The Name Game, A.K.A. A rose by any other name, A.K.A. What’s in a name?

By Dustin Paul Shimoji

So I recently went through a large transition in my life. I got married, what’s more I got gay married. With that event I had a choice to make, keep my last name or take my husband’s name. I chose to take my husband’s name, but I had made that choice before I had ever actually met my husband.

The story of my hatred for my last name begins with my dad, Richard Paul Anderson. Without going into too much detail I detest my father, and I never wanted to keep his name. Keeping his name would mean that he still had some sort of phantom hold over me. After I cut ties with my father my mother asked if I wanted to change my last name to her maiden name, Harvey. I wasn’t really sure about it at the time because I was 12, I had friends that knew me as Dustin Anderson, and I didn’t know anything about the man who was the reason for my mother’s maiden name Harvey because he died before I was born (my… I guess you would say… birth grandfather?). So it never changed, I wanted to get rid of my last name but Harvey didn’t fit either, it seemed like more of a spite driven name change than a meaningful one. Also, my father was adopted so I don’t know what his original last name was supposed to be in the first place.

The other reason I hated my name is because it was the most common fucking name in existence. Everywhere I turned there was an Anderson. Law buildings, street names, name tags in the military, etc. I’ve met more Anderson’s in my life than almost anything (I’ve met more Browns and Smiths). Sure it got me near the front of a line if we were going alphabetically by last name, but it was annoying to hear it after a while. Anderson. Anderson. Anderson. Common fucking last name that I had to hear every time, and it was always followed by a fucking matrix reference that someone assuredly thought they were saying to me for the first time. “Mr. Anderson. HA! GET IT? LIKE THE MOVIE! GET FUCKED KEANU!” I swear the lineage of this Ander guy have fucked more people than any other -son in existence.

So I always knew I was going to change my last name and I always knew that it was going to come up when I got married. When I was engaged to a woman and forcing myself to think and act straight I was still going to change my last name to hers regardless of the demasculating assumptions people made. I would have been Dustin Paul Nelson (I could take the Simpsons references over the Matrix references). Then my mind got cleared and I was able to be myself. My gay self.

It wouldn’t have mattered who I married there were only two things that remained clear in my head. 1) That I would take the last name of whoever I ended up with 2) that I would only get married once in my life. Luckily I found the perfect guy for me, and took a last name that has a lot of history to it.

Now that you know the backstory, here comes the question: Why are we still treating the person that takes the last name as the more effeminate of the two?

I get that the woman in a relationship is traditionally supposed to be the one that takes the last name, but I thought we could start moving past that by now. I knew what I was stepping into when I changed my last name, but I still constantly wonder why there is something to step into in the first place. Women taking the last name of a man always felt like someone marking their property to me. “We are together, you are mine and no one else’s, now you have to change your last name so I can assert this power over you.” Now, women can keep their name entirely, change their middle name to their maiden name, hyphenate, take the husband’s last name, have the husband take her last name, basically do whatever they want (as it should be). Some would be named feminazis, some men would be thought of as weak willed. Why are we still thinking on these archaic lines? The thing that makes the most sense in a given situation for totally equality is for both parties to take each other’s last name since both parties are joining their families together. In my case it would Dustin Paul Anderson-Shimoji/Sean S. Anderson-Shimoji, but that still wouldn’t work for me because I hate my last name and want it to be erased from my future for all of eternity. While it’s the most equal it doesn’t fit every given situation.

I guess what this all boils down to is:

11)      Yes, I took my husband’s last name.

22)      No, that doesn’t make him, nor I, the dominant person in the marriage.

33)      No, my sex life is none of your concern.

44)     Yes, I’m completely fine with having a name that is assured to be mispronounced over a name that makes me feel like shit/is the name of the main character in a popular science fiction motion picture series.

55)      Yes, getting your name changed is a pain in the ass especially if you are in the military. Along with Driver’s License and social security card you have to get a new military ID, get a military ID for your spouse and put them into the military system, sign a new W4 (still haven’t done that), your name has to change on the military driver’s license, all paperwork, wait for new dog tags, wait for new name tapes, go through more headaches if someone put your given name over your family name on something that was supposed to be accomplished.

Now, tell me what you think. 

The Day to Day

by Dustin Shimoji

                I sit in my car, watching the ember on my cigarette make slow work of the tobacco inside. I hear the paper crack and pop as I sit in relative silence. The only thing that disturbs the sound of burning, cancerous material is the gentle hum of my car. I take a deep drag as I look at the house I’m parked in front of, the ember sparks and lights up my face revealing my eyes fixated on the entrance. Another bullshit day, in this bullshit life, surrounded by bullshit on all sides. I take another drag and sink into my seat as I let the day wash over me. Tomorrow was Thursday, one more day closer to Friday which would be cause for celebration if I had any money to go out and celebrate. Hooray, I made it through the work week, now I get to sit at home and wallow in my house until the next work week starts. I plead with the fates presiding over my life every day to give me some sort of help, to let this mess of a life finally get sorted out. No one answers.

                My eyes trace the house I’m parked in front of, from the plain orange exterior walls, to the plain black roof top. From the patchy uneven grass, to the cracks in the sidewalk. The two door garage that can’t even fit one car in it because we are two steps away from becoming hoarders. The front door that peels away weather stripping bit by bit every time you open it. The windows that may or may not be leaking air conditioning out so we end up providing cold to the entire neighborhood. The front of the house leads my mind to thinking about the back of the house. The holes in the ground where our dog liked to bury whatever he could find. The above ground pool that goes unused and neglected. The screened in porch that has small tears all over it. The patio furniture that we can never use because it’s always either too hot or raining. I sigh more smoke out of my lungs as the stacking costs of fixing these things, not to mention taking the small amount of free time I have allotted to me, begins to weigh me down. The cigarette begins to burn my finger-tips as it reaches the filter so I flick it towards the street and get out of the car.

                The effort it takes for me to get out of the car only helps to darken my disposition. I remember when I used to be in shape, I wasn’t an athlete by any means but I took care of myself. I went to the gym, cooked at home, made sure to eat controlled portions, and it was all for nothing. I look down at the sad sack of flesh hanging over the button on my jeans and begin to hate myself for letting it get this far. I need to go back to the gym. I need to stop drinking, or at least switch from beer. I need to stop going out for fast food. I repeat this mantra to myself every time I feel my love handles inching their way over my belt line, but nothing changes. I open the backseat to my car and fish out the 18 pack of Yuengling with one hand and the Steak n’ Shake with the other. I meander towards the door as the thoughts of my day to day continue to weigh down each of my footsteps. I stop and try to fish the keys out of  my front pocket with my fingertips, as I awkwardly move the case of beer up to my armpit. After a few attempts I eventually give up and put down the beer, rolling my eyes in response to key retrieval not even being able to go my way. I grab my keys from my pocket, pick the beer up again, and unlock the door. My eyes dart to an object stuffed between my door knocker. Was that always there? I think to myself. I was staring at the door for a while, I didn’t think there was anything there. Ah, I probably wasn’t paying attention to it. There were so many advertisements placed on our door every day that it wasn’t uncommon for me to disregard them entirely. The trash has collected more of these damn things than empty beer cans from me. I take the paper out of the knocker with my mouth and close the door with my foot. In moments I’m greeted by our pitbull coming to see what smells so good, and my husband.

                The best part of my day is coming home to see my family at the end of it, it makes all the bullshit smell just a little less foul. Even if he doesn’t feel that way. He seems tired though, still wearing his long sleeve black shirt and slacks from his waiter job. I couldn’t tell if he was depressed as well, and it had been a long time since I tried to figure out what went wrong to make him feel this way.

“Hey,” he sighs and the noise cuts through me like an annoying buzz. I want to make him feel better but I know if I try it will just lead to an argument. I stuff down my bad day and smile.

“Heya mame!’ I say with a jovial tone, mumbling around the card in my mouth, to try and lighten his mood. It doesn’t work. He takes the food from me and looks puzzled.

“What’s in your mouth?” he asks as I use my now free hand to take the door hanger out of it. 

“Oh, another of those stupid advertisements.”

