See Chapter 1 for story headers.
David had noticed years ago that the temperature of the weather and the density of the freeway traffic were directly proportional to how ripe the body in the back of the van was. His most recent "client" had lied motionless in the nursing home for hours before it dawned on anyone that he was even dead. Add the next four hours of trying to reach the family and an additional couple of hours while the family decided where to send him (all of this time unrefrigerated, mind you) and David was practically transporting compost.
Except this guy smelled even worse. He must have taken a postmortem dump along the way.
David debated whether he could even afford to stop for gas—since he didn't to prolong this trip any further—but with each mile taking an eternity, he realized he couldn't take the chance. He pulled off the freeway and went to the nearest gas station. After filling up his tank, he looked up and locked eyes with the most glorious example ever of ironic occupational names. Randy Cummings (St. Bart's youth pastor) was standing at the next pump.
"Just who I wanted to see," he bellowed when he saw David. "Get over here, man!"
David, wiping his greasy hands with a paper towel, gave the young minister an awkward hand shake.
"Great to see you, David," he repeated.
"Really?" David asked. Randy's enthusiasm seemed… excessive.
"Yeah. Haven't seen you in a while. You still at St. Bart's?"
"Yeah, I am. I've just been visiting another church lately."
"Ah," he said, nodding. "With Jennifer?"
"No."
Randy didn't miss a beat. "Doesn't matter. Where two are gathered in His name, right?" He sounded like he was talking to one of his teenagers.
"Yeah, that's what they say," David answered.
With that, Randy drew closer. "You know Curtis Thomas don't you?"
David did, kind of. He was the eldest of the Thomas kids. His dad had gone to school with Nate. "Yeah, I… know who he is."
"I thought so," Randy said. His tone grew serious, with a hint of determination. "I ask because you two seem like you really have a rapport."
"We… do?" David said.
"Yeah. I've seen you guys talking a couple times after services. He mentioned your name when we talked a couple days ago."
"He… did?" That news came as a surprise to David. "What did he say?"
"That he liked you a lot. Anyway," Randy paused, scrounging up his face and telegraphing that he was in "deep sympathy mode." It was a face David has seen before. "This is a delicate issue David."
"What… is?" David said, still lost.
"Curtis." He sighed. "Curtis confided in me… something."
David nodded with harried anticipation. He had to get a move on. There was a decaying carcass in his van, baking in the LA sun.
"I'm, of course, telling you this in the strictest confidence, but… he is under the impression that he is gay."
"Under the impression that he's gay?" David repeated.
"Yes," Randy said nodding. "He's very confused right now, and very anxious. Doesn't know what his next step should be. I told him to just sit tight, take it to the Lord and that we would get back together Friday and, you know, sit down and work through is feelings."
"Right," David said. He'd heard enough. Only one question remained. "Where do I come in?"
"Where you come in," Randy began, all pained concern, "is that Curtis trusts you. And when it comes to topics like this one, trust is critical. If we lose his trust… we lose him."
David took issue with the word "we."
"Um, I'm not sure what I could do," David said. "He and I have only talked a couple times. I think he likes… guitars, or something." Curtis had actually talked about Harry Potter, but David figured the guy had enough on his plate without throwing witchcraft in the mix.
"You could… you could help him understand the transformative power or God's love."
"I thought the Episcopalian Church was gay friendly."
"And we are," Randy insisted. "This is not about hate David. This is about aligning ourselves with God. This is not just a battle Curtis fights. This is a battle all of us must struggle with. It is not an easy one. But it is one well worth fighting. Hell is a reality that we all rage against even though it's calling for us at every turn. In the good book…"
Randy continued speaking, but his voice – once dripping in cloying levity – began to fall on David's ears in a whirlpool of brassy distortion. His words – disembodied and resonant – grew deeper, murkier, more disturbing. His face—previously the model of compassion—grew graver, twisting and contorting itself into a visage of anger, of rage and of condemnation. Color grew stark and harsh and a jarring yellow halo of glaring light seemed to round his face. His effusive and enthused sermon was reduced to a solitary word: Hell. David's senses seemed to narrow and funnel him into a single, garish vision: the word grew in intensity, rising to an unrelenting chant—drowning out the world around them both—while a growing, unseen chorus of naysayers joined in the resounding, damning cadence: "Hell, Hell, Hell, Hell, Hell, Hell, Hell, Hell…
"Hell," David whispered.
"Excuse me?" Randy said.
David cleared his throat. He could feel sweat forming on his brow. "Nothing."
"I said what time is it?"
David looked at his watch. "Four o'clock."
"Damn," Randy said, surprisingly. "I've… I've gotta run. I left my cell phone at home, so now I'm timeless and unreachable. Anyway." He chuckled, and held his hand out to shake David's hand without letting go. "Look you don't have to meet with us Friday, David. He didn't ask me to do that, and I don't want to amplify the situation, OK? Just, if he needs someone to talk to, do think you could… lend him an ear?"
