Out of the Closet
by Victor Thomas
Chapter 5
Javier
I was sitting in my father's car, but I wasn't listening to him.
"I promise you. This spray paint will cover the text," dad rambled on about fixing my car.
A few minutes ago, I had been caught up in a monolog about his first car, back however many decades ago it was.
"It's a good thing that I kept those old tires in storage, wasn't it?"
"Huh? Sure."
"Don't worry. Your car will soon be better than new."
It wasn't the car that worried me. Of course, when I first saw it, right after those assholes had damaged it, I had blown up. When dad had seen it, my anger had shifted into embarrassment. The letters on the side of the car made me look helpless and weak, like a fag. I was none of those, except the last. If I see those dicks who trashed my car, I'll kick their sorry asses.
We were waiting at a stop sign in front of the Hornet's Nest and I kept staring at what was really bothering me right now. Kenny was walking in the parking lot toward the door of the restaurant. I only saw him from behind, which looked nice, but what I didn't like was the girl holding his hand.
Damn, he's straight, I thought. Earlier, I could have sworn the boy had been glancing at me. Apparently, my imagination had gone too wild.
When he turned to open the door for the girl, I saw his face. He smiled, but not at me. It was addressed to Hannah, who was still holding his hand. And then they disappeared inside. What also disappeared was my hope of getting intimate with him. I nearly regretted my naughty thoughts from earlier.
The traffic cleared from both directions and dad pulled out onto Main Street and headed for home. Dad laughed again and slapped me on the thigh.
"Funny, right?"
I forced a laugh.
"Yeah, funny," I said with no idea what he was talking about.
Soon, we arrived home. Dad took the paint and put it on the porch.
"Let's eat something first," he said.
"I would rather get it done before dinner," I said urgently.
"Why the rush? Aren't you hungry?"
Because I want to get it done as soon as fucking possible.
"It will be dark soon," I said, looking for a better excuse.
"The street lights are plenty bright."
"Please. It's just changing the tire and covering up the graffiti."
When I turned my head from the graffiti, dad had already gone inside. I didn't follow him. Instead, I took the spray paint and shook the can. Had it been night, the sound of the metal ball inside the can would have wakened the entire neighborhood. Determined, I marched to the car, pointed at the word on the side, and pressed the valve.
"Fuck," I cursed when the paint sprayed all over my hand.
"Decorating your fag mobile?" Jorge shouted.
He walked from the back yard with a bottle of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
I frowned; my dumb ass brother was the last person I needed right now. As if he and the graffiti weren't bad enough now the paint had smudged my shirt too. I tried to wipe it with my clean hand, but it only spread on the fabric.
Jorge took a deep breath, inhaling what was left of the cigarette into his lungs, and blew the smoke in my face.
"Great decision to become a faggot, wasn't it?" he said, and threw the butt away.
"Mind your own business," I snorted, ignoring the combination of smoke and beer wafting in the air.
"Touchy subject, huh? Don't worry about that, faggot. Sucking cock is not my business."
"Call me that one more time and I'll…"
"And you'll do what? Faggot!"
I should have known he was just trying to get under my skin, something he was good at, but something in my head snapped. I pointed the can at him, this time holding it in the correct direction, and was about to spray him, when my brother grabbed the can from me. The dumb ass had clearly prepared for my reaction.
I tried to get the can back, but he managed to spray the crotch of my jeans before he dropped it to the ground.
"Oh, I'm so sorry. How clumsy of me," he smirked. "At least your faggot friends know where to aim now."
"Fuck!" I cried.
I tried in vain to rub the paint away from my jeans.
For a moment, I glared at him, but he didn't even try to hold back the cocky smirk on his face. Then I rushed inside and went straight to the bathroom. The paint had smudged my jeans and shirt, so I undressed to my boxer briefs and filled the sink with warm water.
"What happened?" mom asked as she approached the bathroom.
"Not now," I snapped, locking the door.
I put soap on my hands and tried to clean my clothes. The paint was stuck in my clothes and hands, and now on the top of the sink too. I used my fingernails to scratch my shirt clean but managed only to ruin the fabric. The more I tried, the worse my clothes looked and the louder I cursed. Finally, I tossed everything in the corner of the room and sat on the toilet seat.
