We had us a town queer. His name was Mr. Hopper and he ran the jewelry store. They sold gifts too: figurines, knick-knacks and whatnots. I never liked the guy. He was always unfriendly to us, looked at us like we didn’t have a nickel or maybe like we’d even steal something . . . some of his cheap junk. But once he acted real nice to us . . . came out on the side walk and greeted us and asked us to go on a picnic at the reservoir. He’d taken over the boy’s and young men’s church group and had arranged a “fun afternoon.” We said we couldn’t go . . . “Our dad won’t let us.” He just laughed and said confidently, “Oh, I’ll give him a call.” And sure enough, the phone was ringin’ just as we got home. “Dad’s not here,” I lied tryin’ to save him some grief. Alice was out back with dad. He was shootin’ at crows flyin’ over the garden. “Could we go . . . could we go?” “NO,” he growled, “You ain’t goin’ anywhere with that FAG.” Twenty minutes later, Mr. Hopper pulled up in the driveway, the top down on his big red convertible. The car was full of laughing happy teenage boys. He got out and came up the side walk and knocked. “He’s here, he’s here,” Alice squealed. Dad charged in with his shot gun across his arm. He swung the screen door open and almost knocked Mr. Hopper off the porch. He just started yellin’ at him, “move it, move it, move it.” Mr. Hopper didn’t even have a chance to say a word. He just walked, wide eyed backwards down the stairs. He was lookin’ at the gun. “You bastard,” dad growled, “You ain’t usin’ my girls . . . now go on . . . get . . . get off a my property.” The jovial boys in the car had gotten real quiet, just sittin’ there . . . perfectly still. Mr. Hopper got back behind the wheel of his Cadillac and slowly eased it out of the driveway. We watched him solemnly drive away and then head south. Dad stared down the road after them as Mr. Hopper turned off toward the reservoir. “Well I’ll be damned,” dad exclaimed. “He’s goin’ on his damn picnic . . . that sure is one persistent queer.”