Garth saw her identify with the Prince that nobody had ever met.
Like him, she loved something different.
It was Francis, the grotesque.
*
“Do you ever think about what they called gay people back in the day?” I asked Asher over dinner in NYC’s twenty-something gayborhood, Hell’s Kitchen. I hadn’t seen him since Gluttonfest and had to show face before he started to think I was a hysterical homo and had me committed, like Blanche Dubois in A Streetcar Named Desire. His concepts of human psychology were developed strictly based on the plays he read in our college Theatre History classes.
“They called them fags,” he said, caustically.
“Is that a thing now? Are we reclaiming that word like the blacks did with nigger?”
He shushed me, “Don’t say that.”
I rolled my eyes and continued, “Really, though, homosexual and gay and fag are relatively new. I mean before there was the norm of heterosexuality, before Sodom, when people could ‘eff’ whomever they wanted without scrutiny.”
“Like ancient Greece.”
“Sure. Like how would they refer to two male lovers? I thought ‘deviant.’ But I don’t know because that infers that it was bad. When did it become deviant?”
“Are you taking a gay studies class or something?”
“No. Just curious.” Garth’s story about the little ‘mo Prince got me thinking. I began to wonder when being gay had become an issue. If Garth was as old as he claimed to be, it seems gays have had it hard for a really long time.
“I think it was that messed up religion of yours,” Asher said as he stuffed a turkey burger into his face.
“Uh, my family had no religious stance.” Thanks to my mother’s family’s Bible thumping background, she felt obliged to at least expose me to God. Of course, I was much more interested in watching The Wizard of Oz on a loop on Sunday mornings. My father slept in, having received a lifetime’s worth of Jesus H. Christ from twelve years of Catholic school. I took a cue from him and usually pretended to have a stomachache. I employed the same technique for getting out of swimming lessons and soccer practice. Needless to say, I’m a hedonist who can’t dive or block a goal.
Mom did manage to get me into the sanctuary (a few times) without my skin igniting upon entry and I did (somehow) retain a general knowledge of the good book. I mean, how could I enjoy a Cecil B. DeMille film without it?
Anyway…
“I guess the big guy did us in,” I said. “Your people helped, though. You Jews share half of our Bible.”
“Who cares? All I believe in is brunch and Broadway,” he sang as my eyes rolled so far into my head I could see my brain. “Oh, speaking of Bible stories, I got this great adaptation of Fairy Tales—”
“Nice,” I deadpanned.
“Some of the humor is really weird and dry, much like the shit in the Bi—”
“Asher, I’m not even religious and I feel like lightning’s going to strike me.” I edged away from him, stealing glances to the tables around us.
“Whatever. I’ll let you borrow it when I’m done. The Fairy Tales, not the Bible.”
“Blue cover?”
“Yeah.”
I rolled my eyes again. “I’ve been trying to lend you that book for months.”
“I thought that was the yellow one.”
“No, that one just has nice pictures.”
Because all unsuccessful actors have to try their hand at writing before settling on becoming teachers, Asher and I were batting around the idea of creating something based on the life of Hans Christian Anderson. Most people don’t realize it, but he was as secretly gay and tortured as anybody who wrote about mermaids and fairies would have been in nineteenth century Denmark. Asher decided Hans’s story could really “sing.” That’s gayspeak for “let’s make that a musical.” In the days before Garth, we’d have writing sessions while listening to Wicked or another fantastical, soaring cast recording. But my preoccupation with a boulder man forced my attention elsewhere. Sometimes I’d convince myself that I was doing research by reading a few bedtime stories on the subway. That’s totally not creepy or anything.
“Oh! Speaking of gays and Biblical justice, not that we were, did you see those photos on the Times website today?” he asked, even though I had repeatedly told him I never read the news. “They actually had shots of those sewer men.”
I almost pooped my heart out. “No. I don’t think I want to see that, thanks.”
“Fine, but it turns out those men had a history of gay bashing in three states. One of their victims is still in a coma from an incident two years ago,” he said, volume raised for dramatic effect.
“That’s crazy.” I pretended to be surprised.
“And in addition to their blood all over the place, they found traces of blood from a third party! Looks like a hate crime went down right in the our back yard—”
“Holy shit—”
“And, obviously, those idiots messed with the wrong queen. That bitch must have been fierce.” He looked awkward saying that word.
Vomit heaved into my throat but I managed to keep it down. Asher blinked, noticing something was awry.
“Pee break” I lied, darting toward the toilet. Each single-occupancy restroom at that restaurant had different recording artist-inspired decor. I thought Dolly Parton would be the most soothing for a near-puke experience. A twangy anthem blasted from hidden speakers as I tried to organize my thoughts about that evening: I was attacked. I was knocked to the ground. I was bleeding when I woke up. Therefore part of me was strewn on Twenty Sixth Street, making me the third party.
I didn’t kill those men.
They tried to kill me!
I almost began to pray for my wrongly accused soul. Then I realized I didn’t want to waste a perfectly good fifteen seconds talking to myself.
