“Well, I’m sorry.” Warlock was puzzled by everyone’s appearance. They certainly didn’t look gay. “Why don’t you hang out a sign saying this is a gay bar?” There was a roar of laughter. Now the truth was beginning to hit him like a shit monsoon. He laid out a hundred dollar bill to cover the drink that had not yet appeared. The bartender still stood there with arms folded as the laughter died. “Look, Tonto”—Warlock’s voice was quaking with injustice—“If you’re calling me a queer I’m going to rip that fucking mop off your face. You got a ten count to get me a drink. Ten-nine-eight …”

“Maybe he ain’t a queer,” the fat man said. “I’ll buy him a drink.”

“Coming up,” the bartender said. “Where are you from?”

“Michigan,” Warlock said. There was more laughter. His hand shook as it tried to enclose the glass. He had entered an insane asylum, forgetting that all bars are essentially insane asylums.

“You don’t understand that you’re all dressed up like a homo with that short haircut, phony tattoo, man-tan, little mustache, jeans and old work shirt? That’s the problem,” the fat man said.

“What about you?” The fat man had a short haircut.

“Obese, diabetic fishing guides with no money who have been married seven times are rarely cocksuckers.”

The cocktail hour wore on, as they say. After a half dozen piña coladas Warlock made an impassioned plea for world sexual understanding which was met with boos. It seems the gays were taking over the town, aided by left-wing realtors; the poor locals were being driven from their homes as if a cruel, invading army were entering the city. Warlock had been nominally involved in the civil rights movement and began to see gays as blacks in the early sixties.

“What about gay blacks?” he asked, apropos of nothing, after the conversation had turned to fishing and weather. No one answered.

Chapter 40