by Jason Pinter
When they were both sated, Trevor paid the check and they left the restaurant. Chris was wearing the chunky cable knit sweater Trevor had bought for him last Christmas. It made him look ten pounds heavier, but also made Trevor want to curl up into his arms and fall asleep against the soft wool. If everyone wore chunky sweaters, Trevor thought, there would be peace on earth.
He always felt a little guilty after indulging in a massive meal, but Trevor had worked himself nearly to death over the past six years to become one of the city’s most sought-after fitness instructors. He deserved a cheat meal from time to time. CyclePro had upped his salary to a neat hundred and twenty grand last year after Soul Cycle had pursued him aggressively. Combined with private client sessions and brand ambassadorships—what Lululemon paid him to model their tank tops on Instagram was a crime—Trevor was clearing north of a hundred and fifty K. He deserved an extra shrimp tempura roll.
Trevor was well aware that the lifespan of a fitness instructor was short. His opportunities at thirty-nine and forty-nine would be a fraction of what they were at twenty-nine. So Trevor lived frugally. Because once his skin started to sag, once his metabolism began to slow, he didn’t want to be like the older instructors who spent their twenties and thirties partying like rock stars and ended up living with their parents once they stopped looking good in Lycra. Trevor was too smart for that.
Chris was a kindergarten teacher, which meant Trevor spent a great deal of time hoping his partner didn’t catch whatever germs the little walking petri dishes at school carried around with them. Nothing laid up a fitness pro like a bad cold. Not to mention that clients weren’t overly fond of their trainer hawking up a lung during sumo squats.
Chris looped his arm through Trevor’s and said, “Nightcap? Flatiron Lounge has live jazz tonight.”
Trevor was tempted. He checked his watch, sucked in air through his teeth.
“I have a six a.m. and a seven a.m. tomorrow, and my playlists aren’t ready. Unfortunately, those sakés were my nightcap.”
“Come on. Just use the same playlist for both classes.”
Trevor offered Chris some side-eye as they walked.
“You know, you used to be a lot more fun,” Chris said.
“You have a choice,” Trevor said. “You can get ‘fun’ Trevor, who will do sake bombs until the sun comes up, see late-night jazz, and coast through his classes. Or you can have ‘six-pack who can afford to pay for sushi and pay seventy percent of our rent’ Trevor. Which one will it be?”
“Not fair. It’s a Sophie’s choice,” Chris said.
“That’s not at all overly dramatic.”
“Okay. Fine. But you owe me one full episode of something crappy on TV before bed. No falling asleep fifteen minutes in and then asking me to fill you in the next day.”
“One episode. But it has to be a half hour episode.”
“Deal.”
“Alright then. Think about what you want to watch.”
Momoya was three blocks from their apartment. In fifteen minutes, they’d be home and under the covers. And even though he’d committed to a full episode, Trevor didn’t think he’d be able to keep his eyes open once his head hit that goose down pillow.
As they neared 6th Avenue, Trevor heard someone shouting. The voice came from behind them. He assumed the person was speaking to someone else, so he ignored it. But the second time the guy yelled, “Hey, faggots!” Trevor knew he was speaking to them.
“Just ignore him,” Chris said.
“I haven’t been called that name in a while,” Trevor said. “And definitely not in this neighborhood.”
“Idiots are like cockroaches,” Chris said. “You might not see them, but they’re always hiding in the dark.”
“And if you approach them, they’ll run like bitches,” Trevor said.
“Come on. You don’t need to start anything.”
The man shouted, louder now. “Hey, I’m talking to you, you faggots. What, you can’t talk to me ’cause you got each others’ dicks in your mouths?”
“Please. Ignore him,” Chris said, but Trevor’s blood had already begun to boil. It had been far too long since he’d kicked the shit out of a gay basher. He could teach this asshole a lesson and still be in bed in twenty minutes. Plus, the extra adrenaline might actually keep him up for a whole episode.
