On a steamy August evening, Phyllis—a 16-year-old who saw herself as plain, sat on a ragged musty sofa next to her weary guardian, Aunt Minch—the teen’s deceased mother’s sister. With a small fan humming on a nearby table in their cramped, dreary basement apartment, they watched a beaming TV anchorwoman spryly relay the following report: “If you’ve been doubting the human potential to excel, consider the fact that there are now millions of millionaires and hundreds of billionaires in the United States. Moreover, a record number of individuals made a million or more dollars last year!” Continuing to gush admiration, the bubbly newscaster then showed pictures of the extravagant items, such as lavish mansions and pricey autos, purchased by those striking it rich.
“Are we supposed to be inspired by their super-sized gluttony?” complained a baggy-eyed Aunt Minch as she reached for the remote, then clicked off the TV. “Seeing that multi-million-dollar-a-year news gal getting giddy over the company she keeps is nauseating.”
“Who decides how much money gets made by the gobs of people making oodles?” asked Phyllis as she hand-brushed her brunette shag hairdo off an eye, then flapped the front of a damp scarlet T-shirt.
“What people get paid is, for the most part, decided by what some people can and will pay,” answered the 45-year-old aunt—a divorcee who, though she had no kids of her own, struggled to make ends meet.
“Who makes sure things are fair?” wondered Phyllis.
“Those running things claim fairness will pretty much take care of itself,” grumbled Aunt Minch.
Phyllis was puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
Aunt Minch became more cynical. “The wealthy and those who want to be wealthy work real hard at convincing themselves and the disheartened that what’s unfair is fair. They also do a good job getting youngsters, who start out knowing better, to go along with the lie. . . . It’s all a big raunchy racket.”
“Those who get paid a million a year are making many times more than you. That’s very unfair!” complained Phyllis.
While taking off her pink work smock, Aunt Minch shuffled to a plastic bureau in the corner of her curtain-partitioned makeshift bedroom. After grabbing her cell phone from her pocketbook, she tapped the calculator icon, then headed back to the sofa. “Someone who rakes in a million a year makes 40 times what I make. Someone who rakes in a billion a tear makes 40,000 times what I make.”
The comparison left Phyllis dazzled. “What could anyone do that’s worth that much more than the care you and other nurse’s aides provide?”
“The big piggery doesn’t concern itself with that question,” answered Aunt Minch.
“That so many people don’t care about fairness is insane!” objected Phyllis.
“The haves and the wannnabe haves aren’t trying to find fairness. The have-nots, like me, have given up on finding it,” summed up Aunt Minch.
Despite the oppressive heat, Phyllis stood and began pacing in the bandbox residence. “The have-nots are being hurt. . . . You’re being hurt!”
“Uh-oh,” muttered Aunt Minch, recognizing her niece’s agitation as a warning.
“Why don’t people want to do something about the hurt being unfair causes?” asked Phyllis, continuing to march back and forth.
Rather than respond to Phyllis’ question, Aunt Minch stayed focused on her niece’s fitfulness. “I think we should remember what the psychiatrist said about obsessing over hurtful circumstances. You’re supposed to nip the hurt thoughts in the bud, remember? . . . Don’t forget our agreement: I said I’d move us to a new school district to give you a fresh start, and you said you’d get better at staying calm. . . . Tomorrow’s the start of the school year. That means you’ll be faced with ill-mannered hurtful behavior on a regular basis. How ya gonna keep from getting frenzied?”
“I’ve been working on something to keep repeating when I feel anxious,” assured Phyllis.
“Let’s hear it,” replied Aunt Minch as she stood, then headed for their kitchenette.
Phyllis came to a stop, then swallowed before reciting a rhyming phrase. “There’s no alarm; so, stay calm.”
A skeptical Aunt Minch stretched her head to each side while continuing to make iced tea. “Hmmm, . . . that sounds like an iffy bud-nipper.”
After removing her wallet from pants, Phyllis pulled out and looked at a photo. Quickly enthralled by the picture, she again sat on the sofa. “I really enjoyed walking the shoreline near the bed-and-breakfast we stayed at a few weeks ago.”
“I enjoyed the B and B?” said Aunt Minch, noticing the calming effect the photo had on Phyllis.
“I’m imaging a stroll on the beach,” serenely answered Phyllis as she continued to fondly gaze at the memento she’d been carrying around.
Aunt Minch was curious. “Can I see the picture you’re looking at?”
“Let me get some better ones,” promptly offered Phyllis as she rushed to a suitcase tucked under her rollaway bed. After sliding the picture she didn’t want her aunt to see back into her wallet, she pulled a packet from the suitcase. “Here’s a couple of really good ones!” she replied, selecting photos showing sandpipers chased by a wave.
Upon arriving at school the following morning, Phyllis headed for the privacy of a large elm tree—a spot about 30 feet from the bulging crowd of students near the front entry. Once leaning against the trunk, she buttoned her forest green vest, slipped knapsack off shoulders, pulled a book from her sack and began to read.
Despite Phyllis’ effort to steer clear of others, an intrusion involving three boys streaked toward her. Though she turned so that she couldn’t see the boys, one of them—a short 10th grader by the name of Roy came closer. Behind him was a much taller boy, Farrell—an intimidating 18-year-old with black attire and a shaved head.
Without warning, Farrell abruptly lunged at and grabbed hold of Roy. Snaring his victim’s collar, the larger boy hurled the smaller one to the ground—a spot only a few feet from Phyllis. The aggressor then did something peculiar: He yanked on the shirt of his victim in order to try to remove it. “Faggots gotta be taught a lesson!” angrily claimed Farrell as he lost his grip and fell backward.
Standing close by, Farrell’s accomplice, Lyle—a smartly dressed handsome 12th grader with wavy blond hair, teased his abusive buddy. “The little fellow had his eye on you, Farrell. That’s no way to treat an admirer.”
“The little faggot was gawking at you, not me,” adamantly disagreed Farrell before slapping Roy on the back of the head.
Fearful of what was about to follow, Roy curled into a ball, tucked face into lap and wrapped hands around head.
Though looking away while repeating her there’s-no-alarm-so-stay-calm phrase, Phyllis was unable to ignore what she heard. Distressed, she tossed her book into her sack and began clutching thighs while dipping head. Stay out of it, she privately warned just before hearing Farrell again smack Roy’s head. Though her speeding heart signaled to run for help, Phyllis lurched toward the abuse with the fitfulness Aunt Minch feared would erupt. In a flash, she was pacing between the predator and his prey while describing what was occurring. “That’s a lot of hurtfulness! That’s an awful lot of hurtfulness! Hurt is happening! Someone’s getting very hurt!”
