by Peter Styles
The two men were looking at the issue with smirks, both pointing up at it and muttering under their breath. I heard them laughing occasionally. I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t say anything; comic fans weren’t exactly known for being super enlightened or progressive. It was hardly the first time I’d seen or heard someone being quietly homophobic.
But then I heard my least favorite word in the English language: “Faggot.”
“Hey,” I said, sharply. The two guys turned to look at me, eyebrows raised. “What did you just say?”
They didn’t look afraid of me, and I could hardly blame them for it, but it only made my blood pressure rise more when the one shrugged a careless shoulder and said, “Nothing, man. Nothing at all.”
“You must have said something,” I insisted. “I heard you guys talking. Or was I imagining things?”
Leonard and Gary were both staring at me with wide, panicked eyes. “Shut up,” I saw Leonard mouthing, nervously.
It didn’t dissuade me. “Did I hear you calling someone a faggot?”
The one guy—the bigger of the two—glared at me. He clearly thought he looked intimidating enough to get away with just about anything, and he wasn’t exactly wrong: he had a long scar down his right cheek and a tattoo on the side of his bald head that I couldn’t quite make out. My gut told me it was probably something just this side of Aryan.
“So what if you did?” he asked, coldly. “Why the fuck should you care?”
“He doesn’t,” Leonard squeaked. “Just making conversation.”
“Shut up, Len.” I walked down to where the two goons were standing and looked each of them in the eye. It was hard, considering they both had at least a foot and a hundred pounds on me, but I did it. “You want to talk like that, go right ahead, but you’re going to do it outside my store.”
“And why’s that?” the shorter of the behemoths asked, narrowing his close-set eyes.
“Because,” I snapped, “I’m the faggot who runs this place, and I have the right to refuse service to anyone I want, especially a couple of skinheads with more gold chains than brain cells. So you can either get out, or I can call the police.”
The bigger one glared. “You ever heard of freedom of speech?”
“You ever heard of shutting the fuck up?”
Gary sucked in a deep breath through his teeth, looking terrified. I noticed him slipping his phone out of his pocket, his fingers hovering over the screen, clearly getting ready to dial 9-1-1.
Now, I’d never been known for being a doormat, but I was hardly some gun-slinging, devil-may-care badass either. I wasn’t sure why, exactly, I was so punchy that particular day. Maybe it was just that I’d been working at a comic-book store long enough to be sick of homophobic bullshit. Maybe I was tired. Or maybe I was still feeling raw from the panic attack a few days before with Gary. But either way, I wasn’t about to back down, no matter how many elaborate hand gestures Leonard used to try to convince me to shut up.
The smaller of the two sized me up. “Big talk for a little man,” he commented. “What do you think you’re going to do?”
“I’ve got friends on the police force, a can of mace and a gun,” I said. “You can go ahead and choose how I deal with you, but I don’t think any of them will be good.”
Gary buried his face in his hands.
The gun was a bluff, but the mace wasn’t, and I knew that one call to Aaron would have cops at the door in no time. It gave me the courage to stare down the bigger of the two men, refusing to blink or budge. After a minute, he let out a small, indignant puff of air. “Come on, man,” he scoffed. “Let’s get out of here. This mouthy little queer will get what’s coming to him.”
“Yeah, sure, dude,” I called after him, rolling my eyes and making my voice sound bored even though my heart was pounding. “I’m shaking in my boots.”
When the door swung shut behind them, Gary let out a long, slow breath and Leonard yelled, “What was that?!”
I shrugged. “That was me standing up for myself. Did you think I should just let them walk all over me?”
“I thought maybe you should let someone else handle it,” Gary suggested.
“Like who?” I snorted. “You two? Because you really displayed some bravery and grace under pressure there, didn’t you?”
Gary went pink.
“You didn’t have to make fun of them, at least,” Leonard argued, unable to let it go. It didn’t surprise me; Leonard was the king of grudges and the Olympic champion in dead horse beating. “Those guys could’ve ripped your limbs off like a rag doll.”
“Well then, I’m glad I didn’t give them the opportunity,” I said, with a shrug.
“And what about the tough guy act?” Leonard continued. “You’re what, five feet tall?”
“Five foot four,” Gary corrected quietly.
“And a half,” I added.
“Yeah, I’m sure that extra half inch really terrified them,” Leonard said sarcastically. “You’re practically Dwayne Johnson.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t like listening to people talk shit in my store,” I said, with a shrug. “Besides, nothing happened. It’s not like they did anything about it.”
“But they could have!” Leonard cried. “I mean, God, Harris, you of all people should understand that!”
Silence fell. My stomach plummeted and, in spite of his lack of awareness in social situations, Leonard had enough wherewithal to look ashamed. “Jesus Christ, Len,” Gary chastised. “That was over the line.”
“It may have been over the line, but it’s true,” Leonard said, apparently determined to stick to his guns even though red blotches of humiliation had started to spread over his face. “People don’t exactly take kindly to being called homophobic idiots. And besides, most people don’t like having that stuff shoved in their faces. I keep telling you to take that down.”