Nothing was reported, so nothing was on file. I was never on Twenty Sixth Street. My bruises were the result of too much tequila and a one-inch heel on my boots. This boy was completely removed from the situation. Nothing to worry about.
Right?
With my face freshly splashed with water and hair lightly coiffed, I went back to the table. I couldn’t even look at the rest of my meatloaf sandwich. That was the first time I’d ever lost my appetite.
“Welcome back. If you’re not going to eat, at least finish that margarita. These things aren’t cheap,” Asher scolded. “Anyway, before you got the shits, I was getting somewhere with that gay bashing thing.”
Please no.
“I didn’t have the shits.”
He ignored me. “Apparently similar cases with smashed bodies have shown up before.”
What?
What?!
“Asher, people are crazy,” I said, trying to shut this conversation down.
“Yeah, but after doing background checks on the corpses, police found that all of the men had committed some kind of hate crime prior to being pulverized.” He squealed with excitement. “Do I smell a gay vigilante screenplay after Hans?”
The sick feeling came back.
That time I couldn’t keep it down.
*
“Garth, I need to talk to you,” I feebly announced when I met him in the garden outside the Cathedral of St. John the Divine on West 110th Street.
“Of course you do. That is why we are meeting,” he said. “Come on, get on my back. We are going up.”
My acrophobia blocked out his words. “No, we need to talk. It’s important.”
“Not as important as this view.” Without pause, he picked me up and slung me on his back. Even with me on board, he scaled the cathedral with the grace of a spider. He’d had centuries of practice.
St. John’s is immense, one of the largest churches in the world. Even in its unfinished state, its vastness in conjunction with the views of the city almost knocked me out. Of course that could have been the altitude. When we reached the front bell tower, Garth gently set me down. My sto
mach still roiled from the dinner conversation, so it took me a second to gather my wits.
“I know what—”
“This view is incredible. It reminds me of the palace,” he said.
I found his happiness about a place that had imprisoned him for so long strange.
He noticed my confusion. “I hated it there, do not get me wrong. But there was no denying its beauty. You would have loved it. These behemoths never cease to amaze me. So much effort poured into one building.” He patted the floor as if it was a dog.
I took in the vista for a moment, but my mind wasn’t on the view. “I know what you’re doing. This whole superhero thing. I know,” I said, pointing a finger.
“What do you mean? I told you already that I cannot fly.”
“The really good ones can’t. And stop avoiding the subject.”
He stared at me long and hard.
Why I was berating him? He’d saved my life and probably the lives of many others. The courts slapped bigots on the wrist and simply hoped they’d change their ways. With Garth around, the riff raff were taken care of for good.
Then again…for good.
I gulped.
“What is the problem with eliminating people who lead lives full of so much hate? They are in the wrong. They are lost causes. The human species has no time for such stupidity. It stunts you all.” He waved a hand. “I am doing everyone a favor by killing them off.” Garth was as sincere as he was angry.
I softened my tone to placate him. “But isn’t that what they think of me? That I’m in the wrong? That I’m the lost cause?” I didn’t necessarily believe or agree with the bigots’ opinion of me, but vigilante murder cried out for some sort of a rebuttal.
“Do not say that!”
“It’s what they think, Garth!”
“Faith and morals are choices, opinions.” He reached out to literally shake some sense into me, as if he and I didn’t share this viewpoint. “Instincts and love are not.”
“I know—”
“Being yourself, the way you are meant to live, is not stubbornness, Jeremy. And do not let anyone tell you differently.”
“Garth! I agree with you. Please!”
He seemed to realize how forceful he’d been. When he let go I could actually feel my arms redden beneath my jacket.
“Just tell me…how many people have you killed in this effort of yours?” I asked, rubbing my arms.
He growled, ducked his head, and stalked away.
“I’m sorry,” I cried out after him. “I just don’t know if killing people is the answer.”
“They could have killed you!” he screamed as his massive fist bashed a cornice off the wall. “Would that have been a better option? Getting beaten to a pulp because two idiots did not like the way that you walked or dressed?”
“But that’s the point!”
“I may come from a barbaric time, but if there is one idea that I will hold onto it is that we should not tolerate people who wish harm on the innocent.”
His words echoed into the night. I said nothing; I didn’t disagree.
“No court or prison can rid those people of their dark thoughts,” Garth said, his tone as serious as I’d ever heard it. A tear didn’t fall, his breath didn’t shorten, but his body heaved, his face clenched and a soft moan came from inside. “They would have killed you. I could not let that happen. Not again.”
His words struck me like a gong, and he launched out of my sight before I could go to him.
Just like that.
I stood alone on top of the cathedral, allowing him time to compose himself somewhere nearby. Several minutes passed and I began to get nervous, so I sat in a decorative nook, hoping my silhouette would be lost among the carved stone figures instead of alerting those below to a potential suicide jumper.
Several minutes passed. Still no Garth.
My legs were beginning to cramp.
“Fine,” I yelled, “if you want to act like this, I’ll go home.”
“How will you get down?” he asked from behind me.