“Get lost, fruitcake!” barked Farrell, steamed that his attack had been interrupted.
Phyllis continued to make known she found the abuse intolerable. “He’s hurt! There’s been hurtfulness! Hurtfulness has taken place that needs to stop!”
The onlooker, Lyle, saw Phyllis’s behavior as bizarre. “She’s either on something or she’s a psycho. Let’s scram!” he told Farrell.
But before they could bolt, a burly teacher hustled from the horde of students by the entrance. “Every one stay put!” he ordered before looking down at Roy. “Up on your feet!” he then barked.
While Roy slowly rose and Farrell defiantly folded arms, Lyle wasted no time pinning the blame on Phyllis. “She shoved the little guy to the ground, then started smacking him around.”
Farrell quickly backed up Lyle. “When she saw I was about to step in, she started trash-talking everyone.”
Only interested in a speedy resolution, the teacher again turned to Roy. “What’s your name?”
“Roy Ravis,” meekly answered the teen as he stood.
“What’s your version, Roy?” inquired the teacher.
Roy wiped dirt off trousers, fidgeted while glancing over at Farrell’s threatening glare, then suggested the ordeal be overlooked. “I wasn’t injured; so, can we just forget the whole thing?”
“Just tell me what happened,” sternly ordered the teacher.
Still rattled, Roy looked down. “It happened the way they said it did,” he lied as the bell starting the school day rang.
“Get to your homerooms, boys,” instructed the teacher as he motioned for Phyllis to accompany him into the building. “What’s your name?”
“Phyllis Nench,” she answered while grabbing her sack.
“You can give your version of the ruckus to the assistant-principal after I fill her in,” informed the teacher as they hurried toward the school.
Once inside, the teacher directed Phyllis to sit in the reception area. He then poked his head into the assistant-principal’s office in order to recap the altercation.
Determined to keep rule-breakers in check, the assistant principal, Mrs. Endel, let the teacher know she was ready to pounce on start-of-the-school-year infractions. “If we don’t let them know who’s boss on the first day, it’ll be a rough year!” she noted.
Soon in her doorway, Mrs. Endel called out. “Phyllis Nench.”
“Yes,” replied Phyllis.
“Come in and sit,” ordered Mrs. Endel before strutting to her desk, sitting, then glancing at an open folder. “Your records reveal things didn’t go well at the school you last attended. That tells me getting off to a good start here at Binfred should be important to you.”
“Yes,” politely assured Phyllis.
“What’s your rendition, Phyllis?” interrogated Mrs. Endel.
“When I heard someone being hurt, I expressed it was so,” succinctly described Phyllis.
Dissatisfied with the response, Mrs. Endel’s tone sharpened. “You have to fill in some blanks. What, exactly, did you see and do?”
“I made known that I wanted the hurt to stop,” answered Phyllis.
Seeing Phyllis as curt, Mrs. Endel frowned as she leaned forward. “Three boys claim you were the aggressor. They also say that after the attack you engaged in taunting.”
Phyllis took a full breath while looking down. “I wanted the hurt to stop,” she repeated.
“Is there someone who’ll back up what you’re saying?” asked the irked assistant principal.
“No,” answered Phyllis.
Mrs. Endel folded arms as she leaned back “Do you know any of the boys?”
“No,” said Phyllis.
Ready to dish out punishment, Mrs. Engel stood. “I’ll double check with the victim, Roy Ravis, but our policy calls for an immediate one-week suspension when bullying involves physical contact. Your folder says your guardian is your aunt. She’ll have to come for you.”
“But she’s working. Can I please just walk home?” begged Phyllis.
“I’m afraid not,” answered Mrs. Endel as she again looked at Phyllis’s folder. “Your aunt is employed by the Lazelton Nursing Home. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” reluctantly answered Phyllis.
As Phyllis thought, Roy’s story didn’t change when he met with Mrs. Endel. Consequently, Phyllis was soon being driven home by her aunt who, throughout the ride, wrung the steering wheel.
I don’t have a good explanation, thought Phyllis before speaking. “I tried to mind my own business, but I could still hear the hurtfulness. . . . I know I’ve let you down.”
“You told me the same thing after the fiasco and suspension at your last school,” recalled Aunt Minch.”
Phyllis’ regret was obvious. “I behaved selfishly again.”
Aunt Minch tried to instruct her niece. “You’re gonna have to find a way to make use of your hindsight, Phyllis. Hurtful people aren’t avoidable!”
“Fitting in is hard,” declared Phyllis as Aunt Minch came to a stop outside their apartment.
“We’ll talk more tonight. I’ve gotta hurry back to work,” said the aunt.
When the school day ended, a guilt-ridden Roy had one thing on his mind: making up for the lie he told. I deserve getting the door slammed in my face, he told himself while on the half-hour walk to where Phyllis lived. Upon approaching the front entry with head hung, he took a hefty breath, rang the bell, then asked for Phyllis when the door opened.
“You need to go around back to the basement entrance,” answered an elderly fellow.
“OK,” said Roy before trudging to the rear, taking another heaping gasp of air, then knocking.
After recognizing her visitor through the lone basement window, Phyllis kept the door on its chain while easing it slightly open. “How did you find me?” she asked.
“Endel left her office for a minute. I glanced at your folder and saw you live at this address with your aunt,” explained Roy.
A leery Phyllis was brisk. “What do you want?”
“I wanna try to make up for lying. Will you please sit outside with me?” asked Roy before turning toward lawn chairs under a pine tree 20 or so feet away.
Phyllis pursed lips and squinted eyes as if about to say no, then opened the door.
“You’ve gotta be wanting to give me a royal thumping,” said Roy as they started for the lawn chairs. “Getting done in by someone you helped has gotta be infuriating. . . . Even when I found out you’d get suspended, I stuck with my bullcrap.”
“You figured telling the truth would make getting harmed by the bullies more likely,” understood Phyllis.
“You’re right,” admitted Roy. “Blaming you seemed like a much better gamble. . . . You must have told Ms. Endel I got called a faggot by the big creep.”
“No, that’s one of the words I never use,” assured Phyllis.
“Thanks. . . . Ms. Endel would have told my parents if you had. Having my father hear a girl bullied me is a walk down lilac lane when compared to having him hear I was called a faggot. To him, homosexuals are a bottom-of-the-barrel abomination,” shared Roy before shifting the focus onto Phyllis. “Anyway, I’m still surprised you don’t want to boot my bullcrap fanny to Bouvet Island.”
