Don't Ask - the story of America's first openly gay Marine.

by B. K. Dell

  Stacy reluctantly grabbed the glass from him and walked over to where he was supposed to sit. Joey checked his watch.

  Jerald Schaefer checked his own watch after he saw Joey do it. He took another puff of his pipe. Joey happened to turn in his direction and the two of them held a tired glance. I wonder what’s on his mind, thought Joey.

  What would Stacy do if not for this? That was what was on Schaefer’s mind. What else was he possibly qualified for? How else could he have landed a book deal? Jerald Schaefer was remembering a conversation that he and Stacy had earlier.

  They were on his balcony looking at the stars and the dim reflection of the moonlight on the ocean waves. Stacy mused, “Oh, Jerald. Oh, Jerald.” His cries carried no romantic ecstasy; they were pleas, the frustrated howl of the oppressed. “When will the world learn?” Stacy said it pensively, as if it were an old lyric from a forgotten song, and Stacy actually thought it might have been. “Can you imagine how beautiful this world will be when we are done here? A world of tolerance, peace, love, unity-”

  “Don’t forget hope,” Jerald said flippantly.

  “And hope,” confirmed Stacy, oblivious that Jerald was humoring him.

  “What would you do then?” asked Jerald.

  Stacy didn’t understand it as the challenge that Jerald had meant. He answered it on face value, “I don’t know. I guess I would get married.”

  “Why on Earth would you want to do that?”

  “I don’t know. Wouldn’t you want to get married?”

  “If I was interested in marriage, my dear boy, why would I be wasting time with you?” Jerald laughed.

  Stacy folded his arms. Jerald could tell that he had just switched into hurt mode. He could tell that Stacy wanted to follow his jab with some sort of breezy remark, but was currently unable to. His face turned toward the ocean, his eyes strained to look only straight ahead and he was, above everything else, unwaveringly silent.

  Jerald laughed again, this time with a little more compassion, the type of laugh that was meant to illustrate that he was only joking – even if he wasn’t. He said, “You got one thing wrong though, Stacy. I think you’ve gotten the wrong idea about something.”

  Stacy’s jaw clenched tighter because he was afraid Jerald was about to say that he had the wrong idea about something involving their relationship.

  Instead, Jerald said, “You were wrong to use the phrase ‘when we are done here’. We will never be done. We can win and have won victories, but there will always be more fighting to do.” Stacy’s eyes twitched like he was about to say something but didn’t. He was still in silent mode. Jerald guessed what he might have been thinking and said, “And I don’t say that we will never be done because our mission is so quixotic, it isn’t. I say that we will never be done because we are a movement that is looking for a battle.” Jerald shrugged indifferently, “If we win this one, we’ll move on to the next one. When we win the last battle, we’ll invent another one. We are like that kid, Ridley – I guess people call him Rider – he’s just out looking for a fight. So are we.

  “There will always be two different kinds of people in America. There will always be one side that wants to order society one way and another side that disagrees. We can say we hope for no war, but there will always be war. That is how the world works. Just as we can say we hope for unity – that the country is united under our values, because that’s the only type of unity ever hoped for – but there will always be dialectic opposition. That is America.”

  “Then why bother?”

  “You know why,” said Jerald Schaefer, “Because we like the fight.”

  Mitch McCarty was looking over his notes behind his foreboding news desk in New York. McCarty’s hair and makeup guy was performing a few finishing touches before the Stacy Oliver exclusive. McCarty turned his eyes to him and casually asked, “Well, what do you think of all this?”

  The makeup artist shot him an irritated look and held up his left hand, which bore a wedding ring. He said, “You’ve met my wife.”

  McCarty stumbled for a second then said, “Wha…Um…uh, I didn’t mean you were gay; I just asked you what you think.”

  The makeup artist, having finished, turned to walk off set.

  “Lovely woman, that Margret,” McCarty called after him.

  “Megan,” the man said.

