J. seemed to be occupying more of the sidewalk than a normal human being, a giant joint between his fingers. It had been years. Two, three, four maybe. Our conversation was brief and manic. He introduced me to his friend A., all quiet and smiling. I couldn’t tell if he was amused. Or what he was thinking. He was the officiant, J. said, as if no other information were needed. And none was. The officiant. At the wedding. In the Catskills! Wherever the fuck, said J. As if the location, the date, the occasion, none of it mattered.