Phyllis hadn’t heard of the island. “To where?”
“Bouvet Island is the desolate icebox my father thinks is a great place to maroon homosexuals and others he considers perverts,” explained Roy.
After a long hush, Phyllis awkwardly asked a personal question. “Do you ever feel like moving somewhere remote?”
Intrigued by the question, Roy leaned back while shoving hands in pockets. “When you’re sure your family would hate you if they really knew you, finding a place where you didn’t have to hide what you feel and fake what you don’t feel is definitely appealing.”
“The blurting about hurt by me you heard at school is quirkiness. It’s what a therapist called an ‘atypical affliction,'” divulged Phyllis.
“I don’t get it. Trying to halt hurt seems healthy to me,” said Roy.
“I’ve been told my reaction amounts to hysteria, likely ‘due to a developmental delay compounded by a traumatic event.’ I think that’s a fancy way of saying I shouldn’t expect to be normal anytime soon,” shared Phyllis.
“I’ve got an incurable situation, too,” hesitantly disclosed Roy as he took his wallet from trousers, then took a courage-gathering breath. “I’m gonna show you something I haven’t shown anyone else.”
Phyllis waited patiently.
After eventually pulling a magazine photo from his wallet, Roy handed the item to Phyllis.
Aware he was intently watching her, Phyllis matter-of-factly viewed what turned out to be a picture of a male model. “He’s handsome,” she casually noted.
“You can be sure I never leave my wallet lying around,” emphasized Roy as he took back the photo and again hid it in his wallet. “Was I right thinking I can trust you?”
Sliding hands down and up thighs, Phyllis decided to provide a tailor-made response. After reaching for her wallet, she removed the picture of an attractive female strolling on a beach—the same photo she’d concealed from Aunt Minch. Following a brief pause, she handed the picture to Roy. “She’s a stranger I spotted while on vacation last year. She didn’t see me take the picture. . . . I do my share of hiding and faking!”
“So it means what I think it means,” said Roy while returning the photo.
Phyllis made known she knew something about secrecy. “You’re the first one I’ve shown it to. . . . Unlike what some claim, I don’t think people can hate gayness without hating the person who’s gay.”
“The time-bomb goon who tried to undress me today after he caught me gawking at his friend made no bones about it: My gayness and me were one in the same—something to exterminate,” declared Roy as he popped to his feet. “I’ve gotta scoot. Can I stop by tomorrow? I still need to try to make up for what I did.”
“You can stop by, but forget about what happened,” said Phyllis.
“I can’t forget! You can be sure I’m gonna be a pest until I find a way to make up for what I did,” guaranteed Roy.
That evening, Aunt Minch sat with Phyllis on the sofa to resume the talk she’d put on hold. “While rushing back to work today, I thought about how hard it sometimes is for me to bite my tongue.”
Phyllis wanted to please her aunt. “I should have ran for an adult instead of sounding off.”
“Things went south fast this time. Maybe trying another medication would help,” suggested Aunt Minch.
“Though I know medication helps some, I think I’m an atypical who can’t medicate her way to being typical,” suggested Phyllis.
“If I have to move us again, I’m gonna need my own anti-anxiety zonkers,” fussed Aunt Minch.
Phyllis massaged the back of her neck with both hands while tilting her head back. “I feel like a stranded extraterrestrial.”
Frustrated by the helplessness Phyllis was conveying, Aunt Minch became miffed. “Stop referring to yourself as a atypical. . . . You can change, Phyllis!”
Lacking confidence, Phyllis brought up something she knew might further peeve her aunt. “I’d like to give homeschooling a try. I won’t need a tutor. I’ll just need a few hundred dollars worth of online materials. I’ll pay you back by working weekends at the nursing home.”
Aunt Minch wasn’t receptive. “Darn it, Phyllis, no! You know the professionals we’ve talked to said homeschooling could make things worse. I’m not going to help you become be a recluse. . . . If I get you another consult, will you try a new medication?”
“OK,” halfheartedly answered Phyllis.
Feeling discouraged, Aunt Minch became somber. “Losing both your parents a year ago left you super sensitive to hurt, and it left me unsure how to help you grieve such a horrible loss.”
“What you’re saying makes sense, except that I felt like a mutant before losing my parents,” pointed out Phyllis.”
“Will you have a bowl of ice cream with me?” asked Aunt Minch as she stood to head for the refrigerator.
“Sure. . . . While thinking more about how unfair your pay is, I remembered once seeing someone make being fair more important than making money.” shared Phyllis.
“Tell me about it,” replied Aunt Minch while covering a yawn.
“It happened while we were at the bed-and-breakfast,” recalled Phyllis. “While looking at a brochure in the lobby, I overheard a conversation between the manager and a man who was complaining about catching the manager and another woman kiss. The man said if he and his wife had known the bed-and-breakfast was run by homosexuals, they wouldn’t have spent their hard-earned money there. The manager then said something that surprised me. She said ‘please let me give you a full refund and pay for a tank of gas.'”
“That’s impressive,” replied Aunt Minch.
Hoping her aunt would say more about the incident, Phyllis kept silent. When Aunt Minch didn’t have anything further to say, the teen tried a tactful nudge. “Do you know any gay couples?”
Aunt Minch’s response wasn’t encouraging. “I guess I steer clear. My upbringing causes me to cringe a bit when I see homosexuals display affection.”
“Do you think homosexuals are sinners?” asked Phyllis.
Aunt Minch believed Phyllis was merely curious. “I suppose I’m more comfortable with saying they’re misguided. What do you think?”
“I wonder if they’re like those who don’t get fair pay,” offered Phyllis.
“How so?” wondered Aunt Minch.
“Aren’t you and the manager of the bed-and-breakfast both treated as if you’re worth a lot less than others?” pointed out Phyllis.
Aunt Minch paused, then expressed agreement. “I suppose so.”
“Treating someone as if they lack worth is a way to make being unfair seem OK, isn’t it?” posed Phyllis.
“That’s a good point, Phyllis,” conceded Aunt Minch. “By the way, I’m leaving my cell on the table until you go back to school—in case you need to call me.”
The following morning, Phyllis found Roy at her door. “Playing hooky?” she asked.
“Roy’s sick today,” answered Roy, imitating his father’s deep voice.
“Come in,” invited Phyllis. “My aunt’s left for work.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, why do you live with your aunt?” asked Roy.
Phyllis spoke softly. “My parents were killed. They were part of a crowd that was mowed down by a driver who decided to violently vent the hurt he’d been hauling around.”
“Wow!” reacted a stunned Roy.
