The Book of Joe

desirable destination for a dying homosexual and a universally despised author, but into this miasma of swollen, aging masculinity we walk, despite my repeated suggestions to Wayne that we go elsewhere. I’m still trying to pick up the threads of my confidence, which have come un-raveled since my run-in with Mouse and my quick, silent brush with Dugan. With every passing minute, those two incidents seem increasingly portentous, and I’m beginning to suspect what I should have realized from the start, that appearing in public in Bush Falls might be a colossal mistake.
    Wayne, however, is having none of it, and he strides into the pub with all the swagger his brittle, emaciated legs can muster. I haven’t yet come to grasp the full extent of Wayne’s fervent desire to stir things up while he still can, but watching him walk through the pub, tossing off excessively loud greetings at everyone he knows, feigning oblivion to their carefully averted gazes and barely concealed revulsion, I’m beginning to get it.
    Despite the dim lighting, I am able to make out a handful of familiar faces as I peer around the room. There’s Pete Rothson, who knew every word to “Stairway to Heaven” and never tired of explaining its various, contradictory interpretations. Alan Mcintyre, who taught me that free stuff could be gotten simply by calling the toll-free numbers on candy bar wrappers and inventing complaints. My shoulder is actually tapped in greeting by Steve Packer, who, legend had it, once actually fractured his wrist jerking off, and could always be depended on to know every acceptable synonym for vagina. “Joe Goffman,” he declares, pumping my hand enthusiastically and inquiring after the well-being of my testicles. “How they hanging?”
    “Steve Packer,” I respond. ( What’s your middle name - Fudge? the old joke went.) “Nice to see you.”
    Steve has apparently not gotten the memo that I’m to be shunned at every opportunity, an oversight Wayne corrects immediately. “What about me, Steve?” Wayne says. “Don’t you want to know how mine are hanging?”
    Steve does not. He fixes Wayne with a glare that says balls are a privilege Wayne has blatantly abused, and moves off to join his buddies in the back.
    “Does it help?” I ask as we take our own table against the wall.
    “What?” He catches my look. “Yeah,” he admits. “A little.”
    “Okay. Then it’s worth it.”
    He flashes me a grateful smile as he slides into his chair. “I was pretty naïve when I came back to the Falls,” he says. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but I was one of these guys, you know?” He indicates the breast pocket of his old basketball jacket, where his name is stitched in thin gold thread.
    “That’s me, right? I’m still that guy.”
    “Sure,” I say.
    “Anyway, I was actually stupid enough to come here once or twice when I’d first gotten back, looking to shoot the shit with old buddies. ... ” Wayne’s voice trails off and he sighs deeply. “Being gay is like taking a crash course in human nature,” he says. “Your first real glimpse at the dirty underbelly of routine social interaction. A lesser person,” he offers with a wry grin, “might well become one bitter fuck.”
    “I can imagine.”
    He leans back in his chair. “Anyway, long story short, they didn’t exactly throw a welcome home party for me, and I pretty much went into hiding. Only recently did it occur to me that I’m a guy who doesn’t have very much living left to do, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to give up one second of it over these bastards. The virus might have me beat, but this sorry lot of fuckers?” He raises his voice, indicating the crowded pub with a vast wave. “Now, that would be tragic.”
    I smile and say, “Bravo.”
    “I’m not relating this to you in order to receive your accolades,” he says haughtily, “well deserved though they may be.
    I’m just trying to explain to you that we are far and away the least popular people here, and if you’re waiting to be served, it’s going to be one hell of a long night.”
    “Gotcha.” I stand up with a grin. “What are you drinking?”
    “It doesn’t matter,” Wayne says. “It’ll be going down too fast to taste.”
    An hour later I have a pretty good buzz going. Wayne, who takes miserly, birdlike sips at his shot glass, seems to be in good spirits too, and I surmise that at his current body weight, it doesn’t take very much to get him