We have men on the slope and men on the ridge. In the gully, more men. Men on the main road wait for the men on the esker to move up onto the ridge so that they (the men on the road) can take their (the esker-men’s) place. Men hesitate and grumble. The valley is all men. Men, men, men.

You could see nothing through the window until a tapping began at the glass, a grey leafless branch, and you wondered what makes someone sit at a window table when it’s dark outside. You had to ask for another glass of water, yours was filled with hair. While you waited you didn’t know what to do with yourself. The shag carpet was green. You were looking at the dirt under your nails when you heard conversation from the next table over, something about a man’s ears. You took a drink from your new glass and were surprised to find it was orange juice, not water at all. When you called this to the waitress’s attention, she apologized sweetly but said it would be good for you, and you noticed for the first time that her necklace held a gold pendant that said Eat Shit.

It was one of those summers when people just kept coming to stay, and I’d pull out the futon and slap on the sheets and set my friends up in the living room. My place was small, and the overcrowding really bugged my girlfriend, who was far more solitary than me. There’d be a breather of two or three days before each new onslaught, and we knew that in a couple of months, the visits would all be history. But then the Pope called, and I couldn’t really turn him down. He was coming to Toronto for a few days, and he’d be pretty busy, but he wanted somewhere to crash at night, and he remembered my futon fondly from years past.

Ten thousand bombs had fallen and I was waiting for death to come and scoop its daily share from a bowl of limbs and blood. I walked down the street under the falling bombs. The streets were empty. I walked above humans hid­den in shelters like colonies of rats beneath the soil. I walked past photos of dead young men posted on wooden electric poles, on entrances of buildings, framed in little shrines.

In his hotel room the director took a mouthful of Scotch, swallowed a Viagra and then headed off to the gala. He pushed past women with diamonds around their necks and stiletto heels under their manicured feet. At the bar he ordered another Scotch and fiddled with the gold links on his French cuffs. Men gathered in corners discussing fishing trips to Chile and starlets they had bedded.

It’s cooling on a rack on the kitchen counter. David sits on the couch, cleaning under his fingernails with a corner of his Safeway card, and I fuss with the flowers in the kitchen. We’re both getting ready, in our own ways. I’ll say this now: we love Milt and Janey. They are our best friends and they are getting married. David is particularly affected by the news, because of his history with Janey. They aren’t in love any more, but I know he has a sweet spot for her.

Moth fought his last fight in the basement of a church forty miles out of town. The crowd was polite and applauded after every round, but made hardly a sound while the punches were being thrown. None of the overhead lights were extinguished and there was a constant buzz of fluorescence. He lost a decision to a good-looking guy his own age from the ymha, and punch by punch it was his most painful fight.

Jen did not pass away. She only left me for somebody else. I remember the night she called and said, “I have a thing or two to tell you.”

I wish I could explain how loss has made me the person I’ve been trying to be.

The phone rings at 11:30 at night and as soon as you hear your father’s voice you know something bad has happened.