Trevor heard Chris mumble oh shit under his breath. He turned around, and that was when Trevor saw there wasn’t one man following them, but three. And two of them were holding metal pipes.
He didn’t see the third one raise the can of pepper spray until it was too late.
Grace Rivas took a cab straight from the airport to the U.S. Bank Arena in downtown Cincinnati. It was a chilly day, slightly overcast, and Grace pulled her scarf tight. A massive line wound its way around the arena. Many had been standing in the cold for hours. None of them cared. They would have crossed an ocean to see Rawson Griggs.
Across the road from the ticketholders line was a mass of protestors. Well over a thousand, Grace estimated.
For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.
Grace reads some of the signs held by the protestors.
I’M HERE LEGALLY.
MR. GRIGGS, WERE YOUR ANCESTORS NATIVE AMERICANS?
YOUR WIFE WASN’T FROM HERE.
RAWSON GRIGGS = A RAW DEAL FOR AMERICA.
The overwhelming passion, both for and against Rawson Griggs, was something she’d never witnessed in politics. It felt like whether he won or lost, the public reaction would be volatile.
Grace signed in at the press table and waved hello to Jerry Kapinski. Kapinski turned his back on her. He was still pissed about her PoliSpill story, presumably. She entered the press pen and found a spot tucked among the reporters and cameramen.
The press pen was a bit more literal than Grace and her colleagues were used to. The Griggs campaign had barricaded the press corps behind dozens of steel crowd control barriers, as though the crowd had to be protected from the press, or vice versa. Normally they had freedom to roam and report. Here, they were literally penned in.
The U.S. Bank Arena officially seated a shade under eighteen thousand people, but seeing the mass of people already packed in, plus the line outside, Grace was certain the Griggs campaign had overbooked the venue. Probably on purpose.
Hamilton was a hugely important swing county in Ohio. Since 1980, Ohio had voted Republican six times and Democrat four times. It was a true bellwether state, and Hamilton County was a linchpin. Shaw and Garrett had both campaigned here, but had troubled filling VR halls. If enthusiasm was a harbinger of electoral support, Rawson would win Hamilton. Grace knew Rawson wouldn’t hold anything back in order to take this county.
Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the U.S.A. came on the loudspeakers, and Rawson took the stage to a standing ovation. Grace was amused. Politicians loved to play that song. Clearly they didn’t actually listen to the lyrics.
This was the third presidential election Grace had covered, and every rally had defined media sections. They were usually areas cordoned-off by ropes or chairs, but this was the first time she’d felt like a prisoner. She had little doubt Rawson Griggs wanted it that way. Rallygoers were by and large hospitable and engaging. But today, Grace felt like Rawson had her and her colleagues dangling on a rope bridge above a piranha pool.
Grace used to have a strong professional relationship with the Griggs Organization, and a particular fondness for Alena. She’d always seemed to be a counterweight to her father’s grandiosity, remaining grounded despite being born into the kind of privilege few people in history could understand. Alena was raised with advantages few could dream of, but never seemed to exploit them.
After Paul Bracewell’s death, though, Alena had faded from the campaign trail. To Grace, it seemed that Rawson had grown unhinged, bolder. And if what Remy Stanton had said was true, Rawson was capable of truly frightening things.
Rawson clapped as he approached the podium, pointing
and waving at the huge crowd.
“It’s great to be back in the wonderful state of Ohio!” Rawson shouted. The crowd cheered relentlessly. “I cannot tell you how important your state is. Over the past forty years, the way the county has voted has almost always followed the way Ohio has voted. Think about that. You could say that you, each of you, determine the outcome of this election.”
The crowd applauded, and Rawson clapped with them.
“Now, I want to earn your vote. Every one of you. You are each a mighty warrior. Warriors influence the outcome of wars. And make no mistakes, my friends: this is a war. And when that war is over, if you voted for Rawson Griggs, you’ll be able to say, proudly, that you were part of something unprecedented. You raised your claws and you fought off the leeches that have sucked this country dry for too long.”
