Joseph and I were introduced by our mutual friend Tom at a Texas pub. My husband and I had cycled through the July heat to meet the two of them that Saturday afternoon, arriving a little early. Hustling inside to the A/C, we ordered beers and racked the pool balls for a game. We were well into both by the time Joseph and Tom arrived.
Joseph was a trim, middle-aged white man whose hair, eyebrows and soul patch were fairer than his skin, giving him a crisp and youthful look. He was a stone carver by trade, and he wore work boots and a plaid shirt. And he lurched. It was dark in the pub, but his seesaw gait was hard to miss.
As Tom introduced everyone, Joseph said something offhand about his feet hurting, then he changed the subject. We hit it off fast — Joseph was friendly and had a dry wit. But his movements were off. Even though he was sober, he had trouble grasping his drink, and he had to hold on to Tom whenever he moved from his stool to the pool table or bar. He wisecracked about it, but something was wrong.
