life—for a street fight—for a gay bashing? I don’t know, but it was high comedy.
So I laughed while that tough faggot beat Spence and Eddie into the pavement. And I laughed as Bernard dragged me toward his car, shoved me into the backseat, and slammed the door shut. Then he popped open his trunk, grabbed his tire iron, and ran back toward the fight.
I powered down the window and watched Bernard race up to that black-belt fag and threaten him with the tire iron.
“Stop this shit,” Bernard yelled. “Or I’ll club you.”
“Why the hell are you waving that thing at me?” he screamed back. “You started it.”
It was true, playground true. Spence, Eddie, Bernie, and I had started it. We’d been drunkenly ambling down the street, cussing and singing, when Spence spotted the amorous boys in their car.
“Lookit,” he said. “I hate them fucking fags.”
That’s all it took. With banshee war cries, Spence and Eddie flung open the driver’s door and dragged out the tough guy. I dragged my best friend (whom I didn’t recognize) from the passenger seat and broke his nose.
And now, I was drunk in Bernard’s car and he was waving a tire iron at the guy we’d assaulted.
“Come on, Spence, Eddie,” Bernard said.
Bloodied and embarrassed by their beating, Spence and Eddie staggered to their feet and made their way to the car. Still waving that tire iron, Bernard also came back to me. I laughed as Spence and Eddie slid into the backseat beside me. I laughed when Bernard climbed into the driver’s seat and sped us away. And I was still laughing when I looked out the rear window and saw the tough guy tending to his broken and bloody lover boy. But even as I laughed, I knew that I had committed an awful and premeditated crime: I had threatened my father’s career.
Sixteen years before I dragged him out of his car and punched him in the face, my best friend Jeremy and I were smart, handsome, and ambitious young Republicans at Madison Park School in Seattle. Private and wealthy, Madison Park was filled with leftist children, parents, and faculty. Jeremy and I were the founders and leaders of the Madison Park Carnivores, a conservative club whose mission was to challenge and ridicule all things leftist. Our self-published newspaper was called Tooth & Claw, borrowed from the poem by Alfred Tennyson, of course, and we filled its pages with lame satire, poorly drawn cartoons, impulsive editorials, and gushing profiles of local conservative heroes, including my father, a Republican city commissioner in a Democratic city.
Looking back, I suppose I became a Republican simply because my father was a Republican. It had never occurred to me to be something different. I loved and respected my father and wanted to be exactly like him. If he’d been a plumber or a housepainter, I suppose I would have followed him into those careers. But my father’s politics and vocation were only the outward manifestations of his greatness. He was my hero because of his strict moral sense. Simply put, my father kept his promises.
Jeremy, a scholarship kid and the only child of a construction worker and a housewife, was far more right wing than I was. He worried that my father, who’d enjoyed bipartisan support as city commissioner, was a leftist in conservative disguise.
“He’s going to Souter us,” Jeremy said. “Just you watch, he’s going to Souter us in the ass.”
Jeremy and I always made fun of each other’s fathers. Since black kids told momma jokes, we figured we should do the opposite.
“I bet your daddy sucks David Souter’s dick,” Jeremy said.
Jeremy hated Supreme Court Justice David Souter, who’d been named to the court by the first President Bush. Thought to be a typical constitutional conservative, Souter had turned into a moderate maverick, a supporter of abortion rights and opponent of sodomy laws, and was widely seen by the right as a political traitor. Jeremy thought Souter should be executed for
So I laughed while that tough faggot beat Spence and Eddie into the pavement. And I laughed as Bernard dragged me toward his car, shoved me into the backseat, and slammed the door shut. Then he popped open his trunk, grabbed his tire iron, and ran back toward the fight.
I powered down the window and watched Bernard race up to that black-belt fag and threaten him with the tire iron.
“Stop this shit,” Bernard yelled. “Or I’ll club you.”
“Why the hell are you waving that thing at me?” he screamed back. “You started it.”
It was true, playground true. Spence, Eddie, Bernie, and I had started it. We’d been drunkenly ambling down the street, cussing and singing, when Spence spotted the amorous boys in their car.
“Lookit,” he said. “I hate them fucking fags.”
That’s all it took. With banshee war cries, Spence and Eddie flung open the driver’s door and dragged out the tough guy. I dragged my best friend (whom I didn’t recognize) from the passenger seat and broke his nose.
And now, I was drunk in Bernard’s car and he was waving a tire iron at the guy we’d assaulted.
“Come on, Spence, Eddie,” Bernard said.
Bloodied and embarrassed by their beating, Spence and Eddie staggered to their feet and made their way to the car. Still waving that tire iron, Bernard also came back to me. I laughed as Spence and Eddie slid into the backseat beside me. I laughed when Bernard climbed into the driver’s seat and sped us away. And I was still laughing when I looked out the rear window and saw the tough guy tending to his broken and bloody lover boy. But even as I laughed, I knew that I had committed an awful and premeditated crime: I had threatened my father’s career.
Sixteen years before I dragged him out of his car and punched him in the face, my best friend Jeremy and I were smart, handsome, and ambitious young Republicans at Madison Park School in Seattle. Private and wealthy, Madison Park was filled with leftist children, parents, and faculty. Jeremy and I were the founders and leaders of the Madison Park Carnivores, a conservative club whose mission was to challenge and ridicule all things leftist. Our self-published newspaper was called Tooth & Claw, borrowed from the poem by Alfred Tennyson, of course, and we filled its pages with lame satire, poorly drawn cartoons, impulsive editorials, and gushing profiles of local conservative heroes, including my father, a Republican city commissioner in a Democratic city.
Looking back, I suppose I became a Republican simply because my father was a Republican. It had never occurred to me to be something different. I loved and respected my father and wanted to be exactly like him. If he’d been a plumber or a housepainter, I suppose I would have followed him into those careers. But my father’s politics and vocation were only the outward manifestations of his greatness. He was my hero because of his strict moral sense. Simply put, my father kept his promises.
Jeremy, a scholarship kid and the only child of a construction worker and a housewife, was far more right wing than I was. He worried that my father, who’d enjoyed bipartisan support as city commissioner, was a leftist in conservative disguise.
“He’s going to Souter us,” Jeremy said. “Just you watch, he’s going to Souter us in the ass.”
Jeremy and I always made fun of each other’s fathers. Since black kids told momma jokes, we figured we should do the opposite.
“I bet your daddy sucks David Souter’s dick,” Jeremy said.
Jeremy hated Supreme Court Justice David Souter, who’d been named to the court by the first President Bush. Thought to be a typical constitutional conservative, Souter had turned into a moderate maverick, a supporter of abortion rights and opponent of sodomy laws, and was widely seen by the right as a political traitor. Jeremy thought Souter should be executed for
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