The crowd booed. Apparently, they were not fond of leeches. Grace snapped a few photos from her cell phone and tweeted them out.
“Now, in war,” Rawson said, lowering his voice, letting people know he was deadly serious, “you have opposition. People who fight against you. They want to stop your way of life. They want you to agree with them, follow them, bow to them.”
More boos.
“Millions of Americans are out of work, starving, dying in our streets. They just want a better life. But some people want things to stay the same. They don’t care if you can’t eat, as long as they come home to a steak. They don’t care if you can’t pay your rent, as long as they can pay their country club membership.”
The booing and jeers grew louder. Rawson was feeding the crowd’s anger.
Grace scanned the press pen. She saw her friend Josh Lambert from The Guardian. Josh had been on the Griggs beat for months. He’d attended dozens of rallies, and his dispatches were thorough, even, and well reported. They’d shared several late-night dinners post-Griggs rallies, and one chaste kiss that was never spoken of again.
Grace hoped the hotel had a decent bar. She would need a strong cocktail or four after today.
“Now, do any of you read the New York Gazette?” Rawson asked. Grace’s eyes widened. Her pulse quickened. What was Rawson doing?
Thousands of people replied, “No!”
“In case you pay attention to the news, this terrible newspaper made up a story in an effort to discredit me, and to undermine this great campaign. And by discrediting me, they’re discrediting you.”
The anger was palpable. Grace remembered what Remy had told her: Be careful.
Now she knew why.
“There’s this one reporter at the Gazette,” Griggs said. “She’s here with us today. Grace Rivas. Little Gracey, are you there in the back?”
Grace froze. Her heart hammered. Rawson was looking right at her.
“There she is,” Rawson said. “Can we get a look at this woman? And I use that term very, very loosely.”
The event camera swiveled, and suddenly Grace was on every screen in the building.
“Everyone, let Grace back there know exactly what you all think of her.”
Suddenly thousands of people were looking right at Grace. Hisses and boos rained down, thousands of voices strong. Three words ran through her head.
Oh my god…
The stream of liquid hit Trevor’s eyes before he had a chance to see their faces. Within a second, it felt like someone had lit matches under his eyelids. A burning, searing pain flooded Trevor’s eyes, and he fell to his knees, gasping. His eyes closed involuntarily. He tried to shield his face with his arms, but it was too late.
Trevor heard a scream and realized they’d sprayed Chris as well.
Anger welled up inside him. Trevor tried to force his eyes open. His nose was running. His face felt like it was on fire. He tried to stand, but felt the metal pipe jabbed end-first into his stomach. He doubled over and retched on the sidewalk.
Trevor couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. His eyes burned, the wind had been driven from him, and he didn’t know what they were doing to his husband.
“You like that, you faggot?” one of the men said. “Figured you’d like shit being sprayed against your face, faggot.”
Trevor swung his fist wildly, trying to hit someone, anyone, but connected with nothing but air.
Trevor felt the ground around him, eyes still burned shut, looking for something, anything, to use as a weapon. He still couldn’t see, but he was desperate. Then Trevor felt a foot stomp on his right hand, pinning it against the ground.
“What do you think you’re doing, faggot?”
“I think he needs to be taught a lesson,” another man said.
“I think you’re right. What do you think, faggot?”
Trevor struggled to speak. Snot and tears poured down his face. He managed to open his eyes just a bit, but his vision was hazy, his eyeballs burning.
“Take what you want,” he said. “Take it and go.”
The men all laughed. “Faggot’s trying to buy us off,” one said.
“Think we’re joking?” another added.
“I’m not,” Trevor managed to sputter. “I don’t. Please. Take whatever you want.”
“Oh, we will,” one said. “Sorry, faggot. But you should have stayed in that bar.”
Trevor thought we didn’t come from a bar, right before the metal pipe came down on his right ankle. There was split second between the moment he felt the blow land, and the moment he heard the crack of his ankle breaking.