  “Whatever,” laughed McCarty to himself. He made a last minute adjustment to the way his jacket hung on him.

  The director gave him a count, “Five, four, three…” then pointed after a silent two and one.

  “Good evening. I’m Mitch McCarty.”

  “And I’m Julie Sanford; Veronica Cisneros has the night off.”

  The camera zoomed in on McCarty and he continued, “Tonight we take you to southern California in our exclusive interview, via satellite, with gay rights activist and bestselling author of the new book, I’m Gay, Don’t Shoot!, Stacy Oliver. As you have probably heard by now, Stacy Oliver was recently arrested in an incident that some are calling police profiling. The arrest has sparked a debate that seems to have affected every one of us. As newscasters, talking heads, politicians and bloggers seem to all be offering their two cents on the issue, Mr. Oliver has remained relatively quiet. But he has agreed to talk to us tonight.”

  McCarty shot a proud nod over at Julie Sanford who smiled and nodded back.

  “So, without further ado, let’s go to Stacy Oliver,” said McCarty.

  A large rectangle appeared on the screen, completely blocking out Julie Sanford, with the feed from the satellite. It showed a live shot of Stacy Oliver, who was still arguing about something inane with one of the camera crew, “…well, I guess that it’s the first time in history that fire has melted steel!” The words, “you’re on, you’re on,” could be heard in the background. Stacy quickly turned to the camera and smiled clumsily.

  “Stacy? Stacy, can you hear me?”

  “I can hear you, Mitch.”

  “We seem to have our live feed working. Um, Stacy, what can you tell us about the arrest?”

  “First of all, they shined a light on me and it was really bright…” As Stacy began to tell the story it was difficult, even for McCarty who had to pay attention for a living, to resist tuning him out. Stacy held the glass of water in his hands. He was gesturing so wildly that viewers could not help but be more interested in how long it would take for him to spill it on himself, than in any of his words. Those who had guessed one minute and seventeen seconds won the pot. That marked the moment from the start of the feed until Stacy spilled half his drink down the front of his shirt. Stacy did not jump up to grab a towel to wipe it; he continued to tell the story, fully animated, as if he did not even notice the spill. McCarty nodded on professionally as if he didn’t notice the spill nor the overall drunkenness. Jerald saw this and huffed in the corner. The stage hand said to Joey, “It’s only water.”

  McCarty put both of his hands up in an effort to get a word in edgewise. He said, “Stacy, how about…Stacy, how…Stacy, Stacy, how about the reports that Officer Baker has a brother that is homosexual and who he supports?”

  As McCarty asked this question, he watched Stacy extend his leg to straighten the pocket of his jeans. He reached in and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He removed the lighter that he usually keeps in the pack and removed a cigarette. Placing it between his lips, he raised his hands to light it, but stopped to answer the question. “I don’t believe he even has a brother,” he said out of one side of his mouth as the cigarette dangled from the other.

  “You don’t believe he has a brother?” Mitch McCarty shifted in his chair.

  “No, I don’t believe anything that the corporate media reports.” Stacy lit his cigarette. “All news is run by crypto-fascist, transnational corporations. They are completely controlled by the Masons, Skull and Bones, and the Build-a-Burgers.”

  “Build a burger?” asked Julie Sanford.

  “They make burgers!” insisted Stacy. “They’re a
bunch of Jews who make burgers and control everything.”

  Mitch McCarty turned to the camera and spoke to the viewers; he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, we do apologize; this is live television. We understand that this is very offensive.” McCarty turned to the monitor in which he saw Stacy and said, “I am sorry Mr. Oliver, but I am going to have to ask you to put your cigarette out.”

  Stacy became livid and began to rant, “You mean to tell me that I don’t have the right in this country – rights that Caleb Hertz died for – to smoke a cigarette in my own boyfriend’s home?”

  Mitch McCarty didn’t understand. He dropped the issue of the cigarette and promptly asked, confused, “Did you mean, you’re inside Caleb’s old home?”

