The people who run the winter holiday resorts upstate have a saying: "You either make it Christmas Week or you are not going to make it at all." The same aphorism was often quoted at Grand Central Station. Robbie had worked there for only six months - from right after he left high school - but he heard the words from the others - those who knew what they were talking about. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Christmas week would mean bonuses, which would mean people had more money; with extra money they would come into the city more often, and so, of course, there would be more trains. And, he reasoned, if he were to be working harder, then he needed to be in good condition. With this in mind he abandoned his post and, on the Sunday before Thanksgiving, hitch-hiked down to Holmdel and got himself a job at a Christmas Tree Farm. He earned less than half of what he normally made at his job in New York, but the accommodation in the old barn was free, and the food was plentiful. The work was hard - cutting trees, hefting them onto his shoulder, carrying the purchased spruce or fir to the waiting cars - but it did him good: his chest and arms began to regain some of their bulk, his cheeks lost their sallow hue, and the sores from the bedbug bites healed.

Four weeks later he was back on the job and, sure enough, in the next six days he pulled in really good money.

He awoke on Christmas morning to the sound of coughing. Racking coughs that seemed to clear little from a chest parched dry by the smog-filled winter air. Robbie pulled the threadbare blanket over his head, as much to blot out the hacking as to preserve what little heat came out in his breath. There were no windows in the cubicles to let light in; few on the entire floor, in fact. Those that had ever existed were now covered with warping plywood or cardboard black with age and mildew. But one could tell what time of day it was by the noises coming from the rooms and passageway. From 3am to 6am there would be the sounds of decrepitude: coughing, wheezing, the shuffle of footsteps as men whose bladders could no longer endure the night stumbled to the toilet. From 6 to 8, those who managed to cling to jobs got up. They washed, turning the faucets on and off causing the iron water pipes to hammer underneath the linoleum which peeled back like the bark on birch trees. Light activity, punctuated by the clang of handles on metal buckets as floors were mopped would indicate the time was between 9 and 12. From 12 onward, especially on Saturdays, there would be the sound of glass bottles from the bar that served as entrance to the flophouse - the hotel. And as the afternoon progressed, there would be the sounds of shoes, the well-soled shoes of more affluent people, in the passage. They came, their owners sighed, panted, and sometimes yelled out, and they left. These sounds continued until 2am, the changing hours marked only by the degree of stumbling the shoes made.

But on Christmas morning, the rasping coughing was the only sound on the floor.

Robbie wondered what his parents were doing. Would they be awake yet? Probably not: the small-town streets bordered with leafless trees would be quiet, the only movement being men in quilted jackets walking their dogs. There was no child in his parents' home to drag the household from their slumbers to witness the opening of gifts with tremulous excitement. No teenager playing the latest hit song over and over on the stereo. Whitpain now seemed as remote and unfamiliar to him as Tibet, and just as profitless to think about, and he forced his brain to flush away the memories of his exiled home.

From down the hall the coughing continued, loud as ever. There was no ceiling to the cell in which he lay. Chicken wire, which sagged in the middle, prevented a neighbor from climbing over the wall while the occupant slept, to take his money - or his booze. The walls were bare plywood. From chest height to just below the chicken wire, the decoration was the graffiti of previous occupants and their guests. Phone numbers, names - Pete occurred almost three times as often as the next favorite, Mike - and addresses - most in states that had warm winters.

Above the head of the bed, over where the pillow would be if he had one, was a rectangle with the words 'Princeton 55 - Penn 0'. Robbie had pondered that inscription often. In his imagination he had pictured some ruggedly handsome Tiger fan, only slightly inebriated, culminating his victory celebration in the Big City on the sagging bed in this tiny room with a guy that was the clone of Robbie. The story had two endings: sometimes the Princeton man lay in post-coital contentment with his head on the clone's chest, as the latter ran his fingers through the long blond hair. The other ending had the two of them in a bar, earnestly discussing literature or math. Robbie kept these images fresh and would run them over and over through his mind, like those newsreel movies of the 50s, to keep him aroused through a tryst when the john himself could raise no reaction in the young hustler.

He rolled out of bed and pushed his feet into a pair of tennis shoes. Taking the plastic grocery bag that held his razor, soap, and toothbrush he left the room, relocking the door behind him, and made his way down the narrow passage, past doorway after doorway, to the toilet. The chlorine bleach with which the floor was almost mopped every two days never really covered the smell of urine.

Shaved and washed and back in his room, he pulled one of his three shirts from the flimsy locker that was squashed in the two feet between the bed and the wall. It was his last clean shirt. He needed to get at least three tricks today, seven if they were only blowjobs, before he could afford the Laundromat. He had had four shirts when he arrived, but when, in an altercation over money, a drunken john had stabbed Jimmy, and the hospital had thrown Jimmy's blood-soaked shirt away, Robbie had given him one of his. With a quick look around to ensure he was leaving nothing he valued behind, Robbie took his leather motorcycle jacket off the bed where it had served as an extra blanket during the night and put it on, then pulled the denim jacket over it. Checking his pocket for his wallet, he locked the door behind him, and carefully made his way down the narrow stairs where the green paint peeled from the walls and the treads were uneven and patched with odd pieces of wood and linoleum.

The lobby was on the second floor. Johann, who sat in the small office that was more like a cage, raised one eye momentarily from a newspaper printed in a foreign language to look at him. "Good morning, Johann," Robbie said. "Merry Christmas." Johann gave a low grunt in reply. He never spoke to the tenants unless it was about their rent, but, all-in-all, he was not a bad guy: if a john tried to make a dash without paying, a shout to Johann and he would pull the chain that closed the door at the top of the stairs to the street. The shout and the thud of the door - the only solid object in the establishment - were the signals for anyone who was not actually engaged in earning money at the time to pounce on the cheapskate and manhandle him, relieving him of wallet, cigarettes, lighter and anything else that might be of value.

There were only three people in the bar as Robbie passed through to the street outside. His lungs gulped in air that didn't smell of overworn clothing and underwashed human beings. From the back pocket of his jeans he pulled out a pair of gray, fingerless woolen gloves and pushed his hands into them. It had not snowed yet, but the air was frosty. On the corner of Broome Street a small group of men sat around a makeshift fire they had made from pieces of trashed wood and cardboard in an old five-gallon paint can, bent out of shape from the holes beaten in its sides. Robbie stopped, holding out his hands toward the oily smoke that curled above the dark orange flames to catch some warmth. For five minutes he stood there, exchanging not a word with the others, then stepped away, and turning onto Bowery, in the wan morning light of Christmas Day, zigzagged up through Washington Square Park to St. John's Church, each exhaled breath a wraith that hung around his head briefly and then disappeared. He went to Communion there almost every Sunday, never considering for a second that his profession placed any impediment between him and his Creator. Pausing outside the big wooden doors, he turned down the collars of his jackets and ran a comb through his wind-tousled hair, then clicked the latch and pushed open the door.

