I get the image of Lamar squatting the curb — his long legs triangling into his chest, his bobo tennis shoes bridging a trickle of now-gone rain. Pathetic. That's all he is. As if looking down at street gutters implies understanding. As if watching plastic straws and dead leaves dam up water imparts enlightenment.

All it really means is that Lamar's off in la-la land, so I whip my pickup truck across the parking lot and skid the mud tires through the puddle beside him. Lamar jumps off the curb like lightning and falls backward across the sidewalk.

Lamar and I do stupid little tricks like this to each other all the time. It's how we show we care. Despite this, Lamar is pissed. When he gets in the truck cab, he slams the door so hard the latch clanks open again. He then grabs the handle, closes softly, and the door sticks on the second try.

"Are you okay?" I ask. I already know he isn't, but I ask anyway.

Lamar ignores me.

Most people could be with someone all their life and still not know that person. Me, I know Lamar. I know that every few minutes he pulls out his neon orange beeper and looks for messages that are rarely there. I mean, the only ones who ever send messages are me and his mom (who can't even do digital stuff and makes me send everything for her). Despite this, there he is like clockwork, checking his beeper even through the stupid thing vibrates when a new message comes in.

Like the message three hours back, which I typed into his message service in extra slow time just to make sure I didn't send a mistake:

. . YOUR FATHER JUST KILLED HIMSELF . . .

"You feeling okay about things?" I ask again.

"Yeah. Training was interesting." Lamar's studying to be a 911 emergency dispatcher for the city of Wetumpka. "Today I learned how to listen to whiny people whine on the phone."

"A marketable skill. Not what I meant by asking, 'How you feeling, though."

No response. I dart eyes from Lamar to traffic and back again. At the next red light, I roll the windows down to let the breeze whip through the truck cab. Dark clouds are jumping across the horizon and I can already smell the moisture that's coming.

"Do you need to go identify his body . . . or whatever you do when this happens?" I ask.

"Mom did it. All you gotta do is walk into the morgue and say, 'That's the SOB.' She's already on her way to Miami for the cruise. She's not giving up the Bahamas over him."

"Your family deals with grief so well."

Lamar laughs, even though joking about a newly dead father has gotta be a sin. His father may have been a drunk racist fool — or, as I always said, "Rancid cracker shit" — but the moment someone dies that changes. People wanna strut up the good thoughts and words and say what a fine upstanding human the dead SOB was.

Last year Lamar's father led the remnants of the Alabama Klan in a march on the state capital. All of forty members showed up, with their white robes barely hiding their old bones and liver spots. The police lined up between the marchers and a thousand anti-KKK demonstrators, but that didn't stop the eggs and empty beer cans from raining on Lamar's father. The worst part was the TV news. On Live at Five, Lamar's father whipped out a picture of him. "I'm doing this for my son," he said. "Take a good look at him. I've made him into a true white man."

Lamar and I watched that news show together. Lamar kept silent and mouthed dead words that grabbed in his throat. Finally, to ease his discomfort, I said, "I can't speak for all black people, but this qualifies you as a true cracker."

Lamar laughed at that comment, too.

Bullshit Lamar being a true white man. To me, a true white man has no rhythm and no heart and looks like a bald middle-aged car salesman whose wife just left him because he's always whining about the breaks those minorities get. I've seen lots of white guys like that. Seen them staring with hate at anyone enjoying life. Seen them wanting to join in without giving nothing up. Seen them voting Republican merely because no one gave them their needed snuggle time as a child.

Lamar is nothing like that.

"Does your family still kiss the dead before burial?" I ask as we pull into our apartment complex. Lamar looks at me blankly before remembering that old southern ritual which no one in their right mind would ever want to do.

"Not when they blow holes in their head," he says.

Lamar is mooning before the apartment's picture window, watching the winter rains fall onto the courtyard grass. The water flows into a foot-wide drainage grate and I can just see three kids jumping the ditch. The smallest kid jumps short and skids on the metal grate, bouncing once before leaping up and crying. His knee is a bright red flag. The others scurry away, afraid of trouble as the smallest kid's mother comes running out of her apartment.

"Those kids will make it big in the world," I say. "Running's a sure sign of smarts." I'm getting undressed and as I do I lay my shirt, pants, and underwear across my bed in neat, ordered lines. Lamar asks where I'm going.

