by Kevin Craig
“Holy crap, Ez. The boy—arguably the most gorgeous boy in school—has two dads at home. How frigging hot is that? This gives everyone hope.”
I fail to see the hope. I fail to see why it would be hot too. But I’m in mourning. What do I know?
“Hey, Queenie?”
Will Severe walks up behind us, with some guy at his side. Alex deflates beside me. It’s like he went from walking on air to walking inside a thick bubble of molasses. The approaching insults weigh him down before they even leave Will’s mouth.
What I don’t understand is how someone could see someone turtle themselves in like that and still go through with the plan of attack. What is this Will guy’s deal?
“Out for a stroll with your boyfriend?”
“Go to hell, Will,” Alex says. But he says it under his breath, like the over the top bravado with which he lives his existence isn’t his to tap into when he’s dealing with haters. I’m left wondering if Will even heard his reply.
“Which one of you guys is the receiver, anyway? Hey, Jordan. Which one of these guys do you think pitches and which one receives? I’m curious.”
The Jordan guy only laughs. They’re so close now I could practically feel their breath on my neck. I look back at Will and shake my head.
“Yeah. Bi curious, that is,” Alex says, heaping on the flamboyant. Now he decides to raise his voice.
“What did you say, you little queer boy?”
“I’m just repeating what you said, Will. You seem to spend a lot of time stalking me. You’re curious. You said it yourself.”
I see the toes of Will’s shoes poke into the backs of Alex’s feet. But I don’t see Will’s hands reach out to push into the small of Alex’s back. Alex blows forward on the momentum of the push and lands pretty much face first. With a shriek.
“Hey,” I say. “What did you do that for? Asshole.” Now we’re facing each other and this Jordan guy is laughing and pointing at Alex sprawled on the sidewalk beside us.
“Sticking up for your girlfriend? You must be the pitcher, then. You a packer, boy? You like packing that fudge?”
The blind hate is instant. I hear this guy speak and my father’s voice comes out of his mouth. And I want to rip his face off and stuff it down his throat. But I’ve never been in a real fight before. I’m reluctant to start, in case I find out I don’t know what I’m doing. Which I clearly don’t.
“Back off.”
“Or what?” Will says. Alex gets to his feet and his left pant leg is shredded at the knee. And his right forearm is bleeding. He has a huge slice of road-rash there. While I’m checking out Alex’s wounds, Will coldcocks me on the side of the head. I’m going down before I even realize he’s hit me.
The last thing I see is Alex reaching to stop me from falling.
CHAPTER 6
I come to on the ground. And it’s actually Will’s friend hovering over me asking me if I’m okay. I can’t for the life of me remember his name.
“Buddy? Hey, buddy?” He’s slapping my cheeks. When I open my eyes, the expression on his face is so comically panicky my first instinct is to laugh. But I don’t. My face hurts too much to do anything. “Hey. There you are. I thought you were gonna stay out or something.”
Stay out? I never passed out before in my life.
“Huh?” I mumble. The world sounds muffled like it’s not quite real. Beyond the muffle, though, there’s a buzzing in my head. And beyond that, I hear a scuffle, but I’m not quite sure what it is.
“Here,” he says, putting out his hands for me to take them. “I’ll help you up. You okay? Say something so I know you’re okay.”
“I’m fine. Stop trying to be nice. Your friend just clocked me.”
“Just get up and shake it off. Our friends kind of need us right now.”
I look over and see Alex and Will rolling around on the ground, fists flying. I can hear the cursing and yelling and screaming now.
I jump up as quickly as someone who has just passed out can jump up. Not quickly at all.
“Damn.” I wobble slightly but get to them almost immediately.
Jordan pulls me back though.
“Wait, bro,” he says. “You can’t just jump in.” He turns to them and says, “Will. Will? That’s enough.”
“Alex,” I say, following Jordan’s lead. “Enough.”
At first, neither of them seem to hear us. But before long they are both winding down. The punches slow and then the heavy breathing begins. Then they’re lying apart on the grass boulevard between the sidewalk and the road.