There was a knock on the door.
"Are you okay?" dad asked.
"I'm fine," I replied, resting my head in my hands.
"Please open the door. Dinner is ready.
After a heavy sigh, I stepped out of the bathroom, dressed in nothing but my wet boxer briefs. I looked past my father and glared at Jorge in the living room. The dick head had fetched a new beer from the fridge. Apparently, it wasn't enough that our parents paid his rent, but now they sponsored his hobbies to; the unemployed loser could slack off on the sofa, get drunk, and watch TV.
"Um, I see you took a shower. Dinner…"
"I'll get dressed first," I interrupted, and marched to my room.
In the back of the closet were all my old clothes. The gray sweatpants were a bit short, and the worn white t-shirt hugged my muscled chest, but I didn't want to mess up more clothes I would wear to school. Even without my asshole brother, painting the car would be a dirty job.
Just then, the first raindrops drummed on the window. If the weather got worse, I would have to give up the plan to cover the graffiti. The sky wasn't too bad; the word on the car was. For a long time, I just stood by the window and stared out.
I'm not giving up, I decided, and heard my mother calling me. Just one dinner and this unfortunate episode would be over.
When I arrived in the kitchen, Jorge gave me an arrogant glance but kept his mouth shut. I smelled the familiar aroma of mom's trademark chicken soup. I scooped it into my bowl and took bread from the basket she had sat on the table. Nobody said anything; we just focused on eating. On the positive side, my mother wasn't interested in my girlfriends anymore.
"How was football?" she asked when I was finishing my meal.
"Are you still on the team?" Jorge interrupted.
"Why wouldn't I…" I began, but noticed the expression on his face. "Yeah, faggots can play too."
Our mother stood up and collected the dishes from the table. She took a cleaning rag and, looking nobody in the eyes, wiped away the crumbs, even though there were hardly any. Once every corner of the table was carefully polished, she raised her head.
"Anybody want some dessert?"
I had been staring at my brother the entire time, but I shook my head.
"Time to paint the car," I said, giving dad a meaningful look.
"Um, Jorge, help your mother wash the dishes," dad said, and followed me to the door.
"I'll take a nap first," Jorge said.
He slouched to the living room to find a comfortable position on the couch.
Soon, the sound of running water came from the kitchen. I sighed and pushed the front door open. Of course, mom would clean the kitchen and wash the dishes alone. Jorge had done absolutely nothing to help with household work ever since he had started spending evenings, even nights, away from home during his junior year in high school. It had been his last year in any school.
It was pointless to ask my parents how long they would put up with their lazy ass son dawdling his life away. Something had happened on that night a few years ago when our parents had gotten the call from the hospital. I wasn't sure what had happened, but soon after the incident, they had rented the apartment for him. Maybe they wished that he would mature.
In their dreams I thought. I couldn't understand how I had looked up to my brother for so many years when I was younger. I was a mediocre student, at best, but I would never become like Jorge.
And then I saw it again, the car sitting there in the yard as a glaring reminder of what had happened. I felt dad patting my shoulder. I knew he was about to say something, but I didn't know what it would be.
"Don't worry. We'll get it covered in no time," he said.
"Um, do you mind…" I started to ask, but my words trailed off.
"Mind what?"
"Nothing."
I sat on the grass and watched as he painted the side of the car. Little by little, the nasty letters vanished and stopped declaring my queerness to the world. Dad did a great job, and, best of all, he hadn't said a word about the graffiti. I got the tire from the garage and we changed it together. It wasn't exactly the father-son time I had expected, but I felt relieved, even grateful.
"Nice to see you smiling again," he said when the work was done and I was studying the result. "And, I don't mind," he added.
I turned toward him, confused.
"I don't mind that you're gay."
"Um, okay."
There were so many things I wanted to say to him, but I just watched as he walked to the garage with the spray can. There was still some paint left in case those childish idiots returned and decorated the car again.
"Fag mobile," I snorted.
I walked around the car like I was checking that the tires were still full of air, and leaned against the hood. I was in no rush to go back inside as long as my brother was napping there. I preferred to sneak into my room, lock the door, and do my homework. I chose to linger outside a bit longer. It was not the hardest decision of my life.
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