Ninety minutes later he was cutting across Union Square and beginning the long trudge up Park Avenue. There was not much traffic down that end of the city, and almost all the shops were closed, their windows covered by steel gates or roller shutters. Steam seeped out of manhole covers to dance wildly like a dervish and vanish as the wind caught it. Every now and again a subway train would rush by under his feet, causing a blast of funky air to burst up through the sidewalk gratings. Absent, too, were the men with carts from which they served warmed food, hot dogs, pretzels, and, in this season, roasted chestnuts. Robbie was hungry. He was always hungry it seemed, and as he walked he deliberated whether, if he could keep his shirt reasonably clean through the rest of the day, he could postpone the Laundromat for twenty-four hours, and celebrate Christmas with some Chinese noodles.

He felt down. He should not have gone to Church. He had expected too much: he had expected magic to happen. He had thought that if he went through the rote of everything he had done in Happier Times, happiness would ensue. But it had not, and now he was alone in New York City on Christmas Day, walking up the almost deserted streets because he had nothing else to do. As he crossed East 23rd it was more than the icy wind that made the tears run down his cheeks.

Grand Central Station was familiar to Robbie. Having worked there for almost six months he was almost part of the scenery. Other than his stint at the farm in New Jersey he had been there every day, Saturdays and Sundays included. Even on class days at the Institute, he would find some way of spending an hour or two in the cavernous concourse. He knew every nook and cranny. He knew where you could take a john who wanted a blow job. If they wanted more, there were a couple of toilets that were not often frequented. Or there was the Hotel Alcock, referred to in the trade as the All Cock, where rooms were rented by the hour.

Even though the air was cold, Robbie unbuttoned his shirt to his navel so that his chest and upper abs showed, and then began to move around the east side of the entrance, further away from the information booth with its four-faced clock. Loitering around there, especially on a day like today when there were fewer people, was a sure way to get oneself picked up by the cops. He had learned that the area toward the 42nd Street entrance gave him the most success in picking up men. He would know within an instant of making eye contact whether his mark was interested or not. If they made a slight nod or jerk of the head, it was a deal. If they looked down and continued walking, they were not interested. If they looked away and then looked back, they needed the sales pitch, and Robbie would catch up to them, matching their pace, and, starting with casual banter, talk them into having sex. Young guys, his age or a little older, were the worst. They had not caught on yet as to how the game worked. Some would fall prey to his pitch and think they were friends who were having sex for fun, and then, when the time came for payment, they balked. Others, having believed the stories in the lurid literature they read, thought they could have quick sex and then turn the tables and clean the hustler out. Six months earlier Robbie might have fallen for either of these ploys, now he was hardened, and in ten seconds could have the john on his knees, nose already swollen and bleeding, and whimpering for Robbie to let go of the arm twisted behind his back.

Robbie stopped near one of the doors looking out into the street. A few cars drove by, the plumes from their exhausts being plucked away from the tail pipes by the icy wind. Stray sheets of newspaper tumbled by, pausing now and then as they briefly embraced a lamp post, then breaking free again, resumed their drunken dash down the sidewalk.

"Happy Christmas, son." The voice behind him startled him.

He turned around. His eyes took in the man who stood there in the black overcoat, smiling at him. He looked to be about twenty, just two years older than Robbie, but Robbie knew he was at least six years older than that. What held Robbie frozen in place and speechless was the white dog-collar of the clergy around the man's neck.

"Er....Happy Christmas, Father." It was Robbie's turn to want to run.

"I believe I've seen you here once or twice before," the man said, "but each time you've left with someone else before I could catch up to you." He put his hand on Robbie's shoulder and looked at him. "You're looking good." Robbie's throat was suddenly dry. "So tell me," the man asked with a friendly smile, "how much will it cost me for two hours?"

Robbie gulped for air. "No, Father. No!"

Alex Dundas paused outside the double doors, the natural light-brown of their unstained mahogany intensified both by the eight electric light bulbs, four in each of the heavy lanterns that hung on thick, wrought-iron chains on both sides of the entrance, as well as by the blackness of the night that was everywhere else.

Several moths, unmindful of their lives, fluttered around the glass, the glowing lamps inside inveigling them to seek a chink in the protective glass, unaware that success in that enterprise would lead but to their death. The frenzied wings of the insects threw dancing shadows across the school escutcheon carved in the wood, the flame representing knowledge next to the sword symbolizing truth, and underneath an open book, representing The Bible. The school motto, Quaere Verum, floated beneath the shield on a banner rippled by an invisible wind. Alex reached out and touched the words. 'Seek the Truth'. A sad smile passed across his face as he considered them. The words of the irascible Col. Jessep echoed in his head. "You can't handle the truth."

'Maybe that's where the delusion has been all along,' he thought. 'It's not that the truth is hard to uncover, the difficult part is accepting it when you see it.' He gave a friendly prod at the book. "You never told us that, did you? Very tricky. Very tricky indeed." And with that mindset he clicked the latch and pushed open the door.

When St. Jerome's Academy for Young Men was founded in the first decade of the 20th Century, the room he entered had been the students' refectory, its white walls contrasting with the dark wooden tables that sat four students down each side and a prefect at the head. The walls were still white, but when the school expanded in the late 1950s the old dining room was no longer large enough, and had become a salon where meetings or small functions could be held. The adjoining room, the erstwhile masters' common room, was now the bar, opened when those present were adults rather than students. On this night, most there were of a like age, this being a fortieth reunion, but a few others, mostly younger, one or two older, who just happened to be in Pennsylvania for the night, were present, too.

As the door shut behind him with a heavy thud, several heads turned to see who had come in. "Well I'll be damned! A-lex! My God, it's Dundas." A tall, thin man uncoiled from an overstuffed armchair and came towards him, his mouth open in a wide grin. "Man, what a surprise! This is so great: I didn't think you were coming - your name wasn't on the attendees list." He set his glass down on a small table and embraced the newcomer with arms that appeared long enough to encircle him twice.

"Something came up, and I had to come over to give a presentation to a customer, so I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone."

"Well I'm glad we were worth killing," the lanky one said, holding Alex firmly in his embrace.

"So how've you been, Brian?" Alex asked, taking a deep breath as the arms uncoiled. "You look great. Still running those marathons?"

The other laughed. "Yeah. Still running, although I tend to be further back in the pack, now. Hey, you've got to come and sit with us. Let me buy you a drink - this calls for a celebration. They've got all sorts of wine and several good beers here - a couple from Europe even - but," he picked up his glass and moved in closer, "if you keep your mouth shut amongst the other guys, I shall bring you the very elixir of life."

"What have you found now?" Alex asked with a small laugh, recalling Brian's aptitude for scrounging out anything difficult to acquire.

"Wait and see. All I'll say is that it's a whisky"

"Sounds good. I haven't had good whisky for a while," Alex said and moved in the direction of the bar.

