Introducing "The Discriminating Homophobe", An Original IBL Production...

1. The Discriminating Homophobe At Work

Sharply dressed he is: dark slacks and a brilliantly white shirt, thin black tie with flecks of gray, Varvatos coat tossed casually over one shoulder, an air about him that asserts Destination. The Discriminating Homophobe glides through the revolving door and into the lobby. He has a dozen roses in one hand – two red, five each white and pink, baby’s breath adornment. He wraps his knuckles smartly on the security guard’s desk. The security guard, a Filipino named JoJo, is on the phone; he waves in return and rolls his eyes, pointing at the receiver. The Discriminating Homophobe nods knowingly and mouths ‘Keep the Faith’, then steps into a waiting elevator and up, up, up.

So, then, it’s his floor, 18, and he bounds into the hallway and swipes security card, and he’s through the frosted glass doors shining with twin company logos. He deliberately slows his gait as he approaches his secretary’s desk (Brenda, he shares her with two other associates), flowers behind his back. Though it’s early, Brenda, like JoJo, is already on the phone. He hovers patiently, doesn’t exude pressure; in a moment she’s off the phone and smiling up at him like the cutie pie darling she is. He flourishes the roses and wishes her a happy anniversary, her third with the firm. She blushes deeply and lowers her gaze, then comes out from behind her desk to give him a quick hug and a (surprisingly) dry peck on the cheek.

“I’m just going to put these in water.”

And she’s off to the kitchen, and he contentedly strides down the hall to his office, not a corner but very near a corner (give him time) and, as this is the 18^th Floor, he has a lovely view of the bay. Already there are a few boats out on the water.

On weekends he favors sailing.

There are no photos on his desk (he’s between girlfriends at the moment), but here again fresh flowers (daffodils, all sunny and yellow), because clients generally favor fresh flowers, unless they are allergic; but by some magic he does not pretend to comprehend, Brenda knows who’s allergic and who isn’t, and schedules the flower-free mini-conference room as appropriate. This morning, a Thursday, he has no client meetings, just some free time to get caught up on paperwork and make a few phone calls.

Yes, a Thursday, the weekend right around the corner. Sometimes people get booked early, he knows that, but he likes to keep his options open – can you blame a guy? Don’t want to organize a Sunday morning sail for six when a young lady met on a Friday evening at, say, Elephant and Castle, precipitates the need for a more private excursion on the Steely Dan, his nautical pride and joy. Brunch afterward on the deck. He can whip up a frittata or something.

His phone buzzes and it’s Brenda on speaker, thanking him again for the flowers (“No, thank you,” he says), but there’s more – he has a call, his best friend, Yves.

“I’ll put him through.”

He picks up the phone, delighted.