So instead I grew thicker books. I’ve read The Grapes of Wrath twice, then Gone with the Wind. Then Uncle Tom’s Cabin, then Anna Karenina. I’ve read all of Jane Austen and most of Charles Dickens. I love David Copperfield. No, not the magician.
Jeez, look it up. . . .
But today was different. New Guy got on my bus. He hadn’t been there in the morning, so it was unexpected. The extremely loud rabbling and noise stopped for a second when he got on. Then grew immediately back to its usual deafening roar. New Guy walked by me and sat about three quarters of the way back, which, if you’re not part of the acknowledged too-cool-for-school group of academics that ride that region of the bus, is just askin’ fer trubble, partner.
Which came . . . I wasn’t reading: I was listening while pretending to read, something at which I have grown expert. I watched from the corner of my eye. They started low and slow, just kind of testing the waters....
I hadn’t heard the dawn of the chorus in a long time. I listen, fascinated.
“Hey, Blue Shirt! Hey—what do you think this is, the Gay Pride Parade?”
And of course—the fatal mistake: Turning calmly and looking at them, he says, like a normal human:
“Yeah, my name is Beau. Hi.” He pronounced it “Bow,” like “bow and arrow.”
And with that he sealed his fate with the baboon colony.
He has that androgynous way of speaking that some guys do. It’s just the way they talk. Whether they are gay or not.
The pack circled, smelling blood. One hyena alone cannot take down the prey, but an entire craven pack....
They explode into laughter, which, as they say, is only one letter away from slaughter, and it’s on.
“Oh my gawd! Aahhhhahahaha! Wait—it’s a fag reality show! Ahhhhh! Are you effin’ kidding me? No effin’ way!”
Only they’re not saying “effin’.”
Beau turns back around, but he’s in throwing proximity, and so small but increasingly large and heavy things start to be thrown at him. They’re up to pencils, which, as I well know, freaking hurt, when he turns back around. Narrowly avoiding one in the eye, he says:
“Why are you doing this?”
I’m shaken. He is so calm.
And of course, the monkeys went bananas! They were so happy to have something else to take their minds off the freaking tragedy of being themselves! They howl and grunt, and I’m sure if they knew how to dress themselves, they would have flung their own poo, but thank gawd for buttons, right?
So goes the entire bus ride. Beau turns back around and ignores them, and I’m feeling amazed that we were almost to my stop without one comment about me from the douche bag patrol. I’m actually a little verklempt that someone else has taken the heat, but, while grateful, I’m not about to make one peep to save him in case the attention of the pack is diverted back to me again. If they could just tag team one of us every other day, it would be such a blessed relief.
When it’s Beau’s stop, I watch with great interest. If the hyena pack gets off the bus with him, someone should call the cops.
Beau gets off, and they look after him with great interest. It was grunt-discussed whether they should “effin’ follow him,” but they wanted to get over to one of the suck-up middle hyena’s house before his spawners arrived home and drink up the beer laid in for Skidmark Fest, or whatever these grubby little dorks do. They saw me looking, however, and thus was Beau forgotten.
See, I would have thought that Beau’s handsome face and skinniness would have protected him.
But no! Apparently even the perception of gayness outweighs good looks. At least it does at Baboon High, my alma mater. Even with the girls. I watch him getting “bumped” in the halls. I watch him being “accidentally” smashed into the lockers. He was too smart, I noticed, to ever drink at a water fountain.
I respected that.
I don’t have much info about gay people. I’d never thought about it except on Will & Grace reruns and Project Runway. . . . Oh, wait—there’s also South Park and the gay cable station that has hilarious stand-up, but I’m not sure any of that is real helpful. I never really cared one way or the other. I don’t know any gay people.
I see news stories though. I realize it’s one of the things people are still prejudiced about.
I know my mom thinks it’s a sin, but even though she’s very Catholic—whoops, I mean, we’re Catholic—she’s very kind. She says, “If people didn’t have those feelings deep, deep down, they couldn’t possibly want to do ‘those things,’ so it wasn’t a choice, and so other people shouldn’t be mean.” And she likes Pope Francis a lot; he is chiller about just about everything.
But she also insists that “they shouldn’t ever act on their feelings.” Ever.
Just pray it away. Forever.
We had that conversation after watching that English comedian, Eddie Izzard, on TV.
But first: I’ve always gone to Mass with my mom. When I was little, I always took the whole Adam and Eve, and Noah, and Cain and Abel, and the sacraments, and “Esau was a hairy man” as the unquestioned truth.
Till last year when I got confirmed.
It was when I read about the early church, as instructed, that I grew somewhat agitated and continued investigating. I felt like I was being conned. There were no good answers for any of my questions. And believe me, with all the reflection I do on death, I have a lot of questions.
This, and time, is creating in me an irritated skepticism instead of unblinking acceptance.
So I guess I’ve made my own creed. I say: Love Is The Answer . . . We Can Work It Out.
My mom rolls her eyes. She says it’s just my “teenage rebellion.”
Then I parrot back something she tells me a lot:
We shall see....
Photo by John Keister, 2013
MARY McKINLEY is a TV writer/performer whose work has been featured most recently on the Seattle-based sketch comedy project The 206, and on Biz Kid$, an Emmy-winning young adult show on PBS. For the last thirteen years she has written standup and sketch comedy with her partner, John Keister, as well as several TV pilots. A nearly lifelong Seattle resident, Mary graduated with a BFA from Seattle University. You can visit her on the web at maryfmckinley.com.
Give me your nerds, your freaks, your huddled outcasts
yearning to breathe free. Stick them in Boy Scout uniforms
and you’ll have the Hurt Patrol—a sorry bunch of
teen rejects who will never make Eagle.
Welcome to the Club
Beau has been scouting since first grade. Not because he loves it, but because his dad does. It’s the only thing they’ve ever bonded over, what with Beau’s dad being into sports, beer, and brawling. So when they move to yet another Midwest town, Beau expects the usual Boy Scout experience, filled with horribleness and insults. Instead he finds something else entirely. Kicked out of every other patrol, their little band of brothers is equal parts nuts and awesome. For the first time, people are watching Beau’s back instead of throwing things at it. Nice. Novel. And also necessary, when you’re dealing with parents splitting up, crushes, first love, and coming out.
The first—and only—rule of Hurt Patrol: We are never going to win—but if you’re outcast elsewhere, you’ll do just fine here.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2015 by Mary McKinley
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
eISBN-13: 978-1-61773-258-4
eISBN-10: 1-61773-258-3
First Kensington Electronic Edition: June 2015
ISBN: 978-1-6177-3257-7
ty Summer
Rusty Summer Page 26
