“I'm taken,' Gus said.”

“How are the eyes?''Oh, excellent,' he said. 'I mean, they're not in my head is the only problem.''Awesome, yeah,' Gus said. 'Not to one-up you or anything, but my body is made out of cancer.''So I heard,' Issac said, trying not to let it get to him. He fumbled toward Gus's hand and found only his thigh.'I'm taken,' Gus said.”

“So how’s it going?”“Okay. Glad to be home, I guess. Gus told me you were in the ICU?”“Yeah,” I said.“Sucks,” he said.“I’m a lot better now,” I said. “I’m going to Amsterdam tomorrow with Gus.”“I know. I’m pretty well up-to-date on your life, because Gus never. Talks. About. Anything. Else.”

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Shawn said.“It’s not ironic at all,” Gus said.“Dude, it’s so like a black fly in your chardonnay.”“How many times do I have to tell you that’s not ironic, either?”“Rain on your wedding day?”“‘Irony’ is the use of words to convey a meaning that’s opposite to their literal meaning,” Gus said. “That stupid song came out fourteen years ago, and we still have this exact conversation at least once a week.”“Yeah,” Shawn said. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

“The champagne had been donated by one of Gus's doctors - Gus being the kind of person who inspires doctors to give their best bottles of champagne to children.”

“Gus the driver is everywhere and yet he appears nowhere, not in portraits or photographs, not even in the stories of men like Barthelme and Carver, who were all about guys with jobs and prospects like Gus's but who insisted on more sorrow, more angst, than Gus remotely manifests. If Gus weeps sometimes for no reason, if he stands despairing in the aisle of a Wal-Mart, it is not apparent in his daily demeanor...”