Hate Crime (a love story)
True love is never quite what you think it is.
Don’t judge, especially if you don’t know all the details.
Hate Crime (a love story)
By
Robert Reilly
2025 words
Curt had always been kind of conservative and not a big fan of the whole P-Town ‘putting it out there’ scene. So, after a quick process of elimination, The Squealing Pig was about as acceptable and middle-of-the-road as I could come up with. A mix of locals and tourists, both gay and straight. It wouldn’t be perfect, but I was confident it would be okay for Curt.
It had been nine months since we’d been together, almost a year. It’s a long time when you think about it; that’s enough time to create a human being, someone who could change the world, for good or bad.
While Curt had been away, I’d spent most of my time in my studio after being commissioned by a hedge fund manager to make a pair of matching wrought iron gates and several smaller matching side gates for his summer home in Chatham. Honestly, the work was straightforward and a bit boring; a rip-off of something his awful, wanna-be-celebrity wife had seen at a spa in Boca-Raton. The gates, just like the clients, were as ostentatious as hell, but the pay was great. So what’s a struggling artist to do?
The Pig was slow, to say the least. Sheryl Crow’s ‘All I wanna do is have some fun’ was pumping out of a pair of wall-mounted speakers, and the lack of customers made the place feel like a morgue. Apart from two stubbled beer drinkers sat at the other end of the bar, dressed in oilskin bibs, filthy T-shirts and weather-worn Red Sox ball caps, the only other customers were a quartet of well-groomed French Canadians enjoying security in numbers and complaining loudly—in English—about the lousy wine menu and the lack of atmosphere. The only other people present were a pair of board-out-of-their-minds waitresses and a bodybuilder bartender doing more texting than tending. The vibe was classic P-Town Tuesday night in mid-April, flat.
Since our last get-together, way more had happened for Curt than for me. While I had been cloistered away on the Cape, bending metal and living like a bohemian blacksmith, Curt had been to war on the other side of the world. In his irregular e-mails, he had said nothing about the day-to-day nature of his work. All his correspondence was upbeat and chatty but annoyingly vague. He kept to the benign subjects of family, food, his religious workout schedule, and the weather, blah blah blah. Honestly, it felt like he was just being polite and keeping in touch but not sharing anything important. Maybe that was just his way of protecting me.
Curt said he’d arrive at seven. He was never late, ever. I guess that’s a military thing. Anyway, the plan was, as soon as he arrived, we’d have a quick drink, skedaddle, and then find something to eat. In his last email, he said he would book a table somewhere nice. As the minute hand crept closer and closer to the top of the hour, my eyes wandered, first to my watch and then to the wall clock to check one time against the other, a nervous habit. And then to the Fishermen, the French Canadians, the waitresses and finally the bartender, still oblivious, head down, thumbs banging out some inane message I imagined might read like, “wrks ded, cnt wait to lev, wt r u doin?”
Sheryl Crow faded out, and the bar became uncomfortably quiet for a few seconds, as if everyone had just received a text that said, “Someone in here voted for Donald Trump; let’s guess who?” Then KD Lang’s ‘Constant Cravings’ came on just in time to revive the nonexistent atmosphere. I glanced at the guys sitting at the other end of the bar. The bigger of the two winked at me and then nudged his buddy, who released a half-laugh and raised his chin, as if to say, Hey! What’s up? which kind of made me feel uncomfortable.
To help alleviate the anxiety of waiting, I opened my wallet and pulled out a picture of Curt and I on top of Mount Washington during a hiking and camping trip to the White Mountains two years ago. During the entire trip, besides hiking and cooking, Curt took care of all the camping equipment, the firewood, the fire making, and the map reading when we almost got lost. He even crawled out of the tent in his skivvies in the middle of the night with only a flashlight for protection after he heard something moving around in the woods. He teased me the whole time about how I’d never last a week in the wilderness without him. He said if our outdoorsy trips were turned into a reality TV show, they’d call it ‘GI Joe and Barbie Go Camping.’ I agreed and told him that if the search and rescue people ever found my body, at least my outfit would match, and I’d look good for the Coroner.
I glanced down at my watch again. Six fifty-nine. Then, as I looked up, Curt strolled casually through the door of The Pig, smiling confidently. He looked like he’d just walked off the cover of a GQ magazine. Both waitresses stopped waiting and stared, awestruck. The bartender quit texting and gazed, star-struck. All four French Canadians stopped talking and gawked, dumbstruck, then collectively began fixing their hair. Curt had always been handsome, fit, and lean, but seeing him appear out of thin air like this, it was hard to believe he’d just spent nine months in a war zone. I’ve got to be honest; he looked like a complete dream. His perfect blond crew-cut, piercing blue eyes, full lips, strong jaw, clean-shaven face, and dentist’s fantasy smile were an absolute vision. He looked like Adonis in a white t-shirt, jeans, and brown leather flip-flops. Perfect. I hopped off the barstool, crossed the floor towards him, and tried to act as cool as possible. But then at the last second, I lost it, and ran towards him, flung my arms around his neck, and hugged him. He smelled incredible. English leather aftershave and fresh laundry. He kissed me on the cheek and hugged me so tight I swear to God I thought he might crack my ribs. I felt like I was hugging a bronze statue of an Olympian middleweight boxer. I have to admit, I’m a bit of a crier, and I was so happy to see him that a wave of watery emotion blurred my vision for a few seconds. He was home, and he was safe, and we were together again, and even if it was only going to be for a week, it was real, and it was going to be awesome.
