“You are... an episode of Angel!”
“You bet. I just watched Buffy!”
“Perhaps I could buy you lunch. Would the Brasserie at one tomorrow be suitable?”
Click.
When I woke, I thought I smelled something odd, took me a time to identify it.
Juicy Fruit.
I wore the Age Concern suit. No doubt, it had been a decent item once. I choose it for two reasons: because it was cheap and dark. Checked myself in the mirror. I looked like a corpse that the undertaker had failed to help. Wore a white shirt and wool tie. Only accentuated the lousy suit. When I entered the Brasserie, a gorgeous girl approached, asked,
“Table for one?”
“I dunno, I’m supposed to meet a Mr Boyle.”
Her face lit up and,
“Oh, Terence.”
My heart sank and she added,
“He’s at his usual table, over here.”
Led me to the centre, beamed,
“Voila.”
Terry Boyle stood up, smiled.
“Jack Taylor?”
“Yeah.”
I hoped my dourness showed. He put out his hand, said,
“Glad you could make it!”
“Yeah.”
He was well built, about six two, blond hair and a fresh complexion. Not good looking but what they call presentable. Dark grey suit that shouted money. His age was in the thirty zone. The first Irish generation to grow up without the spectre of unemployment and emigration, this had given them an ease, a self-confidence and natural assurance.
The opposite of everything I grew up with. They faced the world on equal footing. We’d sneaked into life with a trail of fear, inadequacy, resentment and yes... begrudgery My response was booze. His generation toyed with Hooches. He said,
“Take a seat.”
I did, resolving to burn my suit at the first chance. He asked,
“A drink?”
“Some water, maybe.”
He nodded and I asked,
“What?”
“I heard you had a... you know... a problem.”
Christ, was there anyone who hadn’t heard? I asked,
“You heard where?”
“Superintendent Clancy. He was a friend of the family.”
The waitress came, breezed,
“Ready to order, guys?”
“Jack, what would you like?”
“You seem to know the place, I’ll follow you.”
“The spaghetti is dynamite... that OK? Need a starter?”
I shook my head. The start I needed was a triple scotch. He poured water into glasses, said,
“The grub’s excellent. You’ll be pleased.”
“I can hardly wait.”
He gave me a searching look, checked over his shoulder, then back to me with,
“I’m gay”
I turned, shouted to the waitress,
“Glass of wine.”
Terence was shocked, stammered,
“Oh don’t, I didn’t mean to set you off.”
I laughed, repeated,
“Set me off! What a great expression. I know you all of two minutes, and you seriously think you can set me off”
Jesus, I was shouting. The waitress came with the drink. Placed it in the middle of the table, no man’s land. White wine in a long-stemmed glass, beads of moisture clinging to the out-side, like precarious aspirations. Terence tried again.
“I didn’t mean to... blurt out my sexual orientation. But I’ve found it best to get it in the open from the beginning.”
I leaned over, close to his face, asked,
“What makes you think your sexual identity is of the slightest interest to anybody?”
He hung his head. At least I’d stopped shouting, for which we were all grateful. I said,
“You have the wine.”
He grabbed it, downed half in a second, said,
“Thank you... I mean, could we start over? I think we got off on the wrong foot.”
“Sure.”
The food came. I’m sure it was delicious, but I could only toy with it. Terence didn’t fare much better. I asked,