“It doesn’t look like an ad.” I flip it over in my hand and see that it actually doesn’t look like an ad. It looks like a playing card. I roll my eyes, oh, they think they’re SO clever. I am reminded of a time that I thought I found fifty dollars on the ground only to be given a message about god or some such shit. I turn it over in my hand, irritated at this company’s audacity to try and be more appealing by making their ad look like a three of clubs. He takes the beer from me and I feel bad that he is taking so much, so I shove the ad in my back pocket then try to help. I take out the food from the sack and lay it down on our coffee table, separating our items. He places the beer in the fridge and cracks two open. 

“So, how was your day?” I ask with that same jovial tone in my voice, now unencumbered by having a card mumble my words.

“It was ok.” He says with the same monotone as he sits down and we open the wrappers of our food.

“Well, that’s good.” I elate, hopeful that I’m just reading into his mood. “Glad work didn’t bring you down too much.”

“Work sucked, it was just ok that it sucked, nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Ahh,” I muse, a little disheartened.

“How was your day?”

“It was good.” I lie, as to not add to his already bad mood. “Just another normal day trying to get people on our gas program.”

We sit in relative silence through the rest of our meal and I turn on the T.V. to a random show that we need to catch up on. We spend the rest of our night getting drunk as the television wipes our minds of our respective days, and the ashtray piles with both of our cigarette butts.

                 I wake up in a stupor to the sound of the most annoying stock ringtone I could find on my phone. It lets me know that I have fifteen minutes to get my shit together and get out of bed. I don’t fall back to sleep like normal; instead, I lay in bed and think of things to try distracting myself from my current situation. I go to my happy place. A place where I don’t have to wake up today and go to work. A place where I can sit at home with Richard and our pitbull. A place where I can give them everything they’ve ever wanted and we would want for nothing. The alarm goes off for a second time. There it is, my time in the happy place is gone and I have to face this dismal reality once again. I get out of bed and immediately slide into the pants I was wearing yesterday. I pick up another shirt from my closet and drag myself to my sink. I look at my face in the mirror and run my hand across the stubble on my chin. I can probably let this grow for another day. I disregard my razor and pick up my toothbrush instead. I run it through my mouth and look at the bags under my eyes. God, I wish I could get some more sleep. I spit and look at my cellphone for the time. What the fuck? I set my alarm to go off for 8:30 and 8:45, why is it 7:30? I shrug and weigh the option of getting back in my bed for another hour of sleep. The debate in my head is short as I flop down next to Richard, fully clothed, and immediately fall back to sleep.

            

                An hour rolls by too quickly and I wake up feeling more tired than when I went to sleep. I knew this would happen, extra sleep always just ends up making me more tired. I shoot up from bed, and go directly into the kitchen to make myself coffee, and a quick microwave breakfast before heading into the hell hole I call work. I roll my eyes at the monotony of my day as I remember the past two years of doing the exact same thing, every morning. The pot of coffee stops spitting it’s delicious contents, and the microwave dings. I add an unhealthy amount of cream and sugar to the black liquid and shovel in the piping hot food. I take one last exaggerated sigh as I take a cigarette out of a fresh pack, put a lid on my coffee, and exit the front door.  My car hums to life, as if to say, I can’t wait to get you to that job you hate. I strike a lighter to my first cigarette of the day.

                Traffic. The end all be all shitty start to an assuredly shitty day. I sit and go through my third cigarette of the day, letting the music from my phone blare over the speakers of my car. I groan, I shake, I flip the bird to whatever god made me have to sit through dumb people going five miles an hour to look at some dick head who got caught in a fender bender. Jesus fucking Christ, I’m going to be late. I’m going to be late, and on a day that I left for work early. Why the fuck do people feel like they have to gawk at every single accident that they come across? What is so pressing about that accident that you need to slow your ass down in order to get a really good look at it? ITS NONE OF YOUR DAMN BUISNESS PEOPLE! I wish these people would mind their own business and fucking move faster! The traffic begins to speed up, what’s more, the traffic starts to flow past the speed limit. Jesus Christ finally some fucking sense among the schmucks. I get to work with 15 minutes to spare.

                The day drags and I burn through more cigarettes, more coffee. I have my smoking down to a science so I can go grab a quick cigarette and be back before anyone notices that I’m gone. I need it with the type of shit I have to go through. Trying to convince assholes that our gas is better than the gas they already use to power their home. They may be getting the best deal in the world right now, but I have to try and tell them that the deal they’ve been getting is ludicrous when stacked up against our deal on gas. I come back from fifth smoke break of the day and sit at my good chair. I got to get the good chair today because I beat the other assholes into work…for once. I slide my headset back on and call the 61^st number on my leads sheet of the day.

Ring

Ring

Ring

Ring

“Hello?” a male voice greets me confused as to what number showed up on his caller ID. The man sounded older, but not elderly. Like a middle aged man, with a family.

“Hello, Mr. Conrad?”

“Yes this is he.”

“Hi, my name is Francis with Global Natural United. How are you today?”

“Not interested. Bye.”

The dial tone goes dead and I start to dial the next number un-phased by the blatant rudeness of the abrupt hang up.

Ring

Ring

“Hello!” a voice screams as things clatter in the background. Another man, sounds like he’s at work. Oy.

“Hi. Mr. Jacobs?”

“Yeah! What?!”

“Hello. This is Francis with Global Natural United. How are you today?”

“Who?” I hear loud noise in the background and the noise on the other line goes quiet.  

“I said this is Francis with Global Natural United. How are you today?”

“Global Natural United. Who the hell is that?”

“Oh, well we are a gas company who prides themselves on being the lowest rate of any gas company 

by far. We are now offering competitive rates in almost every state including Florida! Now I would love to get your information so we can get you over to our sales department and start your saving today!”

“Jesus you fucking people! You know I am at work right now!? Could you stop fucking calling me!? Don’t you assholes have anything better to do than blow up the phone of a man who actually works for his money!?”

“I do apologize for interrupting your day, but I was trying to offer you a chance to save on a bill! Don’t you want to have little more money in your pocket at the end of your month?”

“You know what I want asshole? I want you dickheads to stop blowing up my phone. I swear every time I answer this thing it’s someone trying to offer me something I have no need for. Take me off your damn list alrady-“

There it is. The magic phrase to end all marketing calls.

“Ok. Sir-“

“I’m sitting here in a thousand goddamn degrees trying to cook food for a restaurant filled with people and you assholes-“

“Ok sir, I’m going to take you-“

“Every time I get a moment to myself there you are to ruin my day. If you people ever-“

Jesus Christ I wish this asshole would just listen to what I have to say and shut the fuck up.

The dial tone goes silent as if he was interrupted by somebody, I take my chance.

“Ok sir I’m going to make sure you are taken off our list and I am sorry for wasting your time. I hope you have a pleasant day.” My finger hovers over the end call button as I am interrupted again.

“Wait. Wait. Maybe I was a bit too crass there.”

Oh, you think?

“There’s no need for you to put me on any list, go ahead and pitch me whatever.”

What the fuck? This has never happened to me in all of my time working at this shitty company.

“Ok sir. Well we are gas company that offers the best rates in town and I would love to get your information so I can send you over to our sales department and get you saving some money on gas.”

“Sure, that sounds awesome. Send me over to them. Thanks for the savings.”

“No sir, thank you for allowing me to help.”

I press the transfer button and a few moments late a mark is placed next to my name on a big white board. “Francis: IIII” Four, damn. That was just one away from my quota. I look at the other names on the board ahead of me. “Gabe: IIIIII, Ruth: IIIIIIIIII, Antoine: IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII, Eliza: IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII” How the fuck do they do it? I go through the rest of my calls and get a confused old man on the phone that brings me to my quota. I breathe a sigh of relief that meeting my sales for the week allows me. I read the clock at 6:00 and pack up my stuff to leave. I look over my shoulder as the day crew leaves, and the night owls stay. I take one last look at the board and breathe a heavy sigh as I stick another cigarette in my mouth from the dwindling pack.

                I pull in front of my house and sit in the drive way as I do every day. I light a cigarette and sink into the seat of my car. The thoughts of today wash over me like a flood, and I stare at the door to my house again. I feel something in my back pocket that I didn’t notice throughout the entire day. I lean forward and fish it out. It was a blank piece of cardboard in the shape of the playing card. The recollection hits me and I sneer at the card. Oh fuck. What happened to the ink on this card. Did it wipe off in my pants? Cheap piece of shit. I throw it to the floor of my car and continue to smoke my cigarette, letting the shit day of my shit life wash over me like a wave. 