I sit on the sidewalk because I realize standing is actually too strenuous a task at this juncture in my career.
Both of them seem completely winded. I feel winded just listening to their gasps. Looking them over, I’m actually surprised by just how dinged up Will looks. Alex actually got some pretty impressive hits in. Pretty impressive for a pacifist who hates drama and bloodshed, that is.
“We’re starting. A. New. Club,” Alex says between gasps. I’m not fully sure he’s going to make it, he’s so wiped. He keeps looking up into the sky.
Will lies there nodding, as though Alex could somehow see him.
“Dude. For a queer, you’re pretty tough.”
“It isn’t all glamour shots and negligee, asshole,” Alex says. I cringe, hoping this comment doesn’t restart the war between the two of them.
But believe it or not, Will starts laughing. And he blindly reaches over and pats Alex’s shoulder. “Dude. That’s hilarious.”
I have entered the Twilight Zone. Colour me speechless.
The two of them sit up simultaneously. It’s like they’re not even bruised and battered. Like they’re friends or something. Both looking at each other and laughing.
It’s unnerving.
“What’s happening here?” I ask. I always have an acute sense of being Punk’d.
“My guess is sometimes things just get ridiculous to the point of obscene. And then everybody laughs,” Jordan says. Whatever. They were fighting and now they’re not fighting.
“We’re starting a club,” Alex repeats. “A gay club. Changes are coming. Will, I swear to God. This crap is not going to happen again.”
Nobody is laughing now. We’re back to a standoff. Jordan and I are loitering on the periphery, mere observers waiting to see what happens next.
Will stands up and turns to walk away. But it’s just posturing. He pivots on his feet, bends and offers a hand to Alex, who takes it and rises to his feet.
They’re now on their feet and facing each other. Jordan and I come in closer and the four of us stand in silence.
“Will,” I begin. “Clearly you have a problem with us.”
“Look. I won’t screw with your little club. Okay. I’ll try to lay off the insults. But this guy’s pretty good with them himself, too.”
“No. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to call my reactions to your insults insults. I’m defending myself. You’re such a Neanderthal. You don’t even realize when you’re being inappropriate and a bigot homophobe.”
“Slow down, dude. I said I would be chill. You don’t have to get so—”
“So what? Defensive? Someone throws around fag and queer and pushes me around and calls me a packer or a receiver or whatever the hell you breeders are passing off as homophobic slurs these days, and I’m just supposed to accept it? It’s to be expected?”
“Actually,” I say, “This is kind of like what the group is going to be about. We want to stop fights like this one. We want to suggest maybe, Will, that we don’t deserve to be treated like shit for something we have no control over. I’m gay, just to be clear. But it’s the same as being either left or right-handed. I didn’t choose to write with my right hand, it’s just how my mind mapped and it just is. The whole gay thing is exactly the same.”
“Okay, okay,” he begins, but I stop him.
“No. It really isn’t. It’s not okay. At all. You know it’s mostly because of you that I finally de
cided to go ahead with this club. It’s not okay to pick on people ever. But it’s especially not okay to do it when it’s for something that is totally out of their control.”
We’ve started walking now, so we must all be going in the same direction. I’m walking beside Will. Jordan and Alex are staggered behind us.
“All I know is that you guys smoke pipe. And you like it. Gay is gay.”
“You are such a douche,” Alex says. “What don’t you understand about what Ezra is trying to tell you? We don’t have a choice.”
“Yeah, well,” Will says. And, I mean, he really does sound like he’s getting as frustrated as us. “It doesn’t mean you have to like it. If it’s like this defect or something, why do you embrace it? Why are you okay with it instead of trying to get with some girl and realizing how good it is? Once you try the pie, I guarantee you, you’d never go back to the pipe again.”
Even his friend is looking at him in disgust now.
“Dude,” Alex says, “I actually can’t do this anymore. I can’t deal with the stupid.”
“Watch the name calling,” Will says with zero hint of irony.
