There were roaches in the mayor’s office.
It was Thursday, 10 a.m., in the most famous town in the world. Pastor Terry Jones, the local irritant with the pro-wrestler mustache, had the world by the ear and way too much pride. Craig Lowe, Gainesville’s first openly gay mayor, had a fiasco on his hands.
The bug guy, holding a tank of chemicals and a spray gun, asked the receptionist where to start.
“I dunno, anywhere. You’re the bug man.”
“What kind of roaches are they?”
“They’re big, you know, big fat ones. And they fly.”
The mayor was in his office, a bright room with huge windows that overlooked the courtyard of City Hall. This summer, before “International Burn a Koran Day,” Lowe was the main target of a Jones rampage. “NO HOMO MAYOR,” said the sign on the lawn of Jones’ church.
Jones has long been a nuisance. Like those roaches scurrying through the office walls, he was creepy but essentially harmless. Lowe would swat at him and condemn him, but he just wouldn’t die. Now, ever since Jones said he wanted to burn those books, Lowe’s life has gotten considerably more complicated. The town was literally crawling with crazies, protesters and news crews. He’d been talking to reporters non-stop for the past two days.
The problem was, the mayor is not a fan of bright lights and big crowds. He’s a one-on-one kind of guy. Lowe is warm, attentive. Ask him a question, and he’ll pause and really ponder it. If he answers too quickly he might stutter, as if the thoughts come faster than the words. Being the center of attention is part of his job, sure, but public speaking makes him nervous.
No one knew what the weekend would bring him, except that it would all happen in the biggest spotlight he has ever faced.
“I think we’ve been able to step to the challenges so far,” he said. “We’ll get through this weekend, and we’ll move on.”
On Lowe’s desk was a book so battered and worn it was almost split in two, held together by a thin rubber band. It was a Quran, given to him that week by a man who carried it for 20 years in his back pocket.
That man must have felt that Lowe could use it.
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In the eighth grade, Lowe ran for class president. His classmates, in a situation of irony only clear through the lens of time, put up signs around the school that said, “SAY NO TO HOMO LOWE.” Needless to say, he lost that election. He can laugh about it now.
In high school, he came out to his best friend, who said, “I’d wondered if that were the case.”
His favorite actor is Jake Gyllenhaal. He’s been in love a few times, but he’s currently single. And since the death of his 20-year-old cat, Jackson, he lives alone. He has an unparalleled sense of equality, cultivated from years of dealing with his own discrimination. He pulled three terms as a city commissioner and couldn’t help but be affected by the issues of intolerance he faced on a daily basis.
“Whenever I would hear of someone who had been kicked out of their house because they’re gay, or seeing someone in a store being followed around just because they’re black, that bothered me. Or hearing someone not get financial aid for school because their parents disapprove of being gay and wouldn’t fill out the required paper work. Stories like that really do impact me.”
Enter Terry Jones.
Lowe has been dealing with people like Jones his whole life. Jones, who runs an online furniture business from his church. Jones, who teaches that Islam is of the devil. Jones, whose “NO HOMO MAYOR” sign didn’t work: Lowe won the election in a re-count by 42 votes, making history in the process.
Back then, Lowe called Jones and his church “an embarrassment to our community,” and Jones’ church made a video calling Lowe a fag. For a while there, that looked the long and short of it. Lowe, sworn in as mayor in May, spent his first four months in office occupied with budget troubles. Gainesville passed the 20th anniversary of the Danny Rolling murders without incident.
But over at the Dove Outreach Center, Jones was scurrying and planning. The anniversary of Sept. 11 was approaching. Jones tweeted that Sept. 11 would be “International Burn a Koran Day.” He was upset about the planned ground zero mosque. He had sipped the spotlight; now he wanted the full cup.
The story caught fire when CNN picked it up. At the end of August, The New York Times reported that Jones said the Quran was full of lies, though he’d never read it. By early September the protests had started, the first in Indonesia, then in Afghanistan, where they burned an effigy of the pastor while chanting “death to America.” Jones got hammered by Anderson Cooper, then called out by the Vatican, then by President Barack Obama. Then came a personal phone call from Secretary of Defense Robert Gates.
During all the drama, Lowe stayed updated from the same media that was hanging on Jones’ every word.
“It was such a fluid situation. I was just ready for anything,” he said.