"Stud's. The show's tonight." Lamar bobbles absently at me. He obviously forgot.

Lamar knew before anyone else that I was gay. In fact, he learned it during an incredibly boring chemistry lab in high school. "Psst, Lamar, I'm gay," I whispered as I lit a Bunsen burner. Confusion hit Lamar. "Which ingredient is gay?" he asked, reading down our list of oxidizing agents.

"Oneal, what's it like being gay?" Lamar asked once. "Eh . .," I said, and shrugged, not able to answer the question. Still, Lamar knew some of what it felt like. Kids at our high school thought Lamar weak and called him a faggot. Like Will, the school's star quarterback, who once split Lamar's lip in the locker room showers. I came up on them to find Will taunting "Faggot, faggot" as Lamar bent over the shower's drain and bled on all those little white tiles.

I beat the shit out of Will that day. I was big — and still am. I'm also taller than Lamar and my body goes for muscle. Lamar's body hates muscle but loves bone. For a while Lamar tried lifting my barbells but the skinny stayed. He just became a well defined boney man.

Lamar doesn't date men and avoids dates with women. He just spends time with his mom and me. We're best friends. I know it hurts him when I spend too much time with my boyfriends; that he hates waiting for me to come back from those late nights out. A month ago, upset over another busted relationship, I sent Lamar's beeper a message:

. . ONEAL LOVES YOU . . .

We never mentioned it again because that's not what we have together. We're best friends. It never goes beyond that.

I walk out of the bathroom wearing red jockey shorts and a matching stretched-tight tank top. The top dips low to show off my pecs and little sparkles in the fabric twinkle with the TV lights.

"Tacky," Lamar says.

"Nonsense. On stage tacky's called style. Besides, red just jumps off this midnight love."

I hadn't planned on asking Lamar to go to the club with me — he's never wanted to go before — but when I'm ready to leave there he is at the door.

"Doesn't it seem sacrilegious to go clubbing the day your father killed himself?" I ask.

"Nah. We never went to church much anyway."

Downtown Montgomery is fifteen minutes away and I park at a deserted Shell station near the club. Walking around the truck, Lamar notices a new confederate flag bumper sticker on the rear bumper. "Redneck camouflage," I say, pulling my overcoat tight to hide my jockey outfit. "Gotta remain incognito!"

Lamar was ten the first time we met. Even though we were in the same grade at Wetumpka Elementary and had nodded hello in the halls, we'd never really had a chance to meet. At least, we didn't have a chance until the night Lamar's father wore his Klan robe to that damn campaign rally and party.

According to Lamar, the night started with his father cornering him in the den between a doily covered stereo and an end table. His father was drunk and grabbed the neck of Lamar's shirt.

"Easy there, little shit," his father said. "I'm gonna teach you about your heritage."

Lamar's father gripped his arm so burning tight that he couldn't move — just stood there staring up at his father's white robe. His father pointed to the red cross over his heart then took a sip of beer.

"See that cross, boy," his father said. He spit words and beer across Lamar's face. "That cross, that means we're in it together. Mr. Montclair at the factory, he sees that red cross, he knows I ain't no little shit. No boss, no janitor. Just white. He's got those fifty hours a week on me, but this says we're the same."

"But Mr. Montclair don't scrub toilets all week," Lamar's mom yelled from the kitchen. At this his father choked and spit tobacco-colored beer all over Lamar's face. Lamar squirmed free and ran to the kitchen, where he wiped his face clean on his mother's dress.

"Get back here, you shit," his father screamed. "I ain't done." Lamar's mother looked down at him, then pushed Lamar out the kitchen door. No sympathy. "Humor your father," she said, meaning keep his father away from her.

As Lamar walked back into the den, his father bent low over him. "You're going to that rally with me!" he shouted. "You'll see, you'll see what I'm talking about."

At the club, I dump Lamar on a bar stool and sit down next to him. "When my number's on, come up and stuff this into my jockey," I say, handing him a twenty. "That'll encourage the other fools to join in."

The bartender, who wears a tuxedo jacket without a shirt underneath, walks up to us and asks what we want to drink. "Whiskey sour," Lamar says. The bartender nods. He smiles friendly like when I order a white Russian.

"Mind if we catch the news?" the bartender asks. "The DJ won't start up for another half hour." He doesn't wait for an answer and clicks the remote before mixing our drinks.