“It’s not a goddamned defect,” Alex says. He edges beside Will and grabs a fistful of the t-shirt from his chest. “I embrace it because it’s who I am. Didn’t you get Ezra? Being gay is like being right-handed. Or left-handed. It’s just who you are. I’m certainly not going to try the pie. I don’t like pie. I know that without trying it. I’m not a pie person. And you’re a pig. You’re a homophobic douche.
“Here’s an idea,” Alex continues, letting go of Will’s shirt and allowing the fistful of material to slowly smooth itself back out. “Why don’t you try to be gay for a week? You know, maybe find some pipe to smoke. Then get back to me and tell me how much you enjoyed it?”
“Um, no. That’s disgusting. I don’t have to try it to know it’s wrong.”
“For you.”
“No. For anyone, Alex. Guys shouldn’t do guys. Ever.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. But I don’t want to get into it anymore. Just, that was the last time. I will fight you if you try this crap again. Look at me. Clearly, I’m not into fighting. You’ve made a mess of my clothes. My face is screwed.” He holds up his hands and looks at his knuckles. And then shows them to Will. “Look what you did to my hands. If you knew anything about gays, you’d know I like being flawless. And today, Will, you have made me un-flawless.”
“Well, actually, we’re not all like that,” I say. “That’s not in the gay handbook or anything. Must be flawless. Yeah, no. It’s not there. And I think you mean flawed.”
“Dude, I don’t really care too much, myself,” Jordan says. “But Will’s just Will. You know, he’s traditional. You’re gonna have to forgive him for being such a caveman.”
“Actually,” Alex says, stopping in his tracks once again. “No. See, we no longer have to forgive the straights for their ignorant bigotry. That is in the gay handbook.”
“No,” I say to Jordan and I smile like an idiot as if to apologize for Alex’s stupidity. “That’s not really in the handbook. Believe it or not, there is no handbook. And there’s no secret handshake, either. That’s also a myth.”
“But if there was a handbook,” Alex says, “It wouldn’t say please allow the straights to hate you and express their hatred through song, dance, insults, and bloodshed.”
“Look, whatever. It’s just wrong. Boys shouldn’t smoke pipe. It’s foul. They should be able to fix that.”
“I can’t do this anymore. I’m actually not broken. I smoke pipe. End of story. It’s one of the things about me, Will, and you’re going to have to stop thinking about it. It doesn’t concern you. And, stop picking on me and shooting me off the lockers, and expecting me to change.
“There’s no cure because it isn’t an illness. I don’t know how many ways I have to say that to you. Actually, I don’t have to say it to you. You just have to allow me to be the person I am. No, you don’t have to like it. But you have to respect it. I’m not making a decision here, Will. I’m not. One doesn’t decide to be gay.”
“Yeah,” Will says. I can so hear the frustration in his voice. It’s just not getting through. Because it’s such a simple concept and he’s not thinking simply. “But you can decide not to be gay. Don’t you get it?”
“Why would I want to decide not to be something I am? Would you consider deciding not to be human?”
“This is where we get off the bus, kiddos,” Jordan says. He laughs, but there is no humour in it. “Thanks for walking us home, girls, but we can take it from here.”
“Ha ha,” I say. “What’s most important, Will, is that you know we’re starting a club for gays to be friends with straights. And we’re hoping you will be okay with it.”
“Well, not only okay with it,” Alex adds. “We want you to support it.”
Way to go one step too far, Alex. Talk about stepping into enemy camp.
“You know I can’t support that queer stuff, man. But I’ll call a truce.” He puts a hand up to his face and rubs a tender spot. “You got some mad skills when it comes to fighting. You’re such a queen, I didn’t see that coming.”
“You’re so good at opening your mouth and spewing insults, I don’t think you even realize you’re doing it.”
“Let’s just go, Will. You’ve done enough damage for now,” Jordan tells his friend. Then he turns to me. “Listen, I’ll talk to him about the attacking of all the gay-boys. Consider it a truce. For now. Just don’t spread that crap all over school so it’s in our faces every day. If that happens, I can’t promise to control my boy here. I mean, there’s a limit to what we should have to put up with, right?”
“Wow,” I say, just a bit surprised. “You’re pretty much as bad as he is. I thought you were better than that.”
