8
“Bubba do you have any idea what time it is?” Skeeter’s voice came through loud and clear.
“No. It’s still dark. That’s about all I got.”
“It is two-thirty in the goddamn morning, Bubba. Now what in the world do you think I am doing at two-thirty in the goddamn morning?”
“Looking at porn and eating Cheet-ohs if it’s anything like every other night. And you know the doctor said that makes your pecker turn orange so you had to quit.”
“I switched to Frito’s, so kiss my ass. Now what do you want?” Skeeter and I became best friends in middle school. He was smarter than any three people I’d ever met, blacker than the ace of spades, and queerer than RuPaul. None of those things did him any favors in north Georgia in the 90s. But I thought he was funny, and he helped me pass math, so I kept