“There are more unhinged individuals roaming about than most people realize,” moaned Phyllis.
“NASA oughta put a gigantic flashing beware of humans sign in orbit around Earth,” awkwardly replied Roy.
Not wanting to continue to talk about her parents, Phyllis abruptly changed the topic as they sat at the kitchen table. “I’ve been thinking a lot about how unfair the pay is that some people get. Some make millions and even billions while others barely get by. Ever hear a good reason why what some do for work is worth so much more than what others do?”
Roy didn’t need to time to think. “Are you kidding? It’s all about gorging, not fairness. Most preople are like my parents. They believe everyone could and should be a filthy stinking rich gorger.”
“Someone who makes a million dollars a year makes 40 times what my aunt makes. She’s a hard-working, very caring nurse’s aide,” noted Phyllis. “I’d like to ask someone making a million or more a year about fairness.”
Roy slouched in thoughtful silence, then suddenly straightened wide-eyed. “My dad once told me I should become a talk-radio host, because they make millions. Those yappers are different than other gluttons in a handy way,” informed Roy.
“What’s that?” asked Phyllis.
“Most of the radio rich take calls! There’s one blowhard after another yapping on an AM channel. Get ready to ask your question!” said Roy, hoping he’d found a way to somewhat make amends.
Phyllis was hesitant. “That’s a good idea, but. . .”
“But what?” urged Roy.
“Knowing there’s an audience will tongue-tie me. I’m better at writing than speaking,” said Phyllis.
Looking around and spotting Aunt Minch’s laptop, Roy quickly had a solution. “I’ll put the phone between us so that we can both hear what the host says. Then, using the alias Reggie, I’ll read the response you type on the laptop. . . . Get the computer ready. Once we get the name and number of who’s currently on the air, we’ll track down the blowhard’s salary online. Whatdaya say?”
“That might work,” said Phyllis before turning on the kitchen-table radio, handing Roy her aunt’s cell, then going on online and discovering the nationally syndicated host presently on the air, Hannah Hin, was making 25 million a year. “Hannah makes 1000 times more than my aunt,” she noted after a quick calculation.
Only five minutes of redialing passed before the screener putting the calls through answered. “This is the Hannah Hin show. Shut off your radio. Next, I need your first name, then your question or comment for Hannah. Keep in mind today’s topic is income taxes.”
“My name is Reggie,” said Roy as he shut off the radio. “My question is about the income, the income part.”
“What about it?” asked the screener.
Roy gave Phyllis a thumbs-up as she began to type in phrases, causing him to read in spurts. “My question is how can we discuss. . .whether people’s income taxes are fair. . .without first discussing whether. . .their income is fair?”
“OK, be ready,” replied the screener as he put the question on Hannah’s computer screen.
Back after a commercial, Hannah was raring to go. “I’m ready to bust more eardrums with my anti-income-tax battle cry. . . . Hello, Reggie, what’s your beef?”
Roy repeated the question he’d given the screener. “How can we discuss whether people’s income taxes are fair without first discussing whether their income is fair?”
“You sound young, Reggie,” noted Hannah.
“What’s my age got to do with my question?” objected Roy without waiting for Phyllis to type an answer.
Phyllis lowered eyebrows and pointed to the computer screen to direct Roy to stick with saying what she typed.
Hannah, meanwhile, was ready to lecture. “Simply put, income is based on what the market deems appropriate, whereas income taxes are determined by government-set brackets. Understand, Reggie?”
“How do you know. . .the market is fair?” read Roy, again slowed by the brief hitch in Phyllis’ typing.
Hannah went on the attack. “Have you got a problem with free enterprise, Reggie?”
“My problem is understanding. . . how what some people do. . .can be worth so much more. . .than what others do,” relayed Roy.
“Sounds like we’ve got an incognito socialist calling in, folks. So, Reggie, you’re opposed to the liberty we have in this country to earn as much as the market says we’re worth,” claimed Hannah.
Phyllis zipped off some numbers for Roy to relay. “You’ll make 25 million dollars this year. . .and my aunt, who’s a nurse’s aide, . . will make 25 thousand. . . . How is that fair?”
Perturbed after hearing her income mentioned, Hannah fired back. “No one’s forcing your aunt to be a nurse’s aide! Anyone with the initiative to fully develop whatever their God-given ability might be can improve their lot in life!”
Phyllis’ focus sharpened, allowing Roy to respond without pausing. “My aunt is a hardworking person who has a flair for giving care to the elderly. How is it fair that you make 1000 times more than her?”
Again dodging what she’d been asked, Hannah delivered one of the comebacks she relied upon to regain the upper hand. “My young caller appears to have learned about redistributing wealth rather than the fact that half of all earners, many of them unwilling to improve themselves, don’t even pay income taxes. How is letting half the earners pay nothing fair to the rest of us, Reggie?”
Though Phyllis’ answer reflected her desire to be respectful, Roy’s tone revealed his growing frustration. “Before we can make sense out of taxes, we have to make sense out of income. . . . Please tell me how it’s fair for you to get a 1000 times more than people like my aunt, . . .who care for those unable to care for themselves? . . . What makes you worth so much more?”
Hannah relied on another standby response. “A paycheck isn’t the only way to determine a person’s worth, Reggie,”
Phyllis was also quick to reply.
“OK, but it’s the paycheck that matters when you have to buy food, . .hand over rent, fix a car or pay a medical bill,” relayed Roy.
An exasperated Hannah was determined to make sure her audience heard her cleverly put her caller in his place. “You obviously don’t know how many millions of intelligent people tune in to this show—people who count on me to expose camouflaged commie rhetoric, such as your gibberish about how your auntie isn’t getting what she deserves. My listeners know well the twaddle you’ve been taught is preventing you from expanding your horizons. Nevertheless, to demonstrate how fair I am, you can have the last word. But make it brief; I’m up against a break.”
