I was tired that night. I had worked twelve hours and finished cooking dinner for my boys. They were in high school at the time. My youngest had been brooding in his room for hours. He had been depressed for months, ever since he came out to his friends. I knew long before then that he was gay. Him coming out in high school was something we'd talked about for a long time. I often came to him for strength, not only because both my sons are a source of strength, but because my youngest is possibly the strongest, most inspiring person I've ever met.
I was sitting in my recliner, dozing on and off, watching the news, finishing a beer, about to go to bed.
That's when it crashed through our front window.
The crash was not the first sound I heard. I heard the squalling of tires, and I heard a scream. A nasty, hateful rebel yell. The same type of yell that has been plaguing those without power for hundreds of years. Blacks, women, Latinos, gays. Doesn't matter. Hate's got to be fed.
It's always hungry.
After that mindless scream came the crash, a sound just as infantile and mindless. The glass blew in right in front of me and something landed near my right foot. I can see it now, as clear as I see the computer screen in front of me. The brick was crumbling and was rounded at the edges. It had a peice of paper wrapped around it, held together with a rubber band.
My mouth hung open as my sons ran into the living room, asking me what had happened. I couldn't speak. I just stood there, looking at that goddamned brick, lying amongst the shattered remnants of my window.
My oldest son ran outside just as tires squalled again, telling my youngest to call the police. I still wasn't capable of words. I just stood there, looking stupidly at that brick, and that white peice of paper wrapped around it.
Finally I bent and picked up the brick. I vaguely registered my youngest son in the background, talking breathlessly to the police, explaining where we lived. I unwrapped the paper, and on the inside was a horribly written message, done in black magic marker.
"FUK U FAGUT!" it read.
The note was so horribly mispelled I wondered if it was some kind of joke.
Finally the police arrived and examined the tire marks, questioned us, examined the window, the brick, the note, and questioned us some more. I explained that my youngest son was gay, and that this was undoubtedly the reason they did this.
That was when the officer to which I was speaking said something I'll never forget. Or forgive.
"Well," he explained, "stuff like that invites pranks like this all the time. We'll keep a look out for em, and if you see anything else, please give us a call."
A few minutes later, they were gone. My oldest and I taped up the window with plastic. Once it was over and done I had never felt so tired in all my life. But I didn't feel like sleeping. I went into my youngest son's room.
"How are you holding up?" I asked.
"I'm writing about it," he told me.
This was his modus operandi, and I loved it. It was good to see him vent through writing. He was always very good at it, and it worked to clear his mind. I sighed and walked over to him and kissed his head, tears standing in my eyes.
"Look, um...these assholes are like ticks. Just flick em off and they're gone. I guess they live off suffering like ticks live off blood."
He nodded his head, but he was sitting at his desk, head down, writing furiously. I nodded and sighed again, and left. I spent that night awake in my bed, wondering if it was always going to be like this. I wanted the best for my son, and this was all I could offer? A world where he was harrassed? A world where those that should protect him were indifferent?
The next morning I started to make coffee, not looking forward to taking care of all the business that these little pricks created with their hatred. I was fuming, tired, feeling hopeless and helpless.
Suddenly I saw my son come out of his room, dressed and ready for school.
"You're...going to school?" I wanted to know.
He nodded. "Yeah."
"Look...you can stay out for a few days. I'll work it out with the school."
"Nah, I'll be fine."
I stood there, amazed. "Why?"
He shrugged, a glint in his eyes. "Because, dad, at some fucking point it's got to get better. In the meantime what the fuck else can I do?"
My oldest came back in from starting the car and pit his arm around his brother. "You ready, man?"
He sighed. "Come on."
Off they went into the lion's den.
And I stared after them, proud and scared at the same time.
And you know what, gang?
It. Got. Better.