August 27, 2013
My father is one of those donut guzzling, ex-smoker, pot-bellied, short of breath cop clichés and my mother is what politically correct people call curvy, so it shouldn’t surprise any of you to learn that I am fat. I mean, look at me. In my family, we don’t say fat, and we don’t say gay. So that’s why I’m here mostly. To say, hi, my name is JoeyChoate, I am fat and I am gay, and if that offends you, if my existence offends you, then you can go to hell.
It’s interesting. I think what offends people the most about my gayness is the same thing that offends them about my fatness. They think it’s contagious. They think if it starts being acceptable to them, they’ll wake up one morning with a double chin and a hard on for Justin Bieber. It’s fear. If any of you are watching this, I bet I know what you’re thinking, and if you feel the need to comment below don’t bother - I’ve heard it all before. I go to public school, I know all the insults.
Joey turned off the little camera and heaved himself back in his chair. While he had been filming his second, third, and fourth takes the sun had started setting and he was going to be late getting dinner ready. It didn’t really matter though, because he was probably going to be eating alone again. He opened his bedroom door a fraction. Yeah, like he thought, the hallway light was still off, which meant his mom hadn’t made it home from work yet.
He stood and stretched as best he could in his little room, and walked out closing the door shut behind him. He liked to keep his things as private as possible living with a police officer and an investigative journalist. It was a losing battle. Joey walked the length of the little house, turning on lights as he went. The phone was blinking, so he must’ve missed a call while he’d been taping. He pushed play:
“Honey, something came up at work, but I’ll be home by eight at the latest. If you get hungry, go
ahead and eat without me. I’ll see you when I get home,” he could hear her fumbling with the phone as she hung it up, voices laughing in the background. His mom was never alone.
Joey opened the fridge and peered inside. Actually, he liked to cook, and looked forward to the nights when it was his turn because he never got to eat real food at his dad’s apartment. Here though, he was king of the kitchen. Maybe when he was rich and famous, he’d do a cooking show called “The Fat and Fabulous World of Cuisine.” Something like that. He pulled out a package of chicken breasts and a jug of buttermilk, grabbing down the Bisquick mix from the pantry shelf.
His mom got home just as he was putting chicken and dumplings in the oven. She was halfway through removing her camera face with a wet wipe, and her contacts were already out in favor of bifocals. Obviously, tonight wasn’t a sleepover night. Joey put away the third plate quietly. He was a little disappointed that it was just the two of them, it was more pressure, and she’d want to talk about school, about his friends. Simple avoidance never worked with award winning news anchor and investigative reporter Vi Clemmons. She could sniff out a promising story with the precision and impetus of a bloodhound.
“Smells great,” she said, peeling off her stockings and balling them into her shoe. “Who’s the boy?”
“Mom.”
“Well, obviously, you’re not going to tell me his name. But give me something. I’m old and I’m boring, I need to live vicariously through someone, and if it has to be through my son, then so be it. I need some romance.”
“There’s no romance, Mom. Besides, you have a boyfriend.”
Vi took a large bite of steaming hot chicken and began chewing vigorously. Classic avoidance
technique, one she’d probably learned from Joey. She poured herself a large glass of milk to wash it down.
“Hey Mom,” Joey said reluctantly. “Where’s Lou?”
Officer Louis Culpepper was in the doghouse. Well literally he was sitting in an interrogation room with his new partner and a pile of face books. But figuratively, he was definitely in the doghouse. He took a sip of his coffee and glanced at his phone. No new messages. That was not a good sign.
“Where do you want to start?” Officer Herring asked him. Michelle Herring was the newest member of the department, and Chief Skoal had assigned Lou to work one on one with her, at least that’s what he’d been telling Vi for the better part of a week. It was the truth, or at least part of it, but it was also true that he had requested the assignation, and it was true, as Vi had pointed out several times in the intervening days, that Michelle Herring was “supermodel hot.”
Even 10 hours into their shift, his partner still had shiny lustrous locks, bright white teeth and a golden glow all over. It was unnerving. Oftentimes, Lou wondered if she was part veela, which was ridiculous of course. Probably. Still, allowing that the universe of Harry Potter was probably fiction, veela were the closest creatures he could think of.
But he couldn’t convince his girlfriend that this wasn’t the reason he was so excited to be paired with her. He’d tried telling Vi that veelas weren’t even his type to no avail. No, the reason that he badgered the Chief until he got his way is that Michelle Herring was from Scotland Yard. Those two magic words sprang out from her transcript and hit him right in the solar plexus. He was willing to sit here all night looking for a needle in a haystack if it meant he could come away with any tidbit she might have to pass down, any reference at all the stomping grounds of Sherlock Holmes and the amiable John
Watson. He was only slightly disappointed that she wasn’t wearing any tweed.
“I’ll take this pile,” Lou said, pulling random books towards him, “and then we’ll switch off. If you see a face that might be familiar, we’ll make a note here, and then fill out the request log at the end.”
“Sounds brilliant.”
Actually, she was being kind. It was slow going and the sort of job that only the bottom tier officers were picked for. Homegrown terrorism was not as high a priority in this college town as the higher ups and the public thought it should be, so tonight Lou Culpepper and Michelle Herring were making up for that with a Red, Yellow, and Orange list. A list that could serve as a no-fly list if the town had an airport, but instead would probably languish in Deputy Chief Leslie’s immaculate filing assemblage.
“What’s the difference between this and profiling?” Michelle asked as she turned the pages slowly.
“Well, I guess with this we’re looking at all the aspects that might make someone a terrorist. You know, emotional, psychological, religious factors, as well as the more visible ethnic background. So I guess it’s like holistic profiling?”