“It’s hurtful to pretend it’s OK for hard-working, struggling people. . .to make a tiny fraction of what others make.” Though that was all Phyllis wrote, Roy wasn’t done. Feeling scolded by Hannah, he retaliated without waiting for Phyllis to continue to type. “And what does bragging about how many listen to your show prove, other than the fact that there are lots of people who like getting buffaloed by gluttons making a fortune repeating snarky putdowns! You still haven’t answered what makes you worth more than someone who cares for the helpless! Here’s another question I bet you won’t answer: What darn radio station is run by poor people? You don’t have an answer for that question either, do you! You. . . ”
Hannah, who seldom kept her promise when it came to giving the caller the last word, cut Roy off, then proceeded to feed her faithful fans a well-rehearsed red-meat rant. “The far-left freaky fringe don’t get it, do they? America’s patriots aren’t going to stand by while rowdy, rambling radicals spew class warfare! It’s especially sad when a young person has fallen victim to a public education system bent on making us more of a welfare state than we already are. Throwback beatniks, hippies and other anti-capitalism, anti-establishment crackpots better beware. . . . After a short break, I’ll be back to battle the bonehead loopy liberals who just don’t get it—who just don’t realize those of us who love our country will never let them babble their lunkhead looniness without us taking a stand! I see on my screen that reinforcements are anxious to stand with me. Hang tight, good citizens. You’ll be joining the fight in just two minutes.”
Upset, Phyllis abruptly stood, then stomped to the backyard, where she paced. “That wasn’t what we agreed on. Saying people wanna be buffaloed by gluttons was hurtful.”
You messed up, Roy told himself as he approached Phyllis. “What about all the nasty stuff she said? . . . Was I supposed to let her get away with ignoring what you were asking her?” he asked.
After taking several lung-bulging breaths to help her regain her composure, Phyllis sat in a lawn chair. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten in one of my states.”
Roy dropped his head as he, too, sat. “If I had remembered what my brother, who’s on his college debate team, has told me over and over, I might have kept my cool.”
“What’s he told you?” asked Phyllis.
“‘Stick with pointing when someone pushes a position before he or she proves a premise.’ Hannah pushed for fair taxes before proving there was fair pay. You had what Andy calls ‘nitty-gritty gold;’ all Hannah had was what he calls ‘red-herring hooey,'” answered Roy.
“I didn’t expect her to be so unwilling to consider what I was asking. . . . There’s something I’m not understanding,” believed Phyllis.
“Greedy people defend being greedy. What else is there to understand?” said Roy.
Phyllis sought to be empathic. “If we had a chance to be wealthy, would we also feel we were worth many times more than others?”
“Though that seems likely for me, you might be an exception,” flattered a smiling Roy.
“Now that I’ve calmed down, I can admit you gave Hannah a run for money,” complimented Phyllis.
“Though we didn’t get an answer, I’d say we made a pretty good team,” said Roy before suddenly appearing down-hearted. “Can I ask you a weird personal question?”
“I guess so,” said Phyllis, unsure what to expect.
“Am I an evil son for sometimes wishing I didn’t have parents?” asked Roy.
Phyllis took a moment to search for an honest reply. “Imaging my parents may not have been OK with me being a lesbian is pretty unpleasant. . . . What you’re feeling seems natural to me.”
“A kid’s supposed to want to please, not escape, his parents,” claimed Roy.
“Giving up on wanting approval isn’t easy,” realized Phyllis.
“I don’t know how to make what my parents think about gays not matter,” confessed Roy, hanging his head.
Phyllis tried to be helpful. “Don’t gay kids have a right to wish we didn’t have to scrounge for ways to feel good about ourselves?”
Roy perked up. “How about I take you to lunch? There’s a restaurant with a couple of hot gay waiters about a mile from here. I can practice not ogling,” he kidded.
“OK,” agreed Phyllis with a chuckle.
While Roy very much preferred to arrive at school just as the bell signaled everyone could enter, his mother, who had to get to an early morning meeting at work, wasn’t cooperating. “Hurry up, Roy; I can’t be late,” she nagged.
Skipping two days in a row would be too risky, thought Roy, checking his watch and realizing he’d be getting dropped off 15 minutes early. “Darn,” he mumbled.
Soon exiting his mother’s car, Roy passed the usual morning crowd of students as he headed for a protruding fence to hide behind—a spot where being accused of ogling was unlikely. Once there, he slinked until sitting on the ground.
Unfortunately, Roy’s uneventful start to the school day was short-lived. Unwanted visitors—the two boys who bullied him on the first day of school—were on the prowl. Approaching from separate directions, the troublemakers boxed Roy in.
“Hey, joy-boy Roy, what ya doin’?” asked a smirking Lyle.
“He’s takin’ a break from faggot trolling,” harassed Farrell, itching to make trouble.
Deciding it would be a mistake to stand, Roy pulled knees into chest and stammered a reply. “I sometimes, I sometimes stare at, stare at people because I’m a friendless geek. I made it up to you though, right?”
“Putting the blame on that weirdo only proves you’re not only a faggot but also a weasel,” belittled Farrell.
“I’m not gay!” nervously denied Roy.
“You’re a lying pipsqueak faggot!” again derided Farrell as he abruptly dropped to one knee, then violently wrapped one hand around Roy’s chest and used the other to yank Roy’s shirttail from pants.
As Roy tried to fend off the unprovoked molesting by scrunching into a ball, Lyle, after turning to make sure the commotion hadn’t been spotted by a teacher, intervened. “Whoa, whoa, Farrell. I’m sure if you give joy-boy Roy and I some time alone a satisfactory agreement can be reached. Meet me at lunch and I’ll fill you in.”
“Freakin’ runt faggot!” yet again disparaged Farrell as he delivered a parting shove and glare before walking away.
While Roy tucked in his shirt, Lyle leaned against the fence. “I’m an aspiring entrepreneur who’s only interested in commerce. Farrell, on the other hand, is a diehard moralist. . . . I’m an investor out for a high rate of return. Farrell, in stark contrast, is a hell-bent avenger of sorts. He believes homosexuals are depopulating the planet by converting youngsters and by spreading diseases. Pretty crazy, huh?”
“I get Farrell wants to get rid of gays, but I don’t get what you’re up to,” replied Roy.
“Here’s my deal: You bring me 200 bucks tomorrow morning—100 from you and 100 from your psycho buddy—and I’ll keep Farrell from going after the two of you,” explained Lyle.
“Why are you including the girl?” asked Roy.
“Farrell’s still upset over her stickin’ her nose where it didn’t belong,” answered a snickering Lyle, just before the morning bell rang, prompting them to start for the building.
Half way to the front entrance, Roy and Lyle came upon a fracas that had drawn a crowd. Arriving at the altercation just as two teachers were about to intercede, they saw Farrell rip a boy’s shirt.
“Looks like Farrell tried to undress another joy-boy,” said Lyle as he and Roy watched the teachers drag Farrell away.
“Your friend is seriously berserk,” said Roy.
Lyle saw the incident as timely. “Farrell’s certain suspension will give him loads of time to track prey. . . . There’s an easy way not to talk yourself out of bringing me the money: Just keep in mind you can’t stop Farrell from hunting you and your friend down. Only I can do that!”
