That guy really creeps me out, George Everett commented to himself in disgust as he watched Brad Fowler, one of his fellow customer service advisors, mince across the waiting room and sashay out the door to the parking lot. Man, why did I have to end up in a branch of the Universal Tire and Automotive chain where I have to work with such a flaming faggot? I ought to put in for a transfer. He was roused from these bitter musings by the entrance of a customer. As George drove home from work that evening, however, he began to brood about his grievance again. He recalled what Reverend Priestly had said about homosexuality in his sermon last Sunday morning. The Reverend had roundly condemned it as a sin against God and nature, and had supported that condemnation by quoting the Apostle Paul from his Letter to the Romans. Well, George assured himself smugly, if both Reverend Priestly and the Apostle Paul think it’s a disgusting, unnatural sin, then I have every right to get as far away from a sinner like Brad Fowler as possible. After all, who wants to work around a sinner all day? Not me, that’s ;lfor sure. I’m gonna ask for a transfer.
That evening, as George sat on the couch in his living room, watching Thursday Night Football on TV and sipping his third bottle of beer, he suddenly felt a twinge of guilt when he happened to remember that Reverend Priestly also regularly condemned drinking. Well, he may be right, George admitted to himself grudgingly, but at least drinking ain’t nearly so bad a sin as being a queer. That’s got to be one of the worst sins possible, that’s for sure. He drained his beer quickly, jumped up, and hurried towards the kitchen to get another bottle before the fourth quarter started. When he executed his usual sharp left turn around the end of the couch, his foot somehow caught on the carpet, and as he tumbled sideways, he heard a loud pop. For a few seconds he was too stunned to do anything but lie there staring at the empty beer bottle that had scudded onto the kitchen floor.
Then he pushed himself up into a sitting position and began to assess the damage. His shoulders and arms seemed okay, but as he examined his nether extremities, he suddenly realized what that nasty-sounding pop had been—his left ankle was swollen up like a melon. Good grief! he groaned. I hope I can still walk. Thereupon he rolled over onto his knees, grabbed the armrest of the couch, and pulled himself up to a standing position with most of his weight on his right foot. Then he gingerly shifted his weight onto his left foot. Ouch! he wailed as a sharp pain shot through his ankle. At this point he realized that he needed to pay a visit to the emergency room. Thank heavens it wasn’t my right ankle! he exclaimed to himself with a sense of relief. At least I can still drive.
Pressing his left hand against the wall to mitigate the pain, George hobbled into the kitchen. Once there, he grabbed the edge of the cabinet to steady himself, leaned over slowly, and snatched up the empty bottle. After limping over to the recycling bin to deposit it, he began to realize that getting out to his car was going to be a difficult and painful undertaking. I think I’ll wait until tomorrow morning, he decided. It’ll be easier after I’ve had a night’s rest . . . at least I hope so. Then he winced and groaned his way back to the couch, plopped down, and immediately sent his boss a text message to let him know what had happened and that he would not be coming into work tomorrow and perhaps not even on Saturday.
The trip to the hospital was indeed difficult and painful. At least while he was driving the sharp pain in his ankle subsided into a dull throb, only to return, of course, as he hobbled to the door of the emergency room. After examining George’s ankle, the EM doctor ordered an x-ray to ascertain the extent of the damage, and then she continued on her rounds. Once the x-ray had been taken, a nurse tightly bandaged up George’s foot and ankle. Then he went out and returned with a pair of crutches and taught George how to use them properly. After thirty minutes or so, during which time George practiced his newly acquired skill, the doctor returned and stated pleasantly, “Well, there’s both good news and bad news. The bad news is that your ankle—to be more precise, your fibula—is indeed broken.” She paused a moment to let that information soak in, then resumed, “The good news is that the fracture appears to be evenly closed.” Thereupon she showed George the x-ray image on her tablet computer. She pointed out a thin, straight line just above the base of a skinny bone, which he assumed to be the fibula. Then she handed him a sheet of paper and said, “You’ve got an appointment with an orthopedic specialist on Wednesday. In the meantime use your crutches. You don’t wanna damage that ankle any more than you already have.”
