I had more to say but he hung up before I could complete my thoughts. It bothered the hell out of me, but eventually I came to my senses and realized that sooner or later he’s bound to have a relapse. I’ve read the statistics, and if I know Gill it’s just a matter of time before he throws in the towel and starts drinking again. In the meantime I’ll just keep my distance.

I had just become comfortable with this prediction when I ran into Gill at a restaurant, and this time I was really drunk. I was at the takeout counter giving my order when I noticed him sitting over a finished meal with three people on the other side of the room. He was wearing a shirt printed with dice, possibly the ugliest shirt I had ever seen on a North American male but still, I was glad to see him. I approached the table and said in a loud voice, “Jesus, Gill, where have you been? Your parole officer has been looking everywhere for you.”

Everyone in the restaurant looked up except for Gill, who shook his head and said nothing. Against my better judgment I pulled up a chair and joined their table, introducing myself as an old cellmate from Rikers Island. “Those were the days, weren’t they? I think of that bunk bed every day of my life. Remember T-Bone? Remember that guy we all called 'The Rectifier'? Oh, what a time!”

Nobody said anything. Gill rolled his eyes and adjusted the napkin in his lap, which, I assume, sent the “secret coded” message that I was not to be taken seriously. These were the new friends he had met at his meetings, the same type we might have made fun of a few weeks ago. Suddenly, though, they were his people.

A very thin, spent-looking woman with shoulder-length hair gathered in a ponytail cleared her throat and said, “Like I was saying earlier, I thought that Timothy person was very nice. I liked him an awful lot. He’s a people person, I could see that right away.” This woman was missing one of her front teeth.

Another woman, younger, with heavily moussed blond hair fidgeted with her chopsticks and agreed, saying, “Are you talk-ing about the Timothy with the olive-colored turtleneck and the denim jacket? Oh, I loved that guy. What a nice guy. Was he nice or what?”

“I’d say he’s one of the absolute nicest guys I’ve met in a long time,” said the sullen Abe Lincoln look-alike sitting next to me. He paused, scratching at his beard, and small stiff hairs rained onto his empty plate. “I liked Timothy right off the bat because he’s just so damned nice how could you not like him?”

“Talk about nice, how about that Chip?” Gill said.