"No, no," said the runner. "I'll get it. Go and say hello to John and Tony." He hesitated briefly, then added, "Chris's there, too. I'll bring your drink."

"Great. Thanks."

Alex made his way across to the group where Brian had been sitting. "Hi, guys!"

"Now who the heck are you?" asked Chris.

Alex felt his chest tighten, but he gave him a smile. "Hi, Chris. How're things."

"Pretty good, thanks, Alex!" The other stood up. For an instant both his arms moved in unison as though he, too, would hug the late arrival, but, as though through afterthought, the left halted and he held out his right hand. "How've you been, buddy? I haven't seen you since school."

"Hey, Alex. Looking good, man."

"Hi, Alex...."

The greetings rolled back the years that had weathered the faces. 'God, those had been good times,' Alex thought as he shook hands. 'We were so carefree, so enthusiastic, so...so young.'

"So where did you appear from? You've never come back here since we left school," Tony continued. "We thought you'd dropped off the edge of the world."

"In a way I did," Alex said patiently, but offered nothing more by way of explanation.

"Tell us what've you been up to?" John asked. "I think I'd heard somewhere that you were still playing with electricity."

Alex laughed. "Yeah. Pretty much. Designing motors and generators and exciting stuff like that."

"I reckoned you'd have electrocuted yourself long before now," Tony chimed in. "You were always rigging up wires and lights and switches all over the place."

Alex shrugged. "All you've got to remember is to not hold the live and neutral at the same time. Wearing rubber-soled shoes helps, too." The others gave polite chuckles. "How 'bout you guys? What's new?"

"Not much," Tony replied. "I'm still with IBM. I don't know if you knew, I started with them straight out of Rensselaer. I kept my nose clean, licked all the right asses, climbed the corporate ladder, and managed not to get canned in the downsizing, so that's some achievement I guess."

"Yeah," Alex agreed with a sigh. "Especially these days. No more rewards for loyalty."

"You said it. I'd really hate to be in the job market again," agreed John. "It's bad enough having to date again at our age."

Alex raised his eyebrows. "Oh?" he said tentatively.

The other shrugged. "Long story. Janice decided that she wanted more out of life than I had to offer, so we split. We're still friends, which is her way of saying that I get to pay for the more expensive repairs to her car and the house."

Alex grimaced and nodded understandingly. Luckily Brian arrived just at that moment bearing a glass of liquid amber. Alex took the glass and held it to his nose, savoring the subtle, fruity aromas. "Your health, gentlemen," he said raising his glass and then putting it to his lips. He took a sip, allowing the whisky to roll around his tongue. This, indeed, was special. "My God, Brian, this is good."

"Shhh," the tall one said. "They only have two bottles back there, but no one else knows." He gave a conspiratorial smile. "But it is good, isn't it?"

"Shit, I haven't tasted anything like this in ten years. It's fantastic. What is it?"

"The Macallan 18 year old."

"I don't think I've ever heard of it, even."

"It's one of the best Scotch malt whiskies, believe me." He gazed at Alex, shaking his head slightly. "Holy cow, man, I can't believe you're here. I'd given up any hope of ever seeing you again. C'mon, sit down and tell us all about what the last forty years have done for you and why you dropped out on your friends."

Alex pulled a chair from a nearby table, reversed it and straddled the seat, resting his arm along the back. "Jeez, I had forgotten what this place was like. I feel like I'm still a student. I'm half expecting old Martins to appear any minute, teacup in hand, and remonstrate with me over my performance on the last Latin test."

Chris laughed. "It feels like school because smoking isn't allowed nowadays - you have to go outside to light up. So really it is just the same as school was."

"Other than the booze," Tony remarked.

"I don't remember that ever impacting Alex," Brian said. "The way I remember it there was plenty of beer around his room on Saturday nights."

The conversation went on as the five relived the years spent at the school and caught up on all that had transpired since they had walked, capped and gowned and clutching their diplomas at their sides, out of the amphitheatre and into the rest of their lives. "Do you remember...". "Whatever happened to that guy who...", "That guy over there, is that Mickey Davis?"

Eventually, some thirty minutes later, the question came. "So, Alex, tell us about you. You married, got kids?" Chris asked, almost too matter-of-factly for it to be mere interest.

Alex looked at him, "Civil Union. My partner's name is Rob. He's a 747 captain for United on their Trans-Pacific flights. No kids, but two Great Danes named Rosencrantz and Guildenstern." As the words came out, Alex wondered why he sounded defensive.

There was silence for the briefest of moments. "Now, that is cool," said Brian. "Finally I can brag that I have a gay buddy and be one of the 'in' crowd."

"Wow," said Tony. "Who'd have thunk it? So do you get to fly around with him to fantastic far-away places?"

"Yeah. We've been to the Far East a few times, and to Australia. Got interline passes on QANTAS and spent our honeymoon in the Tuamotu Islands near Tahiti."

"OK," Tony said seriously, "Listen up. Here's the deal. If you ever meet my wife, you will not make any mention of trips like that. Next thing you know she'd be making me take her out there, and I don't get airline discounts."

Everyone laughed. "So do you live out West?" John asked.

"Uh huh. A bit North of San Francisco."

"Napa Valley?" Brian asked with some hope.

"Next county. Sonoma. We live in a small town called Bodega Bay. Come visit and I'll take you to Gourmet au Bay. They have some really fine vintages."

"Maybe I'll just take you up on that," Brian said. "My wife and I are into collecting wines, and I can't say I've ever tasted a Gourmet au Bay one."

"Come on out, then," Alex said. "I'll throw in some Gay-Speak lessons so you can impress your friends in the 'in' crowd back home even more."

Again there was laughter. "Jerk," Brian said with the faintest tinge of embarrassment.

"Is your company based there?"

"No, they're south of San Francisco, just under a hundred miles away. But I do design and consulting, sometimes write a paper, so I can work from home most of the time. I go down to the office about once a week, maybe slightly less. Sometimes Rob flies me down there, he has an old Beech Bonanza. In the summer I ride my motorcycle down. In the winter I drive."

"Not a bad life you've got," Chris said. Alex looked at him and nodded thoughtfully without speaking. He wondered what the other man was thinking. Just over forty years earlier, long before it was thought to be fashionable, or even possible, Alex had told Chris that if he ever married, Chris would be the one he would choose.

"So what line of work are you in, Chris?"

"Lawyer. I'm senior counsel for Snavely Forest Products in Pittsburgh. Wood products and lumber."

"Lawyer, huh! Not bad. Got a family?"

"Oh yeah. Wife and two girls. I had to get a dog so I wasn't the only male around."

"Cool. Pittsburgh's not too far from your folks if I remember. Youngstown, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. Warren, just outside." Chris held Alex's gaze. It had been in Chris's bed in Warren during the Easter vacation that he had laughed at Alex's idea of two guys getting married. That laugh had hurt. It had hurt a great deal.

