Free Mahu Fire by Neil Plakcy Page B

up down there in the stomach.” He reached over to pat mine.
    I flexed my abs. You couldn’t tell in the tuxedo, but they were still strong and flat. “Build that up,” I said, pointing down.
    “I’d like to.” His smile had a little bit of a leer to it, and I had to smile myself That’s when we heard the first chant. “No more ho-mos, no more ho-mos.” It wasn’t too loud, but there could have been twenty or thirty voices. They sounded like they were right outside. I headed straight through the courtyard toward the door to the street, and met Sandra just before I got there.
    I looked around and saw that Gunter and Harry were right behind me. I figured chasing the sweaty guy would have to wait for another time. “Sandra and I will take care of this,” I said.
    “Gunter and I are just the backup,” Harry said. Behind them I saw my brothers as well.
    Sandra and I walked out front while the four of them remained just behind us. A group of about twenty men and women stood in front of the building carrying signs that read things like “Homosexuality is the work of the devil” and “You’re not converting our children.”
    The crowd reminded me of the people I’d seen at the Church of Adam and Eve—a mixed cross section of Hawai’i, mostly middle-aged. The men wore jeans, khakis and plaid shirts, the women patterned dresses. Some of the clothes were so new you could still see the creases in the shirts. I had a feeling someone had gone shopping at the Walmart earlier that day.
    “Great,” I muttered. I assumed that many of those in the crowd were people who’d been recruited at the homeless shelter earlier that day. For some reason that bothered me more than anything. I believe in democracy. People who have a problem with something are entitled to stand up and voice their opinions. But paying somebody to support your cause is just lame.
    A man I recognized as Wilson Shira, the Vice Mayor of Honolulu, stepped forward from the group. He was a short, angry Nisei, or first-generation Japanese-American, and his political capital was built on ethnic strife. I guessed he was taking the “vice” in his title seriously. “I assume you have a permit for this demonstration, sir,” I said.
    “Absolutely.” He pulled a piece of paper from his the pocket of his suit jacket and showed it to me. The city of Honolulu had granted him a permit for a peaceful demonstration at our address, for nine p.m. that evening. It was just a few minutes past nine then.
    “I’m Sandra Guarino. I’m the Executive Director of the Hawai’i Marriage Project. We’re having a private fund-raising event here this evening, and I’d like to ask you to reschedule your protest.”
    “We know about your fund-raiser,” Shira said. He was about Cathy’s height, with the same stocky build. I wondered which one of them would win a wrestling match. “That’s why we’re here. We want to know who supports you and we want them to know we know who they are.”
    “Our membership roster is open to the public,” Sandra said. “We’re a not-for-profit corporation. I’ll be happy to show you our membership list.”
    Shira looked at his crew. They all nodded encouragingly. “Good.”
    “In exchange, you agree to leave us alone this evening,” Sandra said.
    Again Shira looked at the crowd to read their sentiment. Besides the homeless, the people behind Shira looked like regular working folks, with families and jobs. I knew they didn’t want to be out too late on a Wednesday night. There seemed to be grudging approval of the plan, so Shira followed Sandra back into the building. Gunter stepped up next to me, Harry and my brothers right behind me. “We’ll stay here with you until they leave,” Gunter said.
    Partly because I wanted to, and partly just to spite the crowd, I took Gunter’s hand and squeezed. We stood there in front of them, holding hands. Gunter’s was warm in mine and it felt good. I don’t know how long we stayed like