William Bernhardt - Hate Crime

“This your first time?” asked a young black man sitting behind him.

“Yeah,” Loving said. “I’m the newbie.”

“Don’t let it get to you. These boys talk tough, but they’re all pussycats deep down.”

Well, that was a relief. Because at the moment, Menendez was talking about burning down the courthouse in the event a not-guilty verdict was rendered in favor of Johnny Christensen.

“Listen to me,” the black man said, addressing the group.

“Hey!” Menendez shouted, hushing the crowd. “Roger wants to talk.”

“Many of you know me,” he continued. “I knew Tony Barovick. Well. Closely.” The room fell silent. “And I can tell you this. Tony would not have approved of violence of any sort. Tony loved everyone-even those who didn’t return the affection. He would never have condoned shooting defendants in the courtroom or targeting their lawyers or burning down courthouses.”

“We’re not doin’ it for him,” someone growled.

“You’re doing it in his name,” Roger shot back. Loving was impressed at how articulate he was, how well he managed to keep cool under fire. “You’re shaping his memory, his legacy. Don’t make it a nasty one. Don’t let it be tainted by the same kind of ugliness that took my Tony away.” Roger scanned the room, almost daring them to defy him. “Tony was not a perfect person. There were times when… we had our problems. Who doesn’t? But I know this-Tony believed in love. He thought love could change the world.” He paused again, giving his words time to breathe. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we gave that a chance?”

After the meeting was adjourned, Loving made a beeline toward Gary Scholes, catching him just outside the church doors. He was talking to Jesus Menendez. As soon as they concluded their conversation, he shouted, “Hey, wait up!”

Scholes stopped. “Do I know you?”

“Nah. I-” Thinking… thinking… “I just recognized your face. You’re a Beta, aren’t you?”

His eyes narrowed. “And you know this because?…”

Loving put on his best aw-shucks expression and dug his hands into his pockets. Given his size and profound west Oklahoma accent, it usually sufficed to assure the other party he was a hopeless dullard who couldn’t possibly be a threat. “Geez… this is embarrassing. Since I got laid off, I’ve been… kind of a Court TV junkie. Watch it all day long. I’ve been especially caught up in the Tony Barovick coverage. You knew Johnny Christensen, didn’t you?”

Scholes frowned. “Yes. A little.”

Loving acted as eager as a lonely puppy. “Really! Tell me about him. What’s he like?”

“I should get back to my room…”

“Aw c’mon. Just a little somethin’.”

Scholes seemed torn. “Well… he isn’t the monster the media is trying to make him. But he’s got a lot of issues.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Yeah. But he’s way above his quota. He’s been-” Scholes must’ve thought better of it, because he stopped himself midsentence.

“Were you with him… that night?”

“Yeah. After.”

“Did you know what he did?”

“Couldn’t help. He bragged about it for damn near an hour.”

“And you heard?”

“Yeah. I also heard him-” He stopped, then turned back toward the parking lot. “Look-I gotta go.”

“I gotta thousand more-” But it was too late. Scholes was out of there.

Heard him say what? Loving wondered. And why was he at this meeting in the first place? And why was a supposedly loyal fraternity brother so quick to diss his brother? Something strange was going on here. Loving didn’t know what it was. But he intended to find out. If he had to hear about every dog in the Windy City.

My first real job was waiting tables at a bar called the Black Dahlia in the ritzy Waffle Park area. First I took drink orders, then I tended bar, then I became the night manager, which meant I did both and then some, only more so. There was a reason I rose through the ranks so fast, even though I was taking classes part-time. I loved it. Everything about it. The freedom of being on my own, making a decent living. The exhilarating nightlife. The chance to hang out with people of all kinds, all walks, even people my father might not approve of. For the first time, I felt as if I’d left the artificial worlds of school and family and church and found something real.

This was not a gay bar, but everyone who worked there knew I was gay. I never made any big announcement or anything, but for once, I didn’t try to hide it either. I don’t know why, exactly-the time just seemed right. No one minded. The boss was a big old gruff macho guy, but he didn’t care. Every now and again he’d make some remark about “managers who were light in the loafers,” but I didn’t sense any malice in it. At least it wasn’t an obsession with him. And it certainly didn’t prevent him from treating me well. I worked for several months, till I moved on to Remote Control. It was comfortable. Most of the time.

We started to attract more of the biker traffic that frequented the suburbs. I’m not talking Hell’s Angels, at least not most of the time. This was yuppie biker stuff-doctors and lawyers in midlife crises, tooling around on absurdly expensive, perfectly polished Harleys and wearing designer leather jackets. Despite their education and relative affluence, some of them could be harsh, especially when they left the wives and girlfriends at home and it was just big alpha males gathered around the table, all of them jockeying to prove that despite his age and the spare tire around his gut, he was the biggest stud puppy of them all.

“I bet you’re desperate to suck my dick, aren’t you?” one of them said to me one evening when I came to take their order. I didn’t know what to say. Nothing was necessary, as it turned out, because they all started laughing so hard-and checking their friends to make sure they were laughing, too. At home that night, I thought of a thousand brilliant comebacks, but when it happened, I was too stunned to speak. I was still transfixed when he added, “If I catch you looking at me like that again, I’ll stuff your balls in your mouth. If you have any.”

Objectively, I realized the jerk was only revealing his own insecurities, but it hurt all the same. Just when you think you’re safe, you’re not. Just when you think people accept you for what you are, they don’t. How long would I be hated for being the way I was born? For being the way God made me?

“I had a buddy down at the penitentiary who hit a fag with his hog doing ninety miles an hour. Know what he got?”

“Eight to ten?”

“No. The Congressional Medal.”

Bad as they were, I’d take them any day over the holy rollers who sometimes wandered into the bar. Sometimes it was just kids on a church outing; sometimes it was a group determined to save my soul. It was to be expected-what with politicians talking about “waging war against the homosexual agenda” and preachers teaching from the pulpit that “the acceptance of homosexuality is the sign of the Beast.”

Imagine standing there with your little pad, asking if you can take their order, only to hear, “Did you know that studies have proven that homosexuality can be cured?”

“It’s not a disease,” I said weakly.

“Don’t be afraid,” said a small woman with dark eyes. She took my hand and pulled it to her breast. “We just want to help you.”

I shook her hands away. What, was this supposed to turn me on? Spark my interest in chicks with a messiah complex? It didn’t work. I brought them coffee and stayed away from their table until they finally departed. They left tracts on the table. I threw them away.