The town was virtually dead, known to anyone passing through as simply “the speed trap.” It was true, most of its revenue came from the pockets of travelers who missed the 45 miles per hour signs. And who could blame them? There was no town visible except for a few gas stations and fast food restaurants.
According to some, the town had died when they built the overpass over the railroad tracks, allowing travelers to pass over it in seconds. Others said it was the orange crop freezing at the turn of the century.
The poverty was evident. Two streets over, empty shells of houses exposed themselves to passers-by, as if the abandoned toys and bicycles littering the yard had been squeezed out through the open doors and windows. With everything wide open, it was as if the former residents were a flock of birds that had simply been released out of the openings.
“Why did I come back here?” he asked himself, as he stood in the doorway of the coffee shop/art gallery he had opened on the corner in the old, brick building that had formerly been the town's bank. There was no bank at all now.
He had his own newspaper column in LA and could have just as easily started a trendy, environmentally friendly coffee shop out there. But something was always there, a nagging feeling that he had run away from his past. He wanted to bring something back to the community even though they didn’t accept him.
Still, it wasn’t too bad. He had only been called a “fag” one time since he’d been back and that time not directly to his face.
And a place like this brought the liberals out of the woodwork. There were more artists and vegetarians in the area than he ever imagined, and they filed in and out in their sandals and khaki shorts.
Rays of light shown in from the shop-sized windows that lined the two walls facing the highway. The shop was furnished with second-hand couches, tables, and even a couple of the pews from the old Episcopal church, which was ironic because they had never approved of his lifestyle.
Because the old building was designed to be cool without air conditioning, he could be “eco-friendly” and only use the fans. Still, the Florida summer heat ensured that a majority of his sales were iced coffees.
Roland, known to his friends as Ro, adjusted his khaki-colored cap which always covered his short, fashionably greying hair. Even under the old cap, his deep blue eyes shone brilliantly. It was a particularly hot afternoon, so he turned on the industrial-sized fans.
Just outside the door, a boy about ten or 11 pulled up on an oversized bike and stood balancing with one foot on the ground, the other on the pedal. He was a typical town kid, in knee-length shorts, a sleeveless basketball jersey, and dirty tennis shoes.
“How you doin,’” Ro said.
“I was wondering if I could sweep off your sidewalk for some money,” the boy said.
Ro looked out at the walk, lined with newly planted miniature azaleas, and it was evident that Pam, his only part-time employee, a trendy college girl from South Florida, had already swept. But still, he wanted to help the boy somehow.
“Well, we already did it this morning, but there’s some stuff you could help me with in the courtyard out back” he said.
The boy looked inside, hesitant. They were not alone. Several customers sat chatting with Pam at the tables by the big open windows. Another student sat staring into his laptop.
“No,” the boy said. “My mom told me that if I came to work for you, not to let you take me in the back.”
His heart sank. The old feeling was back, the feeling of being watched, being judged. “She wouldn’t just say something like that specifically about me without explaining why,” he thought.
“Thanks, I’ll find someone else,” he told the boy.
The hardest part was that he really loved kids. As a volunteer in the relief effort after Katrina, he’d helped put bows on all the toys for the children to make it feel like Christmas. In the Angel march to commemorate Matthew Shepherd, he had seen children with their parents holding anti-gay protest signs. One particular child held one saying “Matt in Hell,” and he wondered if he knew what it meant. What was funny about it, though, was when he noticed one of the kids yawning behind his sign. Hate doesn’t begin early, he thought. If it does, they don’t know why they are doing it, just mimicking the adults in their life.
He can only smile cautiously when the rows of kids file by the windows after school lets out, but it never gets any easier.
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