They were shaking the steel gates of the press pen like it was the cage of a trapped animal. Grace felt rooted in place. She was terrified. They crowd was unhinged. They wanted to hurt someone. And they were all looking at her.
Grace took a step back, tripped over a microphone cord, and almost went down. It was payback for the PoliSpill article. Rawson was teaching her a lesson.
“Lying bitch,” seethed a heavyset, goateed man wearing a black Real Women Like It RAWson t-shirt.
“You should be ashamed of yourself, cunt,” said a younger man with a ruddy face and a ponytail wearing combat fatigues.
Grace felt a hand on her shoulder. She whipped around, ready to fight. Josh Lambert was standing there.
“Whoa, whoa, Grace, it’s me.”
“Jesus. Josh.”
“Are you okay? This guy is a lunatic.”
“I’m okay,” Grace said, even though she definitely did not feel okay. Rawson had crossed the line at warp speed. And the scary part was: he knew it, and didn’t care.
“Get out of here,” Josh said. “Go back to the hotel. Let this blow over.”
“No way,” Grace said. “This is my job. I’m not going to let Rawson Griggs intimidate me. Fuck him.”
Then Grace heard Rawson’s voice boom throughout the arena.
“Oh, would you look at little Gracey back there, crying to her friend?” Rawson mimicked rinsing his eyes out. “Folks, this is what journalism has come to. They make up stories to hurt you, but then, like any playground bully, when you confront them, they go off and cry. What do you say to cowards like that? Do we respect them?”
Nearly twenty thousand people shouted, “No!” The jeers and boos surrounded her. More people approached the press pen. The gates were not going to hold.
“They,” Rawson said, louder, “are the opposition. This so-called free press wants to enslave you. Patriots do not stand for that. Beasts do not stand for that.”
“Okay, this is getting out of hand,” she said to Josh. “Let’s go.”
Grace put her notebook into her bag. She started to push her way to the exit. It was on the opposite side of the press pen, about thirty feet away.
“Oh, look, she’s trying to leave,” Rawson said. “Little Gracey, you’re in America. If you don’t like what people have to say, you don’t just get to leave.”
Then Rawson held his arms out, like he was inviting twenty thousand people under his wings. “Do you want Little Gracey to leave without being taught a lesson?”
Thousands cried, “No!”
&nbs
p; “Then what are we going to do about it?”
“Grace…” Josh said.
“Go. Let’s get out of here,” Grace said. “Goddamn him.”
Suddenly, Grace heard a crashing sound. She looked back and saw that the guardrail surrounding the media pen had been knocked over. People were climbing over the metal gates by the dozens. Anger and malice in their eyes. So many of them were smiling. They were smiling.
“What are we going to do about it?” Rawson shouted again.
“Move!” Josh yelled, pushing his way through the pen. He held Grace by her arm and began to drag her through the scrum.
More and more people mounted the gates and headed towards them. Grace felt a hand grab her shoulder. She turned around and saw a strange, leering man holding onto the fabric of her jacket. She tried to pull away, but he held tight.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he said.
Grace jerked away, and the sleeve of her jacket ripped.
Josh stepped forward and shoved the man down to the ground.
Rawson shouted into the microphone, “They’re leaving! They’re too cowardly to face real patriots!”
Grace could see the exit. Reporters and cameramen were trying to clear a path for her while holding back the oncoming rush. Bodies were flailing around. She could hear cursing, shouting, screaming.
Grace felt a hand curl around her ankle and she went down, slamming her knee against a fallen metal gate. She screamed out in pain.
Josh kneeled down and wrapped Grace’s arm around his shoulder.
“Ready? One, two, three.” He helped her stand, but Grace’s knee buckled under her. The crowd kept surging forward. Grace looked over her shoulder. They were still coming.
Her knee killed. Josh half-walked, half-dragged her towards the exit. She looked back again and saw attendees and reporters in an insane melee. She saw punches being thrown, people writhing on the ground in pain. This was a maelstrom unlike anything Grace had ever seen. She was shaking, terrified.
