The other day I was playing fetch with my dog on the property of the abandoned school behind our apartment. Four boys, probably aged around 12, were walking up the side street. One of them said something to me. I wasn’t sure what, but I thought it had the word “gay” in it.
I said, “Excuse me, did you say something to me?” The boys continued walking, saying nothing, and then as they were turning into the school property, I heard the boy, the one wearing sunglasses, a flashy red jacket and who looked very much like Justin Bieber, say, “ Are you gay, Mister?”
Stunned, I said, “Why would you ask me such a question?’
The kid repeated his question.
I repeated my question, adding, “Oh, well, you’re probably at the age now when such questions are starting to have some meaning, and you were wondering if you might be gay, right?” I hoped this would prove a crushing embarrassment and his buddies would start to mercilessly tease him, but this did not happen.
And then the kid said, “I was just joking, your sweater’s gay is all.”
I thought about my sweater. It had some cute skull and bones on it. I was playing fetch with a Miniature Dachshund who was wearing a pink, diamond-studded collar and I had a pink camouflage leash draped over my shoulders upon which was tied a vividly pink doggie bag that waved like a flirty handkerchief.
I wasn’t exactly insulted that the boy was asking me this question– although I knew that he meant it as a sort of diminishment– but was utterly confounded as to how to deal with it. I mean, he was just a kid, and his little pack seemed utterly confident, almost indifferent to the confrontation.
Should I take him apart verbally, try to physically intimidate him, or just be cool, and as I am an adult let it roll off my back? As I engaged in this internal debate I found myself whipping Heidi’s ball, using the Chuck-It stick, at the boy, hitting him in the throat.
The boy burst into tears and he and his friends began to run away, and I gave chase hoping to apologize and make sure the kid was all right, as blows to the throat, particularly to a newly developing Adam’s Apple can be very painful.
As it is spring, the Toronto Police are now out on their bicycles, and as fate would have it, two of them were cycling down Bolton Street just as we exploded out of the schoolyard.
“This fag tried to pick us up!” the crying boy yelled at the police officers.
And then I believe I was Tasered.
The last week has been a bit of a blur.