I grew up in New York City, but when I moved into redneck country I decided I'd better pretend I was into the whole culture. I ran the entire gauntlet: I printed NRA stickers from the web and pasted them to the front door and back window of my apartment. I looked at numerous pictures of Bushmasters, Howitzers and even nuclear weapons. I even watched a few minutes of the streaming version of The Expendables on Netflix, despite the very real risk that it might queer my Indie and GLBT preferences for several weeks.
But my pretenses all came crashing down in just a few moments one fateful night.
After the nineteenth break-in at our upscale apartment in Midtown Atlanta, I decided to take action. Gathering all my courage, I asked the clerk at Bed, Bath, and Beyond where I might be able to obtain an AirSoft Pistol. [Full disclosure: I had originally planned on buying a CO2 BB Gun, but Mother's admonition that I would "shoot my eye out," persuaded me to invest in something a little less "Butch."]
He informed me that the Wal-Mart across the parking lot would probably carry them. I was apprehensive; I admit it. I had never been inside a Wal-Mart before, and the background check was a little intimidating. I had several tiny issues in my file as a result of a brief teaching assignment in Akron Ohio during the 'Nineties. Yes, they voted for 0bama twice. But their attitude toward the distribution of NAMBLA materials and so forth was nowhere near as enlightened as it is in "The City" where I grew up.
Anyway, Bruce and I were lying there in the heat of the Atlanta evening when I heard the door shudder. I knew we were about to be robbed again.
It's fine to be heroic when you're rehearsing all this in your mind, but it's something altogether different when your "girl"friend is lying next to you in the dark and you're contemplating doing bodily harm to another human being -- especially someone who is almost certainly a member of an oppressed minority, who is only lashing out an an unjust system.
Then I remembered! "My Purth!" I whispered. "I left it in the living room, and itth a Vethathee!"
That did it.
I reached over to the nightstand and grabbed the AirSoft gun, digging deeply in to the jarful of plastic pellets a moment later. Gosh, it was hard loading those pesky little balls into the bottom of the gun! After spilling what seemed like a hundred on our fresh muslin sheets I was feeling ready when Bruce asked, "Did you pump the Green Gas into the bottom?" Green Gas? What the heck was Green Gas? "The gun won't work without the gas." Bruce said, matter-of-factly. "My straight brother used to have one of those."
But I was fed up with people constantly stealing my designer outfits, expensive electronics, and objets d'art. I pushed off the safety, and loudly pulled back the facsimile action slide, spraying pellets everywhere as I did so. Why do they make it so impossible for anyone but an expert to load those things? But in any event, the exaggerated sound of the slide had its desired effect. The rummaging stopped short: the burglar was aware of me now. I could picture him scooping up the last of my laundry money from the coffee table as he prepared to take off. Yes! One for the good guys! But moments later, cold hard reality shattered my illusions of manhood.
"Yo. Better lie yo b!tch @ss back down that bed, you don't wan' me in there slap yo f@ggoty @ss aroun' som."
That was enough for me. I began throwing up uncontrollably, and couldn't stop until the doctor arrived to administer a sedative several hours later. Thank goodness Bruce's health plan includes domestic partners.
Being a hero isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Gaylord Poofter is an unemployed writer on his way back to graduate school.
And that FRiends, is the real story.
Bravo!
You’re more creative than I ever imagined.
