Name Games by Michael Craft Page A

editorial page to face out. “I support Doug too, but the election is nearly two months away. Tactically”—he tapped my endorsement with his finger—“wouldn’t this have more impact in November?”
    He’d raised a good point. Standing at the counter, waiting for the toaster to pop, I explained, “The report from the County Plan Commission needed a quick rebuttal, so I decided to rush ahead with Doug’s endorsement, since the election could now be riding on the porn issue. Doug deserves to be reelected, and everyone knows it—why let the public be diverted by this censorship campaign?”
    Neil raised a brow. “Censorship?”
    The toast popped. “In the final analysis, that’s what this porn battle really is. Regardless of whatever lofty motive is invoked to justify it—whether it’s public decency or political correctness or economic expediency—it’s still a case of using governmental force to restrict adult access to materials deemed offensive. In my book, that’s censorship.” I was buttering toast so vigorously, it broke, leaving my palm covered with greasy crumbs. Though agitated by the topic and by the minor mess, I couldn’t help laughing.
    “Let me do that,” Neil volunteered, rising from the table, crossing to the counter, taking the knife from my clean hand. He set to work buttering the toast, stacking the slices with architectural precision on a bread plate. Since neither of us was rushing to work that morning, we hadn’t dressed yet. Standing there at the counter, we both wore bathrobes, flannel for fall. I was barefoot, but Neil wore bulky gray boot socks—he’d had the foresight to realize the tile floor would be cold.
    “You’re right, of course,” he told me, still buttering (there was a lot of toast, enough for Thad and Sheriff Pierce, should they join us). “Any attempt to define ‘acceptable’ reading—or viewing—is censorship, pure and simple.”
    Washing my hands under the faucet, wiping them with a towel, I razzed him, “Don’t take it too personally.”
    He paused. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
    “It means,” I reminded him, “that you’ve always had a taste for smut.”
    “I resent that.” His indignation wasn’t genuine. “I’ve always had a rarefied taste for smut.” Though his words sounded oxymoronic, they were a precise statement of fact. Long before I met Neil, he began amassing a sizable collection of videos—specifically, gay porn videos. Curiously, though, his interest in this material had always been more academic than prurient, and his favorite tapes could be described as cerebral, as opposed to down and dirty. His collection was stored back at the loft in Chicago; we both agreed that we’d be playing with fire if any of these videos were kept in Dumont, where an inquisitive sixteen-year-old might get ahold of them.
    Returning to the topic of the election, I told Neil, “I just hope that the committee’s report doesn’t stir up enough public sentiment to hurt Doug’s chances. This Tenelli character apparently has plenty of pull.” The coffeemaker had finished brewing, and I carried the pot to the table.
    Neil followed with his artful arrangement of toast, perfectly buttered to a golden sheen. “I doubt that Doug has anything to worry about—the Register ’s endorsement ought to lock it up for him.”
    “Don’t be so sure.” I sat. “Endorsements can backfire, especially in small towns, where everyone seems only too eager to trash the ‘local rag.’”
    Neil sat next to me. “Are you being cynical?” He smiled. “Or just insecure?”
    “A bit of both,” I admitted, returning his smile, telling myself to relax. It was Saturday, after all, and far too early in the day to get worked up over “issues.” Another cool autumn morning, it was a perfect opportunity to enjoy each other’s company. We’d had precious few of these quiet times during the past year.
    So I paused, rested my hand on Neil’s, and stated the