"So tell me, Alex, what was Cambridge like?" John asked. "Pretty hard, or did you sail through like you did at school?"

Alex put his glass to his lips, then gave a shrug. "Dunno. I never went."

"You didn't go? What the heck? What happened? You looked like you were all set."

"Other stuff got in the way." Again the shrug, and Alex let his eyes roam around the room.

"Other stuff got in the way? Are you nuts? You had a bursary from the Founders' Trust. Tuition and full board."

"Yup. But, as they say, shit happens."

"Oh - my - God! So where did you go to college?"

"San Jose State, College of Engineering. Got my bachelors there. Masters at Oregon State. PhD from UC Santa Barbara, but that was later."

"A doctorate?" John said in awe. "You're Dr. Dundas?" The other three stared at him, and Alex felt his cheeks redden.

"Not a real big deal. It was really not much more than an extension of the work I was doing at Cal-Elec."

"Yeah, right. No big deal. Only from what I hear the oral defenses are pretty devastating."

"OK, Alex" said Brian, "you owe us big time for this. We were your friends, and without a word you just dropped out of sight for forty years, and then zap back in from outer space and tell us you're this high-powered engineer. I'm damned if this doesn't call for you buying us another round. What d'you say, guys."

"Oh, most definitely," Tony agreed. "At the very least a round."

"Damn sure. You're lucky we don't make it four - a round for this and a round for every ten-year anniversary you missed."

"OK, OK, guys." Alex threw up his hands in surrender. "I'll buy." He emptied the last few drops from his glass. "Everyone happy with the 18 year old Macallan?" A glint came into his eyes. "Although, coming to think of it, maybe for old times' sake I should make it cheap beer."

"Listen, beer would be OK for a student. Maybe even for a guy like me with a bachelors, but for a doctor, believe me, beer will not cut it," Brian said in a mock threatening voice.

Alex grinned at him and stood up. "I'll help you carry," Chris volunteered, getting out of his chair.

They crossed to the bar, the trip delayed as Alex said brief hellos to men who looked very different from the way they had four decades earlier.

"If it means anything, I'm sorry," Chris said, ending his silence as they waited for the barman to find suitable glasses to hold the whisky.

"For what?" Alex asked, turning his head only enough so that his eyes could meet the other man's.

"I used you, Alex."

"You mean the sex? Don't sweat it, Chris." He turned, and leaning his back on the bar scanned the room. "How many guys do you think are here? Thirty? I had some kind of sex with at least sixteen of them when I was here. It was a boys' boarding school, for God's sake. That happens."

Chris winced and seemed to stumble for words. "I thought I was....."

"What? Special?" He had not meant it to sound so harsh, but the hurt that Alex had not thought about for over thirty years now seemed very real once again.

"er...no....well, I mean...we..."

Alex relented. "Chris, you were special." He looked directly into the face a mere two feet away and felt the rush in his chest. "Man, I was crazy about you."

"I know." Chris looked away briefly then back. "That's why I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You're happy now. I'm happy. That's the way it is. That's how it is with some couples: one loves the other and the other doesn't love back." He pulled a wry face. "That's how life is. Better to find out up front than go through an ugly divorce later." Alex felt in control of his emotions again.

Chris looked down at a napkin on the bar counter. "Well, you see.....that's the thing. I was in love with you, too."

Alex stared at him for a full ten seconds, during which he didn't breathe. "Then why didn't you...."

"You don't understand do you?" It was almost a plea.

"What don't I understand? What it means to be in love? Oh my God, Chris, I've...."

"No! Not love.... Fuck!" He shook his head in something between exasperation and disbelief. He faced his friend and spoke in earnest, "You know what the problem is? The problem is, Alex, that you don't really comprehend what it is like to be a normal human being. Everything is easy for you. Things aren't for the rest of us. I watched you at school. Everything came to you...."

"That is such bullshit! How can you even say that? Not everything fell into my lap. There were tons of things I wanted I never got. I never made it to the 1st XV, I never made it to head of house, let alone head of school."

"C'mon. You sailed through every exam. You made captain of the track team. You did so many unconventional things that for five years after you left, maybe more, your name was a legend here. You didn't make the 1st XV because you didn't like the coach, what was his name, Campbell, and you gave him a load of shit. You didn't get head of house because you got caught sneaking back into school after midnight with a bunch of guys you'd taken out for a tour of Philadelphia's Red Light district. But that's just the point I'm making. Even when you got into trouble, the punishment never seemed to affect you. You would just shrug it off and move on, and another mark was added to the totem pole of the things Dundas had done.

"You know what sums you up for me? Those lines from Julius Caesar, 'The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it with lusty sinews throwing it aside, and stemming it with hearts of controversy.'"

Alex shook his head. "That's not how it was, Chris. That was not how it was at all." He looked up at his companion. "Man, there were so many times I was scared out of my mind. There were times I was lonely. And there were times I hurt."

"But you never showed it. You never let any of us see that." He stopped speaking, his eyes fixed on Alex's face, and when his words began again the voice was softer, almost wistful. "And then, with me, you made being in love look so easy. You told me you loved me, and ...and man, I knew you did. And you could somehow fit that into your life and be calm, and do stuff, and be quite happy." His voice took on an edge. "But it wasn't like that for me. Being in love with you ripped me apart. I ached inside when I was away from you, and when I was with you I was afraid that you'd go away, and that made me miserable. When I was in love with you I was a shit to everyone else and I couldn't tell them why. I don't think I even understood myself why I was like that. Being in love was hard for me, Alex."

"Was it just as hard for you with your wife?"

Chris appeared to consider the question before replying. "No. With her it was easy. I guess, with her, I was in love with a human. With you I was in love with a God."

Alex shook his head and gave a mirthless laugh. "No, Chris. That wasn't it. With me you were in love with the devil."

Chris opened his mouth, but just then the barman placed five glasses in front of them and carefully decanted the liquid gold from a bottle into them. Alex pushed his credit card toward him. Keep the tab open, but just for me, Chris here, and those three guys sitting over there. I'll settle it at the end of the evening."

"Sure thing, Mr. Dundas," the barman said looking at the name on the card.

"It's Doctor Dundas," Chris interjected.

"Oh, beg par..."

"Alex will do just fine." He pushed his wallet into his back pocket and picked up three glasses between his fingers. "Look, Chris, don't beat yourself up over what happened a long time ago. I'm not carrying any grudges - at least not against you." He put on a campy tone of voice, "And sack-cloth is so last season."

"Oh, God, Alex. Only you could carry that line."

"Jeez, what took you guys so long?" chided John as the two bearing glasses returned to the group. "We thought you'd gone for a quick one." He stopped, face reddening. "Oh, shit. I didn't....."

"Naah," Alex replied without breaking stride, "Chris isn't my type. It's Brian with those tight, runner's glutes that I'm after."

