The Minus Faction, Episode One: Breakout Read Free Page A

"Don't wanna pry."
    "No, it's okay." Ethan walked around the bed to the wall-mounted computer near the door. He touched it and the screen lit up. "When I was a kid—twelve I think—I got beat up by some neighbor boys for carrying dolls."
    "Carrying?"
    "I was bringing them to my sisters. From a family friend's house. I think I was looking at them or whatever, probably imagining too. I suppose that counts as playing. But I didn't think of it that way. I didn't like dolls any more than the other boys. I played video games. Soccer. I just didn't think dolls had cooties." He entered John's stats into the machine with taps of his finger.
    John understood. They'd never spoken about it, but he understood. "Were you hurt bad?"
    Ethan shook his head. "It was the shock and embarrassment more than anything."
    "I'm guessing that wasn't the last time something like that happened."
    "Oh of course not. But I know people who had it a lot worse than me. In nursing school I dated a boy who hadn't come out yet. He got beat up pretty bad one night. He wouldn't tell me why. He was always so angry ." He sighed. "It wasn't like it was my life's goal to work with soldiers or anything, but I did jump at the chance."
    "How come?"
    Ethan stopped. He leaned against the wall. "You'll probably think it's corny . . ."
    "Naw."
    "Yes, you will." Ethan smiled. "But that's okay. That's sorta the point."
    "What is?"
    "I thought to myself, if I was serious about helping people, if that's what I was doing with my life, then shouldn't I go straight to the top?"
    "Plenty of civilians need help."
    "True. But it's not the same." He paused. "Gay people can be patriots, too."
    John nodded. It was the first time Ethan had used the word, with Regent anyway. "You take good care of us."
    "Your turn." Ethan looked at his watch and then sat down in the chair under the TV. "One more story. For old times' sake." He looked sad, like he didn't want to think about it.
    "All right." John nodded. He thought for a moment. He wanted it to be a good one, something special for his friend. "Did I ever tell you about the time I went to see my granddad in Atlanta?"
    "I don't think so."
    "My dad was born down there. He moved up to Philly after Mom graduated. She was going to school down at Spelman when they met. After she died, Dad remarried, and we didn't get to see Granddad much, but when I was a kid, I got to stay with him in Atlanta for a few days. He was real excited about it. He never liked that Dad left. He took me to this packing house one day, all brick and everything. It had been remodeled. It's an office building now. Urban gentrification and everything, right?"
    "Right."
    "Before we went, he talked about it for days. Not all the time, but enough that I could tell it was important to him. He said it was an important part of my past. Couldn't miss it. Had to see. I thought he was gonna show me where he met Grandma or something like that.
    "But when we got there, the nice folks let us in and he took me to this brick wall in a hallway that ran between the old loading dock—which is walled off now and full of conference rooms—and the old offices. He pointed to the wall next to a drinking fountain and said, 'Look there.' I looked. I didn't see anything.
    "But he urged me. 'Go on.' I didn't want to disappoint him, so I stepped up and looked real hard. But it was just a bunch of old brick. Some of it looked like it had been patched up a long time ago.
    "'I worked here for twenty years,' he said. 'I'd haul in produce or paper or all kinds of stuff and here they would pack it up and ship it all over the state. We carried a lot of heavy boxes, loading and unloading. We didn't have those big lifting machines, and no workplace safety either. So we'd get tired. I'd come up here to get a drink. And right there, that's where the 'Colored' fountain was, all dirty and cracked, next to the one for the white folks.'"
    Regent looked at his bed covers and smiled.
    "How old were you?"
    "Maybe