Broken People

by Scott Hildreth

  “Well, Michelle,” I said, “I am not sure. We have shared a few emails, and she stated in the first one that he was with her. In the second, although she didn’t say, she indicated that she was alone. Hard to say, I suppose at this point. I just wanted, really, to know what the thought process is for a fifteen year old going through a pregnancy. What she may be thinking. I suspect I know the answer. Fear. Embarrassment. Raising the child alone. Not attending college, living with her parents for the next ten years.”

  “How did this happen?” Michelle asked.

  “Are you serious? How did it happen? Michelle, hold on a minute….”

  “Not how did it happen, but how did it happen?” she interrupted.

  “Well, you are going to love this,” I began to explain. “As we have shared before, in different locales, things are different. I have given my opinion to you regarding the differences of people based on education, upbringing, parental involvement, and even the family income. Get this. Just the tip. The boyfriend lured her in with ‘Just. The. Tip’ She said she didn’t think she could get prego from the tip. In fact, she asked me if I had ever heard of such a thing.”

  “Oh. My. God, I am soooooo rolling my eyes. So, where is this jewel from?”

  “Kansas,” I responded. “Of all places.”

  “Anyway, I told her the tip was enough. In fact, I explained to her that it was the ‘business’ end of the penis, and that it would be all that would be required to make her pregnant. That is, if it were inserted or in close proximity. Or…”

  Before I could finish my thought, Michelle interrupted, “And you say you hate stupidity.”

  “Well, I hate it when people choose to act in a stupid manner. I do not hate people, in general, and I certainly do not hate people who are uninformed. Or, well, slow to catch on.” I began to laugh out loud, thinking of the girl agreeing to accept ‘just the tip’.

  “What happened?” Michelle asked.

  “Oh nothing, I was just thinking of the event that brought this on, and how special it must have been, I bet it was a real nice time for them both. Just the tip. That’s so nice.” I continued to laugh.

  “Sometimes,” Michelle stated, “I wonder why you really run that blog. Why you spend your life helping those who, in your own words, are incapable of helping themselves.”

  “I’m just a nice guy, Michelle.”

  “There’s more to it than that, and we both know it. We both know it.”

  Knowing she was right, but not wanting to get into a heated discussion about my inner self, or about the incident, I opted to change the subject. I wanted to try and get home before it was time for lunch. I began my departure comments, “Well, I have emailed her from here. I will check my emails when I get home, and I will text you as soon as she responds. So, if we don’t talk sooner, I will text you in a bit, okay?”

  “Ok, Kid. I’m headed to a movie with Brianna, and staying at her house. I guess we will talk in the morning. Sweet dreams, Kid,”

  I hadn’t had a dream that I recalled in almost eighteen years, and Michelle was fascinated by the fact that my mind didn’t remember the dreams. She was convinced that I had them, but my mind was incapable of recollection. She, often sarcastically, said Sweet Dreams as an inside joke. Eighteen years, nine months, and four days. Not one dream. Not one.

  “I sure don’t, and I am fine with that. Michelle. Enjoy the movie. Think about this girl, please,” I hung up and shoved the phone into my left pocket.

  After placing my bag over my shoulder, I dumped another tube of almonds in my mouth. I tried to determine what the caloric value would be of this almond littered chocolate. I rotating it and looked at the sleeve. Nothing. Walking to the door, I tipped it on end, looking for a sticker. Nothing. As I walked through the door, I leaned back and tossed the useless empty sleeve into the trash.

  As I walked across the parking lot, I tried to recall the calories of an almond. Seven? Ten? Twelve? I opened the car door, and scanned the parking lot for the Nigerian Nightmare’s Toyota. Not a sign. Perfect. I couldn’t help but feel nothing less than satisfied. He made my skin crawl. I tossed my laptop bag into the rear seat, and forced my 320 pounds of flesh into the front seat. As I backed out of the parking spot, thinking of my phone call with Michelle, I erupted into laughter.

  Just. The. Tip.