Inheritance

Inheritance

By Dustin Anderson

                Cameron came home from his depressing trip four states away. In the backseat was his “reward” for going through the mental acrobatics that come from spending time with his relatives. An unmarked cardboard box with a family heirloom hidden away from the world. He sighed as he looked at it and got out of his car. He stretched the ache of driving from the airport out of his bones and grabbed the box from the back seat. He made his way in to see his family who has been waiting on his return for three days. The lock of the door clicks and he is immediately greeted by their Irish setter, who was probably thinking that he would never see his father again. Cameron sets the box down as the dog made his usual sniffs around Cameron’s crotch, which lead to his customary leap into a standing position to lick his father’s face.

“Ok Drake, Ok. I’m glad to see you too.” Cameron smiled through the slobbering. “Roger! Babe, I’m home!” He yelled for his husband while getting their dog under control. Much to Cameron’s surprise he is greeted by their son instead, who moves the dog from covering Cameron in affection in order to get his turn. The small boy jumped into his father’s arms and squeezed with all of his might. Cameron hugged him back and chuckled “Jeez Chris, you’re going to squeeze the life out of me.” He gets the boy off of him, then got down to his level. “Now why aren’t you at school?” He said with a stern look on his face. Cameron looked down knowing that he was probably going to get in trouble.

“Well Dad, you’ve never been gone this long I wanted to make sure I got to see you.”

Cameron rolled his eyes, but he was moved by the sentiment. “Where’s daddy?” He said with the same tone as he used with Chris before. Chris pointed outside with his face still pointed to the ground. Cameron tasseled Chris’ hair and kissed his forward. “I’m glad to see you, troublemaker.” His son looks from the ground to  meet his father’s eyes and smiles. Cameron stood up and grabbed his box with one arm, his son’s hand in the other. They made their way outside where he saw his husband working in their garden.

“Dad’s home, Daddy!” Chris yelled, and Cameron’s husband looked to him. Half happy to see him, half curious what brought him back so early.

“Hey Aaron, how are you?” Cameron said putting his box down, and meeting his partner’s embrace.

“I’m good, a little taken back to see you. I thought you wouldn’t be home for a few more hours.” Aaron said kissing Cameron’s cheek.

“I may have fibbed about my flight time to surprise you.” Cameron laughed. “Why isn’t Chris at school?”

“Well I didn’t see any harm in him missing one day to see you when you got home. I figured you would like to see the whole family after dealing with your relatives.”

“Good call.” Cameron sighed.

“Bad?”

“As expected. No one really talked to me and if I tried initiate a conversation they kept their responses to a few words and found an excuse to leave.”

“Oh. Well that’s not too bad.”

“I’m saving the worse stuff until we are away from little ears.”

“Ahh, understood.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of small hands ruffling through a cardboard box. Cameron turned and said “Excuse me Christopher. Did I say you could go through my box?”

The child looks down as he did before and said. “Sorry Dad.”

“What is it? His husband asked. Seeing a small arm poking out of the box.

“It’s an old heirloom passed down through my family for years.” He grabbed the arm of the mystery object and pulled it out of the box to reveal a marionette puppet. A disturbing looking old woman with a scowl on her face. She wore a red dress reminiscent of the Victorian age in England. She lied limp in Cameron’s arms and looked over the family with her dead eyes. “Her name is Francine.”

“Oh, how did you get that?” Aaron said with worry lacing his tone, slightly off put by the doll’s menacing look.

“My grandmother left it to me in her will.”

“Well that was nice of her. Maybe she gave it to you as a sign of acceptance from the grave.”

“Could be. Could be that she was worried my other family members would sell it. Could be that she remembers how much this thing scared me when I was little.”

Cameron looks at Chris to see him hiding behind Arron’s leg. “Looks like our son shares your fears.” Aaron said. Cameron got down to Chris’ level and made a show of setting the puppet inside the cardboard box again. Chris came out of hiding from behind his daddy’s leg as the doll disappears.

“Hey buddy,” Cameron said, putting his hand on Chris’ shoulder, “how about I put this thing in the closet and we go out to the park.” Chris vehemently shakes his head in approval and the trio go inside. While Chris and Aaron start getting ready, Cameron looked at the box one last time before putting it in their hallway closet. They all leave bringing Drake along so he can join in the fun. As the front door locks shut there is a loud bang that comes from inside the house. No one hears it. and the hallway closet opens shortly after.

The family came home from a long day at the park. Night had fallen and Cameron carried Chris in his arms through the threshold of the door. The two dads put their son to bed and the family dog stayed in Chris’ room for the night. They both kissed their son on the forehead and leave the door slightly ajar so Chris doesn’t get scared when he wakes up. The two went into their room and kiss heavily, finally being able to have a little adult time. They stripped their clothes and jumped into their bed, releasing the built up tension caused by being apart for three days. The pair sit in their post-coital reverie and talked about the things that they couldn’t talk about in front of their son.

“So what happened while you were with them?” Aaron said with a deep amount of concern peppering his voice.

“Same as always, deeply Catholic family ashamed of their gay son. Slinging around the word “fag” to make a show of how much they disapprove. Only difference is that this time their ringleader was dead.”

“Why even go, babe?”

“To see if there was anyone that could pull their head out of their ass long enough to call me family.”

“Come on. They have everyone brainwashed in that little fucking cult.”

“I know.” He sighed heavily. “Thank whatever small mercy gave us your family. I like that Chris can at least know one set of grandparents.”

“I’m sorry.” Aaron kissed his husband on the forehead and held him close to try helping in any way that he could.

Cameron smiled and said “It’s ok. I don’t need them. I created my own family.”

“Yes you did.” Aaron said compassionately. Cameron turned into his husband’s chest and the last thing he heard before sleep took hold was Aaron say “I love you.”

“I love you too.” The dark took over his eyes and he slipped into his dreams.

Cameron wasn’t asleep for two hours before he was woken up by a feeling of something wet hitting his head.

“Babe are you drooling?” Cameron said without opening his eyes. The liquid didn’t stop and it forced Cameron to turn the light on next to their bed. “Babe what is-“ Cameron was stopped, and the color was drained from his face as he looked at his husband stapled to their bed frame with a knife. The knife pierced through Aaron’s throat and had the family heirloom Cameron brought home hanging from the handle. The small wooden puppet looked at Cameron with dead eyes, a scowl permanently etched on her face, then opened her mouth.

“Hello Cameron.” The puppet took the knife out of Aaron and stuck it through Cameron’s throat. It took the knife and repeatedly stabbed Cameron saying “How dare you! We raised you better! You ungrateful sinner!” The last thing Cameron saw was a vision of the doll piercing his skin one last time before walking out of the couple’s room.  

Chris awoke to the smell of bacon filling the household. He excitedly left his room thinking that today was a special day. His dads never made bad food unless something good has happened. He sped off to the kitchen with Drake at his heels, and the pair are stopped by the sight greeting them. A puppet flipping a flapjack in the air, with a spatula that was almost the size of its whole body.

“Ahh, Chris!” It said, turning its head  completely around with the expression on its face remaining unchanged. “Have a seat.” Chris didn’t follow the command of the small puppet. He felt around on the counter behind him for something to defend himself with. He felt a tenderizing hammer under his fingertips and grabbed it. “SIT CHRISTOHPER!” The puppet yelled, and Chris sat down, hiding the hammer in his pants. The puppet carried the pan that was much larger than it to the table and put the pancakes on a plate sitting in front of Chris. She went back to get bacon and eggs from a few other pans. She then sat in front of Chris and motioned for him to eat. Chris shook his head and the doll smacked its hand against the table yelling “EAT!” Chris took up his fork and began to eat the eggs.

“Where are my dads?” Chris mumbled through chews.

The doll smacked the table once again “Do not talk with your mouth full!” Chris swallowed hard, “Though given the abominations that raised you I could imagine they never got around to teaching you manners.”

“Where are they?” Chris said with an empty mouth.

“Who dear?”

“My dads. Where are they?”

The doll smacked the table again “Do not call them that!”

“But that’s what they are. They are my dads. Where are they?”

Although the expression never changed on the puppets face Chris could tell his words angered it. “They aren’t going to be around.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean, dear Christopher, is that I will be taking care of you from now on.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m your grandmother Christopher. You never got a chance to meet me when I was alive, and I know that this must be very confusing but I am here to save you.”

“Save me?”

