you'll tell him of your interest in opera

Then Old Bobby said, " So Eva Gardner said, because that little wap is one hundred and twenty five pounds of solid dick." Littlegirlcop laughed, Irish Joe laughed, John and Jon laughed too. There were more people at the table but the others were caught up in their own conversations and didn't hear Old Bobby's story.

Old Bobby wasn't as old as he looked, but two pacemakers, a blown-out shoulder and years trying to quench his strong thirst put at least ten years on his sixty-three year old body. He said all pro athletes need either a manager or a wife, and he'd prefer a manager, but truth was he had neither. There were a handful of people from the club that watched out for him, but that wasn't a good substitute. In his youth he was quite an athlete. In fact some of his records still held. And on a wall of the restaurant where they ate, with photos of regulars, local heros and a few movie stars was a black and white photo of a younger Bobby with his record time written below it. The photo was from a time when races were measured in miles not kilometers.

It was Irish Joe that got Bobby talking about Sinatra, He'd asked him which wife was the mother of Nancy, Joe said he liked her singing too. Irish Joe didn't look like a Nancy Sinatra fan, thought Murphy, but sometimes it was hard to tell. It was also Irish Joe that managed to find a place in the conversation to mention that this was Pride Weekend. To this point, Littlegirlcop would've only figured Joe was proud on March seventeenth or when the Sox beat the Yankees. Murphy checked for a wedding band and didn't see one, though that never meant too much. Littlegirlcop was reminded of a phrase, "dropping their beads" in his nineteen seventy seven, pre AIDS copy of the Joy of Gay Sex, in a section about how to spot another gay man.

"In straight business or social situations, gay people are understandably slow to come out to one another. But they will "drop their beads" (as queens used to say) one by one, until the full necklace lays on the floor. He'll mention the ballet, you'll tell him of your interest in opera. He'll name the notorious or questionable resort he visited on his last vacation. You'll admit your love of Fire Island."

Littlegirlcop might have more in common with Irish Joe than he had thought. They both enjoyed Old Bobby's stories. Maybe they needed to start talking about Fire Island.

You either were or you weren't

Littlegirlcop picked up his small coffee from the counter and walked over to the table and sat down. Marty pointed with his eyes, then with a jerk of his chin and said, "See him, he get's laid like a fuckin' carpet, women, men, dogs, cats it doesn't matter; that fucker's got game." Littlegircop and his buddy Marty were getting a cup of coffee around the corner from the station. Marty gestured to Sean Landucci, one of the stationhouse lotharios as he walked past their table and out of the cafe. Murphy had heard Sean tell his stories, and he had seen him in action out at the bars, and while Murphy knew he was a skillful story teller, he also knew he didn't have any need to embelish.

Neither Murphy or Marty were getting-laid-like-a-rug type guys. Murphy was in a bit of dry spell, and Marty was the father of three. While he knew Marty's marital life was happy, he also knew two kids in diapers cut into both the time and energy for sex. As they say on the cop shows, Marty lacked motive and opportunity. Even as a single man Marty wasn't one of those guys. You either were or you weren't; Murphy and Marty both definitely weren't. On the other hand Muphy's kid brother Tommy was one of those guys. He could walk into a bar and leave with phone numbers and usually a bunch of new drinking pals too. He made out like a bandit, as they say, he was in like Flynn. While Tommy wasn't any nicer than Murphy, his warmth ran much closer to the surface: his quick smile, ease with a joke and the brightness of his eyes pulled people in and opened them up.

"So How's that brother of yours, how's Errol Flynn doing?"

Murphy knew this wasn't a general inquiry about the condition of his little brother, it was Marty looking for a good story about the young man's sexual adventures. Marty was a big fan of nicknames in general, but he was particularly fond of this nickname and rarely refered to Murphy's brother as anything else. He like saying Errol Flynn almost as much as he like saying Layed like a carpet, and Marty really enjoyed saying layed like a carpet.

"He hasn't said much lately. He knows not to taunt a thirsty man with a big glass of water," said Murphy, "but you can be damn sure he's doing more than just talking about it in a coffee shop."

Murphy wasn't sure if the stories from his weekend were amusing or just a little sad. He decided one was a little amusing but one was just sad, but he thought he could make them funny in the telling, so he told them anyway.

"Here's a story that you'd never hear my brother tell," Murphy started, " So I went out Friday night. I wasn't feeling really social but I wanted to get out of the house, so I went down to the bear bar for a beer. I got a bud, stood around, didn't see anyone I knew. Ate some peanuts form the peanut barrel, drank my beer, left. I walked up the street to the leather bar, it was dead, walk around the corner to this skanky place on Folsom. Out front some cute guy ask me if if he could ask me a few questions. I thought he was just outside smoking, or waiting for a friend, but it turned out he work for the city heath department. So this guy pulls a palm pilot out of his pocket, and says it wont take long, but the questions would be very personal. I told'm that I figured they might be considering he was with the city health department and he was infront of one of the skankier bars in a neighborhood of skanky bars. So he said 'have you gotten drunk or high in the past year?" then 'Have you had anal sex in the past year?' then, ' Have you had oral sex while drunk or high in the past year?' I think there were more questions depending on how you answered but those were all I got, then he said 'that's it' and I said 'I figured I'd get something for taking the survey' and he said 'no' but opened his arms and he gave me a big really nice hug."