Brian held up his fist to his head, thumb and pinky extended to resemble a telephone handset. "Hello? Is that United Airlines? You guys need to radio Captain Rob and get him to turn his plane around to Pennsylvania, his partner's busy slipping his leash."

The ensuing laughter ended as a sixth man walked up to the group. "What's the joke, guys?" And when no one was forthcoming with an answer, he continued, "Hello, Alex. To what do we owe this honor? Don't think I've seen you at one of these dos before."

"Yeah. Strange isn't it?" Alex purposefully ignored the hand held out to him. In his memory was a different Terry, a Terry who had once been a friend - much, much more than a friend. There had been a time when he would have gone to the wall for Terry. But, in their final year at St. Jerome's, Terry Bates had been appointed head prefect. Everyone had expected, wanted, it to be Alex, but Terry's father was on the Board of Trustees and that had to count for something. Alex hadn't resented Terry's new position: philosophically he realized it gave him more freedom to leave his mark in school lore as an individual. But it seemed to change Terry. His circle of friends appeared to shift more to boys whose parents had the outward and visible signs of wealth. And, perhaps most puzzling of all, he eschewed the moments of lust that he and Alex had shared for the previous three years.

"I hear you put on quite a show this afternoon. If I'd known it was going to be you doing the presentation to the N.A.D. board I could have warned you about old Hampton. I know him well: he really is something else - and he really is homophobic."

"So I learned."

Bates smiled. "He's not bad, really. He just doesn't swallow all this gay rights crap." He raised his bottle toward his lips, but stopped to add, "I don't either, really."

"Yeah, I seem to remember when we fooled around you didn't swallow."

There was a strangled guffaw from Tony and John.

"Don't be crass. I never did any of that kind of stuff at school."

"Must be my mistake, then." Alex took a sip of whisky. "By the way, did you know that having an erection that bends to one side, like yours does, is called Peyronie's Disease?"

"Shut the fuck up, Alex," Bates said, looking around to check no one outside the group had heard.

Alex raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips as though considering the options, but said nothing. Bates took a swig at his beer. He should have left then, but the moxie had him. "But I shouldn't be arguing with you. I really should thank you, Alex. We needed that contract, and you delivered it to us. So thanks." He raised his bottle in a toast that was meant to be derisive, but the tone of his voice had betrayed a sense of relief, and he confirmed it by adding softly, "I didn't fancy going into Chapter 11."

"You sure worked hard to avoid it," Alex replied. "It's not what you know, it's who you know."

The satisfied smile half formed on Bates's mouth, then disappeared. "What d'you mean?"

Alex shrugged. "Marketing 101: One sells to people like oneself."

"Oh. Yeah. That's me: be like your client." He looked around. "Well, I must mingle. Being on the Board of Trustees, you know, people expect it of me."

"About 6.8 on the ABS, I'd say," said Brian as the interloper walked away to speak to someone else.

"ABS?" Tony asked.

"Asshole Behavior Scale. Like the Richter scale. Each integer is ten times as bad as the previous one."

"Shit, then I'd peg him at an 8, then," said Tony.

"So what was all that about?" asked John.

"Bates is one of the major players in Jameson Power Industries," Alex explained. He's on their board. They build about twenty percent of all the power generation plants in the US. Cal-Elec, where I work, did about five percent fifteen years back. Ten years ago, it was 6.6 percent; five years later it was just over 10 percent, and last year we passed 19. We are now their primary competition within the US. Jameson is hemorrhaging. Their business model was almost entirely based on fossil fuels, with a few nukes thrown in. They have been slow - some would say resistant - to greening their design. And now it's biting them.

"The deal Bates was talking about is a subcontract to North American Development who was chosen by Canada to renew the power generation scheme on almost the entire Eastern Seaboard of their country. They want to develop the region for economic stimulation. Jameson's bid is at least 5 to 8 percent less than ours. That's a lot of money when you convert it to dollars, and it's a powerful argument when you're talking taxpayer money with politicians who have to sign off now, but will be long gone when any benefits - or problems - are realized. Our bid will cost more, but it will give the Canucks all the power they need with minimal damage to some of the greatest pristine landscapes in the world, and not too severe an ecological impact.

"This deal is make-or-break for both Jameson and Cal-Elec. If they don't get it, they'll go into bankruptcy as Bates suggested. If we don't get it, our growth will stall, our share price will drop and we are likely to be taken over by Northeast Utilities who is really looking to expand out to the West Coast."

The group considered that. "But the way Bates spoke, you had...er...not got the contract," Tony said hesitantly. Everyone looked at Alex, anxious for him to debunk the notion.

"Yup. I must say that's how it looked when I left."

"But why aren't you more upset, then?" asked Brian. "And I didn't understand all that stuff about homophobia. Was that about you being gay? How did he know? We didn't."

"Well, some of you mightn't have," Alex said without looking at Chris, but then went on. "He was aiming not so much at me as me, more like at me as Cal-Elec. We are viewed in some quarters as a gay company," Alex wiggled two fingers on each hand to put the last two words in quotation marks. "It's not true, and it is true, depending on how you play the statistics - what you put into the mix and what you leave out.

"We are strictly non-discrimatory. We recruit across a wide spectrum, and our initial interviews are blind: each applicant is assigned a number so the people doing the first assessment have no idea of race, gender, nationality, or anything else. But once they're on board, we strive to have a co-operative, threat-free, and knowledge-nurturing environment, where the best talents can grow to their fullest potential. And we assiduously look for the smartest people, and hold onto them once we have them. So let's say for the sake of discussion that 12% of the general population is gay, 17% of our workforce is gay. That's where the 'gay company' comes from. What these people who bandy that number around don't show is that we also have significantly more women and minorities throughout all levels of management than other comparable companies do. We are not an equal opportunity company; we take only very smart people on. If you're not smart when you apply, we do not kid ourselves that we can make you brighter. You will not be hired.

"So today, after I had delivered our proposal and was taking questions, one of the North American Development people whom I was presenting to, told me that, if we wanted the contract, we could not put any people in the field who had, as he put it, San Francisco accents. That had never come up before in our dealings with N.A.D. so I wondered if someone else had fed him a line. Someone from Jameson, perhaps."

"So what did you say?" Brian asked.

"I told him that Cal-Elec had to be free to staff our project with whomever we felt was best suited for the positions. And at that we hit an impasse. None of the other N.A.D. people took sides, and the meeting basically hung on that single issue. So I threw the gauntlet down. I said we would not vet our staff on sexual orientation, and I would entertain no more discussion on the matter. Their guy said he was sorry to hear that, and the meeting ended."

"That sucks," said Brian.

"San Francisco accents. That's a new euphemism," John remarked.

"Yeah, I was a bit taken aback at first, because I was thinking, 'we don't have a strong accent in the Bay Area.'" Alex said.

