Chapter 2

“Convert us some queers!” as Big Jimmy liked to holler. “Right, Q-Bert, buddy?” The Lord spoke to Hubert quite plainly through Big Jimmy—the surge of want that electrified his body when Big Jimmy slapped him on the thigh a thrilling reminder of how very vigilant Hubert needed to stand.

Tonight’s had been a particularly hot bus ticket, for if ever there was an opportunity to fight for America’s purity on the shores of a sea of degenerates, it was in the Castro on Halloween. Caroline Jarvis, the right reverend’s helpmeet, and her mannish assistant Robertann, from whom she was inseparable, had assembled their A-Team of testifiers—church members who had proven their resilience in the face of insults and inclement weather, and who knew enough to hold their signs still for any television cameras or liberal social media fanatics, who did more to disseminate The Holy Unbreakable Truth in one mocking tweet or self-righteous Huffington Post editorial than her husband could do in a career of fiery, inspired sermons in a Worship Center no bigger than the lobby of the Radisson hotel where she and Robertann stayed on their annual pilgrimage to save golf tournament spectators over Dinah Shore weekend in Palm Springs.

Many of the demonstrators, including Hubert, were chosen for their quiet, conflict-averse demeanor—the enraged fornicator hatefully spewing “tolerance” at the calm crusader a much more desirable photo op for The Church than, say, that unfortunate shot of her big oaf of a son-in-law clobbering a fairy with a folding chair at a rally to preserve the sanctity of Proposition 8—but Big Jimmy nevertheless had his place. He could overwhelm even the most vociferous heathen busybody with the strength—and volume—of his convictions, knew every Bible verse about Abomination by heart, and had never demonstrated so much as a flash of hesitation to defend the physical safety of the other members. While he’d started running to fat almost the same damn day he married Mary-Stephanie Jarvis, he still obviously relished his role as The Muscle.

Conservative dress was expected of Church members at all times, God’s Love being Intended neither for harlots in miniskirts nor for mincing prettyboys in tank tops, but it was unequivocally required for Testimony. Hubert had never so much as tried on a pair of shorts—”If The Lord wanted you parading your legs around like you was selling yourself on a street corner, he wouldn’ta given you those pathetic popsicle sticks,” his grandad pointed out—and jeans were for “cowboys and queers,” but he’d been sure to wash his good putty-colored dress pants. Even his size Small secondhand shirts hung off Hubert like potato sacks with snaps, but he ironed his snazziest one and tucked it in tight, slicked down his cowlick with all the spit he could muster; he knew The Lord would be watching this night, and he hoped He would notice how hard Hubert worked to make Him proud. After half an hour of circling the Mission, Robertann’s prayers were answered and a parking spot opened up alongside Dolores Park, close enough to walk to the Castro but far enough away that hopefully this year the bus wouldn’t get egged. Hubert scrambled from the bus and beseeched Caroline Jarvis for his favorite sign, a lime green, dog-eared piece of poster board glued to a broom handle on which he’d painted “Everyone Here/Will Burn in Hell if You’re Queer/Get Used to It!!!”

Once the signs had been distributed and a meeting time set for the bus ride back, Big Jimmy led the members in several rousing shouts of “Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve!” as they marched up 18thStreet to Castro, Hubert all but skipping alongside in his excitement. He’d never been to a carnival or amusement park—those were for “jezebels and miserable godless punks,” according to Grandad—but he imagined the thrill of anticipation must be the same. He knew they’d get hollered at and sneered at and laughed at, and he’d heard of Church members getting shoved and even spit on, but life with Grandad had made him impervious to such everyday distractions. But even if he didn’t make The Lord proud or earn a kind word from Reverend Jarvis—and how he prayed that he would—he’d get to spend an entire evening in Big Jimmy’s orbit watching him do what he did best: trying to shout Salvation into San Francisco’s most strident sinners.

And everybody knew: if it was sinners you were after, no city had a more reliable supply than San Francisco. By the time the Church members were crossing Sanchez Street, Halloween—in the form of sexy stewardesses, witches, and shirtless Star Wars stormtroopers—was swirling drunkenly around them, and they could have settled into a spot on 18thand Noe and been able to preach to a veritable mob, but Big Jimmy would not be satisfied just with reaching the run-off. They had to shoulder their way through a wall of masked and made-up humanity to get there, but they eventually reached the corner of 18thand Castro and situated themselves in the thick of the throng. The smallest and the lightest among them, Hubert clambered atop a newspaper box and hoisted his hellfire warning sign.