Bury Your Gays

by Chuck Tingle

“One choice was for art and the other for commerce.” Jack can’t help cracking a smile. “God bless you, Misha. You still think there’s a difference.”

They say you know it’s love when someone offers to drive you to LAX, and right now I’m feeling the love.

Sometimes kindness is a duty, a job that one sets out to accomplish with time and patience and effort. People who feel this way, myself included, fight against some other gnawing instinct within; we bloom like a flower from the dirt. It’s an honorable thing to strive for, and there’s nothing bad I can say about that kind of growth. Other folks, however, don’t even think about it. There’s some uncanny spark that always pushes them to make the right choice, because they’re not even aware a choice exists. It’s just what they do.

“The same goes for fear, though. You don’t wanna feel that way all the time, but it’s a muscle that needs to be exercised. There are scary things in the world, that’s just a fact, and if you pretend they’re not all around us then you’re in for a rude awakening. Horror offers a chance to recognize this truth, to explore dark places in a safe way.”

“This is how scary stories work, how horror works. We’re all still here, safe and alive. We’ve had that primal rush and exercised those muscles to remind us death is eventually coming for everyone, but not today.”

Surprisingly, despite the uncomfortable departure time, my flight is packed with fellow travelers. Each and every one of us has a reason to make the leap from Billings to Los Angeles, our own story to tell that’s brought us together for a singular moment when these paths finally cross. Hundreds of life stories all crammed into one shiny metal tube.

People love a good tragedy, a fall from grace that ends with a violent crash. I keep trying to cast myself as the hero in this tale, but there’s more than one kind of hero. A tragic hero is just as common as a noble one, and as Jack Hays said: queer tragedy sells.

“Your stories aren’t worth your life.” My stories are my life, I think, but I don’t say this.

Los Angeles is a beautiful place, and for the lucky few who can make it work here that splendor can last. But most of the hopefuls who leap from their Greyhound buses with fresh-faced excitement are not as fortunate. When the cold black waves of disappointment come crashing over them, the beauty fades quick. The sunsets here are gorgeous, but they hang over a profoundly haunted place. Every apartment in this town holds the memory of a similar story, a classic tale of Hollywood heartbreak repeating over and over again.

Being quietly out of the closet was always good enough, but as the hourglass of my life drains I can’t help considering if good enough is really what I’d like written on my tombstone.

We all have our own ways of dealing with tragedy, and sometimes that means drowning ourselves in reality television.

With approximately thirty hours left before a ghost forcefully removes your bones, it’s slightly easier to be the hero you’ve always dreamed of.

He tries his best to stay upright, but this matchup between tire iron and skull has a clear winner.

“You’re terrified that you’re about to get caught in a trap,” he says. “Guys like you don’t realize the trap has already sprung. You’ve been a rabbit in a cage this whole time. In fact, you’re already diced up on the cutting board, getting seasoned.”

Nobody has to be a hero for anyone else, that’s kinda the whole point.”

“Lots of people are legends, the good and the bad. Circumstances can make you a legend.” I sigh. “Heroes are much rarer. Heroes take action.”

I’m just a man, and while I’ve found power through my art, the gallery has the upper hand.

On a long enough timeline, endings are inevitable. Tragedy is inevitable. Fortunately, so is joy.