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**** Piece by piece, they strip out of clothing, glances passing back and forthlike dares. First the undershirts. The boots hit the floor with bawdy thumps. The room hotter than anyone should bear. Clothes a misery. Off with the jeans--the leather, the denim ones. Some rough modesty keeps their underwear around their loins. One wears blaxk briefs, cut high on his legs, with a thick waistband; the other wears a pair surprisingly white and clean after the journey. Still too hot. They are drinking from the bottle, back and forth, to keep cool. One sits in the room's only chair, the other on the floor at the base of the bed. The one in the chair, bored, curious, begins opening desk drawers. He is thinking "too hot, too hot--what else can come off--take my tattoos off to get cooler." In a bottom drawer he finds something heavy, pulls it out. A set of clippers, heavy like the hand of authority, like the pair your father used to use, like the ones. The morning had broken bright and clear, but by early afternoon the sky was ashen and the wind had picked up. As the funeral cortege turned into the Colma cemetery the rain began to fall, gently at first, but by the time the mourners were assembled around the open grave, the wind-driven downpour was lashing at them like a sadistic prison guard. Daniel Congress’ mother had been killed eight days before, the victim of a ghastly head-on collision on the Golden Gate Bridge that made headlines across the state of California simply because it was so gruesome. His father had died seven years ago at the age of forty-one, on the day Daniel had turned eighteen, felled by a massive coronary brought on by years of smoking, heavy drinking and a deep and abiding hatred of physical exertion. And it was just dawning on young Daniel that, with his mother’s death, he was alone. When his father was alive, Daniel’s parents didn’t go out much. They preferred instead the company of their friends and.
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