The Book of Joe by Jonathan Tropper

school,” he said, inhaling from both cigarettes at once before handing me mine. “It's all downhill from here.”
    â€œIf this is as good as it gets, kill me now,” I said.
    Wayne grinned. “You should ask out that girl, Joe.”
    â€œWhat girl?”
    â€œThat Carly what's-her-face.”
    â€œCarly Diamond,” I said. I'd been nursing a quiet crush on her for the last half of our junior year, something I'd confided to Wayne on more than one occasion.
    â€œShe's cute,” Wayne said. “You should go for it.”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œWhat's the problem?”
    â€œWe've only talked once or twice,” I said. “How do you go from a few casual conversations to suddenly asking someone out?”
    â€œBut that's exactly when you have to do it.”
    â€œI feel like we should know each other a little better first, so it's not, like, out of the blue.”
    â€œWrong, wrong, wrong,” Wayne said. “This very time, when you know each other but your relationship hasn't been defined, is your window of opportunity. Girls divide guys into friends and potential boyfriends. You have to get yourself into the right category from the get-go. You do it your way, you'll end up being friends, and there's nothing harder than trying to switch categories once that happens. She'll end up talking to you about all the other guys she likes, in which case you're better off being rejected from the start.”
    â€œThanks,” I said. “But I think my way makes more sense.”
    â€œAnd you've certainly got the results to back it up,” he said, smiling as he flicked his ashes over the edge of the building.
    â€œFuck you.”
    â€œSorry, I've made other plans.”
    We smoked in silence for a while, watching as the scattered lights in the surrounding houses slowly went out. The hangnail moon took refuge behind a cluster of gray clouds, and I shivered as a slight chill took hold of the night.
This is what it feels like when time speeds up,
I thought.
    Wayne turned to me, his expression earnest as he stubbed out his cigarette. “We should get tattoos,” he said.

eleven
    I went in for rock posters in a big way back in the ninth grade, which is obviously the last time I redecorated my bedroom. Above the pine Workbench dresser in the corner hangs an enlarged poster of the painted girl from the cover of Duran Duran's
Rio
album. Beside the window, which looks out over the front door, is a poster of The Cure. On the far wall, above my bed, there was room for both Elvis Costello, peering inquisitively over his Buddy Holly glasses, and Howard Jones, relaxed and smiling under his hair spray, photographed sometime in the five minutes before synthesizer pop was laughed off the music scene. I seem to recall having had edgier taste in music, but I suppose that's just one more adjustment I'll have to make to my compromised memories. The young, bearded Springsteen sweating over his guitar on my bathroom door cheers me up for a second, even though I probably hung it there more for credibility than anything else.
    On the door to my room, held up by thumbtacks, its white border ragged and torn in countless places from random human contact, is a
Star Wars
poster, just like in the song by Everclear. I hum the words softly to myself.
“I want the things that I had before / like a
Star Wars
poster on my bedroom door.”
You have to question the originality of your life when it can be captured perfectly in the lyrics of a rock song.
    Sitting on top of the dresser is my old Fisher stereo. I press the large silver power button, and the console lights up with an amplified squawk. I watch in awe as the phonograph arm rises automatically and swings over to the turntable, upon which spins an old 45. There is no reason it shouldn't work, and yet I'm surprised when it does. It's plugged in behind the dresser, and I remember struggling with the dresser to move it out far enough so