Finding herself ruminating over what had happened during yesterday’s call to the Hannah Hin Show, Phyllis closed her algebra text, leaned over the kitchen table and turned on the radio. Immediately hearing Hannah’s voice, Phyllis listened intently as the host again chided those she saw as villains. She’s up to the same unkind routine, realized Phyllis.
After cutting off a caller, Hannah again railed on about the evildoers she believed were out to ruin the country. “The lefties actually think we’re going to let their reams of regulations kill off businesses, their tax hikes subsidize more shirking, their same-sex perversity turn our stomachs, and their pro-choice butchery break our hearts. Time for another caller. You’re on the air, Martha.”
A middle-aged fan of Hannah, Martha, was angry. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to comment on a call you took yesterday from a young man by the name of Reggie. Though the counsel you gave him was superb, Hannah, I’d like to express dismay at the difficulty he and other youngsters have when it comes to understanding why we want everyone, including his aunt—a nurse’s aide if I remember correctly—to be free to prosper. As you often point out, our educational system has done a poor job relaying why capitalism, which leaves us all free to pursue our limitless potential, is unequaled.”
“Eloquently put, Martha. I couldn’t concur more! Capitalism, by way of its unsurpassed ability to incentivize, provides the motivational magic that heightens hopefulness and ignites innovation. Don’t worry! You’re part of an army who refuses to let our children’s aspirations be trampled!”
“You’re a godsent, Hannah,” praised Martha.
Hannah was energized. “I’m ready to do whatever I can to counter the persistent propaganda and pessimism young people get exposed to. Our God-sanctioned capacity for fulfillment is on the line, people.” An expert at keeping her audience engaged, Hannah set the stage for wrangling. “I’m sure that, like me, many of you find the envious malingerers and whiners who’ve never met a high achiever they didn’t loathe to be exasperating. Let’s see if any of the begrudging lefties have the guts to call me after a brief break.”
Upset by what she’d heard, Phyllis began pacing in the basement apartment. “That was unfair! That was very unfair!” she declared out loud, successfully attempting to muster the courage to call Hannah on her own. While commercials aired, Phyllis began redialing the Show on her aunt’s cell. On her sixth attempt, she met with success.
“This is the Hannah Hin Show. Turn off your radio. . . . What’s you question or comment?” said the screener.
Phyllis took a breath, then faltered a bit before settling down. “This is, this is a friend, this is a friend of Reggie. He was one of yesterday’s callers. Because Reggie can’t come to the phone, he asked me to relay a follow-up comment.”
“OK, I’ll let Hannah know,” replied the screener.”
As soon as the commercial break ended, Hannah jumped at the chance to hear from Reggie’s friend. “This is Hannah. I’m told you’ve called to relay a follow-up comment from Reggie—the young fellow who called in yesterday.”
“Yes, he wants me to say that you still haven’t explained what makes millionaires and billionaires worth more than a nurse’s aide,” cordially replied Phyllis.
Hannah stuck with her own agenda. “Like Reggie, you sound young. Are you also a brainwashed victim of an educational agenda gone unbelievably awry?”
Phyllis didn’t take the bait. “Once more, please explain why you’re worth 1,000 times more than Reggie’s aunt,” she requested.
“I recommend you and Reggie get a time-to-grow-up education by listening to the Hannah Hin Show on a regular basis,” smugly said Hannah before moving on to her next caller. “Hello, Bernie, you’re on the air.”
Flustered by the abrupt dismissal, Phyllis turned on the radio, hoping to hear something that would help her make sense of the disregard she’d encountered.
A crusty elderly man was ready to chime in. “We’ve gotta make our young people realize the earners of great wealth are the job creators and marvel makers, Hannah. Schools should replace their foreign language classes with a course in free enterprise!”
“That’s an excellent idea,” said Hannah before rushing to greet another supporter. “Let’s see what Claudine has to say. You’re on the Hannah Hin Show, Claudine.”
Claudine was indignant. “I think it’s an outrage that our young people are learning to be jealous of those with the talent and perseverance it takes to become successful and affluent.”
“Another spot on point,” noted Hannah before launching into one of her diatribes. “Let’s remember, folks, many of the malcontent are schemers. . . . I’ll go a step further: Those suggesting it’s immoral for us to earn more than they think we should are sinister. They’re a threat we mustn’t tolerate! We can’t let them infringe upon our God-given inclination to better ourselves! . . . It looks like the next caller is a Reggie sympathizer. Let’s hear your best haymaker, Jack,” invited an emboldened Hannah.
Bolstered by much forethought, Jack spoke calmly. “Exorbitant paychecks aren’t earned; they’re finagled! The standards used to determine what people rake in aren’t determined by a sincere effort to be just. Worse yet, much wealth is gained by exploiting the working-poor. That Reggie fellow asked a fundamental question—a question you and your fans refuse to answer. Once again, what makes one hard worker worth far more than another who also has her or his nose to the grindstone?”
“You sound like one of the Hannah Hin haters who listens routinely to get yourself in a frothy flap, Jack. Your problem and the problem with others like you is disavowed desire. Secretly coveting what you haven’t had the initiative to work for, you carry on about raising taxes on those you envy. You’re never going to be blessed with good fortune because, rather than show some ambition, you stew in resentment.”
Unruffled by how Hannah characterized him, Jack again requested the host not dodge Reggie’s question. “I’m a first-time caller who rarely listens to your show. More importantly, I’m not the one who wants to evade talking about fair wages by railing on about pesky taxes. You are! Please answer Reggie’s question!”
Hannah continued to be evasive. “Far left crybabies, like you, always try to cover up your toxic jealousy. But you’re not going to get away with your denial on my show! You’re done sidestepping!”
After hanging up on Jack, Hannah was faced with something unfamiliar: Callers who disagreed with her were on all the lines. Her next caller, Floris, was revved up. “You’re the sidestepper!” she began. “I’m also not one of your usual puppet callers. There can’t be fair taxation without fair compensation! You don’t have the integrity or guts to try to explain what makes you worth tons more than a nurse’s aide!”
Aware that only callers disagreeing with her occupied the lines, Hannah dug in. She continued to skirt what she’d been asked by again sticking with what she knew would please her faithful followers. “You lefties oughta know I don’t let anyone get away with insulting those who, like me, take a stand against lamebrains out to destroy our exceptional country. No doubt my current rash of callers are top notch begrudgers who want government handouts. Parasites need to remember that sucking their host dry brings an end to them as well! . . . I see it’s time for a break.”
