Glenn Takes Action
This is post 33 of Section III. To begin at the beginning, go here. Section II begins here. Section III begins here.
After dispatching Frank, Jack went to the bar to get much needed drinks for himself and Glenn. He had to go around the crowd on the way back to avoid collisions, and as he came close to the stairs he was startled to find Bennett there, staring at the scene in wide-eyed horror.
“Wait here,” Jack said, but he knew he could not make himself heard above the din. He tossed back his own drink, put his brother’s down hurriedly on the table, muttered a doubtless inaudible apology, and made his way back in time to rescue the old professor from Sheba’s well-intentioned ministrations. Steering the man by the elbow, Jack helped him descend the staircase and exit the club.
For some reason, watching his brother leave in that way infuriated Glenn more than anything else that night—more than being duped and frustrated by Frank, even. As he had always suspected, these people were animals, driven along by their basest, most perverse inclinations. His own brother was worse than any of them, because he was the biggest hypocrite. All his pretentious “refinement”—positively wallowing in culture. He remembered Jack sneering at his collection of John Grisham paperbacks, tolerating the country music station in the car. Then he practically ran out with that disgusting old queen as soon as he crooked his little finger. On the eve of his so-called commitment ceremony, no less. It nauseated Glenn, and he was by God going to do something about it.
Slamming down his half-drunk fourth whisky, he followed Frank to the men’s room, where that artist was complimenting Robert on his embouchure, and Robert was half-heartedly explaining that commitment was not just a straight thing.
Glenn took it all in at a glance. “You people make me sick,” he said. “Commitment means nothing to you. Look at you. Cavorting with some sick fucking drag queen. I came in here to beat the crap out of him, but you know what? I’m not even gonna get my hands that dirty. You disgust me. Oh, and in case you care, Robert, Jack just left with some fat old faggot.” He stared at them and shook his head. “Damn. My ex-wife had nothing on you guys.” Turning on his heel, he departed.
Continue
After dispatching Frank, Jack went to the bar to get much needed drinks for himself and Glenn. He had to go around the crowd on the way back to avoid collisions, and as he came close to the stairs he was startled to find Bennett there, staring at the scene in wide-eyed horror.
“Wait here,” Jack said, but he knew he could not make himself heard above the din. He tossed back his own drink, put his brother’s down hurriedly on the table, muttered a doubtless inaudible apology, and made his way back in time to rescue the old professor from Sheba’s well-intentioned ministrations. Steering the man by the elbow, Jack helped him descend the staircase and exit the club.
For some reason, watching his brother leave in that way infuriated Glenn more than anything else that night—more than being duped and frustrated by Frank, even. As he had always suspected, these people were animals, driven along by their basest, most perverse inclinations. His own brother was worse than any of them, because he was the biggest hypocrite. All his pretentious “refinement”—positively wallowing in culture. He remembered Jack sneering at his collection of John Grisham paperbacks, tolerating the country music station in the car. Then he practically ran out with that disgusting old queen as soon as he crooked his little finger. On the eve of his so-called commitment ceremony, no less. It nauseated Glenn, and he was by God going to do something about it.
Slamming down his half-drunk fourth whisky, he followed Frank to the men’s room, where that artist was complimenting Robert on his embouchure, and Robert was half-heartedly explaining that commitment was not just a straight thing.
Glenn took it all in at a glance. “You people make me sick,” he said. “Commitment means nothing to you. Look at you. Cavorting with some sick fucking drag queen. I came in here to beat the crap out of him, but you know what? I’m not even gonna get my hands that dirty. You disgust me. Oh, and in case you care, Robert, Jack just left with some fat old faggot.” He stared at them and shook his head. “Damn. My ex-wife had nothing on you guys.” Turning on his heel, he departed.
Continue
posted by Hobbes at 5:39 AM
2 Comments:
This sort of levels the playing field for me as showing that we are all people first and the sad shape of so many relationships is a human condition in this culture and not a gay or straight problem.
But I am confused on the transexual thing, for I was of the understanding that the majority of men dressing as women were still straight and loyal in their commitments, sort of like being a lesbian trapped in a man's body or some sort of fantasy play or fetish. I thought that the few transexual gays were actually male prostitutes that were making their johns feel more comfortable. I knew several prostitutes that begged me to become a male prostitute because many of her johns wanted sex with another man on the side but wished to maintain their straight family relationship.
Our confusion seems to be syntax, as defining exactly what gay means to each of us.
This Glen, Jack and Ed situation is very clever and very well written and constructed! It is amusing and exemplifies peoples hasty generalizations like they say about the word 'assume' as making an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me'.
I don't think Frank is a transsexual. He just did that as a practical joke, I think.
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