"The club's not what I thought it'd be," Lamar says, waving at the endless mirrors and the shiny-black bar top.

"Like I said, tacky works." The bartender brings our drinks. For the next few minutes Lamar and I talk about how the show will go — such as how I'll be one of the first models, which is good because they always put the best-looking guys first. Suddenly I notice that Lamar isn't listening to me. I look up at the TV and, like magic, the soft background buzz from the news anchor's voice comes into focus and I realize he's talking about Lamar's father.

". . . local Klan leader is dead at 55. Floyd Reston reportedly broke into the house of his estranged wife and shot himself with a . . ."

"What's wrong with an empty six shot revolver and five dead rednecks?" the bartender asks over the TV chatter. Lamar looks down. "One wasted bullet."

I lower my drink and slowly shake my head at the bartender. He apologizes and backsteps away, even though I doubt he has a clue on what he's done to offend.

Lamar's got one good memory of his father. He's told it to me so many times that I feel I was almost there — just me, hanging above his past life like a ghost or Jesus or whatever else sees everything that happens in the world.

Lamar was six years old and making a cane fishing pole on the front porch of his house. The Coosa River ran behind his house and, along the edge of the drop off to the river, bamboo grew in tight clumps of green. Lamar had gone back there, cut a seven-foot cane down, then stripped the branches with a kitchen knife. By the time his father walked home from the factory Lamar was already tying the fishing line to the pole.

"Your mother know you used her meat knife to cut that?" his father asked.

"No sir," Lamar said, fidgeting.

"Well, I'd suggest you hide it before she sees it all dirty like that."

Lamar's father lifted the cane pole from Lamar's lap.

"Not supposed to use green bamboo," his father said.

"Why?"

Lamar's father looked at the pole. He bent it a little between his hands to test it, then shrugged.

"Hell, I don't know. I've just always seen cane poles all dried out and brown. Get a hook and we'll go test it."

Lamar jumped up and ran to the storage shed. He found a tangle of hooks, then ran back and gave one to his father. By this time his father had gone and gotten a bottle of whiskey. A sweet-smelling alcohol haze blew in and out of his mouth.

"You ever been down the bluff?" his father asked.

"No sir," Lamar lied. He wasn't supposed to climb on the bluff because the trash oaks and sweet gum that grew there were always collapsing with the eroding soil.

"Well, I figure you're old enough now."

The trail was steep cut, so they sideways stepped down the hundred-foot drop. Lamar's feet sank into the loose sandy clay and his hands stripped passing saplings for support. The path wound down to a fallen water oak which jutted six feet over the river before angling under the water.

"Still safe," his father said, jumping on the fallen oak. The tree trunk shuddered a little in the current but stayed rooted to the shore.

Lamar rolled a bread nugget between his fingers then fixed it to the hook. He flipped the line into the slow water behind the tree trunk while his father took another sip of whiskey.

"Don't know why I've never seen a green cane pole," his father whispered. "Could be people just keep them so long they get old and dry and that's when I see them. I mean, you think about it, a green pole should be stronger than a dry one. It's got more bend to it."

Lamar watched his cork as it bubbled in the current. He wanted to talk with his father but didn't know what to say. After a long silence he went with a question he'd seen TV kids ask their fathers: "How was work?"

"So good I had to come right home and drink this," his father said, saluting his bottle.

Just then the cork jumped under. Lamar jerked up as the line wiggled hot electric patterns in the water. When Lamar pulled the line in, a little bass wiggled above the current.

"He's too small," his father said. "Know how to get the hook out?"

Lamar gripped the little fish tight. He pushed the hook in, then angled it back out. He let go and the bass blooped away under the surface.

His father tilted his whiskey bottle and poured a little into the upside down bottle cap. He held the cap between oversized callused fingers and offered it to Lamar.

"First fish and all," he said. "Just don't tell your mom."

Lamar put the pole in his lap and held the bottle cap carefully. He'd seen his father drink whiskey by throwing it into his mouth and then swishing a little for taste. So Lamar threw, swished, and gagged. He sprayed the whiskey out in fits.

As his father smacked his back, Lamar's fishing pole fell into the water. When Lamar could see again the two of them scanned the river for the pole but they couldn't find it. The pole was already gone in the murky-dark current.

"Guess that's why they don't use green poles," his father said. "Too hard to see when they fall in the river."