“I’m not taking it down just because some backward cousin-fuckers think I should,” I said, my blood starting to boil. “And I’m not taking it down because those guys didn’t like it either.”
I couldn’t tell whether Leonard looked more angry or ashamed. It seemed to be about fifty-fifty.
“We’re just trying to help,” Gary said, quietly. He bit on his lip and refused to look at me as he spoke. “We just want to keep you safe.”
“So you’re saying that if I wasn’t out and proud, nothing bad would have ever happened to me? I’d never be threatened or harassed?” I could practically feel my blood pressure rising. “You think if I was just a good boy and took all that crap lying down that I’d be safe?”
“No,” Gary said, firmly. “That’s not what we’re saying at all.”
“But it would probably help,” Leonard suggested, then asked, “What?” when he saw Gary glaring at him.
“So it’s my fault,” I clarified, crossing my arms. “It’s my fault when shitty things happen to me because I’m openly gay.”
Gary sighed and looked down at his hands. “There’s nothing wrong with you being gay,” he murmured. “Hell, I’m gay. I just don’t want to see you get hurt because you decided to start a fight with the wrong people.”
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t think of anything to say. Guilt and shame that I thought I’d left behind me years ago bubbled up in the pit of my stomach, and I tasted something bitter and metallic at the back of my throat. I barely looked at them for the rest of the day.
When eight o’clock rolled around, Leonard left with far less complaining than usual. He must have still been feeling guilty, or he was irritated that I didn’t immediately agree with him. Gary lingered behind for a minute. “Need help with anything?” he asked, watching me clear off a space on the shelves for the new books.
“Nah,” I said, methodically tucking away the week-old issues. “I’m good.”
“Need me to hang around?”
“Nope. Everything’s under control.” I shot him a wan smile. “Thanks though.”
“Of course.” He k
new that he was being dismissed, but he also seemed to realize that, once I got some space, I’d get over it. He gave me a small wave. “See you tomorrow, man.”
“Later,” I said distractedly, and I heard the bell tinkle as he left.
The store was always most comforting when I was alone. I went and locked the door, turned the open sign to closed, and turned off the neon lights in the windows and looked around me.
I’d grown up in the shop really. My dad had converted it from an old drug store after my grandfather retired and handed it down to him. I spent all of my waking hours either playing basketball or hunkered down under one of the tables with a stack of Spider-Man comics next to me. I helped him paint symbols and sigils from different comics all over the back wall and hang up the new posters whenever they came in. I didn’t just inherit the business—I inherited everything that came with it. I inherited the shabby paint on the counter, the scratches in the display cases, the Spawn figurine accessories that no one could ever manage to sell, and all of the customers. It was my home. I knew the people there, and I could predict how pretty much every day was going to go. For a kid with no friends, it was a huge comfort.
Even in school and on the basketball team, I never had friends. Something about me seemed to repel people. I was always small, skinny and a loud mouth; people didn’t like me. The few friends that I had would inevitably drift away from me when the bullies that came after me started to focus on them too. It always became too much, and that’s when I went back to square one: the comic-book store. It was my favorite place, and it was the one place I felt safe, especially after my sophomore year of high school. Even though I switched schools, my skittishness stayed with me after what my parents referred to as “the incident”. Even making friends with Christy and Gary hadn’t been able to erase that. The store was my only comfort.
I looked up at the pristine copy of Astonishing X-Men #51. Maybe that was why I’d reacted the way I had: it felt like a direct attack on me and everything important to me.
Closing up normally didn’t take long, but Tuesdays were always the exception. Because the new books came in on Wednesdays, I had to spend Tuesday nights shifting old stuff around to make room, to double check the invoice list, clean and check the register.
Checking the register on Tuesdays was always a little depressing. It was so empty that I half expected a flag with the word “bang” on it to pop out when I opened it. Aaron’s three-digit bill had helped, but he’d paid with a credit card; all I found in the drawer was a few ones, a ten and a little bit of change. I sighed; I would have to run to the bank the next morning. I didn’t want to run out to an ATM when it was already dark.
I finally finished closing up and left, locking the door behind me. The street light on the shop’s corner had burned out, and it made me more nervous than usual. I hated walking around in the dark.
I hustled to my car and, just as I was reminding myself that it was ridiculous to be worried, I felt something hard press into the small of my back. Instinctually, I raised my hands.
“Wallet,” a familiar man’s voice said. “Now.”
“Okay,” I said. My voice sounded significantly calmer than I felt. It felt like my bones were liquefying. I set my keys down on top of my car and slowly pulled my wallet out of my pocket. “Here, man. I’m not looking for any trouble, okay? Just take it and go.”
“Not looking for any trouble?” Another voice asked as my wallet was snatched out of my hand. Fuck. There’s two of them. “That’s not how it sounded to me earlier. You seemed to be itching for a fight then.”
It was then that I realized where I knew the voices from: it was Tweedle Dee—Scar Face—and Tweedle Dum, the two assholes from earlier that day. I had been bluffing about having a gun, but they certainly didn’t seem to be doing the same. I could feel the cold metal of the gun barrel through my t-shirt.
Another voice chimed in with a wheezing laugh. “This is the guy who tried to pick a fight with you earlier?” a man asked. “He’s a fucking midget!”
