Free The Book of Joe by Jonathan Tropper Page A

behind the counter is Sheila Girardi, who was a grade behind me in school and who played the lead in every school play and sang and danced in every talent show. “Hey, Goff,” she says with a familiar smile. “Goff” has been Brad's nickname ever since junior high. Whenever Brad executed a particularly spectacular move or hit a clutch basket, the nickname would reverberate against the walls of the gymnasium in a vocal frenzy.
“Goff! Goff! Goff! Goff!”
I'd sit in the stands, cheering Brad on, dreaming of the day when it would be me to whom the frenzied cheers referred. But I never made the team, and no one ever shouted
Goff
for me. And so I remain Joe Goffman, which sounds as if it betrays just the slightest hint of failure. Meet Joe Goffman, the somewhat disappointing brother of the great Goff.
    â€œHey, Sheila. You remember my brother, Joe?”
    â€œSure,” she says. “Hey, Joe. It's been a long time. How are you?”
    â€œPretty good. And you?”
    â€œGreat.” Sheila was voted most likely to succeed as the next Madonna, and if she's at all bitter that the gods chose Britney Spears instead, there's no trace of it in her expression. “Listen, I'm so sorry about your dad. How's he doing?”
    â€œNo change,” Brad says, and steers us to a booth. As we make our way through the diners, I notice that I'm getting a lot of stares from the patrons, none of them particularly friendly. “I guess you're famous,” Brad says as we slide into opposite sides of the booth.
    â€œI guess so.”
    We look awkwardly across the table at each other, and I suddenly miss my father's unconscious form between us, which served wonderfully as a distraction. “So,” I say. “How's business?”
    He grimaces. “It's been tough for a while.”
    â€œPorter's closing must have hurt you, huh?”
    He sighs deeply. “It sure didn't help matters, but the truth is, we were hurting before that.” He leans back as Sheila brings us some water. She was pretty in high school, I remember, tall and winsome, and she's still quite attractive, but in a more rugged, plastic sort of way, her hair flight-attendant blonde, her teeth Texas white.
    â€œI'll have a deluxe burger and a chocolate milk shake,” I tell her.
    â€œJust like your brother,” she says, raising her eyebrows at Brad.
    â€œIs that what you usually have?” I ask him.
    He shrugs. “I guess so.”
    As she turns away to see about our food, I think I catch a quick glimpse between her and Brad, something knowing and flirtatious, something private.
Hello,
I think to myself, italicized and in a British accent.
    I look sharply at Brad, who quickly looks away and says, “We're being fucked by China.”
    â€œChina?”
    â€œYeah. Everyone's buying their displays overseas now, for half the price. You want to do business with the big boys, you'd better be manufacturing overseas.”
    â€œIsn't your quality better?”
    â€œQuality is a twentieth-century concept.” He takes a sip of his water and grins bitterly. “Here in the twenty-first, being the low bidder is all that counts. Doesn't matter that you're offering warehousing, fulfillment, installation, and a slew of other domestic services that the importers can't handle. If you're employing American labor, you're priced right out of the market.”
    â€œSo, what are you going to do?”
    â€œRight now,” he says wearily, pulling himself up from the table, “I'm going to take a piss.”
    The food comes while Brad is gone. I grab a fry off my plate and look up just in time to see a grayish older woman approach me and hurl her milk shake in my face. No matter how many times you've seen this happen on television, you're still utterly unprepared when it actually happens to you in real life. On television it's usually wine or some other clear drink. The milk shake is thick chocolate, cold as