Whose Pride?

[I wrote this very short story back around the year 2000 but never sought to publish it perhaps because at the time it seemed so improbable, and because its subject could lend itself to the Pavlovian reaction of instant indignation from offended true believers who possess no sense of nuance.

Over the past 14 years our society has been pushed to the brink, to the point now of even losing the meaning of our words, by the militant Left’s inexorable and well-funded hot-button-issue crusades. Today they hide their fascism under a pink cloak—deaf to all reasonable opposing arguments, they simply call you a bigot if you disagree with them.

After the news this week that Mozilla’s CEO Brendan Eich was forced to resign because six years ago he donated money in support of California’s Prop 8—the state constitutional amendment that would define marriage as between a man and a woman—I feel that my hand has finally been forced and I must publish this story. Maybe it won’t make a blip on the radar, maybe I’ll encounter the typical reactionary, hate-filled Leftist response, but just maybe it will resonate with people in the way that the best dystopian science fiction does when it paints haunting portraits of the nightmare future man reaps from the seeds that he has sown.]

Whose Pride?

It was National Pride Tolerance Day again.

“I can’t believe it!”

“Bobby, come on!  It’s not that bad.”

“Don’t talk to me, Craig.”

“It’s got to be done.”

Bobby cursed and pounded his fist on the kitchen counter.  National Gay Day had him fuming with anger—he could feel his body’s disgust.

“It just sickens me,” he said.  “I don’t see why we have to do this.”

Craig was seated on a stool.  He said, “They’re promoting awareness, Bob.  And understanding.  That’s not so bad.”

“You sound like you enjoy this.”

“Just obeying the law, trying to make the best of it.”  Craig rose and took a glass from a cabinet, then filled it with soda.  “Hey, at least it’s a national holiday, right?”

Bobby watched his friend gulping from the glass.  Then he looked out the window and smacked the counter, his teeth gritted.  What kind of a day was this?  He didn’t hate gay people, he didn’t call them faggots or beat them up.  He and his wife were raising their son to be tolerant of other people; but this he would not tolerate.

He eyed his best friend again.  Craig had sat in Bobby’s kitchen each National Gay Day since its inception two years ago and they’d had the same argument each time.

“I want to be with Deborah,” Bobby said.  “I want to be with my wife.”

“But she’s with Rachael right now,” Craig sighed.  “I have a wife too, you know.  We’ll clean up later and meet them for dinner.  Let’s just get this over with.”

No, Bobby said to himself.  No, he could not!  When the time came he would…do something.

The day was passing slowly.  He and Craig barely moved as they sat silently in the kitchen.  Occasionally Bobby stood to look out the window then paced around the room.

They both saw the soldier appear as he walked across the yard, clipboard in hand, rifle slung over his shoulder.  He glanced at his pad when passing the window and then knocked on the front door.  Craig looked at Bobby, who didn’t move.  Craig got up and opened the door.

“Please, just give us a minute,” he said to the soldier, then turning to Bobby, “He’s here.”

Bobby smiled.  “Do you think he’ll take a bribe?”

“I wish he would.  Hmm.  But there’s no fighting it.  The law’s the law and there’s a consequence for breaking it.  Probably worse than this.”


When Craig let the soldier in, Bobby began to shake and put his hands over his face.  Craig approached and stilled Bobby with a hand on his shoulder, saying, “Come on, bud.  Let’s go.”

Bobby shuffled away to the back of the house, followed closely by Craig and the soldier.  Reaching the bedroom, Bobby paused and turned his head.  “You got the lubricant?”


“Okay, then.”

They walked inside and shut the door.

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