“Oh yes, what those two men were doing to you was entirely unacceptable.”

“What were they doing to me?”

“Trying to raise you in a house of sin. Tainting you. Making it so your innocence was lost.”

“But I’m fi-“ The doll smacked Chris before he could finish his sentence. “Do not talk back to your elders Christopher!” It yelled at him. That was enough of an excuse that Christopher needed he took the tenderizing hammer and brought it down hard on both of the puppets legs. The legs broke into splinters. The puppet wasn’t hurt but it did go off on a tangent of curses. “Damn you Christopher! Child of Satan! How dare you crush your grandmother’s legs!”

Christopher yelled at the puppet, “Where are my dads?!”

“I killed them for their crimes against nature and God almighty you little demon!” The color drained from Chris’ face and his body went limp. The puppet continued with its curses and started crawling towards Chris. He moved his arm like it had a mind of its own and brought the hammer down repeatedly. When he finally stopped the only thing remaining of the puppet were pieces of wood and a crack in the family table.  Chris sat awestruck, the world moved around him as he mourned his fathers. He sat for hours before calling the police. He could never bring himself to look at what had become of his fathers, and the police could never figure out what had happened to them. 

Home Maker

                The unforgiving sun beat down on the world as I pulled into the low-income, residential area where Miguel Garcia’s family stayed. The houses in this area looked as if they were barely clinging to life. Each house was painted a different horribly loud color, canary yellow, lime green, sky blue, this was probably done to distract from the actual condition of the houses. The horrible colors seemed to be on their last breath as every house’s paint peeled off more and more as the sun tore through the neighborhood. Under the missing paint you could see old rotting wood, or crumbling dry wall. The state of the houses was only a small drop in the bucket when it came to accumulating just what was wrong with this area. Every house had discarded appliances and garbage littering the front lawn. Refrigerators, washing machines, empty beer bottles, cigarette butts, and more made each lawn into a mine field.

                As I pulled into the driveway of the house I was looking for I narrowly avoided hitting some unsupervised children playing a form of tag. Luckily, it doesn’t seem like this neighborhood got much traffic, every house that actually had a car in front of it seemed to have the same small toolbox lying next to the front tires. The one difference was the house that in front of me. Miguel’s house was basically the same as everyone else’s around here, a loud royal purple which was peeling off under the scorching temperature. Their front yard had some nice bicycles lying in it, a dryer, and many beer bottles which littered the patchy grass. The main difference of this house was that the car sitting in front of mine looked brand new, if not new than at least made in the past two or three years. When set against the rest of the neighborhood you could pick this house out of all the others just using this very noticeable upgrade.

                I stepped out of my car ashamed of myself as I wondered if it would be safe behind the only other nice car in the neighborhood. Even though this area was poor there wasn’t really anything to suggest that it had a high crime rate, but the two do seem to go hand in hand. I put it out of my head and began to navigate the maze of trash leading to the front door of the house. Before I made it to the front door I saw a slight shift in the few blinds that were still hanging in their window. Before I could knock the door opened, and I was greeted by a small child. I put on my best smile, and got down to his level as I talked.

“You must be Miguel.” I smiled and he looked a bit confused.

“Yeah, are you a mommy friend?” he said innocently.

“Well you could say that. Is she home?”

“MOM!” He yelled and went through the house repeating this mantra. “Mom there is a man at the door! MOM! Mom there is a man at the door! MOM!” A rumbling came through the house followed by Rebeca greeting me. “THANK YOU JUNIOR!” she yelled back as she looked at me. Rebeca was a very pretty, tall, brunette, Caucasian woman, but the bags under her eyes and her disheveled hair told more of a story than anything else. She looked as though she had been cleaning for a while, sweat beads covered her brow and I was hit with the smell of bleach as she held out her hand to greet me.

“You must be Mr. Hall.” She said as I took her hand and shook.

“You can call me Stanley, Mrs. Garcia.”

“Oh well if we’re on such a familiar basis there is no reason why you can’t call me Rebeca.”

“Right.” I smile at her introduction, she was obviously an educated woman, this was going to be an interesting interview.

“Please, come in.” She said walking into the house. I crossed the threshold into the dilapidated building and the slight smell of bleach became more pronounced. The house on the inside was the complete opposite of the house on the outside. Everything was clean, fresh, somewhat new. There was a big HDTV on the wall with paused cartoons on the screen, a nice leather couch and recliner that pointed towards it. The carpet was a clean tan color and their family photos littered the walls. She was most likely preparing for my arrival.

“Please have a seat!” she yelled from the kitchen, followed by the clattering of pans and plates. I chuckle as this might be the first interview at a house with children where I didn’t have to worry about sitting on a hard plastic toy of some sort. As I sat down on the sofa my thoughts betrayed me and I felt a hard piece of plastic jutting into the small of my back. I felt in between the sofa cushions and pulled out a superhero action figure. I tossed it to the ground and grew annoyed. This is why I never had kids.

                Rebeca returned from the kitchen with some chips in a bowl and placed them on the coffee table in front of the couch. She asked “can I get you something to drink?” I politely declined and motioned for her to sit. She sat next to me and took a small handful of chips out of the bowl that she put in front of us. This wasn’t necessarily a great position for an interview. Usually I try to make sure that we are both comfortable and I can easily look into the subject’s eyes if need be. Now I had to pivot my body and tuck my leg in order to face her, and she may not show me the same respect. I leaned into it and switched up my position, setting my recorder next to the bowl of chips. She sees it and doesn’t tense up like most do for some reason. Maybe it was the recent loss making her more docile. She looked over to me, then turned  her body in my direction with her chips in hand. She took a more relaxed position with her back resting against the arm of the couch, and her knees tucked up forming a wall between us.

“So, now you get to interview the wife of a murdered faggot, huh?”

The foul word pierced the air between us and I could tell she had no care for what she said. I’ve heard it enough times over the course of my life that it doesn’t affect my demeanor towards a person. It’s more alarming that her attitude seemed to switch almost without warning. Maybe it was the recorder, and her body language led me to the wrong conclusion. I smiled at the words and say “ Well, yes in a way. I appreciate that you agreed to meet with me.” She shrugged but I knew there was more to this than she led on. There were no shortage of news outlets that wanted a statement from her, but somehow between all of them beating down her door she agreed to meet with me.

Now that she sullied the surroundings with a derogatory statement I was in more of a mindset to get on with this interview without buttering her up.  I turned on my recorder and began.

“What’s your full name?”

“Rebeca Abigail Garcia.”

“And what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a stay at home mom.”

“But you’re educated right?”

“Yes, stay at home moms could have gone to college as well.”

“Yes of course, what did you major in?”

“Nursing.”

“Why did you elect to stay home with your children instead of pursuing your career.”

She shrugged, and I turned off the recorder at that. “Mrs. Garcia would you like to reschedule?”

She sighed and laid back into the couch. “No, it’s just been a long couple of days,”

“I completely understand, which is why it would be no trouble for me to come back at a more convenient time.”

She looked at me with a question in her eyes. “You know you aren’t like the other reporters that have come here.”

“Well I can afford to be a bit more social, I don’t work on a deadline.”

“Right, I can tell through you’re writing. You seem to have a general care for the people that you talk to. It’s why I agreed to sit down with you today.”

I didn’t really know what she was talking about, I treat all of my interviews with a certain level of respect, but most of them get pissed and walk away from me. “Well, it helps to be kind in my profession. Never know when you’ll need to talk to a person again.”

I could feel whatever was holding her back escape a little bit as she said “Yeah, that makes sense. We can continue. Sorry about the faggot comment before.”

“It’s fine. Wasn’t the first time I’ve heard it, and it won’t be the last. Besides it’s not like you called me a faggot.” My use of the word may make her feel more comfortable. I turned the recorder back on and repeated my question, “So why did you want to stay home instead of going to be a nurse?”

“It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I didn’t like our “free options” for baby sitting and I wouldn’t want a stranger looking after my child for a small fortune.”

“By free option you mean…?”

“Our parents. Miguel’s mother would have had them talking purely Spanish by the time they came of age, and my mother would have spoiled the shit out of them.”

“You wouldn’t want your children to be bilingual?”

“They are bilingual now. I thought their grandmother would have just concentrated on Spanish not English.”

“Ahh yes, parents can be a bit extreme I guess. So what made you want to have children in the first place?”