Curt and I talked and laughed nonstop through two drinks, then he looked down at his watch and said, “C’mon, time to go.”
“Go where?” I asked.
Curt smiled, raised his eyebrows, and said, “The Lobster Pot, reservations for two at eight.”
I’m telling you. I almost screamed. The Lobster Pot. Oh my god! It’s my absolute favorite. Then Curt said, “Hey! Why does Superman go on vacation to Massachusetts?”
“Why?” I asked, smiling curiously.
“Because he loves the Cape.”
We must have looked and sounded ridiculous, like a pair of out-of-control kids laughing.
Curt asked the bartender for the bill. I put my hand on my wallet, but Curt said, “No. My treat. I know all you liberal artists hate Uncle Sam, but he’s picking up the tab this week.”
“God bless America,” I said, then I made the sort of goofy salute that would have had me thrown out of The Salvation Army.
Curt laughed at me, rubbed the top of my head with the flat of his hand, dropped a ten and a twenty on the bar, and said, “Let’s go, I’m starving.”
It happened as we walked to the door. I was so busy looking at the four French boys, the two waitresses, the bartender—and a partridge in a pear tree—all staring at Curt, I missed the opening exchange. I just heard Curt say, “C’mon guys, lighten up.” By the time I tuned in, both fishermen were on their feet. The bigger of the two’s thick, sinewy forearms were tattooed with images of mermaids and Poseidon. His taller partner, crack-pipe skinny with a badly pockmarked face, was taking off his wrist watch and moving nervously from one foot to the other.
“You two make a cute couple,” snarled Poseidon.
The skinny sidekick grinned and grunted through his narrow, sunburnt nose. Curt held up both hands in an overt display of ‘We don’t want any trouble.’ Then he reached out, opened the door, and said, “Let’s go.”
We walked out of the bar and took a left onto Commercial Street. It wasn’t until we were halfway down Lopes Square Curt said, “Now listen, don’t get all bugged out, but I think those two clowns from the bar are following us. So, like a total idiot, I turned around to see if it was true.
“Nice work, Jason Bourne,” said Curt. “Better stick to your artwork and cancel your interview with the CIA.” I released a nervous laugh and kept walking. By the time we reached the Marina Parking Lot, our new friends were maybe twenty feet behind us.
“Hey faggots!” A rough voice called out across the empty parking lot.
“Just ignore them,” said Curt without turning his head. Childishly, I looked around for the cop who directed traffic at the intersection of Commercial and Ryder during the day. But of course, they weren’t there.
As Curt pulled the key fob out of his pocket and pointed it at the rental car, I heard a voice right behind us say, “You faggots make me sick. You should be ashamed of yourself, acting like a pair of drunken whores.”
Curt turned around, held up both hands again, and said, “Dude. Please, leave us alone. We don’t want any trouble.”
“Too late for that now, pretty boy,” said Poseidon. Then he lunged at Curt, fists flying. Like a scared little kid, I flinched, covered my face with my hands, and stepped back. Curt did the opposite. He lowered his chin, stepped forward, and with one smooth movement, pushed the flying fists away with the back of his left hand and slammed the palm of his right hand into the center of Poseidon’s big, fat, sunburned face. There was a horrible crunch-sound, like someone had just stepped on a wet sock full of toothpicks and earthworms. The big man stopped dead; his face momentarily attached the palm of Curt’s hand. Then Curt grabbed the back of Poseidon’s head with both hands and drove his right knee up and into his ribs. ‘Crackhead Ted’ lunged towards Curt, who casually hopped up off his left foot, and kicked him with the flat of his right foot under his chin.
We left our two attackers laid out on the blacktop, moaning and holding their bleeding, broken faces in their meaty fisherman’s fingers. On the way to The Lobster Pot, I began to cry, just like I did when I was a kid. Whenever I was about to get my ass kicked for being different, Curt always bailed me out. Did some ass-kicking of his own and said, don’t tell Mom. I always burst into tears, thanked him a thousand times, and kept my end of the bargain. By the time we were in high school, despite Glee Club, all my weird clothing choices, piercings, and obsessive worship of Cher, Madona, and Gore Vidal, because of Curt’s reputation, even though he was two years younger than me, the macho morons always left me alone. And as I started my junior year at Columbia, studying fine art, it was no surprise to anyone that Curt won a coveted place at the US Naval Academy in Annapolis, went on to be the ‘Honor Man’ in his BUD’s class, and is now a Navy SEAL Lieutenant. I love him so much. I am so proud of my kid brother.