- You know what the best thing about being British is? You can say whatever the fuck
you want, and no one takes offense. It’s like that accent confers instant immunity from the
Language Police of America. You can say “sodding” until you turn fucking blue in the face,
and all you get is giggles. Not one person in this sodding country seems to realize that sod is
worse than fuck. Believe me, I’ve done both, and I’d rather be fucked than sodomized, even
in Britain.
Not that I’m British, mind you. I just fake it good.
I mean, my neighbor, he’s always up here for one dumbass thing or another. This
morning he woke me out of a dead sleep to ask if I wanted to go to the World Vegetarian
Conference. He waved a PETA brochure in my face and told me how vitally important it
was to save all the furry animals. Hey, I’m into that. I’ve got a quarter ton of cow saved
in my freezer. But fucked up as I am from a mere two hours of dreaming about that lead
singer from Vampire X doing things to me I didn’t think were possible outside of the Arabian
Nights, I still realize that’s not what Chad means about saving the animals. And I’ve been
reading R.D. Wingfield again (the best British mystery writer since Doyle). What I meant to say was, go fuck a badger,
you stupid schmo. What came out was a little tired and not entirely me.
“Sod off, Chad.”
He giggled at me until I slammed the door on his nose. Shit, I think he likes me. Sod that for a lark.
Chad’s one of those people who’s so inadequate he sees only half of himself when he looks in the mirror. That’s
because his ego’s so fucking shriveled from years of listening to gurus preach about the evils of our material society. He
got very deep when he turned twenty. He decided to do his part to save the world. So he stopped eating animals.
Give me a fucking break.
But he really thinks he’s helping, and he’s determined we’ve all got to do our part, so he ends up on my doorstep at
least once a week with another lecture on methane levels and man’s inhumanity to mink. He wasn’t too happy when I
pointed out that freeing mink only ensures they end up on the menu at the Lone Wolf Cafe. Animal rights’ activists tend
to ignore the realities of the food chain when they’re expounding on the beauty of nature. I take pleasure in reminding
him.
(Hey, Chad? Want to see my impression of a mink set free from the Evil Fur Coat People? Squeak, squeak
CHOMP. Hmm, delicious.)
Okay, I admit it. I enjoy fucking with him. Who wouldn’t?
Thing is, I’ve got friends who’re more warped than I am. There’s Dave Duvall, who wears his Starship Captain
uniform nights and weekends. He spent a week figuring out how to say "Take your ticket and get on the damn boat" in
Klingon. (It’s not the waste of time you think, K? He works at a boat rental place on Puget Sound and gets to use that
phrase at least six times a day.) Then you have Jamie Barrett. Jamie tends to shout SIR?? every time some schmo asks
him a question these days. And I won’t even go into Ashton and August. I don’t want to talk about people who’ve bet
money on whose socks’ll stick to the wall longest. Word o’ advice: don’t go into their bedroom. Just don’t. Some
things aren’t worth risking your sanity for.
- We’re all out back one afternoon with a few other delinquents. You want to talk about
warped, you should see us after a couple of beers. Nikki’s off in one corner of the yard
rolling dice and talking to toadstools, and the rest of us are clustered around the barbecue pit
where we’ve got this side of beef turning on a spit. We’d be stripped down and painted blue
if it wasn’t for the cop who lives behind my apartment building, but we’ve settled for having
our shirts open and
we’re shouting quotes from Braveheart when Chad comes out.
No, not out. Take it from Ash. Chad’s about as far back in the closet as they get. He’s
so lost behind all the junk he hasn’t got a fucking clue why Ash sniggers every time someone
says out around him. He thinks gay means happy.
“Whatcha guys up to?” Chad asks, and comes down the steps. It’s like watching a virgin
walk up to a cave and poke her head in to see why there’s steam everywhere.
“Chad!” Ash has more than one drink in him by now, and he totters over to Chad and
throws an arm around him. “Come out and join us, honey.”
(He only gets this way around closet homos, doll. Otherwise, he acts straighter than a
Baptist minister.)
- Everybody knows about Chad by now. They’ve heard me bitching about lack of sleep for weeks. I see it in
everyone’s eyes, the realization, the anticipation: fresh meat. Jamie grabs him a beer, and Nikki glances up with a
changeling grin. I hear his dice hit the grass, and I can guess what the roll is.
“Welcome to our First Annual PETA Barbecue, Chad,” Jamie says, all expansive. He’s got his bulk between Chad
and the pit, so all Chad can see is the table full of potato chips and veggie spears.
“No kidding.” Chad’s beaming. I watch Rip look up from the knife he’s honing, and his lips curl back from his
teeth like a wolf on the Welcome Wagon. “So you guys’ve joined PETA? Cool.”