“Well it wasn’t planned. We had Hector right after I graduated with my Bachelors. We were drunk, Miguel forgot to put on a condom, then I became pregnant. Not exactly the fairy tale romance every girl dreams of.”

“But a more common occurrence in today’s day and age.”

She shrugged and I felt her slipping again.

“So you were in a relationship beforehand and decided to get married after you found out you were pregnant?”

“Yeah-“ she stopped as if she had a toxic thought course through her head.

I started talking to get the ball rolling again. “So were there any signs that Miguel may have preferred men before you two got married?”

“You mean did I think the guy I was having sex with would rather me have a dick instead of a vagina?”

“I’m speaking to the you that knows that he’s gay now, not to the girl then. Looking back could you see any signs?”

She grew a bit red. “Maybe.”

This made me think that whatever she was thinking about was sexual. “You don’t have to go into detail.”

“Well it’s nothing big…it’s just that.” She paused trying to find the words. “Our main position during sex was him bending me over.”

“That was the only thing?”

“Well it’s not like I strapped on a dildo and fucked my husband.”

“Was he ever more friendly to some of your male friends than he was to you?”

“Yeah, but I thought that was just guy stuff.”

“Could have been.” I paused “How was he able to afford some of the more luxurious items in your house.”

“You mean how did we end up owning the nicest car in the ghetto?”

“Yeah or why didn’t you try to find a better area if you could afford a car like that.”

“We’re dumb.” I looked at her puzzled and she went on. “We thought that as long as we had nice stuff it didn’t matter what surrounded it. A nice house was never a big issue for us, and I keep up the crap shack that we live in now so it felt less like a crap shack.”

“And now that he’s gone are you thinking of moving somewhere better? Maybe going into your career field?”

“Yeah, the money we got from his life insurance through the military is enough that we can move, and I can job hunt for a little bit before it gets too hard. It’s not exactly a fortune, especially after funeral costs and taxes, but it’s enough.”

“What was your relationship like before all of this happened?”

“It’s hard to explain-“ she paused trying to find the words for a while then seemed to give up, “I mean how would you explain a relationship spanning over a decade?”

“Well, was he away a lot?”

“He worked long hours, and some of the weekends that he would be off were spent with the military.”

“Did you hold a grudge against him for never being home?”

“Not really, I knew that he needed to provide for us so I never let it get in the way when he was home.”

“But you did miss him, right?”

“Well yeah, he was my husband. I would rather him be home with his kids than out slaving away to provide.”

“And you?”

“What?” she said looking generally confused.

“Be at home with his kids and you, right?”

“Yes…” she trails off, trying to find my meaning behind the clarification.

“Ok. What about when he wasn’t working. When he went out to go have fun. Did you hold that against him?”

“Well everyone deserves to unwind. We discussed that he was allowed to go do whatever he wanted on Tuesdays.”

“When did it start to become a day that you could do whatever you wanted?”

“Around the same time.”

“Where would you go?”

“I would go to clubs with old friends.”

“Clubs? Not bars?”

She sighed, “I’m getting a little annoyed by your clarifications.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, tell me why I need to clarify between going to a bar and going to a club.”

“Well a bar generally means that you are going to drink and celebrate. A club usually means something else.”

Her brow furrowed, “Your seriously going to ask me if I was fucking around on him?”

Her tone said everything, this interview might be over if I didn’t choose the my next words carefully. “Look,” I made a show of turning off my recorder to put her at ease. “Do you want to know a secret?” She motioned her hands telling me to go on. “You’re not the first wife I’ve talked to that found out her husband was gay.”

“Wow, that’s your answer?”

“You know what every wife has in common between them?”

She had a full blown scowl on her face now and said “what?” through her teeth.

“Their marriages were falling apart before they found out.” This gave her pause, speaking candidly with her was the right call. She was very much the type of person that wants your cards all out on the table. This may have been a trait she picked up after finding out her husband didn’t have all of his cards on the table. I put my hand on her knee, and she looks at me. “Now, I’m going to turn my recorder back on. If you want to go into this further that’s fine. If you don’t just simply say ‘no comment’ and we’ll move on. I do warn you that this may be a chance for you to tell your side of a bad relationship.” She nodded and I turned on my recorder. The next part of this interview could make or break my article.

“So, to speak openly, were you cheating on him?”

She didn’t speak for a long time, then I felt her shoulders slump and she leaned all the way back showing that she was tearing up. “Yes.” She breathed the word as a tear rolled down her cheek. I did it, I broke through. I stood up and went to her kitchen. I looked around for some sort of napkin and found a roll of paper tolls. I gave them to her and she cut off a square. She blew into it and composed herself to the point that I could understand her through the sobs.

“Why were you cheating on him?”

“He was never home, and when he was home he was ‘too tired’ and we never had sex. Hell, the only reason we had Junior was because I propositioned him for a month straight. When I went to the club my girls always found me a guy that actually wanted to touch me. I deserve that much. I sacrificed my career, my body, everything for this family. I deserve to be wanted.”

“Absolutely.” I let her cry it out until she was done. I rubbed her back as she cried it all out, she stopped after a few more minutes becoming completely composed. The crying drained her a bit, she seemed more exhausted but she also looked as though she was in a better place.

“Do you want to continue at a later date?” I said feigning concern.

“No,” she blew her nose, “might as well get this over with.”

“Did you ever expect he was doing the same?”

“Yes, that’s how I justified it to myself.”

“Just never thought it would be with guys.”

“He had a certain machismo about him that made it highly unlikely. I figured he was fucking some other chick on Tuesdays than became too tired to come home and do the same to me.”

“You never thought to follow him on one of his days out?”

“No, that would have just made it all too real.”

“What was your end game with all of this?”

“I guess to just keep fucking around on each other until one of us got caught.”

“What would have happened if either of you got caught?”

“Divorce, I go to live with my mom, I fight for the kids and alimony, I get back into my career field.”

“Is that any different than what is happening now?”

“Yeah, now he doesn’t have to pay for his mistake.”

“Some might say he already did.”

She paused and sank, “The world may have gotten it’s pound of flesh, but I’m still not satisfied.”

“Was their ever a moment where you thought of taking that pound of flesh instead leaving it to some karmic balance?”

“Did I ever want to kill him for what he was putting me through?”

“More or less.”

“Sure. I wanted to wring his fucking neck for putting me through that torture. I could never do it though. I always pictured my kids face if they found out their father died.”

“Was it like imagined? I notice I haven’t seen Hector anywhere.”

“He’s at his grandmother’s, on Miguel’s side.”

“And…”

“And?”

“And how has this been effecting them?”

“It’s awful, their father just died.”

I could feel her rage returning so I rephrased. “Yes, they’ve had to go through something no small child should ever have to go through, but I mean the special attention to this death. The media swarming your house, the gossip online, etc. How has this been effecting them?”

“I try to keep Hector offline for the most part but he still manages to see things. I sent him to his grandmother’s house because she has no internet connection and the media don’t seem to be hounding her yet. Right now he is getting harassed at school by bullies. I’ve thought about pulling him out but there are only a few weeks left in this semester.”

“Is that why you are thinking about moving?”

“For the most part. I’m also tired of living in this crap shack.”

“And what about your youngest?”

“He doesn’t quite get the gay stuff, he just knows that his daddy is gone and won’t come back. He’s been watching t.v. and sleeping a lot. I was thinking about getting a therapist involved.”

“Do you feel any sense of responsibility for this?”

“I don’t know, that’s something for my future psychologist to answer. I feel like I should have just ended us a long time ago. Maybe things would have turned out better. Maybe he wouldn’t have been killed and he could have just lived his life. Maybe we could have both gotten what we wanted if one of us would have thrown in the towel. I know it’s not all on me obviously, but it’s hard not to accept some of the blame here. Would he still be alive now if we had admitted that we were not in love? Could be. I try not to dwell on it.”

I turn off the recorder and pick myself up off the couch. She leads me to the door and we shake hands. I feel the energy that I felt when I first came to the house was completely drained. She may have been more honest with me than she had been with herself. I smile and say “Thank you for your time.’

She nods back and says “of course.”

I think about walking away but I didn’t want to ruin the connection so I tried to leave on some sort of supportive comment. “for the record,” I say and she looks up to meet my eyes, “You know you are allowed to feel this way, right?”

“What way?”

“Angry, betrayed.”

