But despite what Waldo said, some part of Bill still ached for his family and though the ache faded, it never went away entirely. Sometimes he thought if he could make them proud of him, they would re-admit him but he could not imagine the kind of success he would have to achieve before they would forgive him for being what he was.

One night, at the end of a ten-hour shift, Bill trudged home from the supermarket carrying a bag filled with dented cans of fruit cocktail, soup and tomato sauce his boss had given him. Mr. Liu’s generosity surprised him because usually the damaged cans were sold as markdowns but, Bill thought, a recent visit from the city’s public health department might have had something to do with it. No matter, it was food. Waldo would be happy and Bill liked making Waldo happy because he owed him so much. It was Waldo who got him the job bagging at the Calimart when his boyfriend had quit and moved away. Well, not boyfriend. Eddie was Waldo’s boyfriend. Carlos had been what Waldo called “a number.”

Waldo had a lot of numbers and over time Bill realized he was attracted to a particular type of guy, what Bill referred to as a Negro or Mexican, (“No, doll,” he heard Waldo saying, “we call them Afro-American and Chicano.”), working men, usually married, barrel-chested, stocky and shorter than Waldo. “Fireplugs,” he called them admiringly and confided to Bill, “But not their dicks, honey. Nothing little about those.” They came and went, but Eddie was Waldo’s constant. Easygoing Eddie with his big smile and rumbly, low voice who brought Waldo flowers, opened the door for him and pulled out his chair at restaurants. Eddie with his wife and two daughters. Bill had given up trying to understand the nature of Waldo and Eddie’s relationship or whether Eddie was gay or if his wife knew about his nights with Waldo. “Not your circus, hon,” Waldo snapped when Bill asked those questions. “Not your monkeys.”