Truth, Pride, Victory, Love

by David Connor

  I DIDN’T sign a pledge, which is what it seemed Eric Spidderman was after. I did sign an autograph in the restaurant, however. I’d chosen a little Mexican place because I didn’t think my dad would believe I really wanted a dollar-menu cheeseburger and small fries. The woman who asked for my John Hancock offered a rather odd look when I handed back her napkin. I wondered if she thought I was somebody else, someone much taller who had been to the Olympics several times already. I was pretty sure she’d overheard our dinner conversation and only asked because of the buzzwords she’d picked up on. I’d ordered a salad and four veggie burritos, because I was training, I said. It was really because they were cheaper, and also because I was already too full from guilt and self-loathing to eat more. I tried to keep a running tally in my head of what everyone else had, missing several cues when it was my time to talk.

  “Are you okay?” Dad asked.

  “Just nervous about tomorrow.”

  “The meet or the commercial?” He took a bite of his $7.99 entrée and another sip of sangria from the $20.00 pitcher.

  “Both.” I could hardly wait for morning. After speaking with Eric Spidderman, I had some questions for the Macon Charter people I doubted I’d have the guts to ask. Actually, I couldn’t wait for the whole thing to be over. Something I’d so been looking forward to was now just another complication.

  My salad was pretty much untouched when the check came. As planned, Cal pounced. “Let me.”

  “No,” my father said. “I insist. We got our hotel room comped and our plane fare covered. We really haven’t paid for anything yet.”

  “I really want to.” Cal’s performance was Oscar worthy. “I’m so proud of Wats and all he’s accomplished. You can pick up the tab tomorrow night, Mr. W. I’ll at least flip you for it.”

  “We’ll want to celebrate with champagne tomorrow,” Dad said.

  When I considered how much a bottle of champagne would cost my almost-out-of-work father, I wanted to cry.

  “Who’s going to pay next time I win?” Devon asked.

  “Me,” I said. “Anything you want.” Chinese was his favorite. I figured I could swing an eggroll and a pint of General Tso’s chicken with a side of rice.

  My dad relinquished the bill with a sigh. “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Did you get your script for the commercial?” Devon asked, his eyes flickering like the candle in the little red jar.

  “I did.” It was a single sheet of paper.

  “Me and you are the only ones who get to talk.”

  “I know.” We had one sentence each.

  “What is Macon Charter again?”

  “It’s a bank,” I told him as I finished my diet ginger ale.

  “By where we live?”

  “No. They probably have a branch in Poughkeepsie. New York City for sure.”

  “Then how will we go there?”

  “We don’t have to go there.”

  “How will we get our money?”

  “They’ll send it in the mail.” Though I was still hoping they’d hand it over before cameras rolled.

  “Oh. But aren’t we saying we go there… in the commercial.”

  “Not really.”

  “Aren’t we saying we would go there? Like, when Peyton Manning sings about insurance, doesn’t that mean he has to use that insurance?”

  My father stifled a laugh.

  “I guess. But we don’t have to go there, we can bank online. We can get a credit card. This ad is more about using their credit cards.”

  “Do you have one?” Devon asked my dad.

  “Not from them, no.”

  “Do you?” He came at me next.

  “Hopefully, your brother doesn’t have any credit cards.” That was my father’s way of asking, probably for Mama, since she couldn’t be there until morning.

  “I do. Everyone needs at least one these days,” I said, knowing my wallet now held six. Instant approval was no joke.

  “Maybe they’ll give you another one,” Devon replied.

  “Maybe.” Seven was my lucky number.

  My brother went back to his refried beans, but just for a moment. “Isn’t it a lie?” he asked. “To say we go to a bank we don’t go to?”

  “We’re not saying we go to the bank, work at the bank, use the bank, or even ever heard of the bank. We never mention the bank by name. In a way, the commercial is more about me and you, like they’re advertising us, not the other way around.” That was my spin and I was sticking to it, just like I never said I wasn’t gay, because no one connected to the ad campaign ever asked.