“Am I?” She says looking at me more sternly, “I mean if he were to just be cheating on me with dudes instead of dead would I still be allowed to feel this way?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I don’t feel like you’re readers are going to feel that way.”

“Just because he was a confused gay man doesn’t give him leeway to do whatever he wants. Yes, he may have not known how to tell you. Yes, it is harder for minority races to come out than it is for everyone else. Yes, he may have been doing what he thought was right by his children. It still doesn’t give him the excuse to get away completely unscathed. Some people may sympathize with him, but if you ask me he should have bit the bullet years ago instead of putting you all through this.”

She smiled at this and nodded. I turned around a little more satisfied that she may feel some sort of peace from being allowed to be mad at him by another gay man. Whether I believed anything I just said was irrelevant. I put her out of my mind, and steeled myself for my next interview. His commander for the National Guard. I got in my car and breathed a heavy sigh as I thought of all the ways my next interview could go wrong. 

Whore

Whore

                I watch as the fire makes slow work of the wax surrounding it. The candle accentuates the red table cloth and the pair perfectly mirror my emotions. The passion of a new story and the blood of the victim haunting my day dreams. It wasn’t the first crime scene I’ve ever been to and it won’t be the last, but they always stick with me. A person who’s candle was lit, now extinguished in an instant. I look around at the other guests, tables of two to four, mainly couples celebrating an event of some sort. The straight couple celebrating the year that they first mashed their bits together and became a single entity to all of their friends. The gay couple celebrating the day that they deleted their dating apps and decided to give love a shot. All of them here because they felt the day merited something slightly more expensive than a night out at Chili’s. 

                This was good, the somber crowd could make the perfect setting for my guest. Quiet enough so he doesn’t make a scene, expensive enough so he will want to see the meal through to its end. I look towards the Maître d’ just in time to see him escorting my guest towards our table. Joel. He looks like he is dressed for a night of hard drinking with his friends. A polo shirt, dark jeans, running shoes, a simple watch... at least he put on some make up. Our host sits him at our table and Joel smiles a halfhearted smile towards me, I return it with more exuberance to try making him feel more at ease. It works to a degree. His shoulders slump and he sinks a bit more into the seat. Our waiter shows up with lemon wedged waters after the maître d’ exits. 

“Can I start the gentlemen off with something to drink?” The waiter says grinning ear to ear, as if every one of his teeth was another dollar on his tip.

“Yes,” I begin “can you start us off with a bottle of this?” I point to a medium priced white zinfandel. The waiter acts shocked for my benefit and nods. He’s good, knows the game enough to not let on.

My date smiles at the encounter and gets a bit more familiar. He starts to move the lemon wedge around the rim of his glass and says “decided to treat me nice today?”

“Why would I do anything else?” I said, pretending to not know the answer.

“Most of your kind has been treating me pretty nasty… trying to pin blame before all the facts are straight.”

“Well I’m not most journalists.”

“No, you’re not are you?” He pauses and sensually bites his lemon. I play into his act by loosening my necktie to make him feel more in control. “You’re the one looking out for all of us, right?”

“I look out for everyone I can, yes.”

“What was that one article? The indifference of gay men in a straight world.” He cites an article of mine that was given an award, showing me that he did a google search before he came here. Probably why he agreed to the meeting, he might have even got past the first page of results.

“Yes, I was proud of that article. I treated it with the same care I intend to treat this one.”

“To bad you’re just a blurb on the of a side newspaper. I’m half tempted to call you a low rent Ask Amy.” He stole that comment from a dissenting blogger, he most likely found that on his google search and is now trying to get a rise out of me.

“Always shoot for the moon, even if you miss you’ll land among the stars.”

“Or you’ll crash and burn.”

             I nod and snicker to give him the victory. Our waiter returns with our bottle and pours it, leaving the bottle in ice, then exits. We cheers and drink. At the end of the drink I bring out my recorder and he steels up. I put my hand out in a stopping motion before he gets too far ahead of me.

“No, no. No need for any of that. I’m just getting ready.” I take a big, showy, gulp of wine in order to make him feel at ease. It works and he relaxes.

“Sorry, there have just been a slew of reporters at my apartment lately. I guess the recorder made this a little too real.”

I reach across the table and grab his hand. “You have nothing to worry about from me darling.”

He blushes and turns away. For a moment I feel a real sense of character from him, but only for a moment as he turns back towards me and takes a big swig from the wine. He tilts the glass down looking over it slightly and says “I hope not.”

“Are you both ready to order?” Joel looks flustered as he hasn’t even looked at his menu yet so I try something daring in an attempt to make the waiter go away.

             I look at him, close his menu and say “Do you trust me?” He smiles as if I’ve saved him from unwarranted embarrassment and nods. I turn to the waiter and point again, the items I point to are in the medium price range again. He nods, smiles to the table and moves on. I hope that is the last we will hear from him for a while and turn back to my target, switching on the recorder in the process. He doesn’t notice that I turn it on, but so I can remain above reproach I inform him “So, you are now on the record.”

              His tone shifts, but I’ve done enough damage control to make sure it doesn’t shift too much. “ok,” he says it nervously but with a slight grandiosity. As if he is ready to tell his tale. This is good. This is space where I want his mind to linger.

“So, can I have your name?”

He smiles and makes a show of speaking into the recorder “Joel Shamus Ringer.”

I laugh for his benefit and say “is that your given name?”

“Yes, I go by Daniel on the stage.”

“Alright, and what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a dancer for “Our Little Secret” Monday through Thursday and I’m actually taking bartending classes.”

“Oh that’s interesting. Trying to move up in the world?” I snicker as if it’s a joke and he returns my snicker and says “yeah.”

“So, if you don’t mind I would like to just dive right into it.” He steels himself but his demeanor is more determined this time and he nods. “Ok, so on the night in question. Can you describe it to me?”

“Yes, I was dancing at the club, and I saw Miguel.” I put my hand up before he gets too far ahead.

“Was it a busy night or slow?”

“Pretty slow, it was Tuesday after all.”

“Ok continue.“

So Miguel showed up. Same day as always, same time as always and I go over to him before he gets too tanked.” He pauses, “Miguel had a habit of drinking too much and getting too handsy with the staff.”

“Ok, and why did you approach him if that was the case?”

“Well I felt bad for him. He always seemed like such a nice guy before alcohol got involved.”

“I see, continue.”

“So I do my dances in front of him and he starts to tip me while drinking his drink. After a while I get off the bar counter and come down to talk to him. I can get away with this on slow nights.  He still seems sober for the most part. He starts to touch my thigh and get close but it’s only natural… I mean our uniform is underwear and shoes.”

I nod as I look into his eyes and drink.

“Eventually I find that he’s actually a pretty nice guy. A little misunderstood maybe but sweet for the most part.”

“Is that the point that you decide to take him to The Alley?” I stress the two words so he knows the alley I’m talking about.

“You’re familiar with The Alley I assume?”

“If that street could talk…” I trail off.

“Yeah, that’s the moment I decided to take him.”

“Ok continue.”

“Well we start to... well we start to do what that alley is infamous for.”

“Can you be a tad more specific please.”

He blushes and I try to figure out if the shame he’s portraying is legitimate or not. “I kiss him for a few minutes and then go down on him.”

“ok continue.”

“It’s a few minutes before I start feeling something wet on my head.”

“On?”

“Yes ON my head. I think it’s just some drops from the roof or something and continue. It becomes a steady stream and gets in my eye. All I can see is red out of that eye which I think is strange so I look up.” He pauses trying to choke back his stomach from turning, and I get the feeling that this is actually a legitimate response. “It’s blood,” he continues “ It’s blood coming from his head. I had been blowing a dead man for the past few minutes.”

He stops and I make a show to turn off the recorder. I hold his hand and he grabs mine. That would be traumatic for anyone, even if some of what he was saying wasn’t true I got the feeling that this part was. “Are you ok?” I say with general concern lacing my words. He nods and I turn the recorder back on. “Then what happened?”

“I screamed and ran inside. I yelled for someone to call the police and they all just looked at me with this  dumb looks on their face.” He pauses to take a drink of wine. “I run into the bathroom to figure out what they are looking at and see myself in the mirror for the first time. It looked like I was the one who was murdered. His blood was covering my entire upper half.”

“Jesus, that sounds awful.”

