I rolled my eyes at my pathetic boss, “You’re my editor. If you didn’t like it, you shouldn’t have run the article or changed whatever you hated about it.”
He tossed the magazine on my desk, turned to the article I had written where the title flew off the page.
Send in the Fag
By Tad Fletcher
“The Chief loved in,” he growled, “But I’m the one that’s going to get in the deep shit.”
“Did you even read it? The title is in the first paragraph, directly quoted from the interviewee,” I explained, smiling down at my Schmidt-bashing article.
As I entered the coffee shop to meet with Mitch Schmidt, the second-string QB of the Dallas Cowboys who recently flew out of the proverbial closet waving his rainbow-flag, he started it off with the usual bold arrogance, saying “They send in the fag to interview a fag,” thoroughly insulting every male who has ever worn Prada and paid more than ten dollars for a haircut. This was followed by several other colorful words describing his interviewer, proving that being gay does not give you manners.
I was so proud of that article. Mr. Harris did not agree.
“You insulted him as much as possible! You call him arrogant, pig-headed, narcissistic… the list goes on and on!”
“It’s the job of the press to bring the truth to the public.”
He picked up the magazine and whapped me in the head with it, “So help me, boy, I will have you fired if the big man says one word about this article!”
“I’ve got several words, actually.”
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine myself away or some how make K. J. Pruett, the owner of the entire publishing company, disappear. He could cancel the entire magazine on a whim if he felt like it…
“I take it you are Tad Fletcher?”
I slowly opened my eyes and nodded grudgingly.
“Harris, you’ve got a genius on your hands.” I gaped, “The public is eating this up. They love seeing a writer that isn’t too star-struck to write what they really think. And the football guys love it, they see Schmidt as just a regular guy instead of some untouchable they were starting to think of him as. His agent called me this morning, raving about it. You’re going to do great things in this company, boy. Great things!”
I’d like to thank God for giving me life and my mother for not taking it away. I’d like to thank my adoring public as well as the Academy for believing in me and my wonderful director for…
The magazine smacked my head again and I bolted up out of my chair.
“Thank you so much, sir!” I exclaimed. K. J. just smiled.
“Keep up the good work, gentlemen,” he smiled and left. I turned to Mr. Harris and gaped.
He gaped back at me.
“Does this mean I get a raise?”
XxXxX
“Yeah, Mom, I got the package. Yes, I loved the cookies. No sugar? Really, I didn’t notice at all.” I did notice. They were absolutely revolting. I gave them to my neighbor. She was 87, smoked like a chimney, and had no taste buds. “No, Mom, that’s great. I think Kenny would do well at Arizona State. I mean, this is only his fifth transfer. He’ll find the right school soon.” Kenny was supposed to graduate three years ago, but he kept transferring or changing majors. He was the most indecisive person on the planet.
“What the fuck is this shit??”
I looked up to see Mitch Schmidt looming above my desk.
“I’ll call you back, Mom.”
“What, you think you can just insult me and I’m not going to say anything about it?” His face was red and he had veins popping out of his neck and forehead. It amused me to no end. The article had hit news stands just yesterday and it was already making huge waves. Apparently he’d caught wind of them.
“It’s my journalistic honor. I must tell the public the truth,” I said balefully and started organizing a stack of papers strewn about my desk
“You called me narcissistic!”
“You know what that word means? I’m impressed.”
The magazine he was holding in his fist crinkled loudly while his knuckles were stark white. “You called me conceited! Egotistical! Arrogant! Supercilious!”
I sighed, “Yes, the truth does hurt…”
“You talked to me for an hour and a half! What, you just had my entire personality down pat in ninety minutes??”
“And you’re good at math. A man of many talents, huh?”
“Quit getting smart with me!” He shouted, his face growing redder and redder. Everyone in the office was staring at us, heads popping up over their cubicle walls like little gophers or prairie dogs. Aren’t they the same thing anyway?
“Why are you complaining?” I asked, “Whether I insulted you or not, the public loves the article, loves you, loves me, and your game on Monday was the highest rated non-Super Bowl football game ever.”
