One, two, three: “scissors.” My opponent has
rock. I lose. One, two, three: “scissors.” He
has paper. I win. Now comes the tie-breaking
third match. My opponent looks devious.
He’s trying to get me to reveal something, I
can just tell. You can always tell with people
like him. You just can. It’s never enough for
his kind to win a little bit. He wants to win it
all. He wants all the attention. He can’t stand
to be without attention.
He wants me to tip my hand, to give him
a clue. He has an agenda, that’s for sure. I
can tell by his wispy facial hair. People with
wispy facial hair always have an agenda.
There’s something about his eyes, too. It’s
plain as day that he just wants to embarrass
me. He thinks he looks good when I look bad.
He’s up to something. He has an agenda.
One, two, three: “rock.” He has paper. I
lose. We had bet that I could not be forced to
become gay.
But just like that, the person sitting
across my desk, Derek Jones, successfully
made me a gay convert. He couldn’t beat me
at arm wrestling. We tried that. He couldn’t
stare me down. We could have had a boxing
match, a home-run derby, a drinking contest
or any other manly-man duel. We passed
on coin flips, guess-my-weight, and shortstraws
before settling into rock, paper, scissors.
Now, I begin my first day as a gay man
in Utah. This will be hard news for my kids.
My mother will be surprised. Once my wife
quits cheering, she’ll be happy to learn that
I’ve already become expert at not only separating
whites from colors, but I can wash,
iron and fold, too.
I’ve known Derek since he began working
at City Weekly. He’s a great guy, a fine
employee who attracts attention like oil
attracts water. As the world now knows (my
son was asked about it while vacationing
on Santorini), Derek is also gay. Following
a Gallivan Center concert last Thursday,
Derek and his partner, Matthew Aune, began
walking home. They live just a few blocks
north of Gallivan, on Main Street. Between
their home and the Gallivan is the Main
Street Plaza, owned, maintained and black-boot
protected by the LDS Church.
With a backdrop of lawsuits predicting
exactly the Derek/Matt scenario, the church
bought that block of Main Street from Salt
Lake City in the late 1990s. In time, Main
Street morphed into the Main Street Plaza
you see today—a Burma Road, a gantlet, a
no-man’s land bereft of the free expression
that used to come with the constitutional
rights afforded everyone traversing that very
public section of Main Street. (I get it: It’s
private property. The church can do what it
wants. Some behavior
is tolerated, some is
not. Policy is inconsistent.
Now, shut up and
go back to the Tribune
comment boards.)
On July 9, just
yards from exiting
the Plaza, Matt pulled
Derek towards him
and gave him a kiss on
the cheek. Derek says
that particular public
display of affection
(PDA) was spontaneous
and nothing more.
But, I asked him, all
those people commenting
on the Deseret News, KSL and Salt
Lake Tribune Websites can’t be wrong, can
they? You can tell me, Derek, I cooed—you
were really getting it on just to prove a point,
weren’t you? You were having sex, weren’t
you? You knew people were watching, yet
insulted them and the LDS Church, too, didn’t
you? You have an agenda, don’t you?
Since I’d only been on Derek’s team a few
minutes, he had no reason to lie to me. “No,”
he said. “We were just walking home. It was
late, and it was dark. We couldn’t see anyone.
If we had an agenda, wouldn’t we wait
until someone was looking?” Someone was.
Derek’s cheek was still moist when security
guards dressed in black approached from
the darkness and asked the couple to leave.
They said PDAs weren’t allowed on the
plaza. But as plaza-walking veterans who,
like everyone else, had witnessed plaza
saliva-sharing before, Derek and Matt knew
better. They didn’t know better to shut up,
though. They asked why their PDA was different
than that of other couples.
The security goons were stumped. Derek
and his partner became defiant. More security
guards were summoned. Take a question,
add two parts differing opinion, one
part confusion, 10 parts homophobia, blend
with some fear and swearing and, before
you can say Liberace, the two shouting and
scared gays were separated and handcuffed,
and Derek was forced to the ground. At very
nearly the same time, Derek
heard one of the rent-a-cops
say their PDA was disgusting.
He could have been
looking in a mirror.
On Monday, July 13,
Carole Mikita (aka KSL TV’s
ace-in-the-hole Church
apologist) held up the Salt
Lake City Police report citing
Derek and Matt for trespassing.
That report says
Matt smelled of alcohol. The
nitwits commenting on the
KSL.com site understood
the secret signal to smear
the couple by alluding that
smelling alcohol equates to
public drunkenness. In Utah, being gay is
one thing, but being a drunken gay is a whole
other kingdom.
“It was already reported I had one beer at
Gallivan,” said Derek. Ah, come on, Derek.
What was your real plan? “Our plan was to go
home. We weren’t drunk, and we didn’t have
an agenda,” he repeated. “All anybody has
to do is look at the security cameras.” Yikes!
They have cameras?
If they do, here’s the rub: The jackboots
who wrestled Derek Jones to the ground, did
so stone-cold sober; no excuses. At about 120
pounds when sopping wet, Derek’s not only
a great rocks, paper, scissors player, he’s a
better man than the hoodlums patrolling the
LDS Church Main Street Plaza.