  Chapter 2

  God hates fags

  DAVID.“Inside the auditorium, people stood and cheered. They were all wearing pastel colors, and were dressed rather nicely. Oh my. Clapping their hands, and smiling at me, I stood on the stage, microphone in hand, and said it again, I am proud, and I am gay. I am gay and I am proud. The auditorium erupted. I could feel the noise. A few people started clapping a rhythm, one began to cheer. I couldn’t make it out. His hands high over his head, he clapped as if at a concert, cheering for the performer. Others joined in the rhythm of the clapping. Their mouths moved in unison. As others joined, it became clear. They were cheering my name.”

  “Da-vid…..Da-vid….Da-vid. DA-VID.”

  “I was wearing the sweater that Bethany told me to buy that day in the mall. After I got home, I had decided I didn’t like it, but I looked fabulous standing there on that stage. Oh, and khaki’s. I was wearing khaki’s. Looking around the auditorium, I clutched the microphone, and I felt myself filling with pride. I saw him approaching on my right. Paul. He was there. My life was complete. And he was wearing the sweater that I had told him was my favorite; during the weekend of the trip to Washington, D.C. When we all went to the mall, uhm it was the sweater from Saks. I just wanted to hold him. He looked so cute.”

  “He held his hand out toward me. Placing the microphone in my other hand, I extended my arm, and we held hands. I held the microphone in the air. The crowd continued to cheer, but the chant changed. Kiss, Kiss, Kiss. They chanted as they clapped. As I leaned toward Paul, our lips just about to touch, the fire alarm erupted. Sirens sounded in the auditorium. The fire sprinkler started spraying putrid water. It smelled so bad. And, our sweaters were ruined.”

  “Oh, and there was an owl flying around at the end. But it was massive. Like, uhm, the size of a huge turkey. How big are owls, anyway?”

  “Is that the end of the dream, David?” she asked, twirling her pen between her fingers.

  “Oh, yes. I suppose so. Yeah, the owl was the end, at least as much as I can remember. Is that crazy, or what?”

  Dr. Baritz had been my Doctor since I was about twelve, She was in her mid-forties, and was gorgeous. She had red hair, bold, black glasses, and was very petite. Her skin was pale, smooth, and without a blemish. She was small, but was very curvaceous. Sometimes her buttons on her top would come undone. Her breasts, for her size, were rather large. If I wasn’t gay, I could love her. She was adorable, had excellent posture and she liked yogurt. I liked yogurt. We had several things in common, and we never argued.

  She smelled of summer.

  My parents had sent me to her because I was, according to them, a disciplinary problem. I had issues. I was not, in any fashion, a disciplinary problem, and the only issue I had was that I felt that I could not tell my parents that I was gay. I had told Dr. Baritz that I was gay when I was fourteen or fifteen. Now, at eighteen, my parents seemed to lack a good level of understanding of who I actually was. My entire life was a lie. It sometimes seemed as if my parents were adopted, not my real parents, and maybe they were switched at birth. I was the real child, but they were the wrong parents. Why couldn’t they just understand?

  “Well, David,” she spoke softly, “It is not crazy, no. Tell me what you felt after you woke up. When the dream was over and you had a few moments to clear your head, how at that point in time, David, did you feel? Talk to me about your feelings.” she said, as continued to twirl her pen.

  I always liked our open conversations. She made me feel as if I could tell her anything. Actually, I could tell her anything. She never got angry with me, and she never acted as if there was anything that I could do or say
that was wrong. She supported me fully in all of my thoughts, feelings, needs, wants, and desires. She was so conscious of fashion as well, it made me feel so good when she complimented my dress, and she did it quite frequently. My parents never complimented me on my clothes, ever. And the constant complaints about the spending got so old. It seemed as if all they were concerned about was how much money I was spending. David, stop buying that yogurt. David, stop buying so many clothes. David, stop this. David, stop that. Oh my, David, how many pairs of shoes do you have?

  “My parents are assholes, Dr. Baritz,” sitting up in the loveseat, I continued to talk. “They complain about my spending. And they hate the way I dress.” I noticed my khakis were wrinkled, and, as I spoke, I tried to stretch my legs out on the loveseat cushion to eliminate the wrinkles.

