We went to the shitty Mexican restaurant because it has booze and a smoking section. I ordered two bean tostadas, only they call them chalupas there. The food’s utterly mediocre.

My mother-in-law was having lunch with her boss, my lawyer, at the table next to the one at which we were seated. My lawyer leaned over and asked Joe, “So, how’s work going on the Courthouse?”

“That’s not Brett,” I told Wally. “That’s my other boyfriend.” Then I went to the bathroom, where I met Misty and hugged the hell out of her because she’s so hot.

Brett and Jimbo are remodelling a space in the court house this week, turning it into a storeroom. They were the first people to see the court house’s real ceiling in over sixty years. Apparently it’s hand-painted and gorgeous, hidden by not one but two drop-ceilings.

When I got back to the table I said, “I could have an affair with you and no one would even know. They’d all think you were Brett.”

Joe rolled his eyes. We didn’t need to have the we-really-don’t-look-anything-alike conversation again; I’ve had it a million times with each of them. I bet there are several people wandering around the area who have no idea I haven’t been with Joe in eight years; when they see me out with Brett they probably think it’s the same guy.

Other than having red beards and being male, they really don’t look anything alike. I just spent ten minutes looking for a picture I have of them side by side, but I can’t find it. So you’ll just have to take my word for it.

(Note: I found the pic. Here it is.)

Lunch itself was okay. I was having a panic attack, which sucked, and Joe’s depressed (or enraged, alternating), which sucks, so we made fine company. We crack ourselves the hell up, actually.

We chatted, we ate. Steve came and sat at our table to smoke a cigarette (Misty and Blaze were seated in non-smoking.). The waiter, bringing another drink, playfully called Joe something in Spanish that he said meant, “someone who robs your house out of spite and shits on the floor.” Even after Steve and I razzed him about it, he swore it was a real word.

Two guys I vaguely recognized, sitting in the booth behind us, invited us to their 4th of July blowout. Apparently they routinely buy a couple thousand dollars worth of fireworks and take them apart and reconfigure them into a big display, and they buy kegs of Amish beer from John’s Grocery to serve at the party. They mentioned maybe having some mushrooms lying around, too. (Not that I can do that shit anymore, but still. The thought is nice.) Brett probably won’t want to go, of course, but I love shit that explodes and I can always take Joe since no one can tell them apart. The fireworks guys asked me to bring all my cute single girlfriends and it’s a shame I don’t actually know any.

Pulling into the 1-Stop parking lot, Joe asked, “Have you downloaded that Nazz song, yet?”

“No,” I replied. “I found it, but I didn’t download it.”

“Come on, what the fuck! You’ve gotta listen to it!”

“I’m sure I’ve heard it. I used to have all the Nazz albums on vinyl—”

“I know that!” he retorted. “But when you listen to it knowing that I like it, it’s gonna kill you. DEAD. IT WILL KILL YOU DEAD. No panic or anything.”

By now I’m cracking up, giggling really hard. “That’s probably just what I need! Death by Nazz, knowing that you like it!”

He’s laughing too. He said, “Mush, come here, you cutie,” and as I leaned into his chest, laughing hard, he gave me a hug.

I don’t have a lot of old friends, but the ones I do have really rock.