Right now, Billy is stuck in traffic on Sunset Boulevard. He is trying not to think about that day in August in Vancouver, but the memories wash over him, vivid and unwanted.
1981. Joe had wanted to go to the pride parade, Billy remembers, because it was the first pride parade to get a permit from city council. And it was the first pride parade to get a permit because Vancouver had just gotten a new, socialist mayor.
Joe had liked the new, socialist mayor. Back in those days, Joe had been convinced that electing a socialist in Vancouver was the first step towards the end of capitalist rule and the dawn of anarchy in North America. Or something. So Joe had decided that he would show his open-mindedness by marching with the gays, and he'd strongarmed Billy into coming with him as "moral support."
"Plus," he'd said, pointing at Billy with the straw from his milkshake, "If any of those guys try to hit on me, we can pretend you're my boyfriend."
"Are you nuts?" Billy had said.
"Are you saying gay guys won't find me attractive? I'll have you know that I'm very popular in that community," Joe had said. "They find my authentic masculinity irresistible."
"You have gone nuts," Billy'd said, slumping back in his seat. "What I'm saying - what I'm saying is, if you're worried that guys might hit on you at the gay pride parade, then maybe you just shouldn't fucking go. Because nobody is making you go."
"No, you don't understand!" Joe had said, leaning over the table. "They need the support. They've been discriminated against. If they wanna march in the street, fuckin' let 'em - the pigs shouldn't be able to tell them what to do. They're sticking it to all those fuckin' Tory moralists and TV preachers."
"But you don't want anyone to think you might be gay." Billy'd said.
"Exactly," Joe had said, looking triumphant, like Billy had finally gotten the fucking point, and then he'd said "No, wait, I do want them to think that I'm gay. But taken. So they won't try to, uh, get it on with me. Because I'm not gay."
"Uh huh." Billy had said.
"So you have to come too," Joe had said.
"Uh huh," Billy had said.
"Discrimination against sexual minorities will be unacceptable in a socialist society," Joe had said.
And somehow, in that Joe way that Billy still doesn't understand, the conversation had ended with Billy agreeing to go with him.
°°°
Billy and Joe had both looked kind of out of place at the Pride parade. Joe with his MUMMY....WHAT IS A SEX PISTOL? t-shirt and a fresh Travis Bickle mohawk: Billy in tartan bondage trousers and the black bondage jacket that he'd worn pretty much every day in 1980 and 1981 and 1982, until he finally came to his senses and put them in the trash a year later.
Despite this, they were diligently ignored by the assembled gays of Vancouver. For once, nobody had seemed to give a solitary shit about what they were wearing or what they'd done to their hair. Billy had kind of missed the outraged stares.
Billy was pretty sure that nobody had thought him and Joe were a couple, despite Joe's genius idea to use Billy as a prop to ward off any guys who might want to flirt with him. Joe seemed to have completely forgotten about the whole plan, because he ditched him immediately to run off and talk to some of the Young Socialists, who were trying to hold up a banner that said STOP POLICE VIOLENCE AGAINST GAYS AND WOMEN.
Billy had gone up the street to the liquor store to buy a bottle of tonic wine. Joe would have to watch his own ass.
It was August and the weather was good for once. Billy sat on the corner and watched the crowd as he drank, and felt no pain.
Billy had been kind of surprised at how many people were there. Just armies of people, most of whom he'd never seen before - gay doctors and roller-skaters and food bank volunteers, drag queens and macho men. He hadn't known that there were this many gay people in Vancouver, or in the world.
Then there were the friends, sisters, brothers, kids — he even saw a woman his mom's age with a sign that said I LOVE MY GAY DAUGHTER.
In a funny way, it reminded him of being at a punk gig: one of the real early ones, back before all the drugs and the fighting started. Back when it was just a room full of kids who had all been picked on in school, and now they were finally in a room where everybody else was weird too. Now they were finally the majority, not the minority. It was a good feeling.
Someone grabbed the bottle out of his hand. It was, of course, Joe. He took a swig of the tonic wine and said "I don't know how you drink this shit", but didn't hand the bottle back.
Joe had been acting like a shithead, and Joe was always acting like a shithead, but in that moment Billy thought that he really loved him: wanted to touch him, kiss him, maybe.
It was dumb. It was dumb, because kissing Joe was impossible, and normally Billy knew it was impossible. It didn't feel so impossible then. Must be the alcohol: must be the atmosphere.
Billy stood up and grabbed the bottle back from Joe. Empty. Billy left the bottle down on the side of the road.
Joe grabbed his arm and dragged him into the crowd. The Young Socialists needed someone to help carry their banner.
But as it turned out, Billy had been too tall and too drunk to help carry the banner, and while they were standing there bickering, a couple of punks they kind of knew came over - Angelica, and Crystal Speed Queen, and McNally, and Gay Tony, the only punk in Richmond, who'd come all the way into town on the bus at 8am in the morning.
So at the end of the march they skipped the speeches and all went out together to get absolutely blackout drunk at a a gay bar Tony knew, before they went back to Crystal's scary, sketchy apartment, the place with the landlord who was probably dealing.
Billy's memories are pretty blurry after that, but he does clearly recall opening his eyes around 1am and seeing Joe making out with Gay Tony. Which explained a lot - explained everything, really, Billy had thought, as he closed his eyes again and went back to sleep on the couch.
In quiet moments, Billy's mind drifts. He keeps trying to work out what his last good memory of Joe is.
It's difficult. He can't separate out what was good from what was bad, what was inevitable from what could have been prevented. Anymore than you could find all the tiny pieces of skull after someone blew their brains out.
He thinks, though, that that day in August might have been the last good day.