Soon after his mother arrived home from work, Roy asked her to join him in his bedroom. Always adorned with a gold cross around her neck, the staunch churchgoer followed her son to his room, where she closed the door behind her, then sat on the bed. “I kept my word. Dad doesn’t know anything about the call I got from school.”
“I really appreciate being spared having Dad again tell me how important it is for me to stand up for myself,” said Roy as he sat on the chair by his desk.
“Hearing him carry on and on about how embarrassed you should be because a girl shoved you to the ground would be awful for me, too,” admitted his mother. “As you know, your father’s never-back-down attitude caused all hell to break loose on more than one occasion when your brother was around.”
“Dad tells us to stand up for ourselves. But when we try to stand up to him, he flips out. . . . Anyway, if there’s such a thing as wuss gene, I’m pretty sure I have it,” bemoaned Roy.
Suddenly looking solemn, Roy’s mother crossed arms. “Your cousin, Cliff, got picked on a lot throughout high school. . . . That’s my side of the family.”
“Though I never really got to know him, I remember Dad once called him a wuss,” said Roy.
Roy’s mother gripped the cross she faithfully wore, then grimly gazed out the bedroom window. “There’s something I recently learned about Cliff from Aunt Irene—something you’ll eventually catch wind of. It makes being a wuss the least of his problems. . . . Cliff is gay.”
This could be your chance to come out, thought Roy as he took a long breath.
But before Roy could open up, his mother let her disapproval of Cliff be known. “Your cousin refused to enter the therapy program Aunt Irene was willing to pay for. I don’t get it! Irene said he dated girls in high school. . . . Your father doesn’t know about Cliff yet,” she tearfully continued as she dropped arms. “So, be sure not to say anything in front of him. Once he finds out, he won’t stop griping about my side of the family. . . . I pray for Aunt Irene every day. My sister doesn’t deserve the dreadful shame she’s enduring.”
What was I thinking? Roy secretly self-berated, realizing his wishful thinking had brought him close to doing little more than bring about an unrepairable rift between him and his mother. Now sure attempting to get his mother’s acceptance would prove disastrous, he brought up what he had initially planned to discuss—something he knew would please his mother. “I asked you to come to my room because I don’t want Dad to keep you from being happy when I tell you I’d like to transfer to the church’s school.”
“That’s terrific news!” joyously reacted his mother, bouncing to her feet.
“I’d like to start as soon as possible,” informed Roy.
“I’ll start the ball rolling right away. Maybe you can begin next Monday,” happily hoped his mother.
“Great,” said Roy as he watched his mother start for the door.
Though Roy dreaded telling Phyllis about the demands Lyle made, he knew it had to happen. Not long after his talk with his mother, he was knocking on Phyllis’ apartment door.
“I’m alone; come on in,” invited Phyllis while opening the door.
“I’ve got some unpleasant news,” said Roy as they sat at the kitchen table. “After again getting roughed up by Farrell-the-time-bomb at school this morning, Lyle-the-snake let me know they want to be paid off to leave us alone. . . . The time-bomb is enraged because I’m gay and because you helped me. I’m gonna pay up for us both.”
Phyllis stiffened in fear. “How much do they want, and why aren’t we reporting them to somebody?”
Wanting to keep the matter under wraps, especially from his father, Roy tried to playdown the extortion. “They don’t want that much. I’ve already taken the money out of the bank. I think reporting them would be a big mistake. The time-bomb got thrown out of school for assaulting another student. That means he’s on the loose.”
Phyllis stood to pace in a circle. “I don’t trust them, especially the one you call the time-bomb.”
Roy came up with a quick fix. “I’ve got an idea! My mother’s agreed to let me transfer to the church’s school, maybe as soon as next Monday. If you convince your aunt to let you go there, I’ll get my mother to drive us there and back every school day.”
“It’s gotta cost thousands to go there. My parents died in debt, and my aunt scrapes by. . . . Even if I could afford it, I can’t just go to school and hideout in this basement,” pointed out Phyllis.
“Give me a day or to figure things out,” requested Roy.
“OK,” agreed Phyllis before sitting to share some good news. “Something good happened today.”
“What?” asked Roy.
“I called the Hannah Hin show to again try to get her to answer my question,” said Phyllis with a cautious smile. “Though I didn’t get an answer, I did get to hear a couple of callers come to my defense. While listening to Hannah also give them the run around, I figured something out: I realized that each time I asked her why my aunt isn’t worth as much as others, I was also asking myself why I’m not worth as much as others. . . . We won’t do what it takes to protect and care for ourselves when we don’t truly believe we have worth,” claimed Phyllis as she put a hand on Roy’s shoulder.
“OK, but Hin and my parents aren’t going to give up their bullcrap and the time-bomb isn’t going to give up his hatred!” claimed Roy.
“You’re right. Waiting for others to change doesn’t make sense,” replied Phyllis as she leaned back.
Roy again tried to ease his guilt. “There’s a good chance the snake and time-bomb will move on to others once they get the money. . . . Maybe I just need to make sure they understand they’re getting all the money I have.”
“Though I know you’re doing what you believe is best, I’m hoping you don’t pay for me,” requested Phyllis.
“I’ll think about it,” fibbed Roy, sure he had to give them what they wanted.
Having trouble falling asleep that night, Phyllis was looking through the apartment’s window when someone crossed the yard. Unable to get a good look at the intruder and fretting Farrell was skulking about, she made sure the window and door were locked while alerting Aunt Minch. “I think there’s a prowler.”
“It was probably just someone short-cutting,” replied Aunt Minch as she got out of bed, then went to the window to scan the area.
“Maybe we should call the police.” suggested Phyllis. “I don’t trust the boys I had trouble with at school.”
“The cops might call and upset the landlord. That won’t be good for us. . . . Tell the doctor you’ll be seeing Friday that your anxiety is worsening, OK,” suggested Aunt Minch.
“I will. . . . Can we talk?” asked Phyllis as she sat on a kitchen chair.
“Briefly,” said Aunt Minch as she, too, sat.
“I’d like to get my diploma nights and weekends at an online high school. It doesn’t cost much. I can pay for it if you help me get the dayshift dishwasher opening at the nursing home. . . . We both know sending me back to school is setting me up for failure. I can’t be who they need me to be,” assured Phyllis.
“We’ve been over this, Phyllis,” complained Aunt Minch.
Phyllis felt desperate. “Please give me a chance to get control of my life,” she pleaded.