Late that afternoon, George lay on his bed pondering the day’s events. After leaving the hospital, he had driven to the supermarket to pick up a few things. He had quickly discovered that tromping about on crutches while loading up a shopping bag was quite a challenge. When he arrived home, he called the church office to let the secretary know what had befallen him and that he would not be able to help with communion on Sunday. Instead of expressing sympathy for his plight, she seemed peeved that she would now have to find a replacement for him. Then he called his boss to let him know that he would not be able to return to work until Thursday at the earliest. Just like the church secretary, his boss only seemed concerned about the inconvenience George’s broken ankle had created for him. Well, George mused wryly, at least I won’t have to watch that faggot Brad mince in and out of the customer service office for a while. I guess every dark cloud does have a silver lining.
George soon grew weary of having to maneuver around on crutches, even just to go into the bathroom or fetch a snack from the kitchen. It had become a real grind. By Monday evening, he was feeling quite dejected. No one from the church—not Reverend Priestly nor anyone else—had paid him a visit, called him to see how he was doing, or even sent him a text message or an email. A couple of his buddies from the auto shop had sent him texts wishing him a speedy recovery, but they had not offered to help him out. George was brooding over his bleak situation when suddenly he was startled by the piercing sound of the doorbell. After grabbing his crutches and swinging himself into the front hallway, he jerked open the door to see who it could be that was disrupting his gloomy self-commiseration at this time of the evening. To his utter surprise, standing there was none other than Brad Fowler.
He was smiling broadly and gripping the handles of two brown paper shopping bags. Good grief! What the hell does this queer want with me? George wondered suspiciously. After a moment or two, he was able to overcome his wary amazement enough to blurt out, “Hullo, Brad!” Brad lifted up the two bags for George’s inspection and replied cheerfully, “Just thought I’d bring you by some groceries . . . you know, some bread, pasta, cheese, lunch meat, and so forth.” At first George was dumbstruck. Finally, he managed to stammer, “Uh, gosh, Brad, that’s, uh, really, uh, nice of you. I, uh, really appreciate it.” Still smiling, Brad stood there with raised eyebrows as if he expected something more. George’s suspicion returned in full force. Then it suddenly occurred to him that Brad was waiting on an invitation to bring the bags of food into the apartment. George took a deep breath and said, “C’mon in, Brad. Just follow me into the kitchen.”
After Brad had deposited the two bags on the counter, he turned to George and said, “Well, I gotta run now. I hope to see you back at work soon.” Then he smiled again—George’s wariness kicked in immediately—and extended his hand. George hesitated for a moment or two, struggling against a powerful disinclination to touch the hand of a gay man. Then he somehow pulled himself together and, with a forced smile, shook Brad’s proffered hand. As George stumped after him to the front door, he remarked in what he hoped was a tone of sincere gratitude, “Thanks for the food, man. It’ll really make things easier for me.” Brad stopped in the doorway, turned once more to face George, and responded amiably, “Glad to help.” Then he turned and headed towards his car. As George watched Brad mince down the sidewalk, he shook his head several times. Then he shut the door, swiveled around deftly, and returned to the kitchen, his brow furrowed in perplexity.
As George put the groceries away—not an easy task for someone on crutches, of course—he had to admit to himself that in spite of the fact that Brad was gay, he was clearly a kind and generous person. Kind and generous, George reflected as his furrowed brow gradually began to smooth out, and yet a sinner . . . at least according to the Reverend Priestly and the Apostle Paul. Hmm, could they both be wrong? This was a possibility that had never occurred to him before. After thinking about it for a few seconds, he decided that at least the Reverend—he thought it best to leave Saint Paul out of it—was, in all likelihood, a fallible human being, a sinner just like Brad and himself. Then he recalled that neither the Reverend nor anyone else from the church had come to visit him, much less bring him two bags full of groceries. Even a couple of his coworkers had at least sent him text messages wishing him the best.
