Finally, as I was reaching for a second glass of wine, I turned to find the English kid, holding a glass of Coke, looking pretty sour. When he noticed me he smiled, shifted his drink to his left hand, and held out his right.

“Hi. I see you’re Will Thomson. As you can see, I’m Graham Knight. Looks like we’re the only two single blokes in the whole bloody group.”

“Hi, Graham. Yeah. It looks like there’s just the two of us. You seem to be hitting it off with the old folk.”

“Well, can’t be impolite, can we? Me mum didn’t bring me up that way.”

“Hey, man, I wasn’t criticizing. I just think it’s going to be a long trip surrounded by all these old people.”

“Aww, give ‘em a chance. Some of ‘em are sweet old codgers. It’s just too bloody bad there aren’t any loose birds here.”

I decided I may as well get that part over with right away. “That won’t bother me.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I’m gay.”

I think he blushed. “I was wondrin’ if the stud in your right ear means the same thing here it does back home. I reckon it does.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No, no. Some of me mates are, uh, like you.”

About that time, one of the women came over and grabbed him. “Oh, Graham, over here, dear. There’s someone who’s dying to meet you.” She tugged at his arm. He gave me a weak wave and allowed himself to be taken away.

“Some of me mates are like you”? Is that like the old saying, “Some of my best friends are Black”? Usually said by someone who had never even talked with an African-American. Young Graham might, when he got back home with his mates, bemoan the fact that the only other single guy on his tour in the States was pushing thirty and queer. And there were no “birds.”

Soon we were shepherded into a private dining room where we were asked to find seats. I thought about going back to my room, but two glasses of house merlot and a couple of shrimp don’t make dinner. Not having had anything to eat since breakfast, I was hungry.

I was relieved, I think, when Graham wound up sitting across the room. I was, of course, at a table of oldsters. The two women traveling together were Dorothy and Mamie, from Boston. Since the tables were for six, I spoiled the symmetry. The other couple at our table was Bert and Linda from Pittsburgh. They all began to question me. Where was I from? What did I do? Why was I on this trip? It turned out that Burt had worked for a Pittsburgh-based competitor of ours, though he had been in what was then called Personnel and now was called, he said sneeringly, Human Resources. Still, we were able to talk shop a little while Linda visited with Dorothy and Mamie. The two biddies were all atwitter about what a lovely boy Graham was. They said he was from Yorkshire. Then they took turns telling about their visit to York and the things they had seen and done there, arguing occasionally over details like an old married couple. Although I hoped to visit Scotland some day because the Thomsons were Scots, the closest I’d ever come to Yorkshire was the Yorkshire pudding my Grandma Spencer used to make at Christmas time to go with her roast of beef.

On the far side of the room, Graham was practically holding court, the two couples seated there obviously fawning on his every word. He was all smiles, apparently enjoying being the center of attention. It was about then that I decided I didn’t like the Brit very much. He was a sexy stud, but he was, from what I could see, a suck-up. And I doubted that he could be more than twenty. Too young to be really interesting.