Hate Crime

Curt is kind of conservative. He’s not a big fan of the whole P-Town party scene. So, picking somewhere sensible to meet is always a bit of a challenge. After considering the limited options, the Squealing Pig was about as middle of the road as I could come up with. Some locals, some tourists, some gay, and some straight. Far from perfect, but it would do.

It’s been almost a year since we'd been together. While Curt was away, I had spent most of that time working on my art. That sounds pretentious as hell, but it’s true. I’d been commissioned by a hedge fund manager to make a pair of matching wrought iron gates for his summer home in Chatham. To be honest, the job was pretty straightforward and a bit boring; a rip-off of something his wife had seen at a spa in Boca-Raton. Bellagio-style gates, with lots of decorative scrolls and burnished brass highlights surrounding the family’s initials. All very ‘The real housewives from Hell’ but the money was too good to turn down. What’s a struggling artist to do?

‘The Pig’ was slow, to say the least. Sheryl Crow’s “All I wanna do is have some fun” was pumping out of four corner speakers hanging from the ceiling. The absence of customers made the music seem garish and too loud. “Fun” was exactly what I was hoping for, but by the looks of things, it wasn’t going to be happening in The Pig tonight.

Apart from two burly stubble-chinned beer drinkers at the far end of the bar, wearing T-shirts, and ball caps, the only other customers were a quartet of well-groomed French-Canadian boys sitting at a table, enjoying security in numbers, and complaining loudly, and in English about the lousy wine list. The only other people in the place were a couple of twenty-something waiters looking bored out of their minds, and a body-builder bartender doing more texting than tending.

Since our last get-together, a lot has happened, for Curt more than me. I had been cloistered away on the Cape, bending metal, and living like a bohemian monk, while Curt had been on the other side of the world, helping clean up what until very recently had been a twenty-year war zone. In his irregular emails, he had said nothing about the day-to-day nature of his work. All his correspondence was upbeat but annoyingly vague. He kept to the benign subjects of missing family and good food, his religious workout schedule, and the weather, blah blah blah.

To be honest, I felt like he was being polite, keeping in touch but not really telling me anything important.

I look down at my watch and see it’s six fifty-five. Curt said he’d arrive at seven. He is never late, ever. It’s a military thing. Anyway, as soon as he arrives, we’ll have a quick drink and then skedaddle and go find someplace for dinner.

Focusing on my stainless-steel Tag Heuer; a gift from Curt on my twenty-first birthday.

I watch the minute hand creep closer to the top of the hour. Then I look up at the wall clock, checking time against time, a nervous habit. Then at the beer drinkers at the other end of the bar, the French Canadians, the waiters, and finally the bartender, still in his own little world, head down, thumbs banging out some inane message I imagined might read, “wrks ded, cnt wait to lev, wt r u doin?”

Sheryl Crow faded out. The place became awkwardly quiet. It was as if everyone had just been told, “Someone in this room voted for Trump, let’s guess who?” KD Lang’s constant craving came on just in time to reset the nonexistent atmosphere. As the music refilled the room I looked towards the door, hoping to see Curt. Instead, I noticed the beer drinkers staring right at me. The bigger of the two winked and then nudged his buddy. Both burst out laughing. So I lowered my eyes, opened my wallet, and pulled out a picture of Curt and me on a camping trip in the White Mountains a couple of years back. Curt had taken care of everything, the camping equipment, the firewood, the fire making, the map reading when we went hiking, and he even went out of the tent in the middle of the night wearing only boxers after hearing something moving around in the bushes. My responsibilities extended to picking the playlist for the road trip and buying the sunscreen. Curt teased me the whole time about how I’d never last a week in the woods without him. He said we should pitch our outdoor adventure trips to a Reality TV producer. He said we could call it ‘Barbie and GI Joe go camping’. In my defense, I made the point that my outfit and backpack matched so at least I’d look good when they found my body.

Six fifty-nine. Looking towards the door, I noticed the beer drinkers are still staring at me, and sharing a sinister semi-sober grin. So, I lowered my eyes and continued looking at the photo of me and Curt camping.

At seven o’clock on the dot, Curt strolls through the door of the bar looking like he’d just stepped off the cover of a Men's Health magazine. The wait staff stopped waiting and stared, awestruck. The bartender stopped texting, and gazed, starstruck. And all four Canadians began fixing their hair, gawking, and talking in French.

Looking like a complete and utter dream, blond crew cut, piercing blue eyes, full lips, strong jaw, clean-shaven face, and dentist’s fantasy smile, Curt entered the room like a vision of Adonis in a white t-shirt, jeans, and brown leather surfer-style flip-flops. He did not look like he had just spent the last nine months in the mountains of a third-world warzone. He looked like he’d been living at a spa, playing tennis, swimming, and sunbathing for the best part of a year.

Waving like an excited child, I hopped off the barstool and ran towards him, trying to be as cool as possible, but losing it after about six steps. I threw myself at him, flinging my arms around his neck, hugging, and holding onto him with all my strength. He kissed me on the cheek and hugged me so tightly I swear I felt my ribs cracking. He smelt of English leather aftershave and laundry detergent. And as I clung to him, it felt like I was embracing a bronze casting of an Olympian middleweight boxer.

