head. Joseph was fond of his recreational pharmaceuticals, especially at the end of a crap week of dealing with some of the more condescending academics, harried admins or bosses on power trips of their own.
‘Just studying. What’s up?’
Francis took advantage of my distraction, plopping his fluffy, twenty-pound body on top of my textbook and half my class notes. I shoved at him halfheartedly and he swiped my pen off the sofa in retaliation.
‘On a Friday night? Dude, you have got to
stop
that shit.’ This was a frequent assertion of Joseph’s. He knew Iwasn’t going to change – he just felt like he had to restate his objection from time to time. ‘When are you going to
live
a little?’
‘Soon as I graduate, man,’ I promised. ‘Soon as I graduate.’
Sighing heavily, he turned to the purpose of his call. ‘I’ve got a little … proposition for you.’
If I had a best friend, Joseph was probably it. The weirdest thing about our friendship was the fact that we had only two things in common. First, our nearly identical tastes in music, and second, an affinity for compartmentalizing our lives, something we did with equal compulsion.
After spotting me alone at several shows last spring, he’d walked up and stuck his hand out. ‘Hey, man – Joseph Dill. Don’t you work on campus?’
‘Yeah.’ While we shook hands, I tried to place him. He wasn’t an engineering classmate, but he seemed a little young to be a professor. One of the slightly older students from one of Heller’s classes, maybe?
‘Campus cop, right?’ His tone wasn’t contemptuous, but it wasn’t complimentary, either.
I cursed that job for the millionth time, for all that those ten hours per week paid enough to cover nearly half my tuition. ‘Oh, uh – not really,’ I said. ‘I just write parking tickets. It’s a work-study position. Still have to wear the dumbass uniform, though.’
‘Ah,’ he nodded, sizing me up. ‘So … you’re a student.’
Though we inhabit the same small realm, maintenance and groundskeeping personnel don’t generally interact with students. He gestured to himself after the merestpause, stepping across that invisible border. ‘Building maintenance.’ He smiled. ‘Thought I’d buy you a beer and ask what are a couple hot guys like us doing going to concerts alone?’
I smiled, but it abruptly occurred to me that Joseph might be interested in more than a conversation, because my gaydar was blaring.
‘You’re legal, right?’ he asked.
‘Uh, yeah …’ Raising my red-banded wrist, I told myself this would be no different than turning down a girl when I wasn’t interested or in the mood – something I’d done often enough the previous three years.
‘Cool.’ After paying for two beers, he handed me one and clinked the necks before taking a long swallow.
I thanked him guardedly, not wanting to shoot him down before he asked a question.
He picked at his bottle’s label, finally coming to some conclusion. ‘So, my boyfriend is a musical-theatre guy. And fuck if I wouldn’t rather be chased by starving zombies than be forced to endure
Rent
ever again. He has no problem getting a friend to go to that shit with him, thank Christ. I don’t have the same luck with my musical tastes in our circle of friends, ya know?’ He eyed me then, waiting for either confirmation or a prejudiced response.
Relieved, I smiled at the thought of this guy, who looked as if he’d be more at ease in a biker bar than a Broadway show. On the heels of that thought, a buried memory pushed to the surface – my father, standing awkwardly next to Mom at one of her gallery showings, clutchinga fluted glass of champagne. Dad was a sports-watching scotch/rocks guy, not an art enthusiast. But he loved and supported my mother.
‘I don’t really
know
, but I can
imagine
,’ I said.
Joseph’s mouth pulled into a half smile, and we’d been friends since then.
‘Okay,’ I said now. ‘Proposition
‘Just studying. What’s up?’
Francis took advantage of my distraction, plopping his fluffy, twenty-pound body on top of my textbook and half my class notes. I shoved at him halfheartedly and he swiped my pen off the sofa in retaliation.
‘On a Friday night? Dude, you have got to
stop
that shit.’ This was a frequent assertion of Joseph’s. He knew Iwasn’t going to change – he just felt like he had to restate his objection from time to time. ‘When are you going to
live
a little?’
‘Soon as I graduate, man,’ I promised. ‘Soon as I graduate.’
Sighing heavily, he turned to the purpose of his call. ‘I’ve got a little … proposition for you.’
If I had a best friend, Joseph was probably it. The weirdest thing about our friendship was the fact that we had only two things in common. First, our nearly identical tastes in music, and second, an affinity for compartmentalizing our lives, something we did with equal compulsion.
After spotting me alone at several shows last spring, he’d walked up and stuck his hand out. ‘Hey, man – Joseph Dill. Don’t you work on campus?’
‘Yeah.’ While we shook hands, I tried to place him. He wasn’t an engineering classmate, but he seemed a little young to be a professor. One of the slightly older students from one of Heller’s classes, maybe?
‘Campus cop, right?’ His tone wasn’t contemptuous, but it wasn’t complimentary, either.
I cursed that job for the millionth time, for all that those ten hours per week paid enough to cover nearly half my tuition. ‘Oh, uh – not really,’ I said. ‘I just write parking tickets. It’s a work-study position. Still have to wear the dumbass uniform, though.’
‘Ah,’ he nodded, sizing me up. ‘So … you’re a student.’
Though we inhabit the same small realm, maintenance and groundskeeping personnel don’t generally interact with students. He gestured to himself after the merestpause, stepping across that invisible border. ‘Building maintenance.’ He smiled. ‘Thought I’d buy you a beer and ask what are a couple hot guys like us doing going to concerts alone?’
I smiled, but it abruptly occurred to me that Joseph might be interested in more than a conversation, because my gaydar was blaring.
‘You’re legal, right?’ he asked.
‘Uh, yeah …’ Raising my red-banded wrist, I told myself this would be no different than turning down a girl when I wasn’t interested or in the mood – something I’d done often enough the previous three years.
‘Cool.’ After paying for two beers, he handed me one and clinked the necks before taking a long swallow.
I thanked him guardedly, not wanting to shoot him down before he asked a question.
He picked at his bottle’s label, finally coming to some conclusion. ‘So, my boyfriend is a musical-theatre guy. And fuck if I wouldn’t rather be chased by starving zombies than be forced to endure
Rent
ever again. He has no problem getting a friend to go to that shit with him, thank Christ. I don’t have the same luck with my musical tastes in our circle of friends, ya know?’ He eyed me then, waiting for either confirmation or a prejudiced response.
Relieved, I smiled at the thought of this guy, who looked as if he’d be more at ease in a biker bar than a Broadway show. On the heels of that thought, a buried memory pushed to the surface – my father, standing awkwardly next to Mom at one of her gallery showings, clutchinga fluted glass of champagne. Dad was a sports-watching scotch/rocks guy, not an art enthusiast. But he loved and supported my mother.
‘I don’t really
know
, but I can
imagine
,’ I said.
Joseph’s mouth pulled into a half smile, and we’d been friends since then.
‘Okay,’ I said now. ‘Proposition
Similar Books
