I'm walking along the Embarcadero with Joey. We used to work together some years ago at the company where I am still, nominally, employed. He sent me a Happy New Year note a day or so ago and I dropped a hint in my reply that I might be looking for a change of venue (damn I'm good at weasel-speak) around March or April. So we meet downtown for lunch and a stroll along the wharf afterwards.

Joey is an old hippie. Unlike me, he still wears his hair long, down his back, tied with a leather something-or-the-other. I swear to God he looks just like an older version of that kid who was always at the parties, kind of shy, smiled all the time, always had good hash, and was a mellow trip partner. Well, we're in our fifties now.

It's one of those unexpectedly warm days in January in San Francisco. It's about 60 degrees out with only a very gentle breeze. Blue jeans, t-shirt, and unbuttoned flannel shirt weather. It's mid-afternoon as we stroll from the Ferry Building at the end of Market street along the Embarcadero towards the Bay Bridge. There's no commercial shipping in this area, we can gaze out across the bay at Oakland and Berkeley. The sun is rippling on the water and sea gulls are calling. You can smell the sea in the air. I feel good.

So Joey asks me how I'm doing – I've lost a lot of weight (forty-five fucking pounds since we worked together.) I tell him about the Hepatitis and the fact that I'm on disability. I do not mention my, how shall we say, flights of fancy. Joey is shocked and concerned. We always liked one another. His interest is real, not the fake, Oh my God how can I loosen this guy's grip on my lapel kind of concern. I look into his eyes and I swear I see that kid from thirty years ago listening to Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band and believing that all the world really needs is love.

Joey says he's heard that Interferon can cause anxiety. We exchange glances. It's an invitation. I am keenly aware of the gulls screeching down among the rocks at the water's edge. I look away and down at the sidewalk as we stroll along.

Some joggers go by. There are always joggers. Where the fuck do they come from? Go to the middle of the Congo with nothing but a knapsack, a book of matches, and a package of trail mix. Sit in a lotus position and become one with nature. In ten minutes a jogger will run by. I'll wager you $100 on this.

I decide to tell him. I have been diagnosed with Bipolar One Disorder characterized by Schizo-Affective Behavior and Manic Paranoia. BODSABMP. It almost sounds like “Bad Ass Bastard.” Just hearing that is enough to ram the mental equivalent of a turbo- charged, state-of-the-art, chromium cock up the ass of your average, down-to-earth, beer-guzzling, tit-watching, hard-working, upstanding citizen and just plain old Good Guy. Excuse me, I meant to say, Insert a perfectly acceptable technological instrument of sexual gratification forcefully but within consensual limits into the alimentary canal of a equally-valued humanoid of your sexual orientation preference.

Joey says, “Fuck.” We walk along a bit. Lots of young, hip, fashionable people are eating at a hamburger joint along the Embarcadero known for its rustic, down-home, old-time fisherman's atmosphere. I happen to know they serve the worst hamburgers in the city. (Insider Tip: Eat at Slider's on Castro Street if you're in town and you like hamburgers. You'll cum in your pants.)

I say, “Yeah.” Joey says, “So, you interested in the job?” I say, “Yeah.”

Joey smiles that same damn smile he's been smiling for thirty fucking goddamn years and say, “Great. Gimme a call in March.” He means it.

I'm not alone.