"Well, good for you for standing your ground," John said. "You did St. Jerome's proud." Which was a good remark on John's part because it brought everyone back from corporate melodrama into the celebration. The conversation went on with war stories from the other guys' work lives.

The buzzing sensation at his waist alerted Alex to the cell phone on his belt. He pulled it from its sheath and looked at the screen. The number was not one he recognized, and excusing himself, he moved out of the room to a quieter area where he could take the call. It was a habit with him any time Rob was flying - no matter where he was, he took calls, always secretly dreading hearing the words, "this is United Airlines Operations..."

By the time he returned, the speeches had begun. He walked up to Brian and the others just as Terry Bates was being introduced as the new chairman of the Board of Trustees. An ideal candidate, the speaker said. Exemplary student at St. Jerome's, at which Tony turned to Alex and whispered, 'I dare you to tell them that you blew him,' at which John choked on his whisky. The man at the microphone told how Terry Bates had worked in his father's accounting business during college vacations to make money, how his career with Jameson had taken off with promotion after promotion. Eventually the introduction ended, and Bates himself took the podium. As the room quietened, Alex looked around, trying to place names with faces that had changed so much with time and experience. He barely listened while Bates's voice went on and on, trying to make the mundane sound important. Cued by the others, he laughed dutifully at jokes that he had heard told better at least fifteen times before, and Alex gave a modest wave to the room when Bates made a comment on his attendance after so many years in obscurity. But he pricked up his ears when the tone of Bates's voice changed and he began a new topic.

"As those of you who are on the East Coast might have read in the newspapers or seen on TV, the school finds itself in the middle of somewhat of a scandal. A scandal, I might add, that is not of the school's making in any way, but rather brought onto it by one of its faculty. But that fact doesn't sway the press. In case you do not know what I am talking about, I shall give you a few details.

"As we have come to realize, in this day and age, with digital cameras, phones that take pictures, and the internet, whatever one does at any time in public can be broadcast around the world within seconds.

"Well, it would appear that a young lad - not from St. Jerome's, I can assure you", a remark that brought forth some nervous chuckles, "had access to some film from security cameras at a certain unsavory place in New York City. On those films were images of men picking up young men for immoral purposes. And when the film was magnified, it can be clearly seen that on at least two occasions, the man accosting these young men was Father Corsley-Davis, the chaplain at St. Jerome's for the last forty-one years.

"Father Corsley-Davis denies these allegations, as one would expect him to, of course. On the other hand he has declined to give any explanation for what is shown on the films. And thus, gentlemen, to re-assure the public, and the parents of our students and prospective students, about how St. Jerome's feels about these matters, the Board of Trustees has concluded that it had no alternative but to terminate Father Corsley-Davis' stay at the college. He has already left. Furthermore, as provided within the bylaws under which the Board is to govern the school, Father Corsley-Davis' pension has been revoked. For all intents and purposes, gentlemen, Father Corsley-Davis was never associated with St. Jerome's."

Bates stopped speaking and there was subdued murmuring around the room.

"I wish to revise my previous assessment," Tony said under his breath. "Definitely 8.6 ABS. Bet it'll go higher when we know more."

"I rather liked Father C-D," Brian said quietly. "Always seemed like a straight shooter to me."

"This is an unfortunate incident," Bates continued, "made a lot more sensational by the press who links it with other issues outside the Episcopal Church to which St. Jerome's is affiliated. The Church itself is, at present, not taking any stand in the issue, maintaining that Father Corsley-Davis was not associated with any parish, and that the entire matter should be dealt with by St. Jerome's.

"I know that this is an embarrassment for us all, but bear in mind, it reflects on none of us, nor on any student at St. Jerome's. Moreover, let me make it quite clear, that since this matter has appeared in the press, no student, current or former, has come forward to accuse Father Corsley-Davis of any impropriety or any other type of non-professional conduct.

"And so, I am fairly confident that, with the Board's decisive action, our enrollment numbers will continue to increase.

"I ask for your prayers to be with the Board in this difficult time.

"Thank you."

Bates paused. If he expected there to be some applause after such a grandiloquent address he was disappointed. Most people were just too amazed to know how to react. Father Corsley-Davis had been quite popular when they had been at school.

Bates moved away from the podium, but almost unnoticed, Alex had made his way up the side of the room, and within seconds of the podium being vacated, he took Bates's place, tapping the microphone with his finger to get attention.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he said as the room went quiet and faces turned toward him. Stepping away from the podium he asked, "Can you all hear me without the mic? I hate those things."

When there was an assurance that his voice was carrying adequately, he stepped to the center of the room and went on. "As Terry said, Alex Dundas has, after forty years disappearance, returned to St. Jerome's. Since that is the case, I feel I am entitled to beg your indulgence while I say a few words. Perhaps reflect a little bit on how St. Jerome's has impacted our lives and our values.

"As Terry mentioned, and he did so a lot more eloquently than I can, we all love this school, because in a way it is our family. A family that tried its best to instill in us everything that was good and noble. Constantly we heard quoted the school motto, Quaere Verum - Seek the truth - and over and over we were instructed to serve others, to take care of our neighbors, and to look upon, and after, each other as brothers.

"All good stuff, right?" He looked around. "There was just one problem. When you see a guy drowning, it is useless to yell at him 'float!' It does him no good at all. If you wish to help him, you have to tell him how to float.

"And so we come to Father Corsley-Davis. Yes, Terry, even on the West Coast, I had heard of the problems besetting our school.

"Let me digress momentarily. A show of hands: How many of you took Latin with Mr. Martins?" Alex raised his hand as did about twelve or thirteen others. "Good. Just under half. So when I say Gladiator in arena consilium capit just under half of us are going to break out in a cold sweat and want to die." The room erupted in laughter.

"For the rest of you, that is a quotation from the Roman philosopher, Seneca, such an icon to Mr. Martins that sometimes we thought they must have been fellows at college." Another ripple of laughter. "The quotation means 'The gladiator is making his plan in the arena,' and he threw it at us when we came to class unprepared.

"I stand in this arena in front of you tonight rather unprepared for what I shall say." Alex took a sip of his whisky. "But when I heard about Father C-D and the issues facing St. Jerome's, Seneca's wisdom came to mind, and I have thought of it almost constantly since. And in considering something our Roman friend said, I was convinced, gentlemen, that I had to return to St. Jerome, even though I had sworn to myself forty years ago that I would never set foot in these rooms again.

"When I graduated here in 1966, I left with the world at my feet. As my friend Chris reminded me a few minutes ago, I left with a bursary from The Founders' Trust to go to Cambridge because I was a math whiz. But I never made it to England. I didn't go to Cambridge." There was a rustle of surprise.