Still bowled over by how quickly Phyllis had been suspended from school, a worn down Aunt Minch sighed while thinking about the effort she’d exerted just to have them end up in a dreary basement apartment. “You win, but forget about the dish washing job. I want you to take the online program days. . . . I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing,” she moaned as she pulled her wallet out of her nearby pocketbook, then placed her credit card on the table.
“This time, I won’t let you down,” vowed Phyllis as she rose to hug her aunt.
Not long after dozing off, Phyllis heard a soft knock on the basement door. Aware that Aunt Minch hadn’t been roused, Phyllis rose, then tiptoed to the door in the dark. Upon putting her head close to the door, she heard a faint male voice: “It’s Roy.”
“Roy?” checked Phyllis.
“Yeah, meet me at the lawn chairs.”
Slowly opening the door and finding no one, Phyllis poked her upper body outward. As she strained to see into the night, horror struck. A crazed Farrell sprung off the basement’s outer wall. Before Phyllis could scream for help, Farrell had his left hand clamped tightly over her mouth and his right squeezing her torso.
“Payback time for butting in!” maniacally seethed Farrell.
Phyllis fell limp, causing Farrell to incorrectly sense surrender. Unknown to him, she was, in fact, gathering the strength needed to resist him with ferocity. Soon cupping her right fist with her left hand, then mightily rammed her right elbow backward, spearing Farrell’s ribcage. The crunching whack forced Farrell to his knees. Quickly twisting, Phyllis brought clamped hands above her head while separating feet to improve leverage. Then, suddenly realizing the blow she was about to unleash might do serious harm, she froze.
Just as Phyllis was about to pummel Farrell, she felt her arms being restrained. “Wake up, wake up! You’re having a nightmare!” urgently called out Aunt Minch.
Opening eyes and finding Aunt Minch over her, Phyllis unclenched hands, relaxed arms. “I see you!” she assured, communicating her return to reality.
“You were about to give someone a heck of a bopping,” noted Aunt Minch.
Phyllis patted the sweat on her face with her sleeve as she sat up. “I felt overwhelmed, then full of a vicious desire for vengeance. It was horrible! Thanks for waking me.”
“Fighting for your life, even in a dream, can be terrifying,” sympathized Aunt Minch.
Noon the next day, Phyllis was a passenger on a bus traveling east. From her window seat near the rear, she gazed at the passing scenery. To her, continuing past unfamiliar structures and landscapes meant the gap was widening between who she’d been and who she’d hoped to become. There was, however, a lingering regret: I could have put things better, she told herself while recalling the good-bye note she’d written.
After discovering Phyllis wasn’t home, Aunt Minch spotted the credit card on top of a folded piece of paper that, she was about to discover, contained a life-changing message from Phyllis:
Dear Aunt Minch,
By the time you see this, I’ll be on my way to interview for a job as a live-in housekeeper at the bed-and-breakfast we stayed at. I promise to pay you back as soon as I can for the bus ticket I bought online with your credit card. Please believe me when I say this is something I need to do. The gal who runs the B and B will need to make sure I have your permission. Please, please, don’t force me to return. I’ll call you soon after I arrive, and I’ll email you daily. Though I know leaving is hurtful of me, I also know staying would be much more hurtful. Thanks for taking me in. I admire you greatly!
Love always,
Phyllis
On a still fall evening in a tiny coastal town, a graying 41-year-old Phyllis Nench, after strolling a stretch of shore, approached the bed-and-breakfast—the home that had been her livelihood and sanctuary for the past 25 years. Having learned long ago to savor her good fortune, she paused by a stack of firewood in order to enjoy the sight of her haven—a seven-bedroom, white-shingled, black-shuttered inn nestled amidst large pine trees. I have much to be grateful for, she mulled as the late October chill prompted her to grab an armful of logs.
After passing lit picturesque porch jack-o’-lanterns as she stepped inside, Phyllis came upon another permanent resident, Mary, who smiled from behind the kitty-corner counter where customers were registered. “A young woman with a suitcase is waiting for you in the living room,” informed Mary.
“OK,” said Phyllis as she started for the living room with the wood. “What’s her name?”
“Jill. She didn’t give her last name. She said that, though she’d traveled by bus, she wasn’t sure if she’d be checking in.”
Hearing Phyllis enter, the 18-year-old petite new arrival turned as she rose from one of the two rockers facing the fireplace. “Are you Phyllis?” she asked.
“Yes, you must be Jill; let’s sit,” answered Phyllis as she placed her logs onto the fire, took off her coat and occupied one of the rockers.
Jill took a full breath as she sat. “I’ve come here to ask if I can work for my room and board. . . . Since coming out a year ago, my life’s gone downhill. My mother won’t talk to me and the few so-called friends I have avoid me. My father—the one person I could talk to, told me about you and the bed-and-breakfast just before he died of cancer last month.”
“So, I knew him,” assumed Phyllis.
“For a short time—about six years before I was born. My situation might make more sense if I tell you that soon after my mother had me, she found out Dad was gay. Because her love for him turned to hate, she worked hard to keep me from him. I was 14 when I finally managed to see him behind her back.” Jill then reached into a shoulder bag, pulled out a worn picture of a male model and handed it to Phyllis. “He hoped you’d remember this picture.”
After looking at the picture, Phyllis gazed into the fire. “Yes. I remember two teenagers coming out for the first time by sharing their pictures of dreamboat-strangers,” she shared before returning the picture.
“Dad said his disgrace over the fix he put you in kept him from visiting you. . . . Desperate to fit in and badly wanting to please my grandparents, he tried hard to be heterosexual—a decision that led to me. . . . It also led to loneliness and shame. In the end, I was the only one who didn’t shun him. . . . Maybe you don’t want to be reminded of my dad. If that’s so, I’ll be on my way.”
“Given your father’s shenanigans got me to take responsibility for myself and given buying the bed-and-breakfast was a way to make sure it remained a refuge, welcoming you aboard is an easy decision. But you should know we scrape by. That means there are always a few things we go without. Times we surprise ourselves by making a bit of profit, we split the surplus evenly. . . . Others may make many times more than us, but, as we see things, we’re just as worthy of safety, civility and fairness. . . . So, are we a good fit?
Jill was overjoyed. “Definitely! Thanks for the chance to start a new life.”
Phyllis rose, then stepped toward Jill while extending arms, bringing about an embrace.
1. What factors should determine how much someone gets paid?
2. Why should and/or shouldn’t people be free to make as much money as they can?”
3. What makes being gay hard for teens?
4. Phyllis recalled a bed-and-breakfast manager who offered a couple not only a refund but also money for gas. Was or wasn’t the manager right to make the offer?
5. How might schools better ensure gay teens are safe and supported?