"Um," David began haltingly. His recent trip to perdition had left him rattled. "Sure, I don't see why not."
"Excellent. That's all I ask. Take care David," he said. He walked towards his car and drove off. David watched as he drove away.
"So have you decided on which movie we're going to see?" Keith asked.
David reflected a moment as he bit into the last of his cookies. Eating in bed, which had started as an isolated incident last week, was slowly turning into a habit.
"This is getting complicated," he answered with a mouthful of Oreo.
"OK," Keith sighed. "Yesterday we narrowed it down to Me, Myself and Irene, Gladiator (which I've already seen), Scary Movie and The Nutty Professor II: The Klumps."
"Can White people watch The Nutty Professor?" David asked.
"I dunno; I'm not White," Keith answered. David got tired of holding the phone and put it on speaker then set it on his pillow. He put on his eye mask.
"Well, I'm not seeing Gladiator," he said after some deliberation. "And please don't make me watch a Jim Carrey movie."
"Why? He's funny," Keith said.
"I guess," David shrugged.
"Whatever. That leaves Scary Movie."
David sighed. "You forgot about Fantasia."
"No I didn't. I just hoped you had."
David sighed wistfully. "I used to love that movie when I was little," he said.
"Yeah, well. Two grown men going to see that movie are going to look like pedophiles."
"Or homos," David added. "What is Scary Movie about anyway?"
"I don't know. Scary stuff." Keith said.
"Hmm." David didn't like the sound of that.
"So have you decided on which movie we're going to see?" Keith asked.
David reflected a moment as he bit into the last of his cookies. Eating in bed, which had started as an isolated incident last week, was slowly turning into a habit.
"This is getting complicated," he answered with a mouthful of Oreo.
"OK," Keith sighed. "Yesterday we narrowed it down to Me, Myself and Irene, Gladiator (which I've already seen), Scary Movie and The Nutty Professor II: The Klumps."
"Can White people watch The Nutty Professor?" David asked.
"I dunno; I'm not White," Keith answered. David got tired of holding the phone and put it on speaker then set it on his pillow. He put on his eye mask.
"Well, I'm not seeing Gladiator," he said after some deliberation. "And please don't make me watch a Jim Carrey movie."
"Why? He's funny," Keith said.
"I guess," David shrugged.
"Whatever. That leaves Scary Movie."
David sighed. "You forgot about Fantasia."
"No I didn't. I just hoped you had."
David sighed wistfully. "I used to love that movie when I was little," he said.
"Yeah, well. Two grown men going to see that movie are going to look like pedophiles."
"Or homos," David added. "What is Scary Movie about anyway?"
"I don't know. Scary stuff." Keith said.
"Hmm." David didn't like the sound of that.
David was standing at the back of the funeral chapel fixated on the boutonniere of the man at the podium. The flower was held by a single, dangling pin, and looked poised to drop any minute. The fact that the gentleman was eight minutes into his eulogy with no signs of ending anytime soon only added to the agony.
David felt his right butt cheek vibrating and stepped out into the hallway.
"Hello?"
"Hello. Is this David?"
"Speaking," David replied.
"Yeah, um. This is Curtis."
Um, OK.
" Curtis… from church?" David asked.
"Yeah. I was just wondering how you were doing."
Yeah right, David thought. Was there no rest for the weary?
"I'm kind of in the middle of a funeral right now, Curtis," David explained, trying very hard not to sound put out. "Is there any way you could, maybe, call me back later?"
Or never.
"Um, yeah, I guess. I just—"
"Great," David said, and hung up.
Scary Movie turned out to be the least scary movie ever made. Five minutes into the film, David began to give running commentary of all the insipid plot points of the movie, while simultaneously missing the pop culture references to other (actually scary) films he hadn't seen.
To Keith, it only meant one thing.
"So you aren't scared?" he asked.
David leveled a look of disbelief. "No Keith," he answered, taking a sip off his soda. "I am not scared."
"Too bad," Keith said. "Because if you were scared…" He wrapped an arm around David and leaned in seductively. "…I would be ready to comfort you."
David stared at Keith's arm before gently removing it and returning it to Keith's lap. "Well, I'm not, and even if I were…" He stopped there.
"Even if you were what?" Keith asked.
"Nothing," David said and nibbled on some popcorn. Keith shrugged and grabbed a handful of popcorn himself. David's mouth dropped, and he let out a laugh. "So now I guess popcorn isn't high in carbs and trans fat after all."
"No, it still is," Keith said, hovering the popcorn in front of his face, stopping just short of taking a bite.
"Oh, really? Then you just don't care anymore. You know, kind of like normal people?" David teased.
Keith sighed, a playful curl on his lip. "Man, David, you really know how to take the fun out of the movies."