If this had been one of Tommy's stories it would've been a blowjob or sex in an restaurant bathroom, but it was Murphy not Tommy. "It was a nice sincere hug," Murphy continued, "So that hug was the highlite of the night. I did a quick lap of the skank bar, didn't stay, and went back to the bear bar, had a beer and bumped into a guy I fooled around with once and who stopped returning my calls. Then I went home. So how's that for an exciting single-guy-out-on-the-town friday night?

Marty smiled a forced sort of smile and said it wasn't anything at all like an Errol Flynn story. Then feeling a bit silly Murphy continued, "Oh I didn't tell you about the naked guy I talked to did I? On the street, on sunday afternoon, there were a bunch of naked people riding bikes in a pack and there was a naked guy on rollerblade video taping them. He rolled right up next to where I was standing, naked exept for the skates. So I asked him what they were doing riding around naked, and he said they were protesting the high oil prices.

"So you got a hug from a guy who works at the VD clinic and you talked to a naked guy on the street?" said Marty.

"yeah," said Murphy, "that's all I got."

he was glad it was on the menu

The fortune from the cookie that followed Littlegirlcop's shredded pork lunch special said "Romance comes into your life in a very unusual way" That might be ok if it were very unusual in a Cary Grant screwball comedy sort of way, Murphy wasn't sure he was ready for very unusual if it were in an interspecies – I fell in love with a large cactus – sort of way or even worse an interspecies Berkeley sort of way. He didn't want a physical relationship with a differently abled house cat or an endangered marine mammal or anything other than a reasonably whole middle aged male human. What could very unusual mean in the context of his love life. In that Venn diagram where the circles for unusual and romance overlapped; what could be there? Murphy could think of lots of things that were in the very unusual circle; and he could think of a lot of things in the romance circle; but he was having a really hard time thinking of anything that was in the overlap of those two circles.

He and Marty had just been having lunch at a place they called "deep fried little bird." That wasn't the resteraunt's real name, Murphy wasn't sure what it's real name was. All he knew was that he liked the place, the food was tasty and the lunch specials were cheap and plentiful. He also enjoyed the translations on their menu which were as erratic as the service. While neither Murphy nor Marty had ever ordered the deep fried little bird, they were glad it was on the menu. While not appetizing, the string of words was poetic and the nickname livened up the lunch spot in a way that a more usual names like, china express or peking gardens couldn't. There were lots of things he could think of that would be where the tasty, cheep, and plentiful circles overlapped. The shreaded pork lunch special would definitely be there, but Murphy had his doupts about the deep fried little bird.

a license to say too much

The bomb that Littlegirlcop was waiting for dropped just as dessert landed on the table. Two berry coblers, Three coffees, one banana cream pie and electroshock therapy. Murphy was at lunch with his cop partner Marty and their boss the often manic Sergeant McD. His drivers license said Michael James Mc Dermott, He was Micky McD to his mostly retired cop buddies. Marty and Murphy usually called him Crazy Micky. On the walk up to his office Marty told Murphy. " All fancy lunches come with a price, sometimes it's monetary, sometimes it's emotional, but it's a price all the same." Then with his left index finger he pulled down the the skin of his lower eyelid and doing the best imitation of his maternal grandfather, Lorrenzo Da Lucca, he said, "Guarda," then back to is own voice, "just you watch."

Murphy was well aware of his boss's struggle with mental illness. Sergeant Micky was always a bit too forthcoming with information about his talking-shrink and his prescribing-shrink and his crush on the short one with the big feet and sausage fingers, Murphy wasn't sure which shrink that was. While Marty also got his fare share of Crazy Mickey's too-much-information, Murphy got more. He and Crazy Mickey were both gay, and because of that fact they shared a bond, Crazy Mickey saw the bond as a license to say too much.

Both men left the lunch table surprised and drained, this was rare because little that Crazy Mickey said surprised them anymore. But when he told them He'd OD twice in the past six months, they realized his condition was far worse than either of them had thought. Crazy Mickey said he wasn't trying to kill himself really, he was just trying to get some sleep. The big sleep, or just eight hours, Murphy wondered, Jesus Christ, just trying to get some sleep.

The most surprising detail of his story wasn't how he tried to put a softer spin on his suicide attempts, though that was interesting. Or the descriptions of the charcoal they filled him with at the hospital to clear the toxins out for his system, which was more sickening really. What was surprising was why his boyfriend only called 911 the first time he ODed. The first time he collapsed into a heap on their shiny hardwood floor. The second time he dragged Micky to the bed and let him ride it out at home. The unknown facts that led to that second decision, the decision not to call 911, fascinated them both. Under what circumstances do you not call for help when your boyfriend collapses on the floor of your well maintained suburban home. That question made the story far stranger.