The mid-40s are that time in a gay man's life when his major paradigm shifts from sexy to Sansabelts. But when Barry Grooms's partner of twenty years is killed on Barry's forty-fifth birthday, his world doesn't so much evolve as it does explode.<br><br>After navigating through the surreal conveyor belt of friends and family, he can't eat another casserole or swallow much more advice on what constitutes grief. Still numb, he leaves his homestore and design business in the care of others as he escapes to Key West, then New York. There he gets a thankless new job working for a crazy lady in a poncho, then has too many drinks with a narcissistic Broadway actor. Next it's a nude exercise class that redefines flop sweat, and from there he's on to a relationship with a man twenty years his junior.<br><br>Yet no matter how great the retreat from the man he used to be, life's gravity spins Barry back to the small town where he grew up for one more ironic twist that teaches him how to say goodbye with grace.

The Cool Part of His Pillow

My seatmate is a giantess who loudly demands two seat-belt extensions big enough to bundle utility poles. She unwraps an overstuffed sandwich from wax paper she has toted aboard. A tangle of sauerkraut drops onto her blouse from the soggy Reuben and there it remains. A businessman in front of me reclines and crunches my kneecaps. I wish I’d brought that Vicodin.


To make my tight connection, I sprint through the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, which is larger than my hometown. We cattle are whisked to the next holding pen via monorail. At the gate, I determine that people in general are getting shorter. At exactly six feet, I seem to tower over others. Or maybe travel just beats everyone down. Maybe this is the reason it is called a “terminal.”


We’re already past Miami. I can see the archipelago of keys that terminate at Key West.


Chapter 40