“I’m glad I didn’t come across too harsh,” I say.
“It’s Riley who did that,” Miranda says, pointing further down the story.
Liberty Garage only issued a brief statement through a local public relations firm, asserting that they’re following all regulations. “We hope to be welcomed into the wonderful community that thrives here in Allentown,” the statement reads. When this reporter visited the garage to request an interview, however, General Manager Riley Horton was less enthusiastic. “The bikers are part of this neighborhood whether you like it or not,” he told me before Chase Couch interrupted to rush Horton inside and provide us with another copy of the PR statement.
“Isn’t it great?” Miranda asks. “This article couldn’t have gone better.”
I nod, but I feel a bit queasy. “The thing is,” I say, “they’ve already started implementing some changes. I think we were moving in the right direction. I hope this doesn’t derail that.”
Maybe the comic con sex is affecting me more than I expected, because I feel sympathetic to Riley. But seemingly all he did was put up a sign, I remind myself.
The door to the shop swings open, and Harry enters with a flourish. “My dear Finn and Miranda.” He lifts a paper, front page facing us. “This is an outrage. An outrage!”
I only manage to say his name, “Harry,” before he continues.
“Over the years, we’ve had to fight to defend the gayborhood many times. Vice squad raids, mafia bars, bigoted demonstrations at Pride. We’ve seen it all, and some bikers from out of town are not going to get us down.” He slams the paper on the counter. “I need tubs of your six best flavors. I’m treating the cast ofYentl. And for every dollar you lose to these ruffians across the street, the gayborhood is going to spend two additional dollars here. I’m making it my personal mission.”
The door swings open again, and Nicholas’s mother Luana comes in. “Finn! Sweetheart, I knew the garage was giving you trouble, but I didn’t realize the extent of things until I saw the paper this morning. It’s a shame! I’d like to get a pint of cherry to support you.”
Miranda and I share a glance, then both jump into action. “Good to see you both,” I say as I move behind the counter. “We appreciate your support!”
“I’ve been meaning to sign up for jazz dance classes at the studio,” Luana adds with a nod down the street. “I’ll be stopping by there next.”
The article seems to have worked some real magic because the shop doesn’t slow down for the rest of the day. Plenty of regulars stop by, as do a healthy number of new customers, all eager to talk about the garage and the impact it’s having on the gayborhood. Whenever a roaring motor or screeching metal sound from across the street, everyone in the shop reacts with outrage, the collective energy buzzing.
I do my best to play diplomat, encouraging the support but pushing back when anyone tries to demonize the garage. Walking that tightrope, I’m nearly too busy to think, my hands always moving as I chat with customers. It’s not until later in the day that I realize how moved I am by the eruption of care from my neighbors. Everyone tells me how much The Scoop means tothem, how many happy memories they’ve already formed here in our first year of business.
“This is where my boyfriend took me on our first date,” one customer says with dreamy eyes.
“We’ve already promised our twins they can have their birthday here next year,” another says to me. “It’s their favorite place in the city.”
“The Scoop is like a sanctuary when I’m having a hard day. You don’t know how much of a difference a friendly face and a cup of cherry chocolate ice cream can make.”
By the time I’m able to hang up my apron, I’m exhausted and happy. Between the spike in sales, the good PR, and the reality that Riley is already changing things up across the street, a clearer path to happy coexistence seems to be taking shape.
I hope NotAnOgre is having this much luck with his situation. If I were going to run into someone random at the con, a part of me wishes it had been him. I’m hesitant to risk ruining the magic of our connection with a real-life encounter, but when I think about him at the con, I catch myself smiling. It’s not so difficult to imagine the funny relationship we’ve developed through stories and chats could turn into something real and physical.
We barely know anything about each other, but he’s important to me. Even with my own chaotic life consuming me, I notice, I still pause to think of him.
Maybe there is some potential there, I realize. And I am not one to ignore potential.
When I step out onto the street, I freeze, surprised. There’s more foot traffic than there has been, but it’s one of the people in front of the garage that captures my attention. A younger guy in a rainbow shirt holds a large sign with bold letters.
Save the Gayborhood! Shut Down Liberty Garage!
