For Those Who Serve
“What’s with Carl?”
Brian’s question made all the guys turn to look, until he glared at them, that is. “That was not a signal for all of you to act boorishly. More than you usually do. I was not requesting an inquiry into the matter, I was asking if any of you jokers are already aware of Carl being upset about something.”
Of those present, Emmett, Ted, Michael and Ben, none was exactly eager to stick his head out and receive even more abuse, but in Justin’s absence, Emmett was the most fearless..or the most foolish. Ben was never quite sure which adjective fit. Perhaps both.
“If you tell us what makes you ask about Carl, handsome, then we might find that we know more than you think.”
Brian’s expression conveyed exactly how unlikely he thought that was. But, with another glance toward the counter, he seemed to make up his mind.
“I’ll be back.”
Brian got up and walked over to the counter, while Ted informed the others that Carl was having an apparently upsetting conversation on his phone, with Debbie patting him on the back.
“He even looks like he might have been crying,” Ted whispered.
“Ma is with him, though. Wonder what Brian thinks he can do?”
“Didn’t you tell me Carl has a son in the Reserves,” Ben asked his husband in a low voice..
“He does!” Emmett answered for Michael, his voice pitched high until the others gave him warning looks. He lowered it to an excited whisper. “Sorry, but Ben’s right! Carl’s youngest is a son; he has two girls and a boy. The boy was in the Reserves but got called up last year. Damn, I hope he hasn’t gotten bad news.”
They all watched, concerned, as Brian sat down at the counter on the stool next to Carl.
**********************************
“What can I do to help?”
Carl laughed slightly. “You don’t even know what’s wrong.”
“I can tell there's something wrong with a friend, and that’s enough. Need money, a car, a hitman, whatever, if I have it, it’s yours, if I don’t have it, I’ll tell Theodore to find it. If it’s a comforting ear and someone to say the right thing at a tough time,” Brian looked at Debbie, then leaned closer and said, “I’ll call Justin and tell him to get his bubble butt over here.”
That got a real laugh out of Carl, which deepened when Debbie smacked Brian on the side of his head with her order pad.
“What do you think I’m doing, asshole? Just standing around looking beautiful?”
Brian looked at Carl and winked, before drawling, “Well, yeah.”
“It’s okay, babe. I don’t mind telling this lost boy of yours what’s what,” Carl told her. He motioned for Brian to sit down on the stool next to him. Deb walked behind the counter to pour all three of them a fresh cup of coffee. She sent a warning glare over toward the guys at the booth, just in case any of them got it into their head to follow Brian’s lead. She didn’t need a crowd – Brian was enough. He might be an asshole, but he was an asshole who generally knew how to get things done. Carl took a deep breath and retold his story as plainly as he could. He wasn’t one for dramatizing a tale.
“My son’s best friend, Ryan Thomas, boy who grew up next door, was like another son to my wife and me, like a brother to my kids. He and Carl Jr. went into the service together, oh, twenty-two years ago now. When they hit their twenty, Carl Jr. retired but Ryan joined the Reserves. Felt strongly about supporting the effort in Iraq, not leaving his men, ‘the kids’ he called them, alone.”
“What happened?” Brian asked softly although he was pretty sure he could guess the ending to this story. It was happening all over the country, time and again as the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan dragged on. Carl’s faded but still keen blue eyes met Brian’s hazel ones and he knew that the younger man had already guessed what he had to tell him.
“Ryan was killed,” Brian said it for him.
“Yes, last week. His body is being flown in tomorrow and the funeral will be Friday.” Carl fell silent and there was a long pause while all three of them sipped their coffee and thought about...well, different things. They each had a different reaction to a man being struck down in his prime due to war, but on one point they agreed – it was bad, and the soldier who gave his all deserved honor.
After a while, Carl spoke again, his voice shaking with barely suppressed emotion.
“My son called me – he heard from some reliable sources that there’s going to be problem about the funeral that I just don’t know how we’re going to fix – but I have to try.”
“Is there a worry about money?” Brian hazarded a guess. He knew Carl. There wasn’t much the man couldn’t handle, the retired detective was as tough as they came – but he wasn’t rich. As Carl’s surprised eyes flew to his face, Brian said, almost shyly, “Listen, it’s only money. I know the service pays very little toward a veteran’s funeral when all is said and done. If the family needs more, you just tell the funeral home to....”
