Scanning a crowd of stand-up citizens in black tie, he says, “Clearly not. I’m about to go into septic shock from all the bullshit in the air.”

“Cute.” I down the rest of my drink and toast the bartender with my empty glass. “Two more?” He nods and goes about making our watered-down cocktails.

“I’m not kidding,” Raymond tells me. “That speech was something else. Got a tear in my eye, no lie.”

“Sure it wasn’t from all the bullshit in the air?”

“Fuck you.”

“You’re biased.”

“That’s true, but it was still touching. You’re sort of a big deal around here, huh?”

I roll my eyes.

“Hey, enjoy it while it lasts,” he says. “Once you reach the pinnacle, there’s nowhere to go but down.”

“I’m having second thoughts about inviting you.”

He laughs. “In all seriousness, I’m proud of you, man. This is great.”

“Thanks.” I choke down the compliment. “It was cool of you to come. You really didn’t have to.”

“Hey, my oldest friend gets knighted, and you think I’d miss it?”

“Knighted. Yeah, right. Sir Man of the Year right here.”

“Sir Citizen, actually.”

“Whatever.”

“Exactly. Fuck these guys. They don’t even know.”

“No they don’t,” I say, and we clink glasses and drink again.

Raymond Harrison: my only friend from the South Shore who stayed true long after I left town. Ray gets me, and he forgives me, because even though he’s stayed loyal to West Babylon and claims he’d never leave for a million bucks, we both know his conviction is born of fear. As long as he shields himself from what he’s missing, he won’t miss it. So he visits me in Sag Harbor sometimes, and we talk about the old days and how Long Island has changed. He’ll tell me about some new bar that just opened, or about his new supervisor or apprentice, and we’ll debate whether renovations at the Coliseum were worth the Islanders’ troubles, and how the Jets still can’t seem to pull it off, but how the Mets might surprise us—until they don’t. When we run out of things to hash and rehash, we’ll talk about our families. He’ll ask too many questions, wanting to know if his troubles are normal. Then he’ll go home to his normal and I’ll go home to mine, and we’ll each do our best to forget about the other normal: the one he’ll never have, the one I left behind. Six months later, we’ll do it again.

On the far end of the dance floor, a twelve-piece band begins playing “Lady in Red.” Given as how the only woman wearing a red evening gown tonight is my wife, de facto lady of honor, I take this as my cue to showcase romance for public approval.