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say, so I said something like thanks or Okay see ya, and pulled my hand away.
    RUBY GOT OUT of the van and opened the side door, and I stepped out. Smoke out onto the street. For a moment, I thought the smoke wasmy body smoking. My feet were standing in a rectangle of earth, the rectangle of earth where I’d plant the cherry tree—cement sidewalk everywhere else but where I was standing. My wallet was in my inside jacket pocket.
    Ruby and 1 were about the same: six foot two. I had twenty pounds on him. Something about the way Ruby looked right then—his jaw, the skin of his face below his sidebum—so beautiful. When I stood full up, I was face-to-face with Ruby’s smile.
    Ruby poked his finger in my chest. The will of heaven, Ruby said, Is in your heart.
    Then: New York, new place, Ruby said.
    His hands pressed down the lapel of my corduroy coat.
    Handsome Einstein new self-concept, Ruby said.
    New concept new name, Ruby said.
    New name? I said.
    When you cross over, Ruby said, You need a new name.
    Will of Heaven! Ruby said, his arm in the air; his hand cupped, fingers and thumb together like Italians do, five points of a star: his grand easy smile.
    From inside the van, True Shot yelled, William of Heaven! Ho!
    Ruby pulled the hair tie from around his ponytail and shook his head. His red-blond hair was shiny all the way to his shoulders.
    You got our business card? Ruby said. You’re sure?
    Sure, I said, and pulled the card from my side pocket, ROMEOMOVERS . SPIRIT SCHLEPPERS . DOG SHIT PARK .
    Where’s the keys to the apartment? Ruby said.
    I took my wallet out of my inside jacket pocket, and out of the side pocket of my wallet I pulled three big keys, one little key.
    One for the outside door, two for the inside, Ruby said. The little one’s for the mailbox. Get a duplicate made. Give a set to somebody you trust. You can trust me, Ruby said, his smile. Keep the other set. Always remember, New Yorkers love only those who love themselves. Always put yourself first. Dress down for the subway. Get an answering machine. And remember, New Yorkers take pride in always knowing where they are. Buy a map. Always know where you are. If you don’t, act like you do.
    Then: LA is the me city, Ruby said, and New York is the you city. In LA it’s fuck me . In New York it’s fuck you. Adopt the attitude. It’s all in the face. Mostly in the eyes.
    Like this, Ruby said.
    Ruby’s eyes were looking right at me, but they were more like looking through me: no smile, his lip curled up, his nostrils in and out.
    New York drop-dead fuck-you, Ruby said. The attitude. Now you try it.
    I made like I thought Ruby wanted me to look.
    Pull your ball cap down, Ruby said. Look at me but don’t see me. No no no! Ruby said, and tapped each shoulder. No chip on your shoulder—somebody will try and knock it off. It’s passive, Ruby said. It’s like you’re already dead and you wish everybody else was dead too.
    New York drop-dead fuck-you, Ruby said.
    It takes practice, Ruby said.
    Ruby picked up my duffel bag, slung it over his shoulder.
    Want me to spend the night with you? Ruby said. First night of your crossover and all. I could help if there’s a problem. Ain’t easy fixing a center, Ruby said. Ruby’s smile.
    No, I said. No, thanks. I’ll be fine.
    Don’t get me wrong, Ruby said. It ain’t usual—Ruby pulled the brim of my ball cap back up—that I feel this way about a person, one that I just met.
    Then: If it’s the gay cancer you’re worried about, Ruby said, We can just hold each other.
    Inside Door of the Dead van, I bent and turned my head into True Shot’s mirrors. His shiny silver rings. The beaded blue horizontal and red vertical on the buckskin bag hanging on the buckskin strand, his red bandanna.
    Ruby said, True Shot doesn’t have sex socially. It would be just me.
    No, I said. Thanks.
    Then: I can carry the duffel bag, I