“I’m finished Chubby”, I say, when entering his decrepit hovel. His large torso hangs over the seat of the grungy wooden chair he sits on, behind an aged gray metal desk. He looks me over with icicle blue eyes. A dirty holster and shiny pistol still hang on his right hip. Never seen a stable manager wear a gun. My eyes then notice the deputy sheriff’s badge on the grubby white shirt draped over another wooden chair sitting on the right of his desk.
“You a faggot, boy?” Chubby asks, with a smirk on his face.
Shooting pain in my heart.
“No sir.” I say, stuffing my true feeling of jumping over the desk and slapping his fat little face. The irritation must have shown on my face. He sensed something was going on and leaped up from his desk.
Worn holster shiny pistol.
“Don’t you pop an attitude with me boy. I’ll bust you in you little faggot face. We got too many around here now and the last thing I need is a smart ass queer. Don’t let me see you with any, you hear? Now get the hell out and I hope for both our sakes, I won’t see you in my office again.”
Man let me tell you, Chubby is not the first person to think I was gay, and so what if I am. Brash authority figures, like Chubby, are people I've always hid from when the words gay, faggot, homosexual, etc., are mentioned. Until now...
Shooting pain in my heart.
