William Bernhardt: Hate Crime

“I’ve got two Coronas headed to your blond boytoy’s table,” Shelly said, sliding the tray toward him. “I know you executive types don’t normally perform manual labor, but-”

“I’ll take it.”

Tony checked himself in the mirror behind the bar. Sandy blond locks, bangs dangling over one eye the way he liked them. Could you tell he’d been working out? I mean, he could tell, but could anyone else? Like the blond guy at Table Ten?

“Two Coronas for the gentlemen,” Tony announced as he lowered the tray. “As ordered.”

The two men, one fair, the other darker in complexion, sat at opposite ends of the table. They were both young-probably college students. Not Phillips, though-more likely Northwestern. Perhaps even University of Chicago. They were doing their best to act earthy, but it wasn’t convincing. Like Bertie and Jeeves trying to do American Pie . Their perfectly creased chinos and perfectly unscuffed Doc Martens told the true tale. It was part of the John D. Rockfeller legacy to the University of Chicago -in addition to the pseudo-Oxfordian architecture that never quite worked. Phillips students were just townies by comparison.

“Somethin’ goin’ on tonight?” the darker of the two asked.

Tony flashed his brightest smile. “There’s always something going on in Evanston, gentlemen. Beaches, boutiques, art galleries-just depends on what you’re looking for.”

The blond guy smiled. “Ain’t that the truth.” What teeth. What a smile. What a way with words. Tony’s heart did flip-flops just looking at him.

“Thought I saw you lookin’ around,” his companion said. “You and the chick behind the bar.”

“There’s a rumor goin’ around that an undercover cop is haunting some of the local bars. Probably a crock, but we were trying to guess who the cop might be.”

“So that’s all it was?”

“Yeah. Why?”

His blond friend grinned. “Brett thought you was givin’ him the eye.”

They both looked at him. All at once, Tony felt like an amoeba in a science experiment. Were these guys gay, too? Was that why they were asking, because they were interested? Or just the opposite? He knew better than to assume gayness just because two guys hung out together. Especially when the frats were on the prowl. But it was so hard to know, even now when he was well out of the closet. Some of his gay buddies said they could always tell if another guy was gay, like they had some kind of biological radar. Tony didn’t believe it. In any case, even if that did exist somewhere, the radar fairy hadn’t brought him any. He never knew, and had learned to play it cool until he was certain.

“Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Just trying to spot the cop.”

The blond man laughed. “Well, that’s good. Brett here thought maybe you were a faggot.”

Tony felt his blood turn to ice. “Here’s the tab. If you need anything more, just wave at one of the waitresses.”

The darker man was still staring at him. Even as Tony turned and walked away, he could feel those eyes bearing down on him. He positioned himself behind the bar, not so much to help Shelly as for the sense of security it offered. Putting a big block of oak between himself and Table Ten.

“Problem?” Shelly asked.

“No. Nothing.” He was suddenly aware that his hands were shaking. What a fool he was. “I’ll be in my office. Tell Mario if he comes back.”

“All right. I’m almost through. Phoebe’s taking over.” Shelly’s large round eyes brightened. “Got me a date tonight.”

“Have a good evening. Don’t get too crazy.”

“I’ll try to keep my panties on.”

“And Shelly?”

“Yeah?”

He winked. “You were right. Definitely the guy with the socks.”

I can’t begin to know what the future holds for me. But I do know that…

When he was finished, Tony shook his wrists, working out a cramp. He caught a glimpse of the clock over the door.

Good grief! He’d been writing in his journal for more than two hours. Mario wouldn’t be happy about that-if he found out. He’d only intended to sit down for a minute or two, but once he started writing, the words just flew. Something inside him was desperate to get out, he supposed. Two hours! That was a novel, not a diary entry. And he hadn’t even mentioned his latest problem, the one that was weighing heaviest on his mind. And his conscience.

He pushed out of his chair and stretched. He’d never figured himself for the diary type. Had tried to keep one once before-and rarely wrote more than a line or two before bed. He gave it up after a month. But since he’d started keeping a journal on his laptop, all that had changed. Somehow it was easier with a keyboard. Must have something to do with the male infatuation with gadgetry. Whatever the cause, he’d managed to keep the journal going for more than two years now, since his eighteenth birthday, and that was in addition to managing this bar full-time and taking classes at Phillips part-time.

“Tony?”

He looked up. It was Phoebe, the on-duty bartender. “Phone call for you on Line One.”

“Why don’t you take a message and I’ll-”

“It’s Shelly.”

He nodded, finished what he was writing, then reached for the phone. He adored Shelly, but he was aware she’d been having some… problems of late. He’d have to be blind not to have noticed. What he didn’t know was what it was all about. She hadn’t confided in him, at least not yet, but he had a strong feeling that she wanted to. Perhaps this was the time…

“Hello?”

At first, he thought she was laughing at him, but it didn’t take long to realize how wrong he was. That wasn’t laughter. Just the opposite. She was trying to speak, but her words were broken and convulsed by tears.

Less than five minutes later, Tony was outside the bar. He wrapped his coat tightly around himself. It was still cold and wet, typical Illinois spring. Not bad, but just chilly enough to require a coat. Just enough wet that he had to watch for puddles as he crossed the dark asphalt parking lot. He spotted his Volkswagen bug and began fumbling in his satchel for his keys.

“Lookit that purse. I told you he was a queer.”

Tony froze.

“Nice purse, faggot. Got a lipstick in there?”

Tony tried to keep his voice even. “It’s a satchel. Like a backpack. I carry my schoolbooks-”

“Check out the limp wrist.” The two men from Table Ten emerged from the shadows of the parking lot. “Disgusting. Faggot car, too.”

Tony tore through his bag, desperately searching for those keys. “Look, boys, I don’t want any trouble.”

The dark man came closer. “I saw the way you were looking at me. I know what you were thinking, too. Sick’ning, that’s what it was. Flaming queen, coming on to me in public, in front of my friends.”

“I didn’t mean anything.” Tony’s heart was racing. Was anyone else in the parking lot? If he shouted, would they hear it inside the bar?

The dark man kept coming. “I know what you wanted, you butt-fucking pervert. Well, I’m gonna give you something a little different.”

Tony threw back his shoulders. “Look, asshole, if you have some idea that because I’m gay, I’ll be your punching bag, you got it wrong. I’ve studied Tae Kwon Do and I am one mean mofo, so the smartest thing you could do is just leave me alone.”

The dark man laughed. “Listen to him, Johnny. The little cocksucker thinks he’s tough. Gonna use his sissy boy kung fu on us.” He laughed again, slow and ugly. “I’m quaking in my boots.”

“We have security here,” Tony lied. “All I have to do is yell.”

“Then we’ll have to make sure you don’t.”

The dark man pulled a Taser out from inside his coat and shoved it into Tony’s gut. In one explosive burst, Tony felt the electric pulse ripple through his body, ripping it apart. His legs dissolved; a second later he hit the asphalt. The man applied the Taser again and again, torturing him, never letting him rest. Tony twitched and spasmed like a half-crushed bug. Even when the Taser was finally removed, he couldn’t stop writhing. He was like a marionette on a madman’s string, jerking one way then the next, his entire body convulsing.