Suddenly he remembered the parable of The Good Samaritan, a parable that the Reverend had preached about several times. Well, I guess it’s pretty obvious, George remarked to himself, that Brad, queer though he might be, is like the Samaritan in the parable, a kind man who helps out a fellow human being instead of crossing to the other side of the road like the priest and the Levite do. And what is it that Jesus says about the Samaritan? Oh, yeah, that he is a neighbor to the man who has been beaten and robbed. After mulling over the meaning of this parable for several seconds, George mused tentatively, Maybe I need to start being a better neighbor to my fellow human beings . . . even gay people like Brad. Then he exhaled slowly and added with a wry smile, Well, I guess I won’t be putting in for a transfer after all.
* * * *
On Wednesday, the orthopedic doctor examined George’s ankle, then smiled blandly and stated, “Well, Mr. Everett, you’re lucky. Because the fracture is evenly closed, it should heal rapidly.” He paused a moment to let the good news sink in. Thereupon he added with a chuckle, “And I think you’ve been hobbling around on those crutches long enough. I’ll have my nurse outfit you with an orthopedic boot.” Thirty minutes later George was walking—gingerly, to be sure—towards the elevator, clutching his now superfluous crutches in his left hand. The well-padded plastic boot extended almost to his knee, which rendered his gait rather awkward, yet he found his new footwear surprisingly comfortable.
The following day George was back on the job as a service rep for Universal Tire and Automotive. Even though he was ambulating a bit slower than normal because of the boot, he quickly fell back into his wonted routine. The only thing that was different, however, was his interaction with Brad. Instead of maintaining his usual cool distance from his gay colleague, he now greeted him with a cheery “Good morning!” at the start of each workday. He even went so far as to exchange an occasional pleasantry with the man he had, until recently, considered to be a pariah.
As the days passed, George began to suffer from the pin pricks of a guilty conscience. At first he tried to ignore them, but they soon became too insistent for him to pretend they did not exist. These pricks of conscience had nothing to do with the fact that he knew quite well that Reverend Priestly would highly disapprove of his new attitude towards his coworker. Indeed, the good Reverend’s moral stature had, quite understandably, shrunk somewhat in George’s estimation. No, George felt guilty because he had done nothing to demonstrate his gratitude to Brad—nothing, that is, except treat him like a normal person, which was hardly an acknowledgement of his kindness and generosity. One morning George noticed that Brad was sipping a cup of coffee from Marco’s Café and Bakery between bites of a scrumptious-looking Danish. Hmm, he mused, I bet Brad would appreciate a gift card from Marco’s. So that very day after work, George stopped by Marco’s to purchase a $25 gift card and afterwards went to a drug store to buy a Thank You card.
The next morning at work, George began to feel a bit nervous about presenting his gift to Brad directly. What if Brad got the wrong idea? What if he decided to give George a grateful hug? Good grief! After considering the awkward and embarrassing possibilities, George decided to wait until Brad was out in the parking lot with a customer and then simply put the card on his desk. As he stood up to carry out his plan, however, he was beset by still more second thoughts. What if one of the technicians or the manager sees me put the envelope on Brad’s desk? he pondered. What would he think? Good heavens! He might just assume that I was a faggot giving a love letter to my boyfriend. Damn! Why did my Good Samaritan have to be a homo? Why couldn’t he have been a regular guy like me? George glanced down at the envelope in his hand. Maybe I should just use the gift card myself, he mused. As soon as this idea occurred to him, however, the pin pricks returned, but this time they felt like jabs from an ice pick. After a second or two, he sighed, took a deep breath, and without looking around to see if anyone was watching, placed the envelope in a conspicuous spot on Brad’s desk. “Let’em think what they want,” he muttered through gritted teeth as he returned to his desk to continue ordering the car parts needed by the technicians.
After Brad had taken care of his customer, he noticed the envelope on his desk and quickly opened it. A broad smile spread across his visage. He looked over at George and exclaimed, “Thanks for the gift card, man! Marco’s is my favorite coffeehouse.” In spite of his earlier adamant assertion, George furtively glanced around to insure himself that his words would not be overheard, and then replied in a low tone of voice, “Thank’s again for the groceries, man. I really needed them.” “My pleasure,” Brad intoned cheerfully. Thereupon, George resumed ordering car parts as if nothing had passed between Brad and himself.
