The Book of Joe

He studies the pages for a moment and then turns them over. “Here we go,”
    he says, then clears his throat and reads aloud in a monotone.
    “ ‘It seemed to me that the hostility behind “Shane’s” escalating cruelty toward Sammy far exceeded the norms of ritualistic school yard hazing and adolescent bigotry. Something in him was revolted by Sammy’s clearly effeminate mannerisms, and only later did I come to understand that in Sammy, “Shane” saw the flesh-and-blood embodiment of the very sexual demons he was battling on a daily basis within himself.’ ” Sean finishes and gives me a hard look.
    “You bought my book,” I say. “I’m touched.”
    “You haven’t been touched yet,” he says with a nasty grin.
    “But you will be soon, if you insist on sticking around.”
    “Are you threatening me?”
    “I’m sorry - wasn’t it obvious?”
    “It’s fiction, Sean,” I say weakly. “Says so right on the cover.”
    “If by fiction you mean bullshit, then I agree with you,” he says, pocketing the pages. “But calling it a novel doesn’t change what you did.”
    “And what exactly did I do?”
    “You called me a faggot,” he says, tossing his cigarette butt to the ground. It fails to ignite the spilled gasoline and engulf him in flames, despite my fervent prayers. The nozzle jumps in my hand, indicating a full tank, and I place it back on the pump. “You made everyone in this town think twice about me.” He straightens up, leaning off the car to face me. “You besmirched my reputation.”
    “Again,” I say. “It was fiction. If you identified with the character on some level - ”
    “Cut the shit,” Sean says. “You’re trying my patience.”
    “So, what are you going to do, Sean?” I say, assuming a weary tone. “Are you going to beat me up again?”
    He finishes pumping his own gas, replaces the nozzle, and roughly screws on the gas cap. “Get the fuck out of the Falls, Goffman,” he says. “I mean today. I cut you some slack out of respect for your family. But it’s only by my good graces that you can still piss standing up. You walking around town as if you’re welcome here, as if you didn’t write all that shit, is an insult to me, and to this town, and I can feel my self-control disappearing even as we speak.”
    “I appreciate the heads-up,” I say, opening my car door. He steps forward and kicks it shut, his boot leaving a small dent just under the door handle. I add the dent to the mental damage report I’ve been compiling since my arrival in the Falls.
    “Nice car,” Sean says.
    “Thanks.”
    “I’ve blown up nicer cars than this.”
    “Your parents must be very proud.”
    Sean gets right in my face. “Today, Goffman. I’m not fucking with you. I’ll blow you up in your fucking car.” He studies my face with a wide, nasty grin, delighted by my stone-faced reaction. Then he makes a gun with his finger, points it at my temple, and says, “Bam.” In the execution of this universal gesture, most people bring down their thumb to signify the hammer’s dropping, but Sean actually pulls his trigger finger, which I find much more threatening, since it seems to bespeak a genuine familiarity with the real thing.
    He climbs into the Lexus, and I wait until he’s driven off into the rain before getting back into my car, where I sing the theme to Shaft softly to calm myself down. Who’s the black private dick that’s a sex machine to all the chicks? Shaft! The clock on my birds-eye maple wood dashboard shows 12:05, earlier than I would have thought. It seems unlikely that I’ll manage to stay out of trouble with so many hours left in the day.

Thirty
    Wayne is fully dressed and sitting at his desk, looking through a photo album, when I arrive a short while later.
    “Hey,” I say. “Looking good.” He isn’t, but I say it anyway.
    This is how we deal with the terminally ill. We establish a new standard and embrace it with manufactured cheer, as if the epic nature of death could be thwarted with a veneer of breezy compliments and light conversation.
    Wayne grins and closes the album, looking haggard but resolute. “I have this theory that if I get dressed and do something, I stand less of a chance of dying that day.”
    “Makes sense,” I say. “So what are we going to do?”
    He stands up and begins pulling his basketball jacket on.
    “We’re going to visit Sammy’s grave.”
    I look at him for a moment. “You sure?”
    “It’s one of the