"Yeah. See, just like the drowning man, because no one had told me how to look after my fellow students as brothers, I had had to come up with my own definition. And each of you was similarly forced to decide for yourself what those words meant. And thus, when I thought it meant one thing, others thought it meant something else. For instance, when I confided to a couple of people who I was close to that I was gay, I believed that, in brotherly fashion, they would keep that confidential." There was a slight hubbub in the room. "To someone else, though, it meant 'Go tell Dad,' and Dad just happened to be on the Board of Trustees - the very people who controlled the bursaries.

"And guess what? Shortly after that, my bursary got pulled. No Cambridge for Mr. Dundas. OK, don't start eyeing the exits, guys: I am not here packing an AK-47 to wreak havoc in some melodramatic act of revenge. I tell you, quite honestly, although I was stunned, I could live with their decision.

"But then I encountered something I had never foreseen. Whatever barrier being gay had to studying math at Cambridge, the same barrier surprisingly existed to being a member of my own family. Within two weeks of leaving St. Jerome's I was out on the streets and on my own. I had sixty dollars and twenty seven cents, a Honda motorcycle, and the clothes I could fit in a backpack."

Alex wet his throat as his audience stared at him in almost incomprehension.

"Things are different now, thank God, but do you have any idea how hard it was for a gay guy to hold down a job in New England in 1966? There was never a problem getting hired, the St. Jerome's credentials were pretty solid. But soon enough, within days, the word would somehow come down the grapevine that the new boy's a bit light in his loafers, and bingo, however good I was at my job, however hard I had been working, my performance suddenly became unacceptable.

"Hey, guys, I promise you this is not a story about me - I just need to set the stage so you can see for yourselves what really nefarious things Father Corsley-Davis was up to at that time. And what he did to a former student of St. Jerome's." There were some uneasy stirrings.

"I moved to New York, sold the Honda to pay for the first semester at the Technical Career Institute, and found myself a really ...er....economical....flophouse down in the Bowery. Problem was, I was broke. Flat-assed broke. And since I was taking classes and studying, I needed to find a job with flexible hours, and preferably one where I was my own manager. So I took stock of my skill set, figured out what I was really good at, and matched them up with my needs. And I became a hustler." If there had been a hubbub before, this pronouncement turned the gathering to stone. No one spoke. Even the barman was dumbfounded and stood motionless, glass and towel in hand, looking at the speaker.

"In the flophouse I had found a driver's license and, when nobody claimed it, I became Robbie Daniels. That way I would keep my college record clean if I got picked up on the streets by the cops.

"I made real good money." He gave a broad smile, "In fact I didn't hit an hourly rate like that again until two years after I graduated from college.' There was guarded laughter as his audience looked for a sign that what they feared to hear might not come to pass.

"By Christmas Day, just six months after I had left these sheltered cloisters, I was a really experienced hustler. It was on that Christmas Day, standing in Grand Central Station, that Father C-D picked me up." There were several gasps, and someone uttered a strangled 'Oh, no!'

"I tell you, I was scared out of my mind. In those six months I had entertained every kind of man there is in the city. But never a priest. Never a priest, gentlemen. Of course I recognized him, and he me, and I wanted nothing to do with him. But Father C-D was insistent. He pulled out his wallet right there in Grand Central Station, right at the 42nd Street entrance, and paid me up front for two hours of my time.

"Let me tell you, in sordid detail, what followed.

"The two of us went outside, his hand on my arm. We got in a cab, and he took me to some kind of hostel run by the Church. I did not want to go in, but he reminded me I still owed him an hour and forty-five minutes for his money. He got a room, and he gave me a towel, soap and shampoo, and sent me off to the bathroom. He made me leave my clothes with him so that I wouldn't bolt.

"When I came back to the room there was food waiting. More food than I'd had in front of me for six months. Cold turkey, cold beef, bread, tomatoes. There was water in a glass. Isn't that something - water in a glass in a hostel was luxury! Father C-D told me to eat. While I ate, he wanted to know the reasons why I was doing what I did. It was a pretty simple story, and I was pretty hungry, so my tale was finished long before I finished eating.

"Then it was Father C-D's turn. He told me I was still in debt to him for about forty minutes of my day for which he'd paid. And he told me I had just that long to make up my mind what I wanted to do with my life. If I wanted to go back to hustling that was fine. He would get me a cab to take me back to Grand Central, he wouldn't interfere again, and he wouldn't go to the cops.

"On the other hand, he could get me a janitorial job in the Church in the city. I'd make about a tenth of what I made by hustling, but the Church would provide me a place to sleep and give me food. They'd pay for my books for TCI and my tuition for the remainder of the year. During that time he would work with me to get a scholarship for one of the regular universities.

"And, Terry - and the others of you who might be worried about the enrollment numbers - in all this time his clothes stayed on, his zipper stayed closed, and the only time he touched me was when he blessed me before I left.

"I didn't take the cab ride back to Grand Central. The year after that, thanks to Father C-D's help, I got into the College of Engineering at San Jose State and I moved out to California. I hadn't seen Father C-D since I left New York until I had dinner with him last night. But we've kept in touch.

"He doesn't discuss his work, but every now and then I get a letter from some young guy somewhere who says Father C-D gave him my name. The letters ask for advice, they ask about job opportunities, they never ask for money.

"The HR department in our company knows Father C-D, and I believe we have five or six of his guys working for us. I don't know who they are, and they don't know about my connection to Father C-D.

"And that, gentlemen, is as clear a demonstration I can give as to what I believe the instructions mean to look upon, and after, each other as brothers, to take care of our neighbors, and to serve others.

"I recognize the desire of Father C-D not to have his successes - and failures, which I guess he must sometimes have - trumpeted abroad. Even when I entered this room tonight I was unsure as to whether I would speak or not. For many days now I have pondered long and hard over another quotation of Seneca's, which is Qui dedit benificium taceat; narret qui accepit. It means, 'let him who has done a good deed be silent; let him who has received it tell it.'

"And then Mr. Bates mentioned that Father Corsley-Davis's case reflected on none of us. From that statement I became convinced that St. Jerome's is rudderless and in need of a glimpse at the stars so that it can resume its true course.

"If it were up to me, I would recommend that this story be required reading for any boy desiring to enter St. Jerome's, and, along with his academic credentials, the acceptance of his application should be determined by a four page commentary written by him on the matter."

He paused and sighed. "But I am a realist, and from what I know, and what I have heard here tonight, I don't foresee this being implemented.

"And so, Terry, I must tell you that this afternoon I instructed our Corporate Counsel to place whatever resources they need at Father C-D's disposal in order to have his good name restored, his position at St. Jerome's reinstated, his pension fund returned to active status, and to ask for such punitive damages as the courts usually award for degradation such as he has endured, from whatever parties contributed to it.

"Gentlemen, I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening and the other reunion celebrations planned for this weekend." And with a nod of acknowledgement to the audience, Alex walked back to where his four friends were sitting.

There was a full five seconds silence as Alex moved into the room, and then Chris stood up and began to applaud, and within another quarter minute, half the room was standing.

"You done good, Dunce," Brian said, using the nickname Alex had not heard for years.