Jones was getting more than 100 death threats a day, and his people were carrying loaded guns while they guarded the perimeter of the church. Craig Lowe’s nemesis had become an international pest.
“At this point, there’s real danger,” the mayor said, sipping coffee. “His actions are extremely provocative. We live in a volatile world, and we need to rise above the cycle of provocation and potential violence.”
Nothing irked Lowe more than bigots and bullies. And now this backyard bully has the attention of the whole world. At Jones’ church, the media were heavy and deep on the lawn.
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Friday dawned with Terry Jones calling in to NBC’s “Today” show.
Later, he claimed he’d negotiated a deal to relocate the ground zero mosque. No one bought it, least of all the people in charge of the project. The Quran burning was on, then off, then suspended, all in the same 24 hours.
By late afternoon Friday, it was definitely off.
The town could breathe again, and the media had to balance the relief of no longer having to contribute to the problem with the reality that one of the biggest news events of the year had lost its legs. There was still the possibility of those pesky terrorist attacks. So they camped.
Up the road at Trinity United Methodist, a sprawling, elegant beast of a church, the local interfaith community was gathering for peace. The meeting hall was a convention of sorts. Because, or maybe in spite of, the latest Jones news, quite a few media members found their way into the gathering. They looked like sixth-grade dancers, dressed up but confused about how to make a move. They knew the story was here somewhere. They just had to find it.
The church floor was divided into stations. The middle of the space held the bread table, the centerpiece of the evening. At the kid’s art table a young girl used magic markers on a white paper and attracted lots of white light attention.
Lowe walked slow and blended in with his black slacks. In a corner, he admired the art gallery. No one noticed the man with the rolled up giveaway T-shirt in his hand.
Even though the burning was off, he didn’t feel like the town was out of the woods yet.
Nothing was certain with Jones, he said.
Would he ask for assistance from anyone?
If necessary, he would ask for assistance from the governor.
Was he going to say a few words tonight?
Pause. Stutter.
Well, I will if I have to, yes. Smile.
Humeraa Qamar, head of the Gainesville Interfaith Forum, called the room to attention from the podium. Dan Johnson, head pastor of the church, found Lowe and ushered him the left side of the stage, whispering in his ear. Lowe looked nervous, but nodded. He started to fidget. His left hand tightened and released the T-shirt. Qamar called UF President Bernie Machen to the stage. Lowe looked down at his tie and straightened it with his right hand. He looked up at Machen and then straightened it again. Qamar got back up to the stage, and Lowe took a deep breath.
At times like this he always told himself:
It’s gotta be done. Here I go.
One step, two steps. He was on the stage.
The applause was loud. The lights bright.
He clenched the podium with both hands.
The applause died down.
He was steel now. Centered.
Three seconds to go. Two. One.
He leaned into it.
“This right here is what Gainesville is all about.” No stutter.
No pause. No notes.
“When someone questions our unity and our solidarity, Gainesville truly meets the challenge.”
Of course, he meant Jones.
“We are a community that welcomes everyone regardless of religion, race, origin, gender, sexual orientation or any other factor.”
Pause for applause.
He killed it. The media smelled their story.
“That is the image that we will project to the rest of the world for years to come. And it’s thanks to you that we have shown the world who Gainesville truly is. Thanks for being here ... and let’s keep working together for a better tomorrow.”
Applause explosion. Media to stage like flies to death.
In the bright light the mayor just stood there, stoic.
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Later that night, Maria Kuhn-Brotton was drinking Patron at the upstairs bar of the local gay bar, the University Club. She spotted Lowe, vodka cranberry in hand. She told him he was way too good looking to be gay.
He smiled and thanked her. She couldn’t help noticing how relaxed he looked.
He said sometimes you’ve just got to go with the flow.
That night in Gainesville, Terry Jones was flying to New York for an appearance on the “Today” show.
The Gator football team was preparing to beat the University of South Florida Bulls.
The Gainesville Muslim community was preparing for a peace gathering on the plaza where the homeless hang out. Protesters were preparing to swarm Jones’ church in the morning, outnumbering his congregation by 10 to one.
And Maria Kuhn-Brotton was texting her daughter from a gay bar:
“Omg!!!! I am having shots with the mayor of gville at uc!!! How proud r u of mom!!!”
The balance of power was back to normal in the mayor’s town.
Tomorrow, he had another speech to give. But tonight, as the most stressful week he’s faced so far drew to a close, he celebrated in a place he felt at home.
