Remy Cleans Up the Town

It was a quiet campaign, conducted by the cover of darkness. Remy walked down dark alleys and under bridges, armed with spray paint remover, a bucket, and old shirts and rags. Faggot and queerboy disappeared from bricks and concrete, as did Stacey H. is such a bitch and For a good time call. (Except the one that was just the lyrics to that old 80’s song. Remy walked away from that whistling the chorus.) Down came the posters for “pregnancy crisis centers” and “pray away the gay” facilities. Those got tucked in the bucket, to be burned later.

Remy never went looking for trouble. But trouble usually found Remy anyway.

A few blocks away from campus, a frat house was still brightly lit. Over the thumping bass from inside, Remy heard someone screaming. “You think that’s okay, freak? You think it’s okay to come in here like that?”

Remy set down the bucket and the spray paint remover. Remy produced a cell phone and a can of pepper spray.

Around the corner, a woman was cringing against the wall. She bore no marks of assault, and Remy didn’t think the man standing over her would hit her. He was too soft, and his eyes held desperate fear—the mark of prey, not a predator.

Still. This shit happened too often. Remy strode forward and pressed the nozzle of the pepper spray to the back of the boy’s shirt. He froze. “That’s good. Now sit down. Don’t make me call me the police."

The boy glanced over his shoulders. His eyes narrowed when he saw Remy—lithe, scrawny, impossible to gender. Remy stared back, hoping the hardness in their own eyes would be enough to counter the softness in his. Frat boys sometimes responded when you acted like the alpha bitch.

It wasn’t. Puppy had to prove he was a big bad dog. The frat boy pretended to crouch like Remy had commanded him, but instead he used the movement to turn, aiming a haymaker at Remy’s jaw. Remy dodged and dropped their cell phone so they could grip the frat boy’s wrist. Remy’s other hand went to meet the frat boy’s second swing. The frat boy was stronger, but he was twisted at an awkward angle, and his feet were planted wrong. Remy bore down, keeping their eyes like iron.

Something in the frat boy’s eyes broke, and the strength went out of him. Remy forced him down anyway, shoving him to the ground and keeping him pinned with a combat boot to the chest. “I wasn’t gonna hurt her!” the frat boy sobbed, turning his face to the ground. “I swear! She just freaked me out!”

He was using her pronouns—presumably—which was a good start. Remy bent over their knee and studied the boy’s face. “…I won’t call the police for assault if you go home right now,” they decided finally. “But I’m gonna walk this nice girl home, and if you come near me—or if any of your friends come near me—I’ll call the police, and you just pray that you see the end of it. This is a hate crime, you piece of shit.”

He nodded—not like a whimpering little shit, but like he was too overwhelmed to speak. Another good sign. Remy stepped back, letting him get up. “Go home. Think about this. You might think nobody’ll stand up for people like us. That isn't true. I head pricks like you off at the pass."

The frat boy wiped his eyes, smearing dirt across his face. He looked like a kid now; his clothes were too big for them. He glanced at the woman, as though to apologize. Remy tweaked a brow—out of surprise, not as a threat. But he dropped his eyes, blushing with shame, and scuttled off.

Remy waited until he was out of sight, then knelt a few feet away from the woman. She was staring at Remy in shock. Her eyes filled with tears. “How did he know?” she whispered. “What did I do wrong?”

Remy softened immediately. They reached out to touch the girl, but slowly, so she could reject it if she wanted. She didn’t; she fell forward and pressed her face against Remy’s chest, sobbing helplessly.

When she was finished crying, Remy leaned back and took out their purse, producing pads to wipe away makeup and fresh mascara. The girl cleaned her face. Remy spoke clearly and slowly so they could be sure she understood. “It’s not your fault. It will never be your fault. They tell there’s something you have to look like so they can hold it over your head when shit like this happens—but even if you pass all the tests, they still change the game so you lose. There’s nothing wrong with you. There’s something wrong with them.”

The girl sniffed and said nothing.

Remy rubbed her shoulder. “I know it’s hard to think of now. You want a reason why. He was a pretty decent guy at first, so it’s got to be your fault. But that’s just the voice they put in your head. They think that for them to feel good, you have to feel bad. But you don’t have to feel bad. You can say ‘fuck you’ and live your life the way that makes you happy. Do you understand that?”

“I don’t swear,” said the girl, with a weak smile.

“So object very strongly.” Remy put a hand on her cheek. “I know it’s hard. It took me for-fucking-ever. You just gotta keep trying, okay?”

She nodded again. Remy helped her up. “Your arm, milady?”

The woman took it, and they walked off into the night together.