music,
which was starting to transgress from the party floor as the late evening
diners dwindled to make room for the evening partygoers.
Mat
shook his head, frowning, as the two made their way through the decorative
glass and wooden doors onto the snowy street. “Could we at least stop meeting
in all these gay bars all the time?”
Lincoln
laughed. “You asked me where I was.”
“Yeah,
well I hate all the looks those guys give me.”
They
walked down the street at a casual pace. It was just after seven.
“What
looks?”
“They
keep staring at me as if to say, ’What is I guy like that doing with a guy like
him?’ As if I could never get a guy like you to like me.”
“Mat,
are you for real?” Lincoln looked incredulous. “But you’re not gay.”
Mat
looked offended, he gritted his teeth. “Pisses me off all the same.”
Lincoln
laughed. He visibly assessed Mat’s appearance in a dark brown undershirt and
light grey tweed jacket. “You can relax about that, take it from a guy that
knows, tweed is a natural gay repellant.” Lincoln gave him a friendly nudge.
“What’s
wrong with the way I’m dressed.”
“It’s
embarrassing at least for me, being your closest gay friend and not being
capable of making a dent in that fuddy-duddy closet of yours...”
“Hey!
Don’t think I won’t clock you a good one right here, right now.”
Lincoln
laughed, “Just walk a safe distance in front so people won’t know we’re
together and I’ll be fine with just that.”
A
young man drove up in a grey BMW. “Need a ride?”
“No
thanks,” Lincoln said. “I have year-round parking across the street.”
“Get
in, I’ll drive you up.”
Lincoln
got in, shoving his bags in the back. He folded his large frame into the back
seat. Mat sat beside him.
Eyeing
his friend’s packages, he shook his head again.
“I
can’t dump a broad without her slamming my ass on Facebook.”
Lincoln
snickered.
“Lincoln,
I’ve got one question for you. What kind of control you have over men, and can
it be reverse-engineered from ‘gay’ to ‘straight’?”
Clang!
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Is the
ringing in my ears getting louder?
The man
lying in the grimy cell covered his ears harder with his hands. To his chagrin,
the sound intensified.
“What
the…”
“Yo,”
the officer at the gate called to him in Spanish. “Time to go, gringo .”
The
man perked up. “Huh?”
“Time
to go, you’re out of here.”
Ohh
yeah.
The
man rolled over, falling right off the side of the suspended wooden bench that
served as a cot and onto the floor. His head met dirt. The other occupants of
the cell snickered.
The
man brought himself up awkwardly, swaying on his feet. He shook his head
roughly.
“You
okay?” the policeman asked. “Come on.” He opened cell door. “Let’s go.”
The
man grunted. He exited the cell and started walking the short distance to the
entrance. Then someone caught his eye. He stopped, staring. Sitting on the cot
in the next cell, barely dressed, was a young girl. He figured she couldn’t be
more than eleven or twelve years old. The girl felt his stare, but didn’t meet
his eyes. The other occupants of the cell leered at her. Another man in the
cell came to him and told him frankly, in front of the policeman, “Special
order. You have money, we make it happen.”
The
young man, dressed in a wife-beater, open plaid shirt, and loose jeans shook
his head, averting his eyes. The policeman behind him shoved him to move
forward. He grunted his response and complied.
At the
front desk he collected his belongings: a wallet (now devoid of cash), a
cigarette box (with mysteriously vanishing cigarettes), and one cell phone. The
man seemed genuinely surprised that he got back his cell phone. And one
toothbrush which he made a mental note to throw away.
The
man saluted the officers, taking note of the one lounging in the corner whom he
was sure was wearing his pricey shades. Then he
which was starting to transgress from the party floor as the late evening
diners dwindled to make room for the evening partygoers.
Mat
shook his head, frowning, as the two made their way through the decorative
glass and wooden doors onto the snowy street. “Could we at least stop meeting
in all these gay bars all the time?”
Lincoln
laughed. “You asked me where I was.”
“Yeah,
well I hate all the looks those guys give me.”
They
walked down the street at a casual pace. It was just after seven.
“What
looks?”
“They
keep staring at me as if to say, ’What is I guy like that doing with a guy like
him?’ As if I could never get a guy like you to like me.”
“Mat,
are you for real?” Lincoln looked incredulous. “But you’re not gay.”
Mat
looked offended, he gritted his teeth. “Pisses me off all the same.”
Lincoln
laughed. He visibly assessed Mat’s appearance in a dark brown undershirt and
light grey tweed jacket. “You can relax about that, take it from a guy that
knows, tweed is a natural gay repellant.” Lincoln gave him a friendly nudge.
“What’s
wrong with the way I’m dressed.”
“It’s
embarrassing at least for me, being your closest gay friend and not being
capable of making a dent in that fuddy-duddy closet of yours...”
“Hey!
Don’t think I won’t clock you a good one right here, right now.”
Lincoln
laughed, “Just walk a safe distance in front so people won’t know we’re
together and I’ll be fine with just that.”
A
young man drove up in a grey BMW. “Need a ride?”
“No
thanks,” Lincoln said. “I have year-round parking across the street.”
“Get
in, I’ll drive you up.”
Lincoln
got in, shoving his bags in the back. He folded his large frame into the back
seat. Mat sat beside him.
Eyeing
his friend’s packages, he shook his head again.
“I
can’t dump a broad without her slamming my ass on Facebook.”
Lincoln
snickered.
“Lincoln,
I’ve got one question for you. What kind of control you have over men, and can
it be reverse-engineered from ‘gay’ to ‘straight’?”
Clang!
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Is the
ringing in my ears getting louder?
The man
lying in the grimy cell covered his ears harder with his hands. To his chagrin,
the sound intensified.
“What
the…”
“Yo,”
the officer at the gate called to him in Spanish. “Time to go, gringo .”
The
man perked up. “Huh?”
“Time
to go, you’re out of here.”
Ohh
yeah.
The
man rolled over, falling right off the side of the suspended wooden bench that
served as a cot and onto the floor. His head met dirt. The other occupants of
the cell snickered.
The
man brought himself up awkwardly, swaying on his feet. He shook his head
roughly.
“You
okay?” the policeman asked. “Come on.” He opened cell door. “Let’s go.”
The
man grunted. He exited the cell and started walking the short distance to the
entrance. Then someone caught his eye. He stopped, staring. Sitting on the cot
in the next cell, barely dressed, was a young girl. He figured she couldn’t be
more than eleven or twelve years old. The girl felt his stare, but didn’t meet
his eyes. The other occupants of the cell leered at her. Another man in the
cell came to him and told him frankly, in front of the policeman, “Special
order. You have money, we make it happen.”
The
young man, dressed in a wife-beater, open plaid shirt, and loose jeans shook
his head, averting his eyes. The policeman behind him shoved him to move
forward. He grunted his response and complied.
At the
front desk he collected his belongings: a wallet (now devoid of cash), a
cigarette box (with mysteriously vanishing cigarettes), and one cell phone. The
man seemed genuinely surprised that he got back his cell phone. And one
toothbrush which he made a mental note to throw away.
The
man saluted the officers, taking note of the one lounging in the corner whom he
was sure was wearing his pricey shades. Then he
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