Lamar and I are on our second drinks when a queen in a one-piece swimsuit walks up and drapes her arms across our shoulders and hangs between us. Lamar tries not to stare, but I see his eyes flash over the large confederate flag sewn on the crotch of her suit.

"Yeah," the queen says, thinking Lamar is eyeing something more. "It takes a hell of a tuck getting into this suit."

Lamar gives his unable-to-say-anything smile. The queen keeps looking at him.

"I know you," the queen says in her too high voice. "Lamar, right? Reston's son."

Lamar flushes with that panic I've seen before — where he wants to jump up and run away. Before he can do anything, I introduce him.

"Lamar, you remember Will Montclair."

Lamar looks again, trying to see beyond the queen's blond-bleached wig, paste-pale skin, and padded breasts reaching to a needle-stabbing point. "Call me Miss D," the queen says, extending her hand in a lady-like fashion.

Now Lamar ain't likely to forget that Will's the one who used to beat him bloody back in our high school locker room. Will Montclair, son of Mr. Montclair, the twenty-year mayor of Wetumpka who also owned the factory Lamar's father used to work in.

Amazing how those interconnected circles of life always come back to loop around and around our little necks.

"I always knew you were family," Miss D says.

"That why you beat me up?" Lamar asks.

"Did I? Well honey, like they say, 'If you gotta ask why . ." Miss D catches herself. "Sorry about your father."

"That what your shit-hole dad say when he fired my father?"

Boom. Miss D and I both lean back from that one — her because she's hates cat fights; me, because I ain't seen Lamar get spark like that in him for years.

"I could see it," Miss D says. "Dad never liked stringing useless people along. But hey, that's over and done, right?"

"Yeah, just like Oneal beating the shit out of you that time."

Good one. Miss D's eyes twinkle to one of the rotating strobe lights.

"You're gonna end up like your father," Miss D says softly.

When there's history between people, it's so easy to go right for the nerve. I watch Lamar bite his breath for a second. "Fuck off," he whispers.

"Excuse me?"

"Fuck off!" he yells, jumping up with his fist raised to deck Miss D. I grab Lamar and hold him back while people turn and stare. Miss D dismisses Lamar with a flash of the hand. "High strung, isn't he," she says, walking away.

"Don't pay her no mind," I say, proud of Lamar. "Fucking off is all she knows how to do."

"Gets that from her father," Lamar mutters.

How can you not love seeing a racist asshole get his?

When Lamar and I were kids, his father wore his old Klan outfit to Mr. Montclair's campaign rally and Halloween costume party. Mr. Montclair had one term as mayor under his belt and wanted another, so he called in some of the men from his factory and asked if they'd like to work on his election campaign. Naturally, Lamar's father was the most energetic and was made a campaign foreman. The first thing he did was organize a rally on Halloween at the Wetumpka Church of Christ's community house.

After dragging Lamar to that rally, his father put him to work handing out beers from an aluminum washtub filled with ice. Once everyone was two beers from drunk, Lamar's father stood up, pledged allegiance over his white robe and little cross, then preached about Mr. Montclair to the men and women dressed as soldiers, ballerinas, and pirates.

"You'll see," his father swore. "Mr. Montclair, he's one of us."

Somehow I doubt that. When Lamar told me about the rally years later, he'd long since forgot most of it — just remembered how his father said "nigger" a lot, told some jokes that no one laughed at, and finished by stating that Mr. Montclair would do right by everyone in the room. What Lamar does remember clearly is that Mr. Montclair stood solemn and silent at the side of the room throughout the whole rally. He was only one not wearing a costume and was instead dressed in a nice suit with sparkle-clean shoes. The first time he actually talked to anyone was when he stepped up to the front of the room and thanked everyone for coming.

As the costumed people cheered, Lamar asked his father if he could leave. His father waved him off, so Lamar took a bottle of coke from the ice tub and sat on the front porch of the house until the rally finished up.

Now comes the time when I enter the story — walking in from stage right, or in this case, from the sidewalk across the street. I noticed Lamar sitting against a front porch pillar and, remembering him somewhat from school, I threw a wave. Lamar waved back and I kept walking.