“Yeah, it’s our own little group,” Jamie says. He’s got a real chummy voice, like a football buddy. It leaves so
many people so fucking wide open. “We just thought, you know, it was a great idea, since we all like the same shit and
all.”
I’m starting to cackle. I have to hide it behind my beer, a bottle of Pete’s Wicked Ale. Very apropos, don’t you
think?
“That’s great.” Chad’s glowing like a minister who’s just saved his very first damned soul. I almost expect him to
thump the nearest table and shout Thank you, Jesus! But he doesn’t. He’s PC about religion, too. “I’m so glad. You
know, the more people who work to save the animals, the better.”
“Less world hunger,” Rip murmurs, his whetstone going snick up the blade.
“That’s right.” I swear to you, Chad almost throws a fist up in the air. He spouts off this long spiel about how it’s
more energy efficient for people to eat plants rather than feed them to cows first, and how x pounds of grain only
produces x amount of meat, and how much better off the Sahara would be if they just grew things rather than hunted.
Where the fuck they’d come up with the water, he doesn’t say. I think someone forgot to tell him about the little
problem with arable land in the hottest regions of Africa, which is there’s none. And all the time he’s going off like a
Holy Roller on his first big mission, my slab of cow’s turning nicely brown just out of his sight. He doesn’t even notice
that Jamie’s got on leather boots.
It’s just getting better. I snort beer trying not to giggle, and end up with August pounding my back until my earlobes
jiggle. Jesus Christ, and I thought minister’s sons were fun. They’re nothing compared to a born-again vegan.
Jamie’s eyes are all big as he listens to this schlock, and he nods little amens to each fresh revelation. Chad finally
runs out of steam, and Nikki’s dice hit the ground again. Here we go, folks. Benjamin “Jamie” Barrett is now ready to
take center stage, and I don’t have to tell you he’s good.
“You know, Chad, you’ve given me a lot to think about,” he says with as much false sincerity as you can cram into
one voice. “I didn’t understand this whole PETA business before. I think it’s great that there’s people out there who
would sacrifice so much for all those cute furry animals. Not only that-” And here his eyes fly open faster than that
geek’s sash in The Night Before Christmas- “but they save the ugly ones too? That’s just the greatest.”
Jamie’s got this chuckle that comes from way down in his belly, and even if you don’t get the joke you can’t help
laughing with him. I don’t think Chad realizes the joke’s at his expense, because he’s laughing too.
Dude, laugh at yourself. You know everyone else does.
Chad stops snorking and gives Jamie a smile full of brotherhood. “So how come you joined PETA... James, was it?”
Jamie laughs again and slaps him on the shoulder. “Oh, man, I couldn’t stay away. Not after I found out what it
stands for.”
“People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals,” Chad trails, a little nervously. He’s starting to smell that beef
roasting now, though he doesn’t want to admit it to himself.
“Oh, is that what it’s supposed to be?” Jamie’s smile is wide and guileless as a Midwest American tourist’s. I set the
Pete’s Wicked Ale down just before he guffaws, cause I know I’m going to lose it when the punchline comes. August is
gripping my shoulder like he’s afraid one of us is will fall down, which is absolutely possible with all the beer we’ve been
drinking. Rip gets up, running a soft cloth over his freshly sharpened blade, and Nikki folds his hands in his lap and looks
angelic. Duane’s been digging into the condiments the whole time, and he turns with a chip full of chunky ranch dip to
watch the denouement. He’s got a streak of dip down the front of his uniform pants. Bet the Captain’ll give him hell for
that later.
“I’m so glad you came today. I’ve been wrong this whole time.” Jamie steps aside and turns Chad gently toward
the pit. The cow is gently turning, a nice bubbling brown, and Rip’s just jabbed his knife in to check the juices. “Hell,
we always thought PETA stood for People Eating Tasty Animals.”
There’s a moment of silence, like the intake of breath just before the Second
Coming, and Chad just stares at that pit while he absorbs facts. Then he turns
kind of green, which makes him look like a zucchini, and we have to pour half a
pint of Guinness down his throat before he recovers. About six weeks later, he
did admit to me that it was a pretty good joke and we really had him going. Of
course, that was after we’d gotten him to agree that chickens at least were
ridiculous enough to eat, and a little before Ashton and August dragged him out
of the closet at one of our fancy dress parties-- but that’s another tale, and one
I won’t go into here. Let’s just say that the last I heard of Chad, he was living
on the East Coast with a sportswear designer named Brad. He’s got a great job
in a steakhouse as head chef.
Chad and Brad . Go sodding figure.
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