Nathan Czarnecki hated gay pride.   Not that he wasn't proud.   Just that he found it ludicrous to think it was anything special for every faggot in New York to go out en masse and do all the drinking and drugs and sucking and fucking on one weekend that they were all doing anyway all the rest of the year and think that it somehow had any kind of political significance or was something to be proud of or was something that in any way mattered.   It didn't and he wouldn't do it.

Not that he wasn't proud of being a faggot.

But I said that already, didn't I?

He was proud.   He said so.   Proud of being a faggot.   That's what he was.

Nathan just knew he'd never march in any damn parade or go to one or go out in any of the gay neighborhoods of New York City on that weekend or in any way support, be a part of or condone the biggest sham "celebration" of faggotry the homos could ever foist upon themselves or the world.

Nathan was twenty-seven.   He lived in a tiny apartment on the east side of Manhattan in the blocks that weren't sure if they were the East Village or Union Square or Gramercy Park.   Everyone thought he was hot, even though he didn't think so, and the men and women who were into dick wanted to sleep with him.   He was an inch short of six feet, with an athletic build and a sturdy, square jaw.   He still wore his sandy blond hair in the same medium length, short sides, parted on the left style that he'd worn it in since he grew it out from a buzz cut his junior year in high school.   He didn't look particularly gay.   His wore clothes until they were old and worn and had holes in them and if they were jeans he kept wearing them after that.  

He could do that because his parents had left him an inheritance that meant he didn't have to work.   He had to do it because the inheritance wasn't so big that he could not work and live in New York City and be in the middle of the slowest MSW program of any student ever in the history of Hunter College and buy new clothes all the time and still just live off the interest for as long as he could without touching the principal.   Sometimes he felt like he shouldn't even be touching the interest, but after a summer spent temping as an assistant at an insurance company he told me he'd rather shoot himself in the head than waste another day of his life in a pointless office job.   So he lived off the interest and made do the most cheaply he could.   Which is all by way of telling you that he didn't look gay or "metro" or even particularly like he lived in New York City.   I figure you've got a pretty good picture of him by now, so I'll move on.

On the eve of this particular gay pride, the gay pride in New York City of his twenty-eighth year, Nathan was sitting on the second hand convertible sofa - which was also his bed - in his studio apartment, watching a repeat episode of a crime drama spin-off that he'd seen before.   At the commercial, he got up to fiddle with the rabbit ears to try to get the damn thing to come in better.   While he was doing that, the door buzzer rang.

Later he would say that he almost didn't answer it.   Later he would say that there was no reason to answer it.   He wasn't expecting anybody, and any person likely to come by unannounced was also likely to not be anybody he wanted to see.   But he would also say later that the buzzer and gone off at the only possible moment he would even consider answering.   The moment during a commercial, when he was already standing, and had managed to get the rabbit ears just right.

"Hello?" he asked, then pressed the other button to listen.

"Sean," Nathan heard through the speaker, clipped, garbled and far away.   "Sorry," he also made out.   Plus "called," and "number," and "close," and "stop by."   It was odd that this guy from his class would just stop by, he would say later, but they were in a group project together.   So maybe that was it.

He would also say later that it never occurred to him that Sean should not have his address.   But the buzzer came, just at the right moment.

Nathan opened the door to see Shane Macgregor round landing half a flight below his apartment and take the remaining stairs two at a time.   He opened the door, felt everything in his chest go hot and heavy, and knew it was going to be much worse than faggots on parade.

When I first met Shane Macgregor I thought he was probably the biggest douchebag I'd ever met.   He's definitely the only guy I've ever called a faggot and meant it.   When Charla said he wanted to come stay with us for a few weeks, to help out after the baby was born, I figured he was just looking for a free place to crash.   But he actually spent most of the time he was here helping out.

The day before he left, Charla was at her parents' house with the baby, leaving the two of us alone for the first time since he'd gotten to Columbus.   We'd been watching the Ohio State basketball team get creamed by Indiana.   He seemed on edge, fidgeting in his seat on the opposite end of the couch.   I wasn't feeling too at ease myself, but had gotten used to him being around.

"Thanks for letting me stay here, Seth," he said during a commercial.

"No problem," I'd replied, keeping my eyes on the screen.   "Charla really appreciates the help."

We were both quiet again for a moment, the length of time it took for the SUV commercial to finish and an ad for the new Adam Sandler movie to begin.

"I know, I'm probably not one of your favorite people," Shane spoke again.   "After what happened."

"Huh?"

"When I left New York," he explained.   "When I moved to Los Angeles."

"I don't figure that's any of my business."   I hoped he'd just let it drop.   But no luck.

"But you must have heard some really terrible things about me," he continued.   "I mean, a lot of stuff I did back then was pretty terrible."

I didn't say anything.   The game came back on and we both watched it for a few minutes.   Indiana scores another half dozen points in rapid succession, making the outcome even surer than it had been.   Shane stood up and started to walk out of the living room.

"Shane," I called out to him.   He turned back. "You don't have to explain yourself to me."

"I know, but - "

"Whatever I heard or didn't hear, that was just what I heard.   What I hear from other people can't trump family, and as far as I'm concerned, when I married Charla, you and I became family. "

He smiled, looked relieved.   "Yeah.   I guess we did."

"We did," I repeated.   "Now again, it's none of my business, but if you feel like you need to explain yourself to someone, we both know it's not anyone here in Columbus."

His smile faded.   "I know," he said, turning to leave.   "But that's a much harder thing to do."

"Only as hard as you make it," I said.   But he'd already gone.

Copyright 2007 Sam Ritchie