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not all killed by Y2K in three months, AOL is going to take over the world. They’re going to completely own the World Wide Web in 10 years. But we won’t call it the World Wide Web anymore. We’ll call it something like, the AOL. Everyone will say, ‘Did you see so-and-so on AOL today?’ We’ll do all our socializing—”
    “I don’t use the World Wide Web,” he says brusquely. “Just for work.”
    Nice to have that confirmed. I thought he seemed a little overly vague when he expressed his enthusiasm on Tuesday night. He may have lied about other things that night as well; I better be careful in my assumptions.
    Since we’re bumper to bumper in three lanes of people, all of us trudging forward in half steps we believe will help hurry our experience, Perry says no more but jams his hands in his jeans pockets and grumbles throat noises.
    Why did Billy creep into my thoughts a few moments ago? Don’t care for that.
    The dock crew seems relieved to board the last shipment of cattle, playfully jeering at their coworkers trapped on the boat. I present our tickets to a college student who hands us back our stubs with undisguised boredom.
    The boat itself is nothing to romanticize. Every footstep squishes on the soggy Astroturf carpeting, and a film of dirty white paint covers the boat, chipped, repainted, and chipped yet again in many places. Grasping the handrails reveals that the undersides are dotted with sticky globs of gum. The entire ferry smells stale: overcooked hot dogs, burnt popcorn, burned oil. We crowd each other politely, model prisoners all, wandering the confines of the vessel, discreetly checking out our fellow inmates.
    “You want a hot dog?”
    “No,” he says, turning toward the center of the boat. “Is that that smell?”
    “Yeah, I think so. That and burned popcorn.”
    “It’s disgusting.”
    “Yeah. So, anyway, no hot dog?”
    “Do I have to?”
    “No. I’ll let you know what’s required.”
    Perry nods stiffly.
    I leer at Perry and waggle my eyebrows a little. “I hope you get off on getting your dick sucked.”
    He cracks a weak smile. I don’t think sex is on his mind right now.
    “Would you consider waggle to be a real word?”
    Perry does not smile. In fact, he looks seasick.
    Once we launch, most everyone crowds the island-facing side of the boat, watching the famous landmark grow closer. I lead Perry to the opposite side, the open water facing the iron bridges connecting the East Bay, Golden Gate’s working-class cousins. For a moment, we watch the cloudy sky in silence.
    “Ever visited Alcatraz?”
    He says, “No. People who live here rarely do the touristy things. No offense.”
    I nod. “Yeah, people are like that.”
    We chat about tourists, San Francisco, and places we’ve always meant to visit, continuing a Tuesday conversation. He remains uneasy, but he’s closer to the man I met that night: not flirty-relaxed, but more relaxed than on the pier. I bet Perry can’t believe he’s on the boat.
    The topic of his father was important, his automatic excuse for saying, “No thanks.” Men often show up with a safety net. While he definitely won that battle, he somehow knows he won the battle that didn’t matter, resulting in him headed toward a prison island. In terms of symbolism, not great for Team Perry.
    What he does not yet realize is that I am also on Team Perry. Hell, I’m our team cheerleader.
    Three seagulls fly formation alongside the boat, our winged guards. They’re waiting for popcorn or bun nubs, whatever food drops into the bay, and plenty of our shipmates oblige. One college-aged woman chucks a handful of popcorn at the birds, and after swooping to avoid her attack, they dart to retrieve the bounty bobbing below. I like the idea that we’re escorted, that they’re taking head count. I think to make the Alcatraz experience more realistic, the people who run the island should distribute orange jumpsuits when the boat docks.
    Halfway across the