  “David, do you want to talk about the dream? About how you felt after you woke up,” she said, tapping her pen on her lip.

  “Well, Doctor, I felt, well, I suppose, if you get right down to it, I felt. Well, proud - like it actually happened. As if I were announcing to the auditorium, well actually, as if I were announcing to the world, that I was gay and I was proud. I remember feeling for the entire day following the dream that I was proud. I walked through the school as if everyone knew. And, as the day progressed, I remember sometimes actually feeling as if they did know. It was, well. I guess it was somewhat surreal. But, to answer your question, I felt prideful, like I had accomplished something, and all of those people in the auditorium had recognized me for doing so. Yes, Doctor Baritz, prideful.” I partially stood up, and pulled my pants at the thighs, attempting to eliminate the wrinkles. I repositioned myself in the seat, feeling self-conscious about my pants.

  “That’s a great bit of sharing David. Now, we haven’t got a tremendous amount of time left, twenty minutes. I’d like for you to tell me if you have told anyone about your homosexuality since we last spoke. Additionally, I want you to think about when you think you may be able to tell your parents, or begin discussing things with them.”

  As she stood, she continued. “I am going to go get a bottle of water, would you like something?”

  Happy for the offering of a cold bottle of water, I responded quickly, “Yes, ma’am, I will drink a Perrier. If you’re out, I would rather not have the others, please. Oh, and I thought of something else. The entire dream, even the parts I didn’t tell you about, I just realized I never tugged on my pants in the dream. And they never wrinkled. They never needed tugging. What do you think about that?”

  “Think about what, David, your pants?” she said from the doorway, her head turned over her shoulder, looking back into the room.

  “Yes ma’am, not the pants, but the lack of wrinkles. There’s no way all that could have really happened without wrinkles.”

  “We will discuss it when I get back, David. Okay?”

  As she left the room, I tugged at my pants again, and thought of my parents. Was she kidding me? Tell my parents? I would rather die. They, especially my father, had no capacity to comprehend having a gay son. I always felt that if my little sister announced that she was gay, they would embrace, and everything would be grand. If I, however, even indicated anything that wasn’t masculine or sports related, I was questioned on my manhood. It was as if I couldn’t be gay and be masculine. Or, that I couldn’t be gay and be a man. Since I can remember, I hated my parents for making me feel as if there was something wrong with me. There was nothing wrong with me. Not any more than there was something wrong with them. They were born heterosexual, and I was born homosexual. It was how God made me. No differently than he made the sky, the sea, and the flowers.

  Looking out the window, I was disappointed that there were no flowers in the planters. The office building was in an old brownstone that sat immediately beside the adjacent buildings. There wasn’t room for foot traffic between them, and the windows housed planters that held flowers. It was winter time, and there were no flowers. I always found the flowers to be soothing.

  And my parents, how was I going to tell my parents? Seriously, what was she thinking? What did she ask me? When, or how? Well, it didn’t matter, I couldn’t accurately answer either. My father would have a heart attack. It really didn’t matter if he was forty-two or seventy-seven. Homosexuality was not acceptable. Not his son, and not in this world. A former Marine officer, he was a man’s man. And he detested homosexuals. He was as much of a homophobe as could ever exist.

  Lowering myself into the loveseat, I began to think. My father, being the insistent former Marine, had always stressed physical conditioning, and I never opposed him regarding maintaining a good physique. I was in good health, six foot two, lean, 180 pounds, muscular, and appeared to be a Marine myself. I was proud of my chiseled torso. But nothing could be further from the truth regarding the Marine in me. The thought repulsed me. I began to think of my father, and his hatred for homosexuals. Fags, as he loved to call them.

  One day, as we were watching the television, there was a special news segment about a church in the Midwest. There were protestors at a funeral, and several motorcycles were parked at the funeral, forming a blockade between the protestors and the funeral. Motorcycles lined the streets in the cemetery. A line of bikers separated the protesters from the people attending the funeral. Several held flags. Protestors waved signs that read, ‘God hates fags’, and ‘God killed your soldier son’. My father stood from his chair, placing his hands on his temples, and began complaining. He still appeared, especially when angry, to be very much a military man and a Marine. His six foot four, two hundred and twenty pound frame was intimidating to most people. He wore his hair short, but not buzz cut. It was probably as short as it could be cut with scissors.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” he said, waving his arms as he screamed at the television.