Carl placed his hand on Brian’s arm, staying his words. Deb was quiet – for once – but her eyes were looking at her “lost boy” with pride.
“Money’s not the problem, son, but your generous offer is appreciated. And you’re right. The government benefits don’t go far. A small marker and a flag, and the right to be buried in a veteran’s cemetery. Ryan’s funeral will be here in Pittsburgh, with his widow and kids in attendance. My son is escorting the casket home.” Carl fell silent again.
Brian leaned forward and tapped the counter. Carl jerked out of his reverie.
“Oh, sorry. The problem is....did you ever hear of the Westboro Baptist Church?”
Brian frowned. “Isn’t that the crazy group that Fred Flintstone guy heads up? Goes after servicemen as a way of attacking gays?”
Debbie jumped into the breach. “He should be called Fred Flintstone, only he has less brains. The so-called reverend Fred Phelps – says our boys...and girls too... die over there in Iraq and Afghanistan, because God is angry at the country because of its acceptance of gays. Which means, I suppose, that he’s tickled pink with the Tally Bane and all those folks who kill aid workers and prevent women from going to school?” Debbie wiped at her eyes with her apron and stood up.
“These...these bastards go to funerals of fallen servicemen, fallen policemen, fallen heroes and they put on their so-called protests, disturbing the grieving family. It’s just wrong.”
“Doesn’t anyone do anything to stop them?” Brian asked.
“It’s their right to protest,” Carl said heavily. “That’s what makes our country different from those countries we’re fighting in – we believe in free speech. Even when it’s stupid speech by assholes.”
Brian’s brows were drawn together. “I’ve read about this group. Isn’t there another group that leads a counter protest whenever Phelps’ gang is scheduled to appear? A bunch of motorcycle riders?”
Carl nodded. “The Patriot Guard Riders. They got together to give some protection to the families of the soldiers. They started out as a group of bikers but the groups grown since its early days. Trouble is, even with the large numbers of Riders, Phelps’ people have grown in numbers too. And the Riders can’t be everywhere.”
“You tried to get them,” Brian guessed.
Carl nodded. “The local group had already committed to going to a funeral in West Virginia. Jack, the squad leader, told me they would try to send a group, but without a good-sized turn-out, those bastards will make a mockery of a good man’s funeral and make a tough day even harder on his wife and kids.”
“Well,” Brian said, “we can’t let that happen. Give me the particulars, Carl.”
“Now you’re talkin’,” Deb said happily. “We’ll get together a couple dozen real flaming fags and....”
Carl looked a little worried. “Deb, Brian, I appreciate your wanting to help but the Patriot Guard Riders, they don’t get into a confrontation with the Westboro people. The point of what they do is to show respect. The kind of respect that those so-called church people don’t show.”
Brian smiled faintly. “I understand completely, Carl. I’m sorry for your loss and I don’t think anyone should try pushing their agenda at this man’s funeral. If you can give me the name of the person with the Patriot Guard Riders who you spoke with, I’ll see what can be done about supplementing the ranks with some new members.”
Carl looked into Brian’s eyes one more time and whatever he saw there made him relax. The two men shook hands and then Brian went back to the booth while Debbie continued to console her man.
**********************************
“What was all that about,” Michael asked as soon as Brian returned to the table.
“You’ll know soon enough, Mikey, my friend. A question that must first be answered – how many of you can ride a Harley?”
They stared at him, dumbfounded. He nodded briskly. “I’ll take that as a yes. Schmidt, get on the phone to Mel’s dyke friend....”
“Isn’t that kind of like saying call that trick Brian fucked?” Emmett asked Michael in a stage whisper.
“Doesn’t narrow it down much,” Michael agreed, trying to hide his grin.
“No more interruptions,” Brian ordered. As succinctly as only he could be, he explained the situation. Once he finished, he held up a hand. “No time,” he told them.
“For what?” Michael asked, a bit indignantly, since they’d listened without a single interruption.
“For Ben to discuss the deeper sociologic aspects of the situation, for Emmett to lament his lack of any really stylish funeral wear....”