* * * *
A couple of months later on a Sunday afternoon, George—no longer wearing his orthopedic boot and able to walk comfortably again—was picking up a few items at his neighborhood supermarket. He could not help but recall how challenging shopping had been when he was hobbling about on crutches. Man, that was really tough! he muttered to himself with a grimace. As he headed to the checkout stand, he noticed a man and a woman standing in line at the customer service counter. The man was wearing a skull cap of sorts and what appeared to George to be a pair of pajamas. The woman—George assumed it was the man’s wife—was clothed in a dark, loose-fitting robe and a head covering that left only her face visible. George scowled at them and growled to himself, Why the hell can’t these people wear normal clothes like everybody else? Why do they have to pretend they’re still in the old country? After glaring at them for a few more seconds, he added bitterly, I wish they’d just go back home.
As he drove to the supermarket the following Sunday afternoon, George was pondering the sermon Reverend Priestly had delivered that morning. The Reverend had once again condemned homosexuality in no uncertain terms, even going so far this time as to assert that if the citizens of the United States of America continued to countenance such wickedness, God would turn his back on them and allow their enemies to devour them. Hmm, George brooded, that seems a bit extreme to me, even for Reverend Priestly. Doesn’t he always speak of God as a loving father? I guess the Reverend thinks that a loving father would disown his wayward children, gay and straight, if they didn’t start behaving right. Well, I guess there’s no hope for either Brad or me then—at least in the mind of the good Reverend—because I ain’t gonna quit drinking beer, and Brad ain’t gonna give up being a faggot, that’s for certain.
As George was searching for an empty parking space in the supermarket lot, he suddenly noticed a man standing in front of a car with its hood open, staring down at the engine compartment with a rather perplexed expression on his face. It was none other than the pajama-wearing foreigner George had seen the previous Sunday. It looks like he’s having some car trouble, George remarked to himself. Man, I’ve been in that frustrating situation many a time. Well, I wish him the best, even if he doesn’t belong here. Right now I’ve got some shopping to do. Immediately, those now familiar pricks began to exert their influence on George’s tender conscience. I owe this guy nothing, he reasoned. On the other hand, if I was in his situation, I know I’d really appreciate some help—just like the help Brad gave me when I was stumping around on those damned crutches. George exhaled a sigh of resignation and then pulled into the empty space next to the passenger side of the foreigner’s vehicle. He glanced to his left and saw the man’s wife staring stoically at the raised hood.
“What seems to be the problem?” George inquired amicably after getting out of his car. The man looked up and responded with a wan smile on his visage, “Battery, I sink. It barely start sis morning. Now won’t start at all.” “I see,” intoned George as he joined the man for a few seconds in staring blankly at the engine compartment. Then George cleared his throat and stated matter-of-factly, “Look, I know something about cars. Since it barely started this morning and won’t start now, it’s probably the battery, just like you said. Let’s jump it and see if the engine will turn over.” With that, George opened up the trunk of his car and pulled out a set of long, heavy-duty jumper cables, a set worthy of an employee of Universal Tire and Automotive. Thereupon, he started the engine of his car, lifted the hood, and skillfully connected the two batteries to one another. On George’s recommendation, they let the bad battery charge for a couple of minutes. When the man climbed into his car and turned the ignition, the motor hesitated for a moment, but then started up. He smiled broadly and said, “Sank you, sank you!”
After placing the jumper cables back in the trunk of his car, George advised the pajama-clad foreigner to drive directly over to O’Malley Auto Parts, which was only a couple of blocks away. “They’ll install the battery you buy for free,” he explained. As the man backed out of the parking space, he flashed his broad smile again and waved a grateful good-bye. George felt a surge of satisfaction well up within him as he watched the man drive away. After enjoying that pleasant feeling for a few seconds, he suddenly frowned and shook his head. Man, he remarked to himself, I just wish that guy and his wife would either dress like Americans or go back to wherever the hell they come from. With the frown still on his countenance, the reluctant Good Samaritan turned and headed towards the door of the supermarket.