  Stacy’s eyes bugged wide. He realized that he had slipped up. “Um…uh…” He began to fidget. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, then put it back in. His hands still continued to gesture, but his non-verbal communication was as uncommitted and truncated as his verbal. “Well, you see…the thing is…” He wanted to say something definitive so he reached for his cigarette, but his hands weren’t coordinated with his mouth enough and he opened his mouth to speak before his hands got there to catch it. The cigarette fell from the edge of his lips down to his shirt. When the burning cherry hit the vodka stain, flames burst from his shirt and Stacy let out a high-pitched scream.

  “Oh God!” Julie Sanford yelled.

  Mitch McCarty put a hand to his forehead.

  A thin smile came across the edge of Jerald Schaefer’s lips.

  Joey nudged the stage hand with his elbow and neither of them did anything to stop it. Stacy continued to scream in an octave somewhere above a high C and tried pat out the flames. All of America watched as only one person on the set lifted a finger to help. A young lady wearing headphones appeared from the edge of the frame, running in to help save Stacy. Unfortunately, she had actually been the person who poured the first glass of water and had not been present when Joey changed it. Having no reason to suspect that the water she poured would no longer be water, she grabbed it and threw it onto Stacy.

  The satellite feed went dark.

  Mitch McCarty said smiling, “We’ll be right back after these messages.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The woman shook nervously behind the bushes in her own front yard, as her newly hired publicist introduced her to the reporters. Samantha Goodwin had hired Victoria Gillespie to act as a liaison between her and what she saw as a hostile press. Samantha Goodwin was Ridley Holt’s next door neighbor. She was the woman who had dialed 911. Since then, her life had been a nonstop torment.

  “We would like to please ask you that once you hear her speak for herself today, you will give her some space…”

  As Ms. Gillespie spoke, Samantha Goodwin was hardly listening. She had trouble concentrating much on anything these days. Even her boss had noticed a decline in her performance at work. Whenever she left the house, the press were waiting at her curb. Whenever she made it to work, the press were waiting outside her building. And though the press stayed away from her children’s school, she was haunted there by a different scene. Where once she would pick her kids up and they would be standing and laughing, surrounded by other kids, now she would drive up to the schoolyard to find them standing alone. Day after day, they’d run anxiously to her car, throw down their book bags in bitter anger, and slam the door behind them.

  Samantha Goodwin began to cry as she thought about this. She never knew what to tell them. It had finally gotten to the point that the FBI instructed her not to take them to school at all. She had been receiving too many death threats. None of them specifically mentioned her children, but no one knew more than Samantha, if someone really wanted to hurt her, there was one easy way to do it.

  She was exposed to the hatred of the world. She would forever be vulnerable to the most merciless attacks because she so loved her children. “It will all blow over,” she had told her husband optimistically. “This is just the way news is these days. It’s so sensational. It will blow over for us, then the press will move on to someone else,” she frowned. “It’s not the news,” her husband said. He looked at the faces of their two children. He knew that he would leave them a worse country than he himself had grown up in, but he didn’t know how it had happened. “It’s something else,” he said with great pain.

  “After a brief statement she will be taking questions,” said Ms. Gillespie. “She will not answer every question, but these will be the only answers she will give. So, after today, we ask that you please give her and her family some privacy.”

  Victoria Gillespie turned and nodded to Samantha Goodwin. Amidst flashing bulbs, Samantha Goodwin walked to the improvised podium. Her husband followed alongside her. When she reached the podium, she drew in a deep breath to calm her nerves. She swallowed the lump that was in her throat and before she began, she was already fighting off tears. She said, “First off, I would like to thank all of my family, friends and neighbors who have joined together to help me in my time of need, as well as all the people from all over the country and all over the world who have sent cards and given their support. It has made such a difference to be able to hear your voices, sometimes overlooked, but always loving, always strong, and always…faithful.” As she spoke, her husband whispered words of encouragement by her side. She continued, “Second, I would like to say that the way I have been treated is wrong. I have been called a homophobe, a bigot, and a liar. I am none of those things. I was raised by a loving family in an atmosphere of acceptance and Christian charity. I have been taught that all people are children of God and therefore deserving of respect. I respect all genders, race, class, and sexual orientation. I have also been raised to tell the truth and to protect my personal integrity and personal reputation. Yet I have been attacked in the press, in the papers, on television, and on the radio. I have also been receiving hate mail, as well as having my family approached and intimidated.” Samantha Goodwin began to cry. As she cried, her husband continued to encourage and strengthen her with his words.