“That is also suitable for riding a motorcycle,” Emmett managed to interject before Ted kicked him.
“We get your point, boss. No need to get to me,” Ted assured Brian.
“Oh, but I feel I must,” Brian said, a wicked gleam in his eyes.
“What’s up?” Justin walked up and sat down next to Brian, pulling his head down so he could kiss him.
“Saved by the blond,” Ted murmured, but low enough not to bring any unwanted attention back to him. He was lucky, by the time Brian and Justin finished greeting each other, Brian had lost interest in taunting Ted and was once more focused on his mission. He quickly explained it to the others. Mindful of his earlier warning, they kept their commentary brief. Justin, however, couldn’t help showing his shock.
“So I want to understand this -- these so-called Christians show up at the funerals of soldiers and stage a protest about gays – they don’t even limit it to gay soldiers, or soldiers with gay family members?”
“Has nothing to do with the orientation of the soldier, sonnyboy,” Brian said. “These good Christian folk say that God is letting our soldiers die because the United States lets fags live.”
“That’s insane,” Justin whispered. He moved a little closer to Brian even as, unconsciously, he rubbed his hand, the hand that would never be fully functional after the baseball bat connected with his head. The bat wielded by a classmate who probably agreed with Rev. Phelps.
Justin lifted his chin and looked around the booth. “We’re going to help, right?”
Ben smiled proudly. Emmett clapped. Michael just said, “Of course we are, Brian has a plan.”
Brian didn’t do anything that the others noticed, but Justin felt the increased pressure from Brian’s arm around him and he beamed his “sunshine smile.” Rage was more than a match for the Westboro Baptist Church – with J.T. and friends at his side.
**********************************
“Hey stud, you ready to ride or are you going tandem today? And when do we catch up with Tucker and the others? The cemetery?” Leda grinned at Brian as he walked over to the line-up of bikes she had ready for his inspection. He’d arranged for everyone who needed to borrow a bike – experienced riders only – to come to Leda’s shop Friday. They were to arrive early enough for her to satisfy herself that the rider was licensed and qualified – two things that didn’t necessarily go together. She’d readied some fine looking machines for them, and was giving Brian a major discount on the rentals. She would have done it for free but he insisted on paying her something. Times were tough all over and she had a lot of money sunk into her babies, as she called them.
Brian smirked at her – this was one woman he’d always liked. Probably because she reminded him of himself.
“I always handle the driving, darling. But there will be a few who will prefer to ride as passengers, either behind or in those sidecars, so those twenty bikes are plenty. The rest of the group – Tucker and the others with their own bikes – are meeting up with us at the church. We want to be ready in case Phelps’ people show up there.”
Leda nodded, all humor leaving her face. “I can’t fathom it, Brian. It must be so hard to lose the person you love to war. What kind of person could watch a woman or man, or hell, children, in that kind of place of deep grief, and want to yell insults and obscene hatred at them? Are they even capable of humanity?”
“Nope. They’re not,” Brian said, not a doubt in his mind.
Everything went smoothly until they arrived at the cemetery. Brian had met with Paul, the representative from the Patriot Guard Riders who was in charge of their contingent handling this “mission”, two days earlier. Paul had gone over the ground rules.
“Respect and shield, son. That’s what the Patriot Guard Riders are all about. We’re not about arguing the rights and wrongs of those Westboro people. We’re there at the invitation of the soldier’s family to make sure that the fallen soldier is laid to rest with respect and that the family is shielded from outside disturbance. Do you think your folks can do that – without causing any increased disturbance? If you can’t, we’d rather make do with just the handful that we have, though we appreciate your offer.”
“So if I say I want to bring two dozen flaming queers on pink Harleys you’d tell me thanks but no thanks,” Brian said, deadpan.
Paul cracked a grin. “Much as I’d love to see that, since it’d be sure to cause a lot of those Phelps people to have a coronary, I think I would have to pass. Be a hell of a sight though. Mind you, a few of my people might have coronaries at the sight of a pink Harley, but I say, what you do to your hog is your own damn business.”
Brian assured him that there would be no pink Harleys, nor any counter-protests.