  Devon slurped his Coke. “I don’t want to lie.” Slllluuuuurrrrrp. “Lying is bad.”

  “Dev!” I snapped. Then I tried to take it back, but the damage was done. His eyes were cast down at the table and his mouth had curved into a frown. “It’s not a lie,” I said much more softly. “We’re just swimming, and then they’re kind of saying they help people’s dreams come true, like yours and mine and going to the Olympics.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s all very new,” my dad said. “Your brother is nervous.” He put his hand on Devon’s arm, apparently apologizing for me, not for Dev’s curiosity and persistent thoughts.

  “Sorry, bro.” I offered one of my own. “Dad’s right. I’m more scared about this commercial than I’ve ever been about swimming.”

  “Me too,” Devon said.

  The guilt poked me in the gut. “Well…. We’ll get through it together. We can probably make it fun, like we did raking the leaves sometimes.”

  “Now I have to rake by myself.”

  “I know. Sorry about that too.”

  “Will Mathias be there?”

  Fuck. Why did I bring up leaves?

  FOURTEEN HOURS later, I was still belching from my evening soft drink—or maybe it was anxiety. A lot was happening that day. There was the commercial meeting at the start of it, the commercial itself, making the Olympics, and also the possibility Mathias wouldn’t. It was a wonder I could keep the meal I’d eaten the night before and my half a box of breakfast bars down, what with my gut in knots over all of that plus the notion I was letting down the gay world at large if I stayed in the closet and possibly my family, financially speaking, if I came out. On the other hand, I was probably letting them down either way if I continued to lie.

  A ray of early-morning sunshine through the fancy hotel conference room’s huge window blinded me. I wanted to switch seats or pull down the blinds. When I opted for the second, the whole thing fell to the floor with a vibrating thud. I was glad there were only five of us in the room, Coach Keller and the rest all Watsons, including Mama, who had arrived just before dawn and looked so tired.

  “Fuck.”

  “Reed.”

  “Sorry, Mama.” She wasn’t too exhausted to scold her adult son.

  I picked it up, this gargantuan tangle of slats and cordage, and tried to rehang it, reaching overhead, coming up too short. “I can’t even see the bracket things.”

  Devon and my father came to my aid. My brother pulled over a chair, one without wheels, from the corner and reinstalled the pricy shade in a matter of seconds.

  “You need to chill,” he said.

  He was right.

  The space smelled like new carpeting and leather, at least until everyone else piled in, at which point it smelled like coffee and cigarettes. Someone involved was a heavy smoker. Mick Albert was there, as well as Cloud-ia, and just about everyone else on planet Earth that could fit in a conference room. Only one person really talked—mostly to me—and I wasn’t even certain who he was.

  “We want it to feel spontaneous, like part of the celebration. ‘I’m going to Disney Land!’” he said exuberantly “Like that, only with our lines. Your brother—you, Devon—will go first. ‘The truth is blah, blah, blah, and pride means, blah, blah, blah.’ You can say whatever you want, first you and then Reed.” He spun the chair to look at me again. “Maybe you’ll say, ‘The truth is, all I e
ver wanted to do is swim, and pride is representing my country at the Olympics.’”

  “Yeah. I’ll say that.”

  The man snickered. It was quick, but his friendly smile stayed. “I want you to say what you feel. Anything about truth and pride, and what they mean to you.”

  “I feel what you said.” I would have agreed to just about anything at that moment, because, thanks to Eric Spidderman, every time the commercial dude said “pride,” I expected someone in the room to yell out “Gay!” as if we were playing some sort of fraud-revealing word-association game. “It’s good,” I said.

