black man.
    Oh, for heaven’s sake
, she told herself.
He hasn’t asked you for a date. He’s just flirting.
    Well, she could use a little male attention.
    “So what does a cop do for fun?”
    “Not that much. This is the first time I’ve been out in a couple of weeks. I read a lot, I guess.”
    “Who’s your favorite author?”
    “I don’t know. Flannery O’Connor, maybe.”
    “Whoa. Good taste. How about contemporary authors?”
    “Who do you like?”
    “Oh, Elmore Leonard sometimes. Jane Smiley; Amy Tan. Depends on the mood I’m in.”
    “No black authors?”
    “Oh, sure. But I feed ’em to the kids. That’s the job, you know? I like a break once in a while.”
    “I know men who say they don’t read women authors.”
    “Well, they didn’t go to Yale. Princeton, probably.” He took a long swig of beer. “Did you go to college?”
    Skip was surprised at the question. “You think cops don’t?”
    “Do they?”
    “To tell you the truth, I flunked out of Newcomb. Barely made it through Ole Miss.”
    “Why’d you flunk out? No, let me guess. Drinkin’, drugs, and hellin’ around. You’re one of those outlaw cops.”
    “Former outlaw. Current cop.”
    “You pretty sure about that? You never break the law anymore?”
    “What are you getting at?”
    “I’m just gettin’ a feel for who you are, that’s all. I bet you hate kids.”
    “Oh, don’t be such a know-it-all. I live with kids.”
    “What do you mean, you live with kids? I thought you said you didn’t have any.”
    “I don’t, but my landlord does. And he’s my best friend.”
    “Ah.” He turned back toward the bar and sipped his beer, as if chastened. “Your boyfriend.”
    “No. My best friend. Don’t you think men and women can be friends?”
    “My best friend’s a woman.”
    “Oh, yeah? Tell me about her.”
    “Lady I work with at the bar. Waitress.”
    “Well, that tells me a lot.”
    “She’s a writer, I’m a musician—we’ve got something in common, you know what I mean? Only I’ve got something she hasn’t got—’cause I’m a teacher too. Writing is her whole life—I mean, it’s gonna make her or break her. It’s her passion. Whoa. I feel for her, man. Some of the Boucrees are like