Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Forty

"Normal" normally means I stagger from the Midway across the street to the Shangri-La. But I don't feel like drinking, a realization that makes me think I may be sick and dying as well as in jeopardy of losing my career.

Ill or not though, I head home, ignoring along the way friendly catcalls from Gino, the pizza guy, and Homeless Hank, whose cardboard fort rests between two dumpsters behind the Korean grocery tucked in an alley near my building.

There's a religious convention in town right now, and most of its attendees are staying at a luxury downtown hotel, along the Chicago River. Ironically, the hotel is also hosting a small LGBTQ rights gathering.

Either someone in the venue's sales department has a wicked sense of humor, or they're clueless. For two days now, the religious group, which upon learning of the other conference tossed its original agenda out the window, has blocked a public sidewalk adjacent to the hotel to wave posters with anti-gay slogans and harass passers-by.

They've been aiming most of their vitriol at well-dressed men, because what else could a clean-cut guy with a briefcase in the big city be but gay?

I need to vent, and I can't stand people who make blanket assumptions. These street preachers will do.

Apparently, they agree with my self-assessment of being pretty, because as I close in on the last block of my walk, one of them points at me.

Got one! He must be one of them. He's wearing a suit, and his necktie matches his pocket square. And, wait! He's got a pocket square! He's definitely one of them!

Next thing you know, they're chanting at me, "God created Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve!"

I stalk across the street toward the crowd, ignoring a taxi whose driver honks and gives me a single-finger salute, and stop about two feet in front of the apparent ringleader in an ill-fitting black suit and black shirt with a red necktie.

"Repent," he shouts, like I'm still across the street.

I stare grimly and step closer, noting that he flinches and takes a half step backward.

I grab his necktie, so he can't pull away as I lean in. Behind him, fellow church members chant, "tell him, brother," and "you can take him!"

"I'm not going to fight you," I shout into his ear. "But I'm curious, have you seen me before?"

Eyes wide, he shakes his head, no.

"Did you know that I used to be engaged, to a woman?"

He shakes his head again.

I pull him closer to me.

"Do you have any reason to believe I'm a liar," I ask?

"No!" He finally finds his voice.

"Wanna tell me what your wife is like in bed?"

Now, he's indignant.

But I don't let him answer. "None of my business, right? Well, if I was gay, it'd be none of yours. Did Jesus tell you that in order to convince me you're right, all you needed to do was put me down? I think you guys are out here yelling because you don't like yourselves."

I turn on my heel, not waiting to hear the preacher's response, though he didn't appear to want to offer one anyway.

My adrenaline high fades quickly though as I step into my lobby and am reminded again that in less than twenty-four hours, my career as a journalist could be over.

Sleep comes quickly, and for once, Lucius does not hiss at me or hide from me. In fact, he climbs into my bed and curls up in the tiny cavern created by the fetal position in which I lie.