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The humidity hangs heavy over Springfield, Oregon, thick with the scent of fried dough, patchouli, and the collective sighs of a town trying far too hard to be "mellow." Under the influence of a visiting feel-good counselor, the usual cynical edge of the citizenry has been buffeted into a soft, terrifying compliance. Everywhere, people are emulating Bart Simpson’s signature slouch and "Eat my shorts" attitude, but without the bite. It is the first afternoon of the "Do What You Feel Festival," a weekend-long experiment in radical honesty and impulsive behavior that has left the streets clogged with middle-aged men in oversized red T-shirts and slingshots.
At the edge of the chaos, the Springfield boathouse offers a temporary sanctuary of cedar-scented shade and the rhythmic slapping of the lake against the pylons. Waylon Smithers, twenty-nine, navigates the wooden planks with practiced grace. Despite the sweltering temperature, he remains a bastion of professional grooming. He wears a short-sleeved, button-down shirt in a soft mint-teal hue, neatly tucked into high-waisted, pleated trousers in light charcoal. A lavender bow tie, perfectly knotted, sits at his collar—a persistent nod to his signature aesthetic. However, the light, breathable cotton fabric of his attire is a necessary concession to the Oregon summer. He balances two chilled treats in his hands, his brow furrowed behind his thick-rimmed spectacles.
He approaches the end of the dock where Charles Montgomery Burns, a fragile 103-year-old silhouette against the shimmering water, sits in a high-backed wicker chair. In a rare concession to the blistering heat, Monty has draped his vintage, forest-green wool blazer over the back of his chair. He sits in his white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled precisely twice, exposing wrists as thin as dry kindling. His dark, narrow tie remains pulled tight to his throat, and a pair of sturdy black suspenders bisect his narrow chest, anchoring his sharp green trousers. The sun reflects off the old man's liver spots and the sharp, hawkish curve of his nose, which juts out from beneath the shadow of his furrowed brow.
"The sun is particularly aggressive today, sir," Waylon says softly, extending his hand. "I thought you might enjoy some refreshment."
Monty turns his head slowly, his neck tendons like taut piano wires. He eyes the frozen confection with a mix of suspicion and antique delight. "Ah, an 'iced-cream,'" he rasps, his voice a dry parchment rattle. "Splendid, Smithers. I haven't had a proper frozen dairy treat since the Taft administration—back when the milkmen were honest, and the cows were terrified of the encroaching motor-car."
He takes the cone, his spindly fingers trembling slightly as they brush against Waylon’s palm. For a moment, they simply watch the water. Nearby, a group of teenagers—all looking like clones of a very depressed Bart—drift past in a rowboat, staring listlessly at the horizon. Waylon swallows hard. The "spirit of the festival" is a dangerous thing, but the air is thick with the permission to speak one's truth. He has carried this weight since he was a boy, since the days Mr. Burns would pat his head and tell him he was a "fine, sturdy lad," even through the transitions of his youth that Monty had witnessed with a strange, unblinking pragmatism.
"Sir," Waylon begins, his voice cracking just once. He clears his throat, adjusting his glasses. "In the spirit of... well, of everything today. Of the festival, and the honesty, and the way everyone is just... expressing themselves. I- I’d just like to say that... I love you."
He holds his breath, the cicadas in the nearby trees sounding like a rising siren in his ears. Monty doesn't flinch. He takes a delicate, bird-like lick of his iced-cream, staring out at the Ferris wheel currently being manned by a man who is clearly "feeling" like he shouldn't be wearing pants.
"Hmm? The feeling is quite mutual, Smithers," Monty replies with an airy wave of a free hand. "You're the only one who knows how to properly starch my collars or organize my collection of prehistoric trilobites. You’re a credit to the sycophant profession."
Waylon feels a pang of familiar frustration. The nonchalance is a shield, one forged in the Victorian era. He needs to pierce it. He needs him to know. "I'm also gay, sir," Waylon adds, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He pauses, realizing that, to a man born in the early years of the 20th century, the word might still carry a certain festive cheer or a lighthearted stroll. He leans in closer, clarifying with clinical precision: "A homosexual."
The effect is instantaneous. The ice cream stops mid-air. Mr. Burns’ pale, watery blue eyes widen, the pupils shrinking to pinpricks. He turns fully in his chair, his narrow shoulders squaring beneath his suspenders as he draws a sharp breath. His jaw drops just enough to reveal the pristine porcelain of his dentures.
"A... a what?" Monty whispers, horrified. He looks around the dock frantically, his gaze darting to the bushes as if a squad of Pinkertons might leap out at any second. "Smithers! Confound it, man, lower your voice! Do you want the constabulary to haul you off to the local gaol? Or worse, the stocks?"
Waylon blinks, momentarily stunned by the reaction. "Sir? Jail? It’s 2013. People don't go to jail for being gay anymore. Especially not in Oregon."
Monty leans in, his breath smelling of vanilla and old paper. "Nonsense! I remember when 'The Oscar Wilde' was a cautionary tale told to frighten naughty schoolboys. But don't you worry, Waylon," he adds, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss. "I have the local judges in my pocket. I’ll see to it that you’re kept out of the dungeon. I'll tell them you're merely... eccentric. Or that you have a very persistent brain fever."
Waylon looks at the floorboards, a bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It wasn't the "I love you too" he had fantasized about during long nights at the Power Plant, but in Monty’s world, protecting someone from a non-existent prison sentence was the highest form of devotion. He had accepted the news—he hadn't recoiled, hadn't fired him, and hadn't even seemed truly disgusted, merely worried about the "law."
"Thank you, sir," Waylon says softly. "That... that means a lot to me."
"Don't thank me yet," Monty grumbles, though the panic in his eyes has softened into a strange, possessive glimmer. "We have to be careful. The world is a den of vipers, Smithers. Especially these 'Do-What-You-Feelers.' They feel far too much for my liking."
The older man stands up abruptly, his knees popping like dry twigs. He ignores the blazer on the chair, reaching out with a hand that is surprisingly firm as he grasps Waylon’s fingers. It isn't a brief touch; he laces his skeletal hand with Waylon’s, a public display that, in Monty's mind, is a daring act of defiance against the "authorities."
"Come along, then," Monty commands, tugging Waylon toward the end of the pier where the giant, neon-lit Ferris wheel looms over the festival grounds. "If we are to be outcasts, we might as well do it from a vantage point where we can spit on the commoners. I want to go on that rotating contraption. And Waylon?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Keep your head down. If a policeman looks at us, pretend you're my nephew from the colonies."
Waylon lets out a short, airy sound of amusement, a genuine, lighthearted breath that carries over the water. He follows the old man, their joined hands a small, private rebellion in a town full of people trying to be someone else. For the first time in his life, Waylon feels like he is exactly where he belongs.