"Oh, I know how to take the fun out of the movies? Not you, with your seltzer water and diet chewing gum... Keith!" he squealed.
Keith had dropped his handful of popcorn back into the tub.
"What?" he shrugged.
"You can't just drop popcorn back into the tub like that."
"Yeah I can. I just did."
"But it's unsanitary," he gasped.
"You've never cared about being unsanitary with me before."
"Shut up, motherfuckers!" came a voice from behind them. Keith turned around to see three teenage boys sniggling behind him. The one in the middle looked like trouble.
"Who you calling a motherfucker?" Keith asked.
The boys looked at each other anxiously; the middle one piped up. "You," he said defiantly.
Keith turned around and threw his middle finger over his shoulder.
After a moment the boy started up again. "If you put that finger back here again, you might not get it back."
Keith nodded without turning around. "I'd get it back," he said smugly.
"Keith," David pleaded.
"What?" Keith replied, annoyed.
"Suck my dick," came the same voice from behind.
"You'd like that," Keith called back.
All three boys audibly recoiled. "No I wouldn't," he said. "I ain't no fag."
Keith turned around in his chair coming with a couple inches of the boys face. "What's the matter with being a fag?" he growled.
"Nothing," the boy whispered.
"I didn't think so," Keith said, then turned back around and sat down. After a moment of collection, he grabbed another handful of popcorn without a trace of unease.
David for his part, was hopelessly agitated.
"Are you enjoying this movie?" he asked Keith.
"It's OK, I guess," Keith replied.
"Let's get out of here?" David suggested. Keith thought a moment and then nodded, and the two headed for the door. A calm came over David when they did.
"You don't want to hop into one of the other theatres? See the end of Gladiator. It's a good one," Keith said.
"NO, I don't want to hop into one of the other theatres," David repeated, irritated. "What I want is to get out of here." He stormed for the doors. Keith followed down behind him.
"What's your problem?" Keith asked once they were outside.
David stopped and spun around. "Are you kidding?"
"Wait," Keith said, realization settling in. "We left because of those punks back there?"
"No, we left because of you," David answered. "What was that back there?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Why did you have to make such a big deal about it? I mean, we actually were talking."
Keith was astonished. "So, because we were talking, they can call us fags."
"They called us motherfuckers, too," David said.
Keith squinted in confusion. "That's your argument? 'They called us motherfuckers too?'" Keith snorted a laugh. "They aren't even out of high school and they're already little bigots that—"
"Who cares?" David yelled.
"I do," Keith shot back. "And you should too." He shook his head. "And don't think I missed your little arm block back there either," Keith said.
Two girls walking past regarded their heated conversation with some concern. David grabbed Keith's arm and pulled him off to the side, an action which Keith resisted.
"I'm discreet," he continued more quietly, "because we live in a crazy world with fanatics full of hate," David said.
"And they can take their hate and shove it up their asses," Keith retorted.
"Easy to say when you have a gun strapped to your belt."
Keith didn't say anything, and instead stared at David intently without moving a muscle.
"What?" David said, annoyed.
Keith waited a beat before answering.
"You're not out," he said flatly. David snorted at the accusation.
"So now you're calling me a liar," he said dismissively.
"Well… are you out?"
"Of course I'm out, Keith," he spat.
"Really?"
"Really."
"Then why are we standing out here instead of sitting in there watching a movie?"
"Because," David explained in a loud whisper, "you have to turn every interaction into a gay rights demonstration. Forgive me if I don't live life from behind the cloak of a rainbow flag."
"Really? Because I'm pretty sure you do. You judge your every action against how it rates on the 'Do I Look Like A Fag?' scale."
"That's ripe coming from you," David quipped. "You don't even see yourself overcompensating."
Keith was taken aback. "Why? Because I'm a cop? Because I'm not scared to eat in a restaurant or walk on the beach or go to the goddamn movies? Gay is what you make it David."
"Don't educate me about being gay, Keith," David spat with some contempt. "Do you think I'm an idiot?"
"No," Keith said calmly. "But I do think you're scared."
"Right," David answered mockingly. "Because you're so brave."
"David, you live a life of blame," Keith continued. David turned away, taking a couple paces.
"I'm… I don't even hear you anymore."
"You blame everyone else for your lies. You blame your parents, your brother, society. But it's not about them or anybody else, David; it's about you."
"Are you done?" he asked. But Keith wasn't done.
"You're the one filled with hate. You hate being gay because you it keeps you from being the one thing you want to be more than anything else in the world: straight."
David spun around and met Keith's eyes with an icy glare. "You think you know me, but you don't," he said through grit teeth. "I was gay before I ever met you."
"Really? How did you know? Because you made out with a guy in a truck stop?" Keith asked. "Stop giving strangers blowjobs and get in a real relationship for once."
David was apopleptic.
"FUCK YOU!" he screamed and stormed off. He didn't even turn around when he heard Keith calling his name.
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