  “These asshats are protesting the funeral of a Marine that was killed in Afghanistan defending this country. God fucking damn them. Someone should put a bullet in each of their God forsaken heads. This world would be a better place without these communist bastards in it. Chesty would turn over in his grave if he saw this. Out-fucking-standing. Out-fucking-standing. Mary, come look at this horseshit!” he screamed.

  It was fairly common for my father, when disgusted with television, to call my mother to come into the media room and see what he was watching. Some form of confirmation of what his feelings were, regarding whatever issue he was ranting about, seemed to make him feel as if his thoughts and feelings were justified.

  Entering the room, my mother looked at my father, who was now pacing back and forth in the room, looking at the television in sheer disgust. Standing there in her wrinkled dress and house slippers, she looked at the television, and looked at my father. As if she didn’t know what to say for sure, she just said something, “Oh my.”

  She stood in the doorway, barely filling half of the opening. At five foot two and a hundred and ten pounds, there wasn’t much to my mother, from a physical standpoint. “Joseph, I am so sorry,” she offered.

  “Sorry. Don’t be sorry.” He motioned to the television. “That Marine is a hero. Needs a proper God damned burial. God fucking damn, Mary, I can’t take this. How on God’s earth can this be happening. These fuck-tards need shot, Mary. Do you see them? Where is this happening?”

  Hating to say anything, yet feeling as if I must confirm my father’s feelings regarding his fallen Marine brethren, I spoke. “That is just awful that they are there protesting. But the Constitution gives them the right to be there, doesn’t it?”

  My mother covered her mouth and gasped. She looked at me as if I had stabbed my father in the back. My father turned and looked at me as if I had done the same. He placed his hands on his hips, and bent at the waist. His face reddened, and he started to scream.

  “I can’t God damn believe you just said that. What in the absolute fuck are you thinking? Clearly you’re fucking God damned retarded, right? Listen, these Communist sissies don’t have a fucking right. I
commanded troops in the Gulf War. I do not have to look at this shit. Where’s the God fucking damned remote?”

  As he looked for the remote, the television went to a commercial. The entire thing didn’t last two minutes. It wasn’t so much watching the protestors at the funeral, but what followed that bothered me.

  “Son, I wonder about you. You’re going to have to man up.” He began pacing back and forth as he spoke. “Become a man. You’re going to graduate soon, and then life gets real. And it gets real quick. And having a soft spot in your heart for everyone isn’t going to work. Not in life. I hoped, when you were young, that you’d grow out of this God damned sissy attitude when you were older, but Jesus Fucking Christ, son. Be a real man. And those fucking weirdoes do not have rights. Remember that. That was a fucking Marine that was being buried. One of God’s own. Good God son, we defend the Gates of Heaven. Don’t you remember?” He stared at me with the Marine eyes. It was as if there were two people inside my father; the inconsiderate father and the insane Marine. This was the Marine for sure.

  With her shoulder-length brown hair pulled back with a hair clip, my mother continued to stand in the doorway in disbelief. I do not know if she couldn’t believe that I had said something, or that my father hadn’t reacted differently. It was difficult to say. She stood with her hand on her mouth, frozen.

  My father took a deep breath, and looked at the television. He must have realized that the news was on, and that the piece about the protestors was long over. His hands on his knees, he stood straight, and took another slow breath. As he exhaled he spoke firmly, but not screaming. It was then that he dropped the f-bomb. “Let me tell you what. I don’t like those goddamned weirdo protestors, but I will tell you one thing. If there is one thing that they have right, it is their position on fags. Fucking queers. God hates fags. That’s what they say. Well, no shit. Who doesn’t know that? God hates fags. Fags go to hell. That’s simple. We don’t need them telling the world that, but I do agree with them. God hates fags. And I tell you what; I won’t be defending the Gates into Heaven for the passage of any fags. They fall straight to hell. Isn’t that right, Mary?”