"God, I was so scared about what you were going to say next," Tony said. "For a few seconds there I thought you were going to put a nail in C-D's coffin."

"You should have seen Bates's face. It started off red then got whiter and whiter as you went on. I thought he was going to throw up at the end," Chris laughed.

The audience in the room had splintered into small groups, and in ones and twos people moved over to Alex. The tone of the message was always the same - a job well done. To a man, no one mentioned hustling.

"Tell me, Alex," Chris asked, "you said up there that you had instructed your company counsel. What position do you actually hold at Cal-Elec?"

"Well, officially I'm chairman emeritus, but I like to think that most of my work is done as part of our R&D team. That's what I enjoy doing the most." And that statement cost him another round.

Later, when the room was almost empty, the five sat, ties loosened, sleeves rolled up, talking. It was a little after 2am when the barman tactfully suggested that the tab be settled. As Alex signed, Brian said, "This was one of the best evenings I've ever had. I don't think I've had this much fun since we were at school. I'm only sorry about you losing your bid on your contract, Alex."

"What? Oh, didn't I tell you? We got it. That was the phone call I got a bit earlier."

"But the San Francisco accents thing?" asked John. "They backed down on that?"

"I set that up," laughed Alex, "and old Terry Bates walked right into it."

"You set it up?" Chris asked in disbelief. "How? Why?"

"I had to, otherwise we were going to lose the bid because of the price. The N.A.D. board could see the value of our proposal, but were wavering, and I was pretty sure that unless we did something they were going to come down on Jameson's side. We needed a big ally, but we'd already called in all our favors.

"Back in San Jose, we have a guy who does no recognizable work all day. He spends all his time writing on blogs and in chat rooms. He has a great time, and we pay him very highly. Corporate Counsel and HR have heart attacks over him, but he is vital to us. His work presents us with some very useful information for our marketing strategies. In this particular case, we knew that, at N.A.D., their chairman of the board almost never intervenes with the board's decision. In some eight years, we reckon, he has done so only three times. But when he does, it is well known that anyone who stands against him does so at their professional peril.

"We had very little information about this guy, so we called in everyone in our company who had ever had dealings with N.A.D., and had a brainstorming session. One of our Sales guys had only one piece of information to offer, and almost everyone laughed when he told us. He said that, within his family, the Chairman had the nickname Dziadzia, even though they have no Polish connection. We gave all the information we had gleaned from our session to our gossip boy, and turned him loose. In three days we had an answer. The chairman has only one son who also is some big shot at N.A.D. This son, in turn, has one son. This grandson of the chairman recently turned 18. And on his 18th birthday he came out. His father went totally ape, apparently, but in the grandfather's eyes, the boy can do no wrong. It was the grandfather who lobbied the father to let the boy alone. The grandson had let a hint of this out in a chat room. To 999 people out of a thousand, the remark meant nothing, but he had referred to his grandfather by that nickname, and our boy picked up on it. Our guy got involved in a long discourse about coming out - he himself is out, by the way - and the grandson became something of a coach to him, in the process divulging the whole family make up.

"When I heard that, I knew if I could get the gay-card into play, I would get the grandfather onto my side. But, on the other hand, I couldn't bring it up myself, or it would look like just another marketing ploy.

"So we found out all we could about the other board members. Hampton has written some anti-gay letters to various newspapers around the North East, and we knew that Terry Bates played golf with Hampton. We called in a favor from one of the women who writes for the New York Blade. She went down to Jameson and wangled an interview with Bates. During that interview she played up Cal-Elec as being very pro-gay in employment, and kept asking him if Jameson was likely to follow suit. We handed Bates what we hoped he would think of as our Achilles' heel.

"And then we held our breath and waited.

"Sure enough, after my presentation, Hampton came out of left field with his little bigoted platform. When he mentioned the San Francisco accent stuff, I didn't dare look at the chairman. I reeled Hampton along for just a little bit, and then shut the meeting down on that point, and let nature take its course.

"And grandfather came through. He was not going to permit any anti-gay bigotry."

"Shit," said Tony. "You've got enormous balls, Alex."

Alex laughed and ruffled Tony's hair. "I bet you say that to all the hustlers you meet."

Much later, after the others had left for their hotels, Chris and Alex waited for their cabs in the parking lot.

"The night's young," Chris said. "How about an ABF at my hotel before calling it a night? It won't be as good as the whisky here, but it'll be drinkable."

Alex smiled at him, but shook his head. "No, Chris. We can't do that. You and I both know that the second the door closes behind us, we'll be tearing each other's clothes off."

"But, Alex, it'll....."

Alex took his friend in his arms. His nostrils caught the faint, manly scent that he had remembered over the years, the intrinsic, personal smell that no other guy he knew had ever had. "It wouldn't just be sex, Chris, although I know that would be great. If it were just the sex, I would have you naked on the wall, here, right now. If we got into bed, it would turn the night into the good-bye we never had, and I don't know that either of us is strong enough to handle that."

Alex ran his fingers through Chris's hair, holding his cheek next to his own.

At the far end of the lot, two cabs turned in from the road.

Alex gave a light peck to the cheek, and held his friend at arm's length. "So Chris, I guess this is it, then. Let's keep in touch, OK."

"Yeah. Let's do that," the other replied with a slight catch in his throat as he went along with what they both recognized as a lie.

Hours later, with sleep eluding him, Alex lay on his back on the wide bed in the Rittenhouse, his hands under his head. The room was dark, the curtains fully open so he could look into the city. His cell phone rang and he snatched it up from the nightstand. It was Rob, to say he was safely in Tokyo. They chatted for a while, catching up. "So how was the night of hot sex with your school friend?" Rob asked after a while. "He still there with you?"

"Didn't happen."

"Oh? From what you'd said before you left, I thought it was a done deal that you two would get it on again. What happened? The old hustler pitch a bit rusty?"

"Nope, Rob. Nothing like that." Alex sighed. "Turns out things are way different to what I had imagined. Seems like he and I haven't moved on with our lives as far as I thought we had. I woke up some real deep emotions inside of me that I thought I'd got rid of long ago."

There was a long silence from Japan. "I'm sorry, Alex." A brief pause. "I mean I'm happy, but I'm sorry, too, for you."

"It's OK. I'll keep it all for you. When are you due back?"

"I'm scheduled for Wednesday."

"Let's take the Wrangler and go up to Oregon for a few days then. Just the two of us and the dogs. We'll take a tent, some wine, and not too many clothes."

"That'd be the best idea you've had in a long time."

The silence drew out.

"Alex?"

"Yeah. I'm here."

"You going to be all right?"

"Uh huh."

"Good. Get some sleep then, OK?"

"OK."

"Good night, Alex. I love you."

"I love you, too."

He held the phone to his ear, reluctant to let it go.

"Rob?"

"Yeah."

"Come home safely."

"I will, Babe. I will."