STRENGTH IN NUMBERS

Part of the charm of snow in Vancouver, is that never lasts more than three days; if you want to enjoy it you have to act fast. Such was the case last Saturday before work at around five in the morning. It was beautiful down by the beach, the landscape glowing in the dark, the ocean quietly lapping up against the snow that had nary a footprint. Snowmen stood guard on the beach on the lookout for enemy vessels while a snow couple took in the view on a bench by the Inukshuk; the snowwoman had big boobs. Hawkeye was in all his glory, bounding through the snowdrifts. We couldn’t have been happier; I couldn’t have imagined a more perfect way to start the day.
As we were walking back from the Inukshuk I could hear some morons whooping and hollering from the parking lot at the bottom of Jervis St overlooking the water. I wasn’t alone; there were a few couples, mostly male and the odd straggler. The noise of these three guys startled Hawkeye – he doesn’t like loud noises, be it firecrackers or my cell phone vibrating on the kitchen counter – so he stuck close to my side.
“Hey man, what’s going on?” one of the three morons shouted.
“Not much Dude, what about you?” There was no one around. The other two guys hung back a bit, packing snowballs. Instinctively, I reached into my pocket and felt around for my phone. It wasn’t there. I couldn’t believe it. I’m always joking with Upchuck, “I better take my phone with me in case I need to call the police.” The only time I forgot to bring it with me and I needed to do just that. This has the potential of getting ugly so I quickly examined what my options were. The cement path had yet to be cleared; if I ran, I risked slipping. The tide was in, beating against the seawall so I couldn’t go out towards the water. The only way to go was forward.
“We think you’re pretty ugly,” the moron said.
It was tempting to go into bitch mode. “Had I known I was going to be doing the catwalk, I would have put my contact lenses in,” I wanted to say, but I didn’t want to give these guys any more ammunition that they already had. If I got into a game of name calling it could potentially be described to the police as “Asking for it,” or “Flaunting it.” So I had to settle for, “Then what does that make you?”
“One good looking guy,” he said. “We’re looking for an excuse not to beat the shit out of you.”
“Yeah, you fucking fag,” another one said from the darkness. “You’re fucking dog is ugly. I have a German Sheppard that’s going to kill your dog.”
Part of me wanted to shout, “You want a piece of me mother-fuckers? Bring it on!” Four guys in jumped in park in San Francisco; I walked away with a tiny fracture in my foot, but I walked away. But there were only fists involved in that altercation, who knew what these guys were hiding. Still, you get so fucking sick of these of three-on-ones. “If you guys are so tough, why does it need three of you to take one fag down?” I wanted to shout, but again, if I said anything to antagonize them, it could be interpreted that I was egging them on.
I kept staring at the guy who was talking to me, meeting his gaze trying to get a good look him – sending telepathic messages, “I’m not afraid of you,” even though I was shaking inside with fear and rage. One of them threw a snowball at me, nicking the edge of my coat. “Faggot!” one of his friends shouted from behind him. I just kept walking, never taking my eyes off them. Another couple of guys came around the bend, and the three of them stepped back out of eyeshot.
When I got home, I called 911 to let them know about the three shit-disturbers on the beach, knowing they would be long gone by the time cops got there, if they bother to investigate it at all.

GarpinBC