Double Talk Read Online Free PDF Page A

had only a coffee cup and a crystal ashtray jam-packed with cigarette butts.
    It suddenly felt cool to feel cool about Uncle Wallace being gay. It meant I was that much more grown up, that I had been let in on another one of life’s big secrets. This must have been what my mother meant when she said that life in Ireland had not been easy for her brother. I didn’t know whether to feel betrayed by her or not. My mother and I were close: she told me everything, or so I had thought. Perhaps she wasn’t sure herself. Maybe Wallace was gay but not gay, the way the owner of Bridgetown’s best shoe shop and the manager of Bridgetown’s Unisex salon and the art teacher at Bridgetown’s convent school were gay: everyone knew it, but no one said it.
    Fabian offered me a beer, and this, too, was a thrill. I had only ever drunk beer once before. I looked to Wallace for his permission. He just shrugged his shoulders. “Oh my,” growled Fabian. “My son, sure, most of us did all our serious drinking before we were nineteen. Sure, we’re all Irish here, me fine laddio.” He handed me a brown stubby bottle that said Blue Star. I took a big swig and tried not to show how much I hated the taste.
    They asked me about my journey, and, for some reason, I started to tell them about the carpenter I had met on the flight to Boston. I then told them about the bureaucratic snafu that allowed me to buy two bottles of duty-free spirits at Shannon Airport, but allowed me to bring only one into the United States. I described the customs officer: a big ham-faced Yank with a shock of white hair, his neck flesh hanging over his shirt collar. I told them how he had examined my ticket and when he saw that I was travelling on to Canada the next day said, “So, you’re bringing these bottles with you to NewFOUNDland?”
    â€œNo. They’re a gift for the man I’m staying with tonight in Boston.”
    â€œSo, you’re bringing these bottles with you to NewFOUNDland?”
    I thought he was a bit hard of hearing, so I repeated myself. “No. They’re a gift for the man I’m staying with tonight in Boston.”
    He started to laugh. “Okay, kid,” he said. “Let me try it one more time. So you’re bringing these bottles with you to NewFOUNDland?” He gave me a bulldog stare.
    â€œOh, yes!” The penny dropped. “I am.”
    â€œOh, yes. What?”
    â€œI’m bringing these bottles with me to Newfoundland.”
    â€œNext,” he said, and hit my passport with a stamper that made a sound like a Winchester rifle being loaded.
    This prompted Fabian to tell a story about his good friend Broderick O’Brien who was once caught in a similar dilemma when returning to New York from the Old Country and whose solution was to pull up a chair and polish off one bottle of whiskey before he passed through customs.
    â€œIt wasn’t O’Brien. It was Declan Dillon,” said Geoff.
    â€œNo. I’m certain it was Broderick.”
    â€œIt was DD,” said Ian, rolling his eyes again.
    Someone offered me a second bottle of beer. I was starting to feel very relaxed. There I was, seventeen years old, a thousand miles from home, drinking beer with a bunch of queers and not feeling at all out of my element. I was a long way from Bridgetown. “Call me Baby,” I wanted to say, each time I was addressed as Brian. And then I noticed a smell like black tea burning, like when you drop a teabag on a hot stove ring.
    â€œWhat’s the awful stink?” I asked. They all laughed.
    â€œWhat’s so funny?”
    â€œIt’s weed,” said Wallace.
    â€œCan I try some?”
    â€œHave you ever smoked it before?”
    â€œNo.”
    Wallace hesitated.
    â€œOh give the kid a draw,” said Ian. “It’s not like he’s not going to encounter it everywhere, anyway.” I was grateful to Ian, but at the same time I