As he and Justin had gotten ready that morning, Justin had voiced some qualms over the restriction. “I don’t know if I can do this, Brian. Are you saying that we have to just take it if they yell their poison directly at me. I’m not one to just stand quietly and take it. It seems...cowardly.”
Brian had wrapped his arms around Justin and pulled him close.
“There are times when it takes the braver man to stay quiet in the face of strong provocation, sonnyboy. When this is over, remind me to see if Netflix has ‘The Quiet Man’ available.”
“Huh?”
“Great old movie. John Wayne in a role where he shows he’s a man by not fighting and not responding to the challenges thrown his way. I won’t say any more, we’ll watch it after we make it through our ‘mission.’ For now, just take my word for it that sometimes, it takes the bigger man to turn away from a fight. There’s something bigger at stake. You know I’m not one for the pomp and ceremony of death rituals myself, but if there is ever a time when a person deserves to have peace and respect shown to them, it’s got to be a family burying their father or mother killed in a war or in the line of duty as a cop or fireman. So if I have to stand in a line and sing hymns to drown them out, then damn it, that’s what I’ll do.”
Justin had rested his head on Brian’s chest. “I’ll be right by your side – if only to hear you sing a hymn.” He’d giggled slightly when Brian swatted his ass. “No, seriously, do you even know any?”
“Altar boy, remember? Singing the hymns was mandatory in my parish.”
Brian thought back to their conversation as they rode to the cemetery; he and Leda rode near the front of the line, right behind Paul’s contingent. Justin’s arms were clasped tightly around his waist. He thought he might talk to Leda about getting a bike. He’d loved riding when he was in college and a second hand bike was all he could afford for transportation. Of course, he wouldn’t want Justin riding a motorcycle on his own. He shuddered at the thought.
They pulled into the formation that Paul had told them to take. The hearse had not arrived yet but the soldiers who would be doing the military salute and playing Taps were setting up.
The Westboro Baptist Church members were setting up too, unfurling their banners and handing out their pickets. Even small children were handed signs that proclaimed hate.
“Thank God For Dead Soldiers”
“Soldiers Die, God Laughs”
“You Will Eat Your Children”
“Fags Doom-nation”
“God Hates Fag Enablers”
“Jesus Christ,” Leda whispered as they read the signs.
“Jesus has nothing to do with these folks, miss,” Paul told her.
“They don’t just hate us, they actually hate the soldiers who have died for them, what kind of twisted logic is that,” the beautiful woman asked the Vet, who’d seen service in Vietnam and knew something about ungrateful protesters.
Brian felt Justin trembling next to him. He took his bad hand with his left and Leda’s left hand with his right. Turning his back on the Westboro protesters, he quietly called the others to join them as they arrived, Ben and Michael on Justin’s other side, Mel and Lindsay on Leda’s, then Emmett and Ted, Tucker and Jennifer, two by two they formed a human chain. As the Honor Guard completed its preparations, the Patriot Guard Riders and their assistants formed a human wall between them and the ugly words of the protesters.
When the hearse appeared, followed by a long line of mourners, the Westboro group added chants to their protest. Ugly chants. They brought glares to some faces, though others had trouble holding back tears. Brian was sorry to see that Jen Taylor was having trouble keeping her composure – her face was hidden against Tucker’s shoulder. He was proud to see Justin’s blue eyes were dry and his chin up.
“That’s my boy,” he whispered, causing a faint smile to ghost over Justin’s features.
Paul walked over to Brian, his expression tired.
“This is where it gets rough folks, but you’ve been doing great so far. We’re really glad you’re here. They fooled us a bit. We thought they’d have more people at a funeral taking place in West Virginia so we sent most of our local folks over there. But they’re out in full force here.”
“What does that mean in terms of what we need to do,” Justin asked.
“We need to drown them out with less people – without being rude. Any of you know any funeral type songs?”
“We’re all ready,” Brian told him. “Schmidt, you have the song sheets ready?”
“Yes, boss.”
Ted moved quickly down the line. For all that he gave his assistant grief, Brian had to admit, the man could be a marvel of organization. Before the pall bearers took their first step up the hill that led from the parking lot to gravesite, he had all of them prepared with the sheet music in hand, the keyboard player and guitarists that no one had noticed until now positioned just behind them with their amplifiers, and two long solid rows of Patriot Guard Riders and Liberty Avenue regulars. They’d gotten a list of the family’s favorite hymns from Carl.
