The Book of Joe

Goffman, which sounds as if it betrays just the slightest hint of failure. Meet Joe Goffman, the somewhat disappointing brother of the great Goff.
    “Hey, Sheila. You remember my brother, Joe?”
    “Sure,” she says. “Hey, Joe. It’s been a long time. How are you?”
    “Pretty good. And you?”
    “Great.” Sheila was voted most likely to succeed as the next Madonna, and if she’s at all bitter that the gods chose Britney Spears instead, there’s no trace of it in her expression. “Listen, I’m so sorry about your dad. How’s he doing?”
    “No change,” Brad says, and steers us to a booth. As we make our way through the diners, I notice that I’m getting a lot of stares from the patrons, none of them particularly friendly. “I guess you’re famous,” Brad says as we slide into opposite sides of the booth.
    “I guess so.”
    We look awkwardly across the table at each other, and I suddenly miss my father’s unconscious form between us, which served wonderfully as a distraction. “So,” I say. “How’s business?”
    He grimaces. “It’s been tough for a while.”
    “Porter’s closing must have hurt you, huh?”
    He sighs deeply. “It sure didn’t help matters, but the truth is, we were hurting before that.” He leans back as Sheila brings us some water. She was pretty in high school, I remember, tall and winsome, and she’s still quite attractive, but in a more rugged, plastic sort of way, her hair flight-attendant blonde, her teeth Texas white.
    “I’ll have a deluxe burger and a chocolate milk shake,” I tell her.
    “Just like your brother,” she says, raising her eyebrows at Brad.
    “Is that what you usually have?” I ask him.
    He shrugs. “I guess so.”
    As she turns away to see about our food, I think I catch a quick glimpse between her and Brad, something knowing and flirtatious, something private. Hello, I think to myself, italicized and in a British accent.
    I look sharply at Brad, who quickly looks away and says, “We’re being fucked by China.”
    “China?”
    “Yeah. Everyone’s buying their displays overseas now, for half the price. You want to do business with the big boys, you’d better be manufacturing overseas.”
    “Isn’t your quality better?”
    “Quality is a twentieth-century concept.” He takes a sip of his water and grins bitterly. “Here in the twenty-first, being the low bidder is all that counts. Doesn’t matter that you’re offering warehousing, fulfillment, installation, and a slew of other domestic services that the importers can’t handle. If you’re employing American labor, you’re priced right out of the market.”
    “So, what are you going to do?”
    “Right now,” he says wearily, pulling himself up from the table, “I’m going to take a piss.”
    The food comes while Brad is gone. I grab a fry off my plate and look up just in time to see a grayish older woman approach me and hurl her milk shake in my face. No matter how many times you’ve seen this happen on television, you’re still utterly unprepared when it actually happens to you in real life. On television it’s usually wine or some other clear drink. The milk shake is thick chocolate, cold as hell, and ounce for ounce a much more effective choice.
    “You bastard!” the lady spits at me as I shoot out of my seat, the thick, icy fluid oozing down my neck and under my collar. “You can’t just walk in here!”
    Words fail me, and all I can do is stare at her face, now crimson with rage, as I wipe my soaking face and hair with my hands. “You’ve got no right to come here, after the pain you’ve caused!” she shouts.
    “Lady,” I finally stammer. “What the hell’s your problem?”
    “You’re my problem!” she shrieks, and I become conscious of how quiet the other diners have become. “You and that goddamn book of lies you wrote.”
    Just then Brad returns from the bathroom, his eyes wide with alarm. “What the hell’s going on here?” he demands of me.
    “Ask her,” I say, grabbing some napkins off the table to wipe my face. The shake is becoming dry and sticky on my skin.
    “What’s the problem, Franny?”
    Franny?
    “I’m sorry, Brad,” she says to him, her voice still trembling with anger. “But he’s got a lot of nerve coming in here.”
    “You’re not exactly lacking in that department,” I point out. Brad impatiently waves his hand to shush me, and I’m twelve years old again.
    “I’m sorry, Franny,” my brother says