Derry, Northern Ireland

Derry, Northern Ireland
A book I'm working on is set in this town.

Monday, January 7, 2013

More of the first chapter of OT

I think I'll put the whole chapter up, in stages. To clarify, much of what Jake's referring to is from "Rape in Holding Cell 6, 1 & 2". This part follows the section from 1/6/13 --
Anyway, he’d called Mira because as he was leaving his therapist, a couple weeks back, he’d got ambushed by an on-line video reporter who was on the right-wing-nut side. Stanton and Thomas, two of the assholes who almost got Tone killed, had lost another appeal and were finally facing real jail time, and the fag-haters were screaming bloody murder. The questions from that so-called reporter’d been so loaded and his cameraman so hard in Tone’s face, he’d realized they already had the story written and just wanted to show they’d talked to him. So he’d called Mira tossed it all at her. And she’d taken it and assured him all would be well.

Sure enough, when the video was posted, four days ago, he came across like some crazed faggot out to rape innocent boys and turn the state into a non-stop orgy of homosexual lust as he brought down the judicial system in an attempt to make his legal problems go away. That he’d been nearly murdered by those two scumbags, with the collusion of a judge, wasn’t even mentioned. Of course, Fernandez, his lawyer called to let us know he knew what was up.

“It’s theater,” he said. “Something to give the governor cover.”

“What’s the point?” I asked. I was watching Tone replay that fucking video for the twentieth time.

“The other side wants him to pardon Stanton and Thomas. And if they can get enough people to believe both men were innocent little lambs brought down by a vengeful homosexual, they have a better chance of getting their way.”

“What’re we doin’ about it?”

“Already been done,” he said. “Watch tonight’s news.”

So when I hung up, I went over and turned off the computer and dragged Tone away. He pulled at me, snarling “motherfuckers” under his breath, but I got him into the car and we drove to a Rudy’s and pigged out on barbecue and beer till he was too stuffed and drunk to worry about anything. We got home just in time to see the local broadcast, and it was lovely.

The stupid bastards didn’t just piss off GLAAD and the ACLU; the story was going national and giving the state yet another black eye. Because fact-checkers tore the lying piece of shit apart so fast, it might as well have been on toilet paper. Everybody condemned the story and ridiculed that “reporter” so much, even a couple of Republicans said he’d gone too far. That’s when the A-G’d sent out his little whimper of, “Can’t we all just get along?” It was fucking ridiculous.

In response, Tone’s lawyer asked for a monetary settlement, and laughed when they began sputtering.

Anyway, it was when we saw the story run on CNN, this morning, that he realized, “It’s gone global.”

“Their own damn fault,” was my only response.

He didn’t say another word till we’d parked and gone into the terminal.

“Jake...” he muttered, his voice shaking. “It won’t matter, y’know. That story. ‘Cause I...I told Mira everything.”

And that’s when the shaking took hold. But once he saw I wasn’t gonna start yelling or pacing or anything, it didn’t take long for him to get back in control. I was glad he’d told her. There was no way I’d narc on him and he was right, the stories would’ve made it across to France sooner or later. That’s why the last time I’d gone over to Copenhagen, I’d stayed a couple extra days to talk to my half-brothers and sisters and lay it all on the line -- your big bro’s queer and the man he loves is nuttier than a fruitcake.

I’m not sure they understood it all, since their English plays second fiddle to French and Farsi, neither of which I’m fluent in, yet, but it didn’t seem to matter. Maybe it helped that we’d only just met and I wasn’t really of their blood, yet. Yeah, we shared the same father, but I’d been raised thousands of miles away in a legendary state with a glorious history and seriously high opinion of itself...which was now turning itself into a third rate version of a South American I was still a bit exotic to them. Maybe it’s ‘cause none of them was over the age of ten, yet, so didn’t really understand what I was saying. I kind of doubt it, though; Mira was born and raised in Paris and was hardly your typical Persian wife. She may’ve already given them the lowdown and laid out the line that it’s no big deal. I dunno.

I have to admit, I’m glad we met. She’s worth knowing in any capacity. What I still can’t figure is how she and my dad got together, since he’s such an arrogant, selfish, controlling asshole while she could’ve had any guy she wanted – raven black hair, full-figure, close enough to forty to make her sensual instead of just least, in France; in the twelve-year-old mentality of the US, she’d be over the hill. Anyway, after what he’d done to Tone and me, and considering my own mother’d chucked me into the street when she found out I was gay, so far as I’m concerned, I’m an orphan. But Mira wanted her children to know their half-Persian brother and I got the sense she didn’t even give Faraz a say in it. So he and I’d agreed he’d never be around when I came to call...which I did just about every time I traveled over to see my Uncle Ari and discuss whatever we couldn’t discuss over the phone or online.

On this occasion, I’d hopped over because negotiations on Tone’s case got postponed till next week and Uncle Ari had a client who wanted to meet me before he’d agree to sign up with us. This’d be a major catch for my uncle. The Euro zone was still having serious financial trouble that was only being made worse by the idiots who were running things, but at least Denmark’d been smart enough not to give up her own currency for the Euro, so it made his costs look good. It worked out perfect all the way around, and instead of having to put the guy off, Uncle Ari’d been able to tell him, “Come for dinner, tomorrow. Jacob will be happy to meet with you.”

I’d hopped a Business Class seat (meaning I could at least try to sleep) and dinner was set for eight. That way I had just enough time to swing by the apartment, freshen up, and grab my hard-copy portfolio.

I could also let Mrs. Lund, the landlady, know Tone and I’d be back living in Copenhagen, soon. That’s how sure I was this was almost over. Then maybe we could get back to where we used to be. Happy. Healing. Loving each other.

But suddenly here was Mira wondering why I wanted to.

“From the photos I have seen in the papers, he is an attractive young man,” she kept on. “But there are many of his type so I know this is not the reason. I think, perhaps you wish to rescue him. He has need of someone strong to lean upon. But this denotes weakness on your part, and you are not a weak man. Is it only the sex is good? Are you a man like that, Iacof?”

She waited for an answer, nibbling at a salad as I chowed on the best damn quiche I’d ever eaten in an airport. All I could do is shrug.

“What do you want me to say?”

“That it is not merely from pity?”

“I don’t pity Tone, Mira. He’d never let me.”

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