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27 Solidarity When we enter the shimmery racket of the clothes store in the local mall, and when I am marked by the four-dollar-an-hour rent-a-cop, both of us trolling the jangling, pleated pants, the purple, oversized cardigan sweaters (this is 1989), and when his scent on me locks so good that he is my shadow, he is my brother, Bobby goes to work. You’d be amazed how quick this small very white boy with a keg or two of hairspray could stuff a backpack to the hilt, his little hands aflurry like an angel’s wings. Me and my shadow at the store’s far end. All these years I’d thought us a small knife in the man’s gut. I’d thought we’d overcome, me and Bobby, Bobby and me. But Bobby never stole anything my size, and drove home in a convertible while I waited—as did, sometimes, my shadow—for the bus to take us home. gay pages-2.indd 27 10/18/10 11:20 AM ...

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