on the shoulder and headed to his truck followed by Josh and José. He turned to Mike and asked, “You comin’?”
“I was gonna ask if I could catch a ride back with Jeff.” Wayne looked at me long enough for me to reply, “Fine by me,” and headed off. Mike came up to me and walked with me to my truck.
“Jeff, can I talk with you?”
“Talk away, Mike,” I said with a smile.
“Uh… maybe we could stop somewheres. It’s kind of personal, and I don’t want no one listening.”
“Sure thing.” I pulled the truck out of the cemetery lot and headed off on a quiet road that ran to the north of Winslett, rather than into town. Mike didn’t say a word as I drove for a couple of miles and finally stopped at a pull-out view area with a couple of picnic tables. This late in the season, I was pretty sure we’d be the only ones up there.
“So what’s up?”
“Well, I guess I don’t know where to start.”
I just looked at him expectantly.
“I guess you know the sheriff talked to all of us about Pedro gettin’ shot.”
“Yeah, he talked to me too. He even talked with Sandy at One Eyed Jack’s to make sure I was there for dinner like I said.”
“I told him I was just drivin’ around thinkin’. And you remember I got into that fight with Pedro cause he put salt in the sugar bowl for a joke?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, the sheriff told me I’m a suspect. I can’t account for where I was, and there had been the fight between me and Pedro. He told me not to leave town.”
“Sheriff Johnston is a pretty good guy, and you were out there driving around weren’t you? I thought I saw your truck at the rest area, so maybe someone else saw you walking into the john or something.”
He was silent for a few moments and then gave me a look of pure, abject misery.
“You hanker after men don’t ya, Jeff?” I nodded. I had no idea why he changed the subject, but he kept hemming and hawing and saying things like “Well, uh….” Given his previous behavior, I was pretty sure we played on the same team, and now I was just about positive. I kept silent, however, to give him the chance to talk.
“I… I uh… I’m like you. I’m a fag!” The pain in his voice was sharp, and I knew he was admitting to something he really couldn’t face himself.
“Mike, there ain’t nothing wrong with that. You’re the way God made you. It’s not the big deal you think it is if you’re gay.”
“I hate that word gay!” he spat out vehemently. “There’s nothing gay about it. I want to be normal; I don’t want to be like this. I don’t wanna wear dresses, or listen to show tunes, or be an interior decorator. I don’t wanna be Michael. I want to be just plain Mike. Not turn into some lonely old man in a dress.”
“Mike, I’m gay and I think I’m just a normal guy. I don’t wear dresses, or listen to show tunes, and don’t know the first thing about interior decorating. You’re just as normal as I am.”
“Yeah, tell that to my old man.”
“Your father has problems with you bein’ gay?”
“Yeah, the fuckin’ asshole! Piss on him!” The anger he was showing was almost a visible force. The words were not only angry, but had a painful quality as if they were ripping him apart. He took a few deep breaths and calmed down a bit. “Your dad was the only one I could talk to about it. I guess he figured out where the bear shit in the woods as far as I’m concerned and told me about you. You aren’t gonna go ape shit on me are you?”
I could tell he was thinking of my reaction to his talking about my dad when the cattle were rustled. “No. I’m glad he was there for you. He was for me. He was a great man. He saw people for who they were, not what color, or religion, or ethnic group, or whatever.”
“Yeah, maybe if he’d been my dad instead of the fuckwad I got, I wouldn’t be just some dumb hick redneck.”
“Buddy, I got the feeling there’s a lot more to you than a dumb hick redneck.
Ellen Kottler, Jeffrey A. Kottler, Cary J. Kottler