Looking back, I doubt I would have actually met Lamar if it wasn't for his father. Instead, Lamar would have remained one of the innumerable white boys I passed in the halls each day. When we grew older, I probably would have said hey to him when we passed on the street or in the Wal-Mart. Maybe we'd ask each other if we really were in high school together, but before we could figure that out we'd get all awkward because he'd be white and I'd be black and we didn't know how to act in front of each other. Except for Lamar's father, that would have been the extent of our interactions.

But instead, as I walked up the front steps of my home, a voice yelled out, "Hey nigger!"

I turned around to see Lamar's father standing beside the porch where Lamar sat. He was glowing white — a wannabe ghost — backlit by his car's headlights. He was still wearing that damn robe of his.

I stared. I was too shocked to move.

The ghost shook his arms at me. My dad had always said to ignore white people when they acted like this, to not let them see you react, but with that sheeted man glaring at me it was all I could do to remember my dad's words. I wanted to run. I wanted to yell. But I remained somewhat calm and simply walked really fast up my front steps and in the front door.

My dad found me hiding between our thick curtains, staring out at Lamar's father. We could both hear him shouting, "Did you see that, did you see that?" Several men from the party cheered him on.

I didn't even need to tell my dad what had happened. He simply walked to the front door and strode into the street, followed by my older brother and some family friends who'd been over visiting. Lamar's father was laughing, with his back to my dad. I saw Lamar start to warn his father, but instead of saying anything he kept quiet.

My dad tackled Lamar's father in the back and slammed him hard to the pavement. Lamar's father jerked around as my dad rolled him and punched him.

"That was my son, you asshole," my dad yelled. "No one says that to my son."

My brother and my dad's friends pulled my dad back while a group of white men appeared and picked Lamar's father up. Then, before I could believe it, a bigger crowd jumped together, with black people running from down the street and white people coming from the party and other houses. People milled about in pirate hats and witches' noses, everyday work shirts and evening-going-out clothes. Everyone was unsure of what to do, but unable to leave.

The first person to say anything was Mr. Montclair. He stepped between Lamar's father and my dad. "Ease off, Wallyn," he ordered my dad.

"That's Mr. Wallyn to you," my dad shouted. "And I don't want to hear it. You're as bad as any of them."

The crowd went whisper quiet — just tense people waiting. Lamar's father yanked against the men holding him and jerked upright and free with a drunk's anger. "Don't worry about it, Mr. Montclair," he said. My dad edged closer. Other people moved in, a few stepped back. Mr. Montclair stood expressionless, watching everything without a need to etch his face with concern.

"Well asshole," my dad said, "what's next?"

Lamar's father clenched his fists and body. His open mouth found no words, just quivering red face anger. Nothing happened. I waited for someone to speak up for him, but no one did. Everyone just waited. Impatient. Afraid of what he would start. But we all knew he had to do something. Anything.

Then he farted.

Wheeee Pow! Not a light-sounding fart, not a can't-be-sure-who-did-it fart. It was long, loud, Mr. Montclair's factory whistle begging for attention. I barked a laugh and tried gagging the giggles down with my hands, but they wouldn't stay. This was too serious to laugh at. Still, one or two men in the crowd snorted along with me. Mr. Montclair looked disgusted.

Lamar's father wobbled a bit and my dad laughed. "Just a drunk, ignorant cracker," he said in dismissal. He turned and walked me back inside our house.

After that, people quickly drifted off, most of them looking relieved. From the window I saw several men shove Lamar's father into a car and drive him away.

When the street was deserted I came back out and walked over to the front porch of the church house, where Lamar still sat. I kicked at a pillar and watched Lamar for a few moments. "My name is Oneal Wallyn," I finally said. "Tomorrow, I'm going to kick your ass."

I did. I whipped Lamar up and down the locker room, showed him the inside action of a flushing toilet. Lamar later said he decided that was a good day to take up running, so he ran from me during gym class and ran after school and before. A whole week of running before I gave up trying to catch him. "You're a fast little shit," I said, panting for breath. "What the fuck, eh?"

Lamar's father beat him bloody when he found out we were friends. Lamar's mother stopped it by pulling a pistol on her husband. I was standing outside Lamar's house, listening through the thin walls, as she screamed "That's it. Get out of here."

Later, Lamar told me about his family. "It's going to be hard living up to the high standards of my family name," he said.

Lamar is way drunk. He sits beside me drinking his fifth whiskey sour. We're watching the models strut — men in leather thongs, men in Calvin Klein briefs, all with pecs and muscles and hair grinding away as people cheer and stuff dollars down their elastic straps.