  “Okay, then.” His warmth put me slightly at ease. “We’ll try to get you both in the water the moment we’re allowed. The numbers from the final race will all have to be tabulated, so everything can be made official as to who’s going to Rio with Reed here, because we know you’re going, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  The chatty rep furrowed his brow. “That was a little meek. But you know what?” He leaned in. He wasn’t the smoker. “I still believe you. We might even be able to use some of the official announcement in the ad. We’ll see. It would be great to get a shot of your name in lights up on that leaderboard—the real thing. We can fake it if we can’t. No one will know. Advertising trickery. Shh. It’s all an illusion, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Except you. You’re the real deal. A role model, a future American idol.”

  “He gonna be a singer now too?”

  “Marvet.”

  My dad was a comedian. Sometimes, he just couldn’t help himself.

  “He’s not bad, really. Of course, that show went off the air….” My father wouldn’t stop.

  “We could fake perfect pitch too if we had to,” the ad man said. “Wouldn’t be the first time. So…. You have any questions? Either one of you?”

  Devon sat up straighter in his chair, as if about to speak. He looked at me and then shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “Okay, then. Now, I have some other news. Reed, I’m not sure what your plans are for after Rio, but if your future includes a trip to the 2020 games, Macon Charter would like to offer you our sponsorship. For your other son, Mr. Watson, for you, Devon, we would like to foot the bill for your future education. The truth is, we take great pride in being able to do that for deserving individuals, like your sons. See what I did there?” he asked me, still somehow managing to pull off the smile as genuine. “It’s our pleasure to help a small number of hardworking, dedicated folks like you each year.” He then aimed it at my parents. “People who could use a financial leg up.”

  I looked to my dad too. The words “deserving” and “who could use a financial leg up” were making us sound pretty needy. I wondered if he was thinking the very same thing.

  “I truly wish we could do it for everyone,” the commercial guy said—more likely a Macon Charter bank guy, I assumed by then. Surely no producer or director would have the authority to give away the bank’s money. “After some research… speaking with your coaches and other supporters, etcetera, we feel as if you are both the type of young men we would like to assist.”

  I was truly speechless. My mother had tears in her eyes. She made a sound, sort of like a high-pitched gasp. My father was quiet, like me—too quiet. I wanted him to say “Fuck off!” or “Thank you so much.” It could have gone either way, I figured, or maybe I misjudged him.

  “Your offer is incredible,” he finally said. “Furthering my son’s education has always been my biggest dream and, to tell you the truth, my biggest worry lately—one of them. Considering the color of our skin and the news coming out at least once a week lately… one of them. Still, I can’t accept your money right out until I do some research of my own. You may have talked to people about us, but now it’s my turn.”

  The bank representative smiled. “Of course.”

  “Though I already looked you up before I gave Devon permission to be in your commercial, just so you know.”

  “And…?”

  “A couple of years ago, we might not have been sitting here.”

  My heart stopped. Was Dad about to bring up the word I’d been dreading, out me in the process, and possibly ruin everything?

  20

  THE BANK representative’s name turned out to be Carl, Carl Bruno. When Dad called him Mr. Bruno while questioning Macon Charter’s stance on human rights, Carl suggested Dad call him that. I must have been too nervous to pay attention during the introductions, since I’d never even gotten the Mr. Bruno part. Carl never denied what had gone on in the past. He did, however, promise, just as Eric Spidderman had said, that things were different now.

  Cloud-ia looked quite uptight when the word gay came up several times, almost as uptight as I felt, even though no one ever said it in the same sentence as “Reed.” I kept expecting Devon to, but then I realized, as he basically sat there still enough to be one of the statues in the hotel foy-ay, I had probably made him too scared by my outburst at dinner the night before to speak in front of the bank folks at all. I was pretty sure he and my parents were wondering why I didn’t, though. Of course, that would have meant talking about myself in the third person. I wanted to be a second person, like Mathias said he became, but three would be too many.

  Though everyone seemed appeased by the time the discussion finally drew to a close, my parents still didn’t agree to take the money. A meeting with just my people followed, where I signed some documents I only skimmed and discussed other ads that might be in the works, including one for a soft drink I couldn’t stand but would happily suck down for the right price.