“This is not about popularity or ratings!” he bellowed, “This is about you insulting me! I don’t get insulted, got it? No one has ever insulted me and gotten away with it!”
“Oh no, really?” I was the asshole now, “What are you going to do? Shove me in a locker? Push me in the girls’ restroom? Give me a swirlie?”
He gaped at me, stunned that someone would actually talk back to him. He was a big guy and I doubt that people talked back to him often. But we weren’t in high school anymore and there wasn’t much he could do.
“Yes.”
Wait, what?
The next thing I knew, he’d yanked me out of my chair and flung me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
“What the hell are you doing?” I shrieked. I looked around and all of my co-workers were gaping. None of them were moving to help me. “Put me down!” I started punching and kicking him frantically, but he just kept moving, like I was nothing more than a meddlesome child throwing a tantrum.
He entered the men’s bathroom. I was held upside down, his strong hands holding my ankles while he lowered my head into the toilet bowl. The water killed my pomade-styled do and he used one foot to push down the bar. Flush.
I was pretty shocked. After a few more flushes and me choking and coughing, he pulled me out and put me on the floor. I leaned again the wall, soaking wet and gasping for air while he slid down and sat across from me.
“Feel better?” I gasped, running my shaking fingers through my wet hair.
He sighed, “I feel like I’ve taken two steps forward and twenty back since high school.”
I sighed, “I’ve never actually gotten a swirlie before.”
He laughed at my comment, “What, were you too busy hiding in the library to get caught by bullies in the hallway?”
I shook my head slowly and sniffed, “My dad was the football coach. They were all too afraid of him to mess with me. Plus I was pretty popular for a book-worm.”
“That’s pretty impressive, you know, getting your first swirlie from a NFL quarterback.”
I laughed, “Dad would be so proud.”
“Yeah.”
We sat there quietly. I wondered what my Dad would say when he heard this. Or Bobby. What would Bobby say? He’d call me a loser like he always does and blow me off. We’ve never been very close but I’ve always valued his opinion and he’s never really thought that much of me. He wanted a little brother that would play catch with him and drool over large-breasted blondes in bikinis. But I was never that brother, Kenny was. I was the annoying brother they never wanted to spend time with…
“When did you come out to your parents?”
I looked at Schmidt curiously and answered slowly, “Super Bowl, 1993, Half time show. I figured it was a good time since everyone was in a good mood. Super Bowl is a religious holiday in our house. So there I was, standing in front of everybody and I said, Father, Mother, assorted other family members, as I love you all I felt it was important that you know I am a homosexual. Dad said, that’s nice, boy, now move, you’re blocking the TV. And go get me another Bud. Um, that was about it.”
He laughed, “That was it? They didn’t even care?”
I shrugged, “They’d all just figured it out. I mean, I didn’t know or anything, but they all did. I never actually got to you know, come out. Make a big announcement. They kind of blew me off a lot.”
“They ignored you?”
This made me frown, “No, ignored is too… Dr. Phil-esque. I just didn’t really fit in, you know? But I had a good family life. They were there when it was important, you know? Just… they didn’t understand me and didn’t really try to. But I didn’t expect them to, you know… I’m sorry; I don’t make any sense…”
“It’s ok. I think I get it.”
I paused. “Why the hell am I telling you all of this? You just gave me a swirlie!”
He chuckled, “I did, didn’t I?”
“Ass.”
“When I was in high school…” he sighed, “I got suspended for getting into this fight. I got kicked off of the football team for the rest of the season. My parents had to come in to a conference. My Dad looked so disappointed and he wouldn’t stop yelling at me. He was never… violent. He never really talked a lot either. When he yelled, it meant he was royally pissed in every way.” I looked at him curiously. I couldn’t figure out why he was talking to me about all of this, “When I told him I was… gay? He didn’t say a word. He just gave me this look. And even when I got kicked out of school, kicked off the football team… He had never looked as disappointed as he did when I told him that.”
He looked like a lost little boy in need of a hug. I probably would have hugged him if I had not been A, terrified he’d hit be, and B, soaked in toilet water.