"Next out," the announcer says, "we have a first-timer! But let me tell you, that's the only thing virginal about him. Give a hand to Oneal Wallyn."

"Wish me some good," I whisper, then walk to the stage. People yell as I move. My jockey and tank top shiver to the quick-beating strobe lights.

As some stranger shoves a few bucks down my jockey I see Lamar standing by the bar, waving that twenty I gave him. He steps to me, but his foot tangles in his bar stool. Smack goes his head on the brass handrail. He sits on the floor with his head between knees.

I'm off beat now — awkward — and people are no longer cheering. As the bartender walks to Lamar, I bolt the stage to see how he's doing.

"I said his head's bleeding bad," the bartender screams over the music. "Get him to the corner and I'll make an icebag."

I lift Lamar and carry him to a corner chair. A crowd presses in around us. Their heads still moving to the syncopatic music of the song that ain't stopped. An icebag appears and Lamar holds it to his head.

"You're making a mess," I joke as the icebag drips and blood stains his face and shirt.

"Mom wanted me to clean up where he did it," Lamar says with slurred speech.

"Huh?"

"She don't wanna come home and see where he blew his brains out."

The icebag slips from Lamar's head. I pick him up and drag him out of the bar.

The day after I graduated from high school, I came out to my parents. For support, I asked Lamar to be there with me. "I'm tired of hearing about your family," I said. "Come watch mine and see how to handle yours."

"Nice how you're willing to share your shit with me," Lamar said.

My big brother, Buddy, was sitting on the front porch when we drove up. He said "Hey" as we walked by and grabbed my arm in passing.

"Dad's in a shit mood," Buddy warned. "Do it another night."

I was feeling big then, so I yanked my arm free. Buddy shrugged and followed us inside. In the den, Lamar hello sir'd my dad, hello maam'd my mom, and sat down on the sofa. Dad didn't like Lamar too much but said hello from his low-sunk easy chair. My dad was so big and muscular that I couldn't understand how he even got in and out of that low chair.

"How's your father," my dad asked Lamar out of politeness. He'd been hired at the factory after Lamar's father was fired.

"He's doing good," Lamar said, lying to keep the politeness going.

"Dad, I gotta tell you something," I said.

"Is this serious or not?" Dad asked. He had noticed Buddy listening in from the front hall and had realized something was up.

"Serious."

"Then it can wait until we don't have company."

"No it can't. I invited Lamar here, so he's here."

"What do you have to say?" Dad asked in a deeper than usual voice, a confrontational warning voice. A back it off, don't say what you're going to say voice.

"I'm gay."

Lamar said later his ass went tight as my dad raised straight upright from that sunk low chair. He didn't push up with his arms, he didn't bend over and slink out. His muscles just twitched and there he was, standing. I gotta admit, my ass was pretty tight too.

"I know I didn't hear that right," Dad said.

"It's . . . it's right."

He took a swing at me, but Buddy caught him and pushed him against the back wall. Dad shoved Buddy aside and stepped three times towards me before stopping.

"Change it or get out," he warned softly.

I eased back, past my mom's chair, past her chanting "you I love you I love you I love you . . ." I stood next to the sofa where Lamar sat.

"I won't come back," I warned.

"That'd be good."

I haven't spoken to my parents since, even though Mom leaves Christmas food baskets outside my apartment and sometimes leaves messages on Lamar's beeper:

. . TELL ONEAL I LOVE HIM . . .

"See, that's how you gotta stand up to your father," I told Lamar later. "Just tell him the way it is and call his bluff. That's all people here want — just a fight and blood and then everything's supposed to be over and forgot. Well screw that."

"It ain't right," Lamar said.

After leaving Stud's, Lamar says he's going to get sick. Not wanting him to throw up in my truck, we instead walk to the riverfront through the old Civil War tunnel under the railroad tracks. The tunnel's yellow safety lights reflect off the restored bricks and I imagine the slaves and cotton bales who pushed each other through this place. I mention this history to Lamar and he babbles about hating it all. When we come out of the tunnel, Lamar stumbles to the river dock's railing, where his whiskey sours come up and splatter down. The river current carries away the bits of vomit that pass through the dock's wood planks.

"Not so bad fishing here," I say as Lamar wipes his mouth clean.