At Brian’s signal, Ted started them off with the first one, singing in his strong baritone:
A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing;
Our helper He, amid the flood of mortal ills prevailing:
For still our ancient foe doth seek to work us woe;
His craft and power are great, and, armed with cruel hate,
On earth is not his equal.
Appropriate choice, Brian thought, as he stared at the angry faces of the Westboro church members. They’re certainly armed with “cruel hate” and he had no doubt that if there were a devil, he’d be more than happy to claim those folks as his disciples.
Still, the Riders and the Liberty gang persevered in peaceful resistance – shielding the family and mourners from the hatred wielded by the uninvited guests. Ted would have lowered their volume when the priest was speaking words over the casket, but that was when the Westboro contingent got even louder. He looked to Brian for direction.
On cue, Brian stepped forward several steps, and an expectant hush fell. A large man who, despite his clerical collar, was holding one of the most profane signs, stepped forward as though to meet a challenge. The hand not grasping the signpost was in a fist. They stopped while still ten feet apart.
Brian smiled. He’d already achieved his primary goal – there was silence for the final prayers at the grave. But he knew he had to do something to keep this group off guard to keep them quiet. He opened his mouth...and sang. A capella.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch, like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.
It would have been difficult to say which group was more stunned. Ben whispered to Michael, “Where did he learn to sing like that? He’s amazing.”
“He’s always been a good singer, but eight years of mandatory church choir under Sister Mary Benedict refined his natural talent. Made him hate to sing too. Usually takes a quart of whiskey to get him to sing,” Michael told his husband, biting back a sigh. He’d adored going to choir practice, even though he’d never been very good. Listening to Brian sing – it was one of the few good things about church. No, it had been the only good thing back then. He’d always suspected Brian loved the attention it got him more than he ever let on.
It was working today. As a group, they’d sounded good but not good enough to sway the Westboro gang from their mission of hate. Something about the tall handsome figure standing alone against them, singing the most beloved song of redemption in the voice of an angel – even these modern day Pharisees couldn’t remain unmoved.
By the end of the second verse, many of the Westboro protesters had lowered their signs. By the third, some of them had started walking away, although many were listening with bowed heads. By the time Brian was finishing the fourth and final verse, the only Westboro people who remained near were the man who had come forward to confront him and a handful of his followers, who seemed to be waiting to walk him back to their bus.
“You won this one, faggot, but you’ll burn in hell,” the man said to him in a deep voice, as though he were Moses giving news from the Mount, as he later described it to the gang.
“Better people than you have said that to me, padre,” Brian assured him pleasantly. “But never, to my knowledge, anyone who actually was from there like you, Padre. Have a nice trip back “
As the man sputtered, trying to think of an appropriate response, Brian turned and walked back to his friends. He reached his spot in the line just as the Captain of the Honor Guard called for his men to present arms.
“Fire!”
“Present arms...fire!”
“Present arms...fire!”
And then “Taps.” Brian pulled Justin into his arms and they stood together, back to chest, and watched as the family and friends said a sad...but peacefully undisturbed...final goodbye, to a man who had died in the service of his country.
**********************************
Author's Note: The Patriot Guard Riders is a real organization, initially formed in 2005, to protect and shield the families of soldiers fallen in Afghanistan and Iraq from the protests of the Westboro Baptist Church. The WBC, which is not affiliated with any legitimate branch of the Baptist Church in the U.S., has used actual signs as are depicted in this story. I wouldn’t make up signs that hateful and attribute them to anyone as I’d find it too despicable. Sadly, the truth is that bad and worse. The wonderful thing is that the Patriot Guard Riders started out as some Vets on Motorcycles and has grown from there to number some 170,000. They do not limit their members to just veterans and if you are interested, check out their site: http://www.patriotguard.org/ Fallen heroes deserve respect and it is disgraceful and sick that these people have linked treating gay citizens decently to the cause of these deaths. As Brian says, a person like Fred Phelps doesn’t have a place in hell waiting for him, he is already a comfortable disciple of the place.