Normally, when someone said that, I took the opportunity to tell them that I was actually six and a half inches taller than the nationally recognized height of a little person, but this didn’t seem like the time. Instead, I took a deep breath. “Look, guys, I’m sorry if I offended you,” I said. “It was never my intention. I get a little bit heated and stupid sometimes. That was completely on me.”
“No shit, it was on you,” the first guy said. The gun pressed harder against my spine. I squeezed my eyes shut and I found myself praying that, if he pulled the trigger, the bullet would be low enough that only my legs would be paralyzed.
The new guy gave a disgusted snort. “What the fuck is this?” he snapped. “This guy has no money on him. Just a credit card.”
“I won’t cancel it,” I said. “I give you my word.”
“I don’t trust you,” the guy replied coolly, and he had good reason. Pretty much anyone would say that to get out of the trouble I was in.
“There’s also a Target gift card,” I pointed out. I could feel sweat starting to prickle up on my forehead. “I don’t know if you guys are fans of Target, but there’s like fifty bucks on there. You can get pretty much anything there. It’s a great store. Have you ever tried their gorp? It’s really good.”
“Do you work for Target or something?” Tweedle Dee asked, confused.
“Nope. Just a big fan.”
The gun barrel pressed harder into my back. “Shut the fuck up,” the new guy said.
“Good idea,” I said. “Smart.”
I heard one of them sigh.
“What do we do now?” Tweedle Dum asked.
The new guy scoffed. “We’re in front of a store, aren’t we? Grab his keys.”
I watched a large hand grab my keys from in front of me. Another scarred hand grabbed my shoulder and twisted me around. “Move,” Tweedle Dee grunted, and I was pushed down the path from the parking lot back to the front door.
I watched Tweedle Dum fumble with my keys for a few minutes. “Fuck,” he growled. “How many goddamn keys do you have?”
“Sorry,” I apologized. “I, uh, need to open a lot of things.”
The new guy, a bear of a man with a massive black beard, snorted. He just stood with his huge arms crossed in front of him. He seemed to be the brains of the operation, which I couldn’t pretend surprised me.
Finally, Tweedle Dum managed to get the door open, and I was nudged forward and guided around behind the counter. My eyes kept flicking toward the still-open door, hoping someone might walk by, but all I saw was darkness. My heart was pounding with pure terror. It took a while to sink in, but it was starting to really hit me. I watched Tweedle Dum unlock the register and, after a prompt from Black Bear, I pressed a numb fingertip to the open key and thought, Holy shit, I’m being robbed.
When the drawer popped open, all three men bent over to look in. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum blinked at it in confusion, and Black Beard turned to me, broad face contorted with rage. “Where the fuck is the rest of it?!” he shouted.
“There’s nothing else,” I said, and I was ashamed at how squeaky and terrified my voice sounded. “I swear, that’s all I’ve got.”
“This is nothing!” he roared, pointing at the drawer. I noticed Tweedle Dee’s grip on his gun became more emphatic behind me. He was looming over me, and I could feel his body heat seeping through my shirt. I fought back a shudder.
“There has to be more somewhere,” Black Beard muttered. He looked around wildly, then opened the door to the back. I heard him upending boxes and winced; that was where I kept all of the special orders and the pull boxes too big to fit in with the others. There was a rustle of papers as comics flew around, then a thump and a crash as I heard my lamp knocked off the small worktable I kept back there. “Where is it?!” he raged. “Where’s the rest of the fucking money?!”
“There isn’t any,” I said again, weakly. “I swear, that’s it. It’s a Tuesday.”
&nbs
p; Black Beard came back out, seething at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?!” he hissed, his face less than an inch from mine.
I stammered for a moment. “It… I…” I took a deep breath. “It means that this is all I have. Tomorrow is when all the new stuff comes in. That’s when I’ll have something.”
Black Beard’s eyes darkened with rage. Tweedle Dum cracked his knuckles and the gun in my back felt like it was going to leave a bruise. “Look,” I said, desperately, “there’s other stuff in the store. Some of the statues are worth, like, two hundred bucks. And there are some rare comics. If you’d just let me show you—”
“Not interested.” Black Beard’s voice was flat and heavy, and it shook me even more than the shouting. “We’re not looking for a business deal. We need cash.”
I shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry. I just don’t have it.”
“He sounds like he’s telling the truth, boss,” Tweedle Dee said.
“What do we do now?” Tweedle Dum asked, turning to Black Beard.
Black Beard took a deep breath and looked me up and down. His eyes wandered from my face and up to the issue of Astonishing X-Men #51 in its shiny plastic case. A slow smile crept over his face. “We do the next best thing,” he said. “You said he knows some cops, right? Let’s make sure none of them ever hear about this.”
“I won’t—” I started to say, but they didn’t listen. Instead, Tweedle Dee gave me a hard shove from behind and the wind was knocked out of me as my stomach collided with the wooden edge of the counter. It hit just below my ribs, and my first thought was that something might break.
After that, I didn’t have time to think. Everything dissolved into static as I felt a large arm wrapping around my waist and tugging at the fly of my jeans.