“And I thought you were different than Alex, too. But you’re just a fag like him. You just don’t wave it in our faces the way he does.”
“I think bye would work well right about now,” I say.
“Yeah. Ciao, boys,” Will says. “Enjoy the pipe. Remember, low key, low profile. If I see one poster in the halls, it’s coming down.”
I see that Alex wants to answer him. In the form of screams. But he bites his tongue, and lets them disappear down the side-street we’ve just come to.
“This is gonna be fun,” I say to Alex once we’re alone. “This club is going to bring out the worst in everyone. Looking forward to it.”
“Nah,” Alex says. “The best in some. You’ll see.”
CHAPTER 7
Sitting on the couch at home, I wait for that familiar buzz of my phone receiving a text message. What? I don’t want to appear too needy. Excited. Lusty. Stalkerish. Etc. I’ll wait for him to text me.
It doesn’t take long. Five minutes later, it buzzes in my hand and I actually jump. Startled by a phone text I’m actually waiting to receive. I’m so pathetic.
Marc Tremblay:Dude, you ready? My dads said we could meet here. tht work for u?4:58pm
Um. Yeah. Here, there, in Rhode Island, Tunisia, England, Tahiti. Whatever’s easiest for you.
You:Sure. What’s your address?5:03pm
I hope you notice that I waited the appropriate amount of minutes to respond. I don’t want to appear too needy. Clingy. In love. Right?!
Marc Tremblay:458 Buttermilk Bay Rd. It’s google-mappable. (-:5:04pm
I can hardly contain my excitement. I mean, three years. And now I’m going to his house. I know, I know. It doesn’t mean anything. But just the fact he accepts me for who I am is enough.
Walking to his house is taking effort. I don’t want to run in case he knows where I live and figures out that I rushed over. Plus, sweat. I don’t want to be a gross sweaty pig when I get there.
When I arrive, there’s a tall dark-haired man in the front garden. Well, more like salt and pepper haired…since he’s greying. He’s wearing rubber gloves and wielding a large pair of gardening sheers. He’s
also wearing pink shorts and yellow flip flops. And a ratty yellow shirt.
I open the gate of the white picket fence, let myself in, come up behind him, and tap him on the shoulder. He pivots like he’s going to kill whoever just tapped him. The instant panic of seeing him in attack mode with gardening sheers is immediately gone as he actually sees me. His face breaks into the best smile ever. He takes out his earbuds, which is when I realize I must have just scared the ever-loving crap out of him.
Oops.
I stand in front of him, attempting to look apologetic. I read the front of his t-shirt, which is stenciled, Don’t like it? Lump it. Okay.
“Oh, hi. You must be Ezra? My God, but I love that name. I would have picked it for Marc, actually. But his dad is French Canadian, so you see I had no leg to stand on there. Don’t you? He was going to be a Marc come hell or high water. But Ezra. I so would have called him Ezra if it were entirely up to me. ‘Man reading should be man intensely alive. The book should be a ball of light in one’s hand.’ Or, oh! This one is relevant to what you guys are here for. Here we go, I think I know it. ‘Speak against unconscious oppression, speak against the tyranny of the unimaginative, speak against bonds.’ Now that relates, don’t you think, Ezra?”
I swear to God he didn’t breathe that whole time. I’m breathing heavy for him. I guess I’m also wearing a mask of confusion. But I put out my hand, anyway.
“Oh. I’m sorry. Mattieu is always telling me to come up for air. But frankly, life is too short for air. Oh.” He sees my hand, drops the sheers to the ground and takes it. And he starts to shake it. “Gary. And I think I already surmised that you’re Ezra. But not Pound. So I don’t even know why I was quoting Ezra Pound to you. You probably have no clue who Ezra Pound even is, do you? Poor boy. But he is your namesake, so maybe you do. Kids today, though. I mean, do you even read poetry? Oh, God. I hope you’re Ezra. I was just assuming. I haven’t even asked you. You could be anyone. What have I done?”
“Um. Yes. I am. I am Ezra.” I don’t answer any of his other questions. He continues to vigorously shake my hand. I look at our hands in motion.