Lamar spits vomit residue into the river. If rivers could run backward, that spit would be flowing north to where the Tallapoosa River meets the Coosa and becomes the Alabama. It'd then flow on, past Wetumpka, past Lamar's house, past him and his father dropping that cane pole in the river. But rivers don't go that way and everything's always coming down, floating on past this very place.

Leaning on the railing for support, Lamar doodles with his shoe in his vomit. The dock pilings slap into the river's current waves. The trees on the other side of the river are green gray cotton with the coming storm clouds a half line across the sky. Lightning without thunder sparkles in the curves of the clouds while beyond the squall line, stars wait.

"Want to see where he did it?" Lamar asks.

Lamar's father came by his mom's home a month ago for Christmas despite the restraining order. Lamar, his mom, and I sat quietly inside while he banged on the door.

"Ask him what he wants," Lamar's mom said.

Lamar and I opened the front door. The latched chain kept his father's face forced into a three-inch crack.

"He says he wants to spend Christmas with us," Lamar said.

"Tell him any trouble and I'm calling the cops," his mom warned.

Lamar's father came in and sat off to one corner of the den. He was drunk, but keeping quiet.

"I like him better this way," Lamar's mom said. She meant quiet, not drunk, but Lamar and I laughed anyway.

I opened Lamar's present to me and found a locket with twin pictures of us inside. When Lamar opened his gift he found a gift certificate to Gayfers.

"Buy yourself all the cool clothes you want," I said, "long as that coolness don't cost more than a hundred bucks."

From the back of the den came a drunken wailing. "Uhhhhhh," Lamar's father cried. He was looking at Lamar, as if wanting to say something. "Uhhhhh."

Lamar's mom walked her ex-husband into the back bedroom and came back with the door key. "Locked him in," she said. "Let him sleep it off back there."

She then gave Lamar his neon orange beeper. In return, Lamar and I gave her a Bahamas vacation. "Three day cruise, fun and sun, the whole deal," Lamar said.

"Wanna buy another ticket and make it a mother-son trip?" she asked.

"Na, I'll stick around here a bit," Lamar said.

Two weeks later he showed me a message on his beeper. From his father:

. . I WANT TO TALK . . .

A month later:

. . JUST CALL ME . . .

Lamar never called him.

The drive is quick. Just follow highway 231 to Wetumpka and turn off after the bridge. When we pull into the front yard, the porch light — a bare flyspecked bulb in a socket — is on. The light eases into eyes and bounces back with whatever it finds. We step under the police tape on the front door.

"Mom said he did it in the bathroom, "Lamar says. "Broke in while she was gone and did it."

He flips the lights on and the wooden floors groan beneath our feet as we walk to the bathroom. The scene is not like I thought it'd be. Instead of blood and mess, there is simply the sight of soap dissolving to the drip of a faucet and plaster chinking out between tiles. The shower curtain is half hanging and half lining the tub. I suppose that's where Lamar's father killed himself.

"He wanted to keep it neat," I say.

There are small blood smears on the plastic curtain. On the floor, there are dirty shoe prints from the people who carried him away or just came to look.

"I've had more blood nicking myself shaving," I say.

"Yeah."

I don't think this what Lamar wanted. There are no painted dead-people outlines, no notes scribbled on white tile walls, no final nothing. Just a bright-lit bathroom, fallen hairs from Lamar's mom on the tiles, and her toothbrush in the sink. Normal life, with a bit of blood.

I lean on Lamar.

"Won't be too hard to clean up, huh?"

And that's Lamar's weight. The arm on shoulders, the muscles above bones. A good, strong, skinny-weak friend. We listen for his father. Nothing. All we can hear is the faucet dripping and the river droning down below — going elsewhere without a word.

"No," Lamar finally says. "Won't be hard at all."

The pitch-perfect language of Whack a Cracker Upside the Head is only one of the ingredients that made this story the winning entry. The author takes on difficult subjects such as race, sexual orientation, and abuse and handles them with a hardboiled honesty that I admire. The writer is particularly gifted at gathering together diverse narrative tracks to create a cohesive and articulate whole, resulting in a very satisfying read that has the elasticity to branch out but not lose its main thrust. The story’s power and success rests in the fact that it isn't afraid to dirty itself and never apologizes when it hits the reader right in the jaw.

— Don Strange, Guest Editor