I have to tell you, I’m not much of a crier, but I was so overjoyed to see him, I was engulfed by a sudden wave of emotion that brought me to tears. He was home and he was safe, and we were together again. And even if it was just going to be a week, it was real and it was happening and it was wonderful.

If you’re lucky enough to have a very special person in your life, and if you’ve been apart for a while; after the reconnect happens, all that separation simply evaporates and it’s as though you were just hanging out the day before. Curt and I talked and laughed non-stop through two drinks then after looking at his watch he said, “C’mon, time to go”

“Go where?” I asked.

“Terra Luna, North Truro, reservations at eight, what d'ya think?”

I swear, I nearly screamed. Terra Luna! Oh my god! It’s my absolute favorite. Then Curt asked, “Hey! Why does Superman keep visiting Massachusetts?”

“Why?” I asked, smiling curiously.

“Because he loves The Cape” Curt grinned like a silly sixth grader.

We must have looked and sounded ridiculous because we both nearly died laughing at his horribly corny joke, and each other.

Curt gave the bartender a handsome, heartbreaking smile and asked for the check. The now highly attentive barman quickly complied, placing the bill in front of us. I put my hand in my pocket, but Curt placed his right hand on my wrist and said, “My treat. I know you and all your liberal lefty artists hate Uncle Sam, but he’s picking up the tab this week”

“God bless America,” I said, unable to control my ‘Jazz Hands’

Curt laughed and then dropped a ten and a twenty on the bar.

“C’mon,” he said, “let’s go, I’m starving.”

The incident began as we made our way to the door. I was so busy looking at the four French boys, the pair of waiters, the bartender (and a partridge in a pear tree) all staring at Curt, I missed the opening exchange. All I heard was Curt saying, “C’mon guys, lighten up.”

By the time I tuned in, both beer drinkers were on their feet. The bigger of the two, whose thick sinewy forearms, tattooed with images of mermaids and Poseidon, slithering up onto his biceps and broad burly shoulders, was grinning directly at Curt while his buddy was taking off his watch, putting it in his pocket, and moving from one foot to the other.

“You two make a cute couple” snarled Poseidon. His sidekick grinned and grunted through a flat sunburnt nose.

The bartender said, “Hey, C’mon guys. Cut it out! We don’t put up with that shit here. Settle down or I’ll call the cops.”

Holding up both hands in an overt display of ‘we don’t want any trouble’ Curt reached out, opened the door, and said, “C’mon, we’ve got a reservation.”

We took a left onto Commercial Street. It wasn’t until we were halfway down Lopes square, Curt said, “Listen, don’t get all bugged out, but those two idiots are following us.”

Like an idiot, I turned around to see if it was true.

“Nice work Jason Bourne, better stick to your artwork. And do yourself a favor, cancel your interview with the CIA.”

I laughed nervously. Curt placed his arm over my shoulder, comforting me and easing my rising anxiety.

By the time we reached Curt’s rental car at the back of the marina parking lot, the beer drinkers were about twenty feet behind us.

“Hey faggots” a voice echoed through the darkness.

Without turning his head, Curt whispered, “just ignore them”.

I looked around for the cop who was always directing traffic at the intersection of Commercial and Ryder. I was half hoping the bartender had made the 911 call. But of course, the cop wasn’t there.

Curt clicked the auto opener on the rent-a-car key fob. The sound of quickening footsteps behind us caused us to turn and see both beer drinkers at the hood of the car.

“You faggots make me sick. You should be ashamed of yourself acting like a pair of drunken whores.”

Again, Curt held up both his hands and said, “Please, leave us alone. We’re going out to dinner. We don’t want any trouble.”

“Too late for that now pretty boy,” said Poseidon, “You two are in for an ass-whippin.”

Lunging at Curt with a wild haymaker and a bench-press grunt, causing me to shield my face with my hands, Poseidon moved in for the kill. Curt stepped forward, slapping away the attackers’ fist with the back of his left hand while the palm of his right hand, like a piston, drove directly into the guy's nose. There was a horrible crunching sound, like someone stepping on a wet sock full of toothpicks and earthworms. The second attacker lurched towards me, gasping. Curt stepped forward again, his left arm out straight, protecting me as he hopped up off his left foot and kicked the second guy right under his big square stubbly chin. He went down like an elevator that had just had its cables cut.

The parking lot was dark and empty. No one had seen a thing. We left the two guys lying on the blacktop, moaning miserably, and holding broken faces in their big hairy hands.

On the way to Terra Luna, I began crying. It was just like being a kid again. In high school, despite glee club, all my weird clothing choices, my short stint as a model, and my obsessive worshiping of Gore Vidal, because of Curt’s reputation, even though he’s two years younger than me, if he couldn't make the haters walk away, he’d protect me with his own life and then tell me not to tell mom what had happened. Afterward, I’d always burst into tears, thank him a thousand times and of course, keep my end of the bargain.

As I started my second year at Columbia, studying fine art, I wasn’t in the least bit surprised to learn that my little brother had won a coveted place at the naval academy and has recently achieved his goal of becoming a Lieutenant and leading a Navy SEAL team.