I didn’t know. I searched for some kind of trap door that lead to a hunchback’s lair or the secret meeting place of the knights’ templar or the Ark of the Covenant or something…anything but where I was. With a sigh, I stood and wandered between the saints to find my way out, but their gaunt faces frightened me more than the potential of falling to an untimely death. Garth took hold of my arm and guided me to a safer spot.
“Stay,” he said. “I will tell you. Forgive me.”
I studied his face for a moment, then sat.
He settled against one of the lifeless statues. “A memory lingers with me. It forces me to do what I do now.”
“Why?” I whispered.
His rough features looked almost tender. “You are not unlike those who first moved me to be a Guardian of great causes. I have seen true evil and lost much to it.”
4. The Garden Incident
“The Devil is always watching,” said mothers to their children while tucking them into straw mattresses. The King instilled fear into them, and so they did the same to their families. Prayers needed to be said, devotions needed to be paid, or the Devil would come. Most people had never actually seen a demon, but there was always someone who knew someone who knew someone else who had. And that person had merely seen a Guardian. The strategic exposure of the elite agents kept peace throughout the King’s land. Their stone grimaces scared the townsfolk into kindness. Cruel, lewd, and dishonest acts became things of the past.
Soon the Guardians grew bored. Garth spent most evenings roaming the grounds or lying about like a lion, waiting for something exciting to happen, and he’d developed a fondness for a certain tower at the back of the palace, one that overlooked a gigantic garden. Because the greens were forbidden to anyone but royalty, the General of their fleet felt it unnecessary to post Guardians there. Its emptiness made it an ideal place to become Garth’s secret resting spot.
While Garth lounged and admired the view, the reclusive Prince left his chambers, walked onto the large terrace, and descended into the oasis. From above, Garth jerked to attention and stared at the rare sighting. The young heir was always hidden from view, leaving the grotesques wondering if he suffered from a strange sickness or deformity. Garth felt lucky to behold him, a lithe and elusive shadow wandering in between trees. He wasn’t a leper or a hunchback, but a normal young man. At least, that’s how he seemed.
Far in the distance, he saw the Prince approach a pond. The perimeter of the water was lined with elegant willows, except for a clearing laid with slate the color of jewels. The centerpiece of the patio was an exquisite statue of an Egyptian Queen on her throne. The Prince ran to her and climbed into her arms, almost mimicking the Pieta on the steps of the King’s church nearby. He lay there for several minutes and cried. Garth felt strange about watching that private moment, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Eventually the Prince recovered and sat in her lap, like her throne was his own. He stayed there for hours and gazed out over the water, at their invisible empires.
From then on, when he wasn’t on duty or stealing away to Helena’s fountain, Garth tried to observe the Prince again. He witnessed the same occurrence just a handful of times, each one more desperate than the one before.
On one particular evening, Garth grew tired of waiting and decided on a nap…
Although Garth had lost much of his humanity, he could still dream. For that, he often feared what sleep would bring. What excruciating detail from his past would his mind recall? What unlikely scenario could be conjured to make him even more remorseful of his stone exterior? A birthday? A wedding? A child?
His decision to rest was masochistic, but in a life already filled with so much heartache, why not add more pain? He thought that sorrow would eventually crush him, that the weight of all his troubles could actually smash him to pieces. So he napped, waiting for madness and death’s good graces…
The peapod he’d found in the garden a
s a child.
His father’s dirty hands holding it out for young Garth to open, to discover the surprises that nature had wrapped inside.
“Go on, open it,” Father said.
Garth slit open the side of the pod.
It screamed.
Garth wrenched awake to a shriek from below.
He looked for a fellow Guardian to report to, but he was still alone. The vast garden, acres of perfection, lay completely vulnerable. “Hello?” he called. No answer came except echoes from the hollows of the palace beneath him. He cautiously moved to look over the edge of his tower, like a child afraid of looking under his bed. He waited for another sound.
It was just a dream. It was all in my head.
Another scream confirmed his fears and his sense of urgency surged. Could it be the Prince?
It had been years since he’d had to interfere with the humans. And when he did step in, he usually had Francis with him. He didn’t want to go in alone. It was off limits. He needed approval from the General. But the scream was—he heard it again—it was definitely one of distress.
He remembered the Great War, where the cries of endangered men were ever present. Then, he was helpless. He couldn’t do anything to save them. Now, he was strong. Nothing could stand in his way. “Be bold,” he said to himself as he plunged down. He leapt from ledge to ledge, convincing himself that he had courage. He swung from balconies and sills, ornaments and pillars until he reached the high, stately terrace.
The screaming continued. It snaked its way to his ears from deep within the garden, on the far end of the grounds. He sprinted over the intricate cobblestone pathways and splashed through the delicate reflecting pools. Still, the cries were too far away. The ordinary paths were useless. Then he noticed a thin, meandering dirt trail weaving its way into a dark thicket. Traversing through the patch of unruly forest instead was a shortcut, providing he didn’t get insanely lost along the way. This Ramble, as it was called, was notorious for twisting people’s direction.
There wasn’t much time for strategy. Every second wasted was another punch, stab, or tear at the victim he was trying to save. He’d have to brave the Ramble. Just one step inside and it immediately swallowed him.
In Stone: A Grotesque Faerie Tale Page 7