  When it looked like her crying was under control, she didn’t continue with her statement right away. One reporter deemed the pause long enough to provide an opening. He asked, “Do you think this will have a chilling effect for anyone else who might simply want to report suspicious behavior?”

  She answered, “I don’t know. I hope not. No one should have to go through what I have been through. It would have been easier for me to just look the other way that night, but if I hadn’t called the cops…who knows what would have happened.”

  “What effect do you think this will have on the relations between the homosexual and Christian communities?” another reporter asked.

  To this, Victoria Gillespie shook her head. Samantha Goodwin looked to her and Ms. Gillespie shook her head again. “Um…No comment…on that one,” Samantha Goodwin said.

  The husband reached out to grab his wife’s arm. He tugged her back toward the house. He wanted the press conference to be over. Samantha Goodwin began to show mannerisms like she was going to give in and stepped one foot back.

  The press saw this and hurled their questions at her faster, one on top of the other, aggressive and fierce. Samantha Goodwin looked to Ms. Gillespie and she stepped to the podium. Ms. Gillespie forcefully said, “I am sorry, but this press conference is over.”

  The reporters continued to shout out questions more angrily as Samantha Goodwin walked away in her husband’s arms.

  Suddenly there was a ruckus and the press saw Ridley Holt forcefully approach the podium. No one had seen where he had just come from, but his house was obviously next door. Rider quickly nudged the publicist out of his way and said angrily into the microphone, “What is wrong with you people? Have you lost your minds? Can’t you see what you’re doing? Can’t you see the damage you’re doing in the name of fighting hate? Can’t you see the direction that the hate is coming from? Look what you are doing to innocent people!”

&n
bsp; Rider looked at all the lenses in front of him and he picked one. He stared right into it and said, “You should consider this woman a hero.” He pointed backward at the house of his neighbor, who was already inside, and said, “This woman saved Stacy Oliver’s life. Trust me. Trust me.”

  Victoria Gillespie said to herself, This man really needs a publicist.

  “Has this whole country lost its mind? On the one hand, we have a man who we know has a problem with authority. We know he has a problem with people who serve as military and police officers. And, yes, we know that he has a problem with straight people. He has a chip on his shoulder so large that you can see it from space!

  “Then on the other hand, you have a man who serves his community, a man who not only has a gay brother, but took that brother in to live with him when his brother got sick. And you people sit and wonder which one might have acted out of hate?

  “Stacy Oliver’s hate is on display every day. Stacy Oliver makes a living stoking the flames of division in this country.

  “Yesterday, I actually saw a guy come on TV and say, ‘We know that it is common for police to profile; cops are known for their intolerance.’ How can you not see the irony in that? The sentence itself is profiling. The sentence itself is prejudice. How come only the underdog is allowed to be prejudiced? How come the loser is allowed to hate? Why is it that you are allowed to destroy lives in this country, as long as you can act like you’re the victim? You people make me sick.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Stephanie was relieved to find that this gas station had one of those new-fangled pay-at-the-pump credit card machines. The last station at which she had to stop in Texas required her to go inside in order to pay. Stephanie felt like she had traveled back in time. This was her second time to need gas in Texas even though she crossed the border with a pretty full tank. The people were perfectly nice, of course, but they wanted to draw her into a conversation. Stephanie told herself that she was not being antisocial; I just don’t want to leave Jackson alone in the car…not in the state he is in.