tare at us as we entered; the looks we were getting were more of curiosity than of fear because we were clearly outnumbered and just as clearly out of place. We tried to maintain our composure and look tough, but it was obvious that we were impressing no one. We sat at a corner table; from where I was, with my back against the wall, I could take in the entire scene. If I had had any worries about being a queer myself, I was relieved to see that I had little in common with anyone else in the room. Most of them were well dressed, or at least they were wearing the kind of clothes we used to beat other kids up for wearing back in high school. They smelled of too much cologne, constantly fussed with their hair, and sang along with a jukebox that was playing the most unbelievably sappy crap from the 1950s. Their complexions seemed mushy and pasty, as if they only came out after dark, and spent most of their lives indoors. While relieved, I was also disappointed. Dissatisfied as I was with the life I led, I was always on the lookout for something different or better. I had this constant sensation that somewhere there must be a world of people more like me, and while I hadn't expected to find it here, the idea of being a sexual outlaw had a certain appeal. But these guys weren't it; if anything, they combined the worst aspects of women and men. I concentrated on my cheeseburger; when I looked up again, a new group had entered the restaurant. Since there were no empty tables, they stood near the door waiting. Most of them looked just like the other men I'd already observed. One had on a loud Hawaiian shirt; another was wearing a double-breasted navy blue suit offset by a shocking pink silk shirt. I started to look away in disgust when I noticed that among them was a boy of my own age, maybe a couple years younger. While his companions looked as if they had dressed themselves from the pages of a slightly out of date fashion magazine, his artless, uncontrived look suggested that his wardrobe had come from dumpsters or trash cans. His shabby black trenchcoat, the kind favored by British mods and their American imitators, would have been stylish, except that it was so worn out that you could practically see through it in spots. The same was true of his pants; ultratight sharkskins, the sort that every well-dressed hoodlum was sporting a few years earlier, but very ragged and so short that they barely reached the top of his white socks. He'd probably gotten them in ninth grade and grown six inches since then. His boots would have been cool once, too, but now the heels were almost completely worn away, and the side zipper of one had ripped apart so that you could see bare skin through the tattered remnants of his socks. The only piece of clothing that looked relatively new was a flannel shirt, and it seemed out of place with everything else, as if someone had just given it to him because he had nothing else to wear. He had a modified Beatle haircut, with bangs covering his forehead, but it was shaggier on the sides than was usually considered the style. He was tall and very thin, and stood, shifting his slight weight from side to side, in a way suggesting that he was the saddest, loneliest boy in the world, and yet couldn't care less about it. I thought I was looking into a three dimensional mirror. I stopped eating, forgot all about being hungry. The other guys at my table didn't notice; they were busy talking about carburetors or girlfriends. I knew I didn't belong with them anymore, just as I knew the boy across the room from me didn't belong with that bunch of sissies. I was sure that he was only with them because he had nowhere else to go. I tried to think of a way to let him know that he could go with me. I watched him for the longest time; he didn't seem to notice. His eyes, dark brown, frightened and defensive like those of a cornered animal, looked right past me. Eventually, though, he became aware of my presence. His expression didn't change. Nor did his eyes; unblinking still, they simply shifted from staring at the wall to staring directly into mine. I watched for some sign of recognition of what we both must be feeling, but neither of us were prepared to show the slighest hint of emotion. We were both too tough, though maybe in totally different ways. Finally his lips parted slightly, just enough to expose a bit of yellowed tooth. I thought he might be preparing to smile, or maybe even to say something, even though that wouldn't have made sense since we were at least ten or fifteen feet apart. I felt my own mouth moving, involuntarily, changing shape to reveal something about myself that I had never let anyone, even myself, see before. Suddenly, with a loud ruckus, the rest of my gang returned, talking loudly enough for the whole restaurant to hear about the fag they had cornered in the men's room and who they were going to kick the shit out of but who had gotten away at the last minute. "I'm tired of hanging around here," somebody said. "These queers are making me sick. Let's go home." I snuck a glance at the boy. He stared back, with a sad, contemptuous look that said, "I should have known you were one of them." As we walked past the front window, the boy's party was being led to the table we had just vacated. He sat down only inches from where I had been sitting, and stared out into the night, coldly, as if I had never existed. I lagged behind, trying to get one last look, till someone yelled, "Come on, or we'll leave you here for the fags." We drove home in restless silence, broken only by occasional grumbling about our bad luck and the promise that next time we'd for sure get some queers. There was lightning now, great sheets of it across the western sky, and by the time I got to bed it was raining. It rained all the next day, too, and then turned unseasonably cold. Summer was almost gone, and it was a long time before I went back to the street corner where the gang hung out. When I did, everyone seemed like strangers, and I didn't stay long. Ever since then, I've been looking for that boy so I could explain to him what happened. I don't know how many times I thought I saw him, at a bus stop in New York City, in a grocery store in Portland, Oregon, through the window of an all-night arcade in San Francisco, at a discotheque in Paris, France. But it was always someone else. Even now I still think I might run into him; why, just the other day I was sure it was him doing skateboard tricks on a deserted street in Eureka, California. Yeah, I know that in real life he'd be something like 40 years old today, and that this kid wasn't much more than 16, as if he hadn't aged a day in all these years. Yeah, I know it doesn't make any sense, but when you get down to it, what does?