Getting Over Homer
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"Wise and forgiving . . . tough-minded and tender-hearted" (The New York Times), this delicious "coming of middle age" novel takes a lyrical, winsome, and genuinely side-splitting look at the heartbreak, aging, the search for home, and the madness of love between two mismatched men. "A stylish mix of humorous irony and realistic detail."--San Francisco Examiner & Chronicle.
hell. I always wondered what had happened to them. Homer clutched me and wailed in falsetto, “We’re sorry we fucked, all right, Lord?” His humor and ease were my long-sought classiness itself. “I can hardly wait for you to meet my twin.” “Mmm,” he reflected. “It’s nice to know if I accidentally break you, I’ll have a backup.” “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” “Probably.” He laughed. “No, I’m an only child. Only me, only Homer.” He said it like an apology, and glanced up at a beautiful
on may sound simple and faithful, but “Black Is the Color of My True Love’s Eyes” is just as pretend and look-at-me phony as “Monster Mash.” And torch songs? “I’ll Never Smile Again”? Whoa, there’s a plan! And New York may be a great city to be in love in, full of thrilling spires, adorable shops and byways, and other loving couples—but it’s a terrible place to be heartbroken. Everything becomes venal and inane and dross on a colossal scale, a filthy, infinitely large shysters’ bazaar full of
calls me Blue, and when George wanted to tease me he called me Blooper or Boo Hoo. Homer called me Big Shoe, but that was later and unrelated to Ed Sullivan. The family nicknamed me Blue partly because it was convenient to tell us apart with different color clothes, and Robert Louis got the red hand-me-downs and I got the blue ones. Which came first, whether the colors influenced our tempers or were chosen to match them, not even Mom could ever explain. Anyway, she didn’t like conversations about
consequences or even introspection. I tried to keep reminding myself, We didn’t actually have sex. That’s not the perfect relationship. Is it? Finally he did come to pick up his things, but he warned me on the phone beforehand that he wouldn’t speak to me while he did. Through some silent-movie dumb show, I asked him for and he let me keep his toothbrush, so I could have something of his to put to my lips. He laughed when I kissed it, but then shook his head, like You’re trying to get me to
myself. Happy new year!” I imagined his soft face—Beauty Fool!—and went out for a walk on Riverside Drive. In the moonlit—rare for Manhattan—street outside my building, the freezing wind was pushing an empty soda can around in jerky half circles, like a remote-controlled toy run by an indecisive, invisible child. It had the pathos of a floundering fish and seemed to follow me as I headed across to the park itself. The glittering lacework vaulting of black branches seemed to form gleaming