Fellow Travelers

by Thomas Mallon

“Have you ever engaged in sodomy or oral-genital contact with another male?” He sometimes counted them like sheep. What was the name of that Italian boy in San Diego? The night before we both shipped out. The one who rubbed his feet together, fast, like a puppy having a dream, when he came. And that same week, the one who claimed to have gone to Annapolis, and tried— “Mr. Fuller, answer the question.” “No.” “Have you ever considered yourself to be in love with another male?” Here, Fuller thought, was the first interesting query of the morning. He pondered it, sincerely, dropping his gaze from the wall to his lap and then his forearm, where, beneath the cuff of the machine’s main sensor he noticed a golden-colored fleck of something dried onto his skin: the tiniest bit of exuberant Tim, he realized, missed by the towel. That’s me. I’m your hoodlum, your little j.d. He filled up with a tender feeling, which he expelled, immediately, like a breath. “No,” he answered. Traband nodded to the machine operator, who tore off and labeled a long piece of paper. “Mr. Fuller,” said the interrogator, “as soon as the technician removes the sensors, you may return to your office until you hear from us.”