The Book of Joe

items on my ‘before I die’ to-do list.”
    “I wish you’d stop talking like that,” I say, helping him straighten the jacket on his almost nonexistent shoulders.
    “I’m being heroic,” he says. “Deal with it.”

    The rain has stopped, and thick rays of sun are penetrating the gray cloud cover as we drive across town to the cemetery. “Look,” I say, pointing out a sunbeam to Wayne. “When I was a kid, I always thought that was God, peeking through the clouds.”
    “That’s not God,” Wayne says. “That’s the search party.”
    I nod dumbly. I generally avoid all discussions of theology, and with a dying friend this seems like a particularly wise policy.
    “When I didn’t hear from you after the funeral, I thought maybe you’d had enough,” Wayne says.
    “I’m still here.” I bring him up to date on all that’s transpired since my father’s funeral.
    “Jesus,” he says. “Haven’t we been the busy beaver.”
    “It’s been a little intense.”
    “I can’t believe you fucked Mrs. Haber.”
    “Me neither.”
    “How was it?”
    “Unreal.”
    “I’ll bet,” he says with a nod. “And what about Carly?”
    “What about her?”
    Wayne gives me a fondly quizzical look. “You do realize that you were supposed to have slept with Carly and had the lunch with Mrs. Haber, don’t you?”
    “That would have been one way to go.”
    Wayne smiles. “Always the hard way.”
    “I’ve got to be me.”
    He reaches into my CD collection and picks out Born to Run. “In honor of Sammy,” he says, sliding in the CD. We sit in silence, listening to the slow buildup of “Thunder Road” and Springsteen’s raspy voice singing about hiding beneath your covers to study your pain.
    Wayne waits in the car while I obtain a map with the coordinates of Sammy’s grave from the lone woman working in
    the office. We drive through a maze of access roads until we reach the general area and park. Wayne has brought along a portable CD player, a bottle of wine, and two glasses. We sit on the damp grass beside Sammy’s grave and Wayne pours us each a drink. “Sammy,” I say, holding up my glass with a smile.
    “Sammy,” Wayne says, and we sip at our wine. He presses a button on the CD player and Springsteen comes on singing
    “Backstreets.” “This was our song,” Wayne says softly, closing his eyes as he listens to the music.
    “ ‘Backstreets’ was your song?”
    “What’s wrong with ‘Backstreets’?”
    “I don’t know. Most of the couples I knew in high school had songs like ‘Can’t Fight This Feeling’ or ‘Glory of Love’ or
    ‘In Your Eyes,’ you know? Romantic songs.”
    “We weren’t romantics,” Wayne says somberly. “We were desperately fucked up. And that’s what ‘Backstreets’ is about.”
    He pauses for a moment, nodding his head and swaying lightly to the music. “He’s singing about these two guys who are trying in vain to breathe the fire they were born in. After all this time, that’s still the best description of what we went through that summer, of what it feels like to be young and gay, that I’ve ever heard.”
    I try to pay more attention to the lyrics, which is hard, given Bruce’s scratchy, mumbled delivery and the loud guitars and drums drowning him out at every turn. It doesn’t sound like a song about gay love to me, but I guess we all hear what we want to hear.
    “So,” Wayne says, turning off the stereo when the song ends. “Would you like to say a few words?”
    “I wasn’t aware that this was a formal ceremony.”
    He hefts his glass at me. “Wine and music,” he says. “It’s either that or we’re on a date.”
    I think about it for a moment, since Wayne seems intent on my saying something. “Sammy was a good and loyal friend,” I start.
    “He wasn’t your dog Skip,” Wayne interrupts me impatiently. “And besides, he’s been dead for seventeen years. It’s a bit late for eulogies.”
    “So what do you want me to say?”
    “Just share your thoughts.”
    “My mind is a blank. You go first.”
    “Fine.” Wayne sips thoughtfully at his wine. “For the longest time I blamed Sammy for my being gay. I thought that I could have gone either way but that he came along at just the right time in my adolescence to push me forever in that direction. I know that’s a crock, but I hated him; even while I wanted him, I hated him for making me a freak. I thought if he hadn’t come along, I would have eventually met some girl