  “Tell them all yes.” I alternated between feeling uncertain about Macon Charter’s character and wondering about my own. I probably owed the bank spokesperson the truth, but I couldn’t risk fucking up Devon’s future by revealing it. Since the only one of my people who actually felt like my person was Coach Keller, I kept my questions and concerns to myself, and also any discussion regarding my sexuality, until he and I were alone.

  “What do I do?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Reed. Outside the pool is outside my area of expertise. It’s a whole new world from what I knew back in my competitive days. How many swimmers can you name between Mark Spitz and the one you’ll be swimming against? How many could anyone, I mean? You know them, but most people could only come up with a few. These days, though, things are out of control. Even since London, social media has evolved to the point where when someone hits—like you have, by beating the one everybody does know—your name is mentioned, like, a million times in ten minutes. Have you checked your fan page lately?”

  I hadn’t. I’d had a lot on my mind.

  “You’ll see when you do. Not long after they know your name, they somehow know your business. I’m not sure you’ll be able to keep any secrets for long.”

  “My parents need that money.”

  “Maybe you should talk about your dilemma with them, then.”

  “I know exactly what my father would say—the same thing he always says. ‘Do what feels right.’”

  “Well, then….”

  “Yeah, but he also probably won’t want to take what the bank’s offering for Devon, so sometimes he’s way too obstinate to do what’s best.”

  “What’s best or what’s right? ’Cause they might not always be the same thing.”

  “Hmm. Who says you can’t give advice? You’re as cryptic as my father, but somehow I still feel like I’ve been lectured.”

  AN EARLY training session followed. There were no ambiguities in the water. Jump in. Swim fast. I liked that. The last one in the locker room afterward, I took my time changing and tried to relax. I pulled up the Reed Watson Facebook fan page on my phone, checking for good-luck messages from supporters and congratulations from well-wishers on what I had done so far. I had a little over nine hundred thousand Likes now, just a few shy of a million.

  Holy fuck! Oh. Sorry, Mrs. Smeckler. The most recent post was from h
er. She wrote how she’d been keeping up with things online. There was one from Caryn, and also Beth and Julius, who’d stayed back in New York with the kids. Devon and Cal did a great job monitoring the site. I rarely saw any negative posts. Of course I got some. I knew I got some, but Cal usually deleted them before I could see. There was one that day—a fresh thread only minutes old. It started off tearing into someone other than me.

  I hope you beat that faggot, Mathi-ass-fucking Webber.

  Clever troll. The post had three dozen comments below it.

  Shut up you bigot!

  They probably all fuck each other that way.

  They could all fuck me.

  It went on that way for a while but took a serious turn by the last one.

  I wish Reed Watson was gay. He’s hot.

  That wasn’t the poignant one, but the one that followed tugged at my heart.

  I wish Reed Watson was gay too, but not just because of how he looks. My father loves him. My father hates me. He says African Americans aren’t gay. It’s like saying African Americans don’t swim. It’s ignorant, of course, and I don’t think he means it deep down. What my father does mean is that his African American son can’t be gay. That’s what he won’t accept. If Reed came out and his parents were good with it, well, that might help with me and my dad.

  The kid—I was assuming he was a kid, even though I knew grown men struggled with family acceptance sometimes too—had signed in as “Anonymous.” I wanted to write him back, to share my story just for him, just to him, but I didn’t know how I could do that. I could only share it publicly. I wanted to soothe him, to encourage him to live his truth and promise him things would get better. That would have made me one hell of a hypocrite. “Be yourself—unless there’s money involved.” The word sellout sprang to mind.

  Still on edge, still emotional as I meandered down the orange-and-copper, brown-marbled hotel hallway toward my room later on, I nearly died of heart failure when someone reached out from another and yanked me inside. “What the—”