“You’re equating homosexuals with pedophiles, I’m afraid. Come into the twenty-first century, and at least get your terms straight, Dick Tracy.” I don’t lose my cool, no matter how tempted I am to let loose some sort of verbal barrage at him. I have to remember I’m acting in the capacity of Jesus’ representative, and not for myself, or I surely would.
That brings out a smile, a friendly smile, albeit a hungry one, as if he senses my underlying resentment. He should. He caused it. “Are you saying it isn’t possible to be both?” The false smile fails to reach his eyes, but they do seem to glint with their own private amusement.
“We aren’t pedophiles, I assure you, officer, and anything else we are is none of your business.” I never raise my voice a single decibel. Calm, cool and collected. Even if seething inside. Still wondering if he’s spoken to Jesus, and if he’s dared to make these same insinuations to him. My need to protect Jesus is clearly showing.
“I’ve already heard stories of your…goings on,” he continues, “I’d hate for your boss to get into trouble, you know? He doesn’t seem the sort to consort with those of your…persuasion, shall we say?”
I narrow my eyes at him and his insinuations—both about me and about Jesus.
Who has he been talking to, I wonder. “How about we don’t say?” This is simply beneath my dignity to address in any sort of fashion whatsoever. And just no one’s business.
“How does he reconcile your behavior with what he talks about, with the Bible and God and everything?” he asks curiously, as if he’s not heard me, or he’s chosen not to listen, his eyes fastened securely upon my face. He pulls a rumpled handkerchief from one pocket, and loudly blows his nose upon it. Just what the hell is he fishing for, what does he want? “Sorry, damn allergies,” he apologizes, before replacing the cloth into his pocket once more.
“We’re all the children of God, and He loves us equally.” My pat response. Not as if I haven’t heard this particular charge before, more than once. But I’ve heard enough for now. And I do have things to do. “You’re free to stay, of course, Officer, but I’m afraid that I’m busy.” Smoothly I turn as if to dive back into the fray once more. And once again his hand arrests my movement.
“Don’t mistake me for the enemy,” he says simply, “I’m only trying to help.” Yes, but who is he trying to help? “You could turn out to be your own worst enemy, you know. Or his.” Before I can think of a decent response, one with just the right amount of venom, he’s merged himself with the crowd around us, and in a moment all that can be seen of him is the tip of his ten gallon hat bobbing away. As I stand looking after him, I become all too aware my mouth is hanging open, and I shut it quickly, forestalling any comments.
Bastard.
Fucking bastard.
Fuck him. Fuck every last goddamned motherfucking holier-than-thou motherfucker who dares to push their pious crap down my throat. And everyone that dares to use the word Sodomite in my presence. Or who tries to tell me what God thinks or feels about me. I know better. I know Him personally, after all. He has no problem with who or what I am. After all, he made me this way. Made us all this way. And he does not think of us as mistakes, I assure you.
I need to calm down. Seriously. Before I do or say something stupid. No comments from the peanut gallery, if you please.
I sense a change in the crowd around me, a heightening tension, an eager expectation. As I glance up, I see the show’s about to begin. The musicians are taking to the stage now, picking up their instruments, fucking around on them in the guise of “tuning up”—it’s more for show than anything else. Thomas has left the table behind, left the pamphlets and such to take care of themselves. That’s fine. This is what matters now. He’s been a great help today. I’ll have to remember to thank him.
At this point, I’ve noticed, the audience generally separates itself into layers, usually on the basis of age. The younger ones maneuvering, in order to be closer to the stage, the older ones moving farther away from the speakers. Can’t blame them there—fucking loud they get at times when Andrew thinks he’s running the soundboard for Metallica. This type of behavior only earns him a cuff against his thick head from me.
At this point in the proceedings, I prefer to remain to myself, simply observing, making sure everything runs smoothly. And let’s face it, when Jesus isn’t on the stage, my attention is not going to be held. An honest observation, nothing more.