“It was-“ He’s cut off by our food making it to our table. A noodle dish sits in front of him and a steak in front of me. The waiter smiles at us and says “will the gentlemen be needing anything else from me this evening?”

I take a good look at my date as he seems visibly sick. I motion to the waiter to come to my level and whisper into his ear. “My date seems to have become slightly ill can I get a box for his meal please.” The waiter looks at me and nods. It’s in bad taste to ask for a box at a restaurant like this, but I can tell that he isn’t going to be doing much eating given the topic.

He twirls the pasta around his dish, lost in thought. “I came back out,” he continues, as if reliving the entire night in his head. “the bartender was on the phone with the police and the few patrons we had  tried to help clean me up.”

I pushed my food aside thinking it would be inconsiderate for me to eat while he was reliving a trauma. Plus my questions were about to require me to have nothing impeding my speech.

“I’m truly sorry that this happened to you,” I pause to take a sip of wine “but it seems as though you are leaving some information out of your story.” He looks at me, awestruck. He’s unable to fully comprehend what I mean, then he pieces together my words and gets an angry look on his face. I can understand, after all, who would have audacity to question a person’s traumatic event?

“Excuse me?!” he whispers in a harsh tone. “Are you calling me a liar.”

I hold my hand up, “No, no, no. I’m saying you’re knowingly leaving some information out of your story. I think everything you said was true…to a degree, but I need to be thorough.”

“Like what?! What could I have left out?!”

I finish off my glass of wine and begin to pour another, “you have a reputation at this club, don’t you?” He starts getting red, whether from anger or embarrassment.

“Maybe, what’s it to you?”

“Well, not to mince words but I need to know if Miguel was a client when you took him out.”

A long silence falls over the table. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I just need to be thorough.”

“I don’t want to get arrested for soliciting, asshole.”

“You won’t. Trust me.” I was being honest. I didn’t want to make a criminal out of someone unless 

they had blood on their hands.

“Fine,” He finishes off his glass of wine and begins to pour another for himself. He kills off the 

bottle. “Yes, he was.”

“Is the head all he paid for?”

“No we were going to do everything in The Alley.”

“Was this the first time he had paid for your services?”

He hesitates but I get the feeling that his inhibitions are starting to waver. “No.” he says with some finality in his tone.

“How many times were you to together?”

“I lost count.”

“Every week.”

“No. Sometimes he got too drunk and left before propositioning me.”

“I see.” I move my steak back in front of me since all pretenses were officially gone. He actually manages to eat some of his food. The anger at me most likely made him forget his turning stomach. 

“Did it ever get rough?”

“What?” He looked as if I was about to accuse him of something. He wasn’t wrong, but I tried to choose my words carefully.

“You aren’t the only one with a reputation there. I’ve been told he’s had to be escorted out on more than one occasion.”

“No, he never got more rough than the situation called for.”

“Was he special to you? More special than the rest?”

“I don’t get very many regulars. So, in a way, yes.”

“Did you have deeper feelings for him though. Did he ever offer you anything more than just the 

night?”

“What” he snickered and took another drink “Like did he ever try to Pretty Woman me. Promise to take me away from my life of sucking and fucking for money?” his snicker turned into a laugh. “Fuck no. No one gives a shit after they are done with you.”

“Ahh so he didn’t offer you anything but you didn’t answer my first question.”

“Did I fall for an overweight Mexican who constantly paid to have sex with me?” he looked at me to see if there was a joke coming. I stared him down to assure him there was not. “No, all he was to me was assurance for a roof over my head. More than dancing on the slow nights of a mediocre gay bar could ever do”

“I see.” I take some more bites of steak and wash it down with more wine. “How many other clients did you have besides him?”

“Couple of dozen. Could never really get anymore.”

“Were any of them jealous?”

I gave him the chance for the blame to be shifted and he said “No, but I never really paid attention.”

“You never noticed if any of them had feelings for you?”

“Well I mean a couple said ‘I love you’ as they finished, but that’s pretty common.”

“You never got gifts from any of them? No one ever tried to make the situation out to be more than 

what it was.”

“As I said. No one gives a shit after they are done.”

That was weird. I figured he would have tried to get the blame off of him as soon as possible. Was he protecting someone or being honest? Whatever the case it was done, couldn’t pump that topic without accusing him of fabrication again.

“Ok, did you know he was married?”

“No.”

“He never told you anything about his home life?”

“We never talked beyond pricing.”

“Interesting.” I took a few more bites. “Here’s the only thing left that’s really hanging over the entire story.”

His stature shifted as he was about to get angry again. “And that is?”

“How did you not hear the shot?”

His stance shifted again, instead of getting angry he looked as if he was getting nervous. He looked at me with doe eyes and for the first time I felt like I really saw him. He was a kid. Not in age but in spirit. He didn’t fully understand that his actions now could have consequences later until he saw a man die. It takes a great trauma for someone to reevaluate their entire life.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Yes, that’s what I said.” He finished off his wine “maybe I finally lost enough of my hearing that I couldn’t make it out. Maybe the guy used a silencer. Maybe I was too focused on getting him off. Maybe it was the music from the club… you know you can still hear it pretty well out there. Maybe I was too fucked up to notice. I don’t know. I just didn’t.”

The shot should have been loud enough for someone to hear, but the music from the club can still drown out most noise in that alley. That’s why it’s a favorite for some of the patrons to use. It gives them slightly more privacy in a public setting. He also could have had massive hearing loss from having to work that club four days out of the week.

“You say you were fucked up. Was alcohol the only thing impairing you?”

He hesitates again, “No, I snorted some coke that night too.” That’s the last end I need to tie up. Anything more and I would be badgering him and he’ll shell up. I’m surprised that my unsaid accusations didn’t merit a similar response, but maybe the atmosphere of the restaurant helped me.

                Our waiter returns with a box and the check. He ate more than I thought he could. Maybe that shows more indifference towards the situation, or maybe he just eats when he’s mad. I pay for the outing and never let him see the cost, keeping the illusion alive that I spent a good amount of money for the chance to talk to the only person with a firsthand knowledge of the incident. I just wish it could have been more rewarding. The cops surrounding this investigation are doing their best to find the culprit, but they are underfunded and have a more specific rule set to follow. I am bound by no such rules. Sure they could haul me in for interfering with a police investigation but it was worth it to find the truth. My mind already left to the next interview I had lined up, and my current interview wasn’t even finished getting out of his seat.

“So,” he said “are we done or is there something more you want from me?” He grabs my hand and moves it to his backside. He smiles at me turning on all the charm he gives his customers.

“That depends.” I say removing my hand from his ass. “how much is it going to cost me.”

“Oh, no money you already spent enough on some young whore for the evening. I just want to make sure that I come off more or less clean in your article.” He takes my hand again and sticks my finger in his mouth, then slowly removes it. “Even though I’m so dirty.”

I take my hand back and use it to grab his box of food. I shove it in his chest and smile. “Have a good night Joel, thank you for your time.”

His smile changes abruptly to a frown. He storms away in a fit and flips me off. He draws some attention and I sigh. The maître d’ comes over and escorts me out after the incident, to avoid any fallout that may happen. “rough night sir?”

“It would appear so.” I exit the restaurant “thank you for a lovely evening.

“Of course sir. We look forward to hearing again from you soon.”

                There isn’t a whole lot of love missing from the incident. I got what I needed out of him, and I would get what I needed out of my next interview. The loving wife. Rebeca.

The scene

The Scene

The night was hot, with humidity so thick that it felt like I was swimming. I arrived to the scene 20 minutes after the incident, I had just gotten the call from one of my contacts in the local precinct while writing a story in the bullpen. They knew my tendency to work late nights and thought that I was the perfect one for the story given the situation.

                Situation… that’s a way to describe it. This whole crime scene seemed like a real mess when I arrived. Flashing red and blue lights dancing on blood spatters in an alley behind the club named “Our Little Secret.” A cold body covered in a black bag while a man cried over it. I looked around trying to find my contact for a few minutes in the sea of confused bystanders and working officials. Finally I scouted him out. He was in civilians, no uniform, Detective Bryan Wallace. A young, gorgeous, blonde that was taking to his newly appointed status in the precinct with some gusto. He looked at me and shifted uncomfortably, then gave an awkward smile waving me over. I came to him, my memories slightly holding me back, but this wasn’t the first one night fling I had to get information out of. Still, he was so young.

“Stanley,” he hesitated for a split second trying to move past the air surrounding the two of us and find the words. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too Detective, thank you for calling me.” He shifted uneasily when confronted with a more professional demeanor than he was expecting.

“Look, I meant to call but I was working on this promotion and-“

“Stop,” I had to interrupt before he tried to make our relationship more personal than it was. “We both had fun, we are both adults, we can both move on. Just give me the particulars here.” The young blonde smiled a half-hearted smirk back at the curt tone of my response, and continued.

“Right, sorry Mr. Hall” I rolled my eyes at his attempt towards professionalism.

“Who’s the body?”

“License has him as Miguel Garcia. Aged 44. Brown hair. Brown eyes. 5’7. 200 pounds.-“

“Yeah, maybe when that license was made.” I snickered and felt a twinge of shame taking potshots at the deceased. My pen scratched the details as Bryan continued.

“Address: 2972 Martin Luther King Blvd. Miami, Fl  33144. He’s also an organ donor.”

Bryan knew my proclivity towards detail better than I thought with him only knowing me for one night, or maybe he was just being thorough so I wouldn’t have to come back. “What’s your computer have on him?”

“Next of kin Rebeca Garcia, he has two paid off speeding violations where they cited him for having the wrong address on his license.”

“Rebeca Garcia?”

“His wife, she’s already been called for questioning. She was out on the town with friends while his parents watched their children.”

“Information on the children?”

“Miguel Garcia, Jr. Aged 4. Hector Garcia aged 10.”

“That all you could get on them?”

“For now.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, he had a military ID in his wallet, pictures of his family, a debit card for Bank of America, 9 rewards cards to different service industries, and a receipt to Walmart.”

“Rank on the ID?”

“Specialist, the ID was two months from needing to be updated.”

“Specialist? Isn’t that rank a little low for someone in his age bracket.”

“Not really, he could have just got in.”

“Right, and what rank did you get out again?”

Stanley paused as I got more personal, “Sergeant… why?”

“Just wanted to see the correlation between someone that got out of active service with 6 years, and a reserve member with an unknown time in.”

“You think he is reserve?”

“Just a hunch.” I looked at him as he started shifting awkwardly. Seeming uncomfortable in his own skin. I touched his shoulder and he stopped. “Thanks for this Stan.”

He blushed at the unwarranted physical contact and said “Of course.”

I scouted around for more sources as the team of medical professionals and CSI glossed over the crime scene. I looked at the scene and my thoughts raced trying to piece together the moment where this happened. I let my mind get back to scouting for someone to go on the record, and found a reliable source. A bartender who was just getting over being questioned by the police. He may still be a little raw for me to give him another round of questions but I need someone, and the bereaved man with the best knowledge of the situation is being detained.

I saunter over to the bartender, he’s tall, muscular, has short hair that’s jelled into short spikes, and still standing outside only wearing underpants.

I pull out a cigarette and give it to him, he takes it without a moment’s hesitation.

“Stopped trying to quit I assume?”

“Yeah, given the situation Stan.”

“So you willing to go on the record for me?”

“C’mon man, it’s been a pretty shitty night.”

“Right, and you know my need to get a story out as soon as possible.”

“What story? Another gay guy killed at a night club?”

“Well what are my stories usually about?”

“Look everyone has a lot of respect for you in the community for doing what you do, but this isn’t a bill in Washington or a troubled homeless teen.”

“Right, this is just someone’s life.”

He took a long inhale from the cigarette than said “fine” he sat on the curb and I joined him with my digital recorder sat in between us.

“First,” I began, like all stories, with a tad bit of anticipation in my voice “as much as I appreciate the free show, do you want pants?”

We chuckled “sure, you got any?”

I signal over to the deputy nearest us and he comes by, “hey, you mind getting this trauma victim a set of slacks… any would do?”

The deputy scurries off to the back of a squad car and pulls out some police pants. I mouth the words “thank you” to him while the bartender puts them on.

“Better?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Of course. Now down to business. Name?”

“You know my name…”

“Yes, I know that your name is Jeff. I do not know, however, your full name or if the name you give people is used for professional reasons. I also need you on the record, so… name?”

“Jeffrey Ray Wilson”

“Occupation.”

“C’mon”

“Would go a lot faster if you just answered, Jeff. Be as descriptive as you can as well.”

“Bartender at “Our Little Secret” Monday thru Thursday 6pm to close, Dancer at “Sticks and Stones” Friday and Saturday whenever I want.”

“Busy boy.”

“I try.”

“Did you have a relationship to the deceased at all.”

“No, he showed up here around the same time every Tuesday. Always looking for a fling.”

“So he was a regular.”

“Very. I started working here 2 years ago, he was coming in before that.”

“What happened when he couldn’t find “Mr. Right Now?”

“He would usually get belligerently drunk and start to harass the bartenders, or dancers, or both.”

“Did this ever upset you?”

“Sometimes. He didn’t keep his hands to himself for any of this, and he warranted an escort out by security a good amount of the time. For the most part I didn’t mind because he left a healthy tip regardless.”

“How healthy is healthy?”

“50%”

“Jesus. No matter what?”

“Yup, and he usually stacked up about 100 dollars just on himself. Not to mention the amount he would spend on the people he was trying to have sex with.”

“So it’s fair to assume that he was a man of means.”

“No, not really.”

I raised an eyebrow in return.

“Well, we get a lot of people like him. They give themselves one night to let go, the rest of the time they are living on Ramen noodles.”

“What gives you that impression with him?”

“His style. Also, he has the look of man that works construction. Not for nothing, it’s a great job, and you can make good money at it. Just not the type of money he was fronting.”

“Understood. Did you ever…?”

“What? Give in to his request?”

“Well this bar doesn’t necessarily have a great reputation for professionalism.”

He rolled his eyes and said “no, I recently started dating someone.”

“Can you give me a name?”

“Jessica Holmes.”

I steamrolled past the gender association, “how long have you and her been dating?”

“3 months.”

“Live together?”

“No, mainly just physical thus far. Taking it slow.”

“How does she feel about her boyfriend working here?”

“She’s fine with it.”

“Really, no reservations about her supposedly straight boyfriend working at a “fag bar” with men that ogle and sometimes fondle her man?”

“Nope, she knows that I won’t go home with anyone here, and she stays away so she doesn’t have to see me getting fondled or ogled.”

“Fair enough. How do you like your job here?”

He hesitates “it’s ok.”

“Just ok?”

“Well, I am put on the worst days to work at a club, and I don’t really care for others invading my personal space.”

“Is it safe to say you had something against the deceased?”

He hesitated wondering what I was getting at. “No… of course not. Look I may not like being touched when I am trying to work, but I know what I signed up for… and horny, drunk men are just that.”

“Understood, what about the bereaved?”

“The crying guy?”

“Yeah, do you know anything about him?”

“Yeah… I mean he works here. He’s one of the reasons our club has the reputation it has.”

I squint and look to see if I recognize the man. After going through a portfolio of faces in my head I finally match it. Joel. He goes be Joel when he’s dancing. I must not have noticed him through the sobs. He has a going rate for sexual favors. Very young, but I guess it pays the bills.

“Ahh yes, I recognize him now. So he took him to The Alley.” Making sure to stress the two words so he knew the infamous alley I was talking about. “Did you happen to hear the arrangement?”

“No, I just heard him giving the prices and walked off.”

“Angry?”

“What?”

“Were you angry when you walked off?”

“No.” He paused. “I guess I was a bit annoyed by it.”

“Why?”

“Well he’s in that crew of guys that gives this place a bad reputation. It’s because of guys like him that a lot of people stay away, and the ones that do come here think it’s ok to touch the staff whenever they want.”

“I see… so it is safe to say you hold something against the bereaved?”

He shoots up from the curb, irritated at me for the second unsaid insinuation. “Look man… yeah. Ok. Yeah, I had something against the 20 year old little whore, but it wasn’t anything big. It’s his body, his decision. If he wants to suck off every guy from here to Orlando that’s on him.  If I really had an issue with him or working here I could always quit, there are tons of bars looking for someone like me.”

“Don’t get defensive I’m just trying to get all of the facts.”

“Really? To me it sounds like you’re trying to build a case. This interview is over. I hope you’re satisfied.”

I was satisfied. I got what I wanted out of him and I had my eyes on the next target. As the bartender walked away I looked at the traumatized dancer by day, hooker by night. Joel.