by Chase Connor
Over a coat.
My gasping and wailing were not for the coat, though. They were for my brother. His coat had been the last thing that remained of him. It was the last material thing I had to remind me of my family. Maybe, if I had been able to wear the coat until the warm sugar smell had completely faded, I wouldn’t have been as upset at someone having stolen the coat. They had probably done it simply to be cruel. Because they could. Telling my fellow students about my brother and why I needed that coat and the smell of sugar would not have swayed them from enacting such a cruelty. Cruel people do not have mercy simply because their target is barely hanging on by the skin of their teeth. They do not care why a coat is important to you. They do not care when you had your last meal. They do not care that you cannot get approved for enough public assistance to fully pay for the medications your brother needs. They do not care that a roof over your head and a coat on your back are the only shelter you have from the world. Cruelty never considers these things.
The sobs tapered off, and I ceased pounding the meaty parts of my fists against the wall because I knew I was already going to end up with bruises. Holding a broom or a cloth to clean the following day was going to be torture. I did not want to make it worse. Snorting and sniffling, I rose from my knees, bracing myself against the wall with my hands. My vision was blurry, and I knew that my eyes were reddened and puffy because the bitter wind stung as it slapped against the apples of my cheeks. I had forty dollars. I could fix this problem. Maybe I would never see my brother’s coat again, nor smell the memories it contained, but I could fix the immediate problem. I pulled the cuff of my sweater sleeve over the back of my hand and used it to wipe my eyes and then under my nose, hoping that I did not look homeless. It would be difficult to fix my problem if I looked as though I had been sleeping in an alleyway or a church pew at night.
Trained for the task, my legs began to move without me even considering where I was going, turning me towards the city center. My feet moved, my toes cold and stiff within my canvas shoes, and I huddled within my sweater as I walked. I always walked. Walking is what kept me from staying still too long. Moving is what propels you forward, keeps you from sinking, so I always made sure that I was moving when I was awake. People I passed on the street mostly shot glances in my direction, though a few offered up varieties of “Hello” in both English and French. I did my best to return their greetings, or at least nod as I passed, but my heart was not in the gestures. I wanted to tell everyone to “fuck off,” though I knew that was not what I truly wanted. In my heart of hearts, I wanted to plead with someone:
Please show me kindness. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease.
And in doing so, I would not be treated like a crazy person. That people would not back away in fear or agitation, but instead, realize that another human being needed someone—anyone—to let them know that they were not as alone as they felt. Desperately, I sought any indication in the faces of the people I passed that kindness might be within their capabilities. The looks of concern and worry at walking by me in my canvas shoes and old sweater and torn jeans painted most of the faces I passed. Even the ones that offered up a greeting. So, I kept my thoughts to myself, did not let anyone know that I was one act of cruelty away from deciding to stay still. I would stop moving, stop propelling myself always forward, and just allow what was to come.
The thought was almost comforting. I could stand there in the street and listen to the people scream “tapette” or “faggot” or “putain étrangers” or any other insult. At least I would not be moving, wondering if my next step would be the one where the ground crumbled beneath my feet.
In the city center, the autumn festival was celebrated every year, usually during the first full week of October. Vendors of varying sorts congested the walkways and squares with food carts and temporary tents to sell their wares. The festival was to celebrate autumn, naturally, and the end of harvest, but over the years, as had been relayed to me, it had turned into one big flea market, essentially. There was some culture in the event, but mostly it was for tourists looking for cheap ethnic and regional foods or to buy a souvenir to take home when they left. Cheap clothing could also be purchased, from graphic t-shirts and sweaters emblazoned with “CANADA” in gigantic letters, to cheap knock-off shoes, and even coats. The coats were what I was most interested in—besides the food—once I reached the perimeter of the festival’s boundaries.
Going to an actual clothing store to purchase an appropriate winter coat would take all of my forty dollars—if that was even enough. But I could surely find a cheap winter coat at the festival and still maybe have half of my money left to buy enough food to make myself sick.
As I walked through the street, finally finding tents and stalls and food carts scattered about, bright twinkling lights strung overhead and children running through the streets with glow sticks and fiber-optic wands, my cheeks and eyes did not feel as swollen and raw. Having no idea where to begin, as I had never really spent much time at the autumn festival in the handful of years that I had lived in the city after emigrating from France. So, I walked. And I turned. I peered down every alleyway and street, read signs, and watched the people around me, seeing if I could figure out which area of the festival the people seemed to think was best. Passing the food carts with the food warmers, grills, and fryers permeating the air with steam heat, made my lack of an appropriate coat not as apparent to me. My stomach grumbled and complained with each food cart or stand I passed, especially when the vendors would scream out the names of the foods they had prepared, but I refused to relent to my stomach until I had found a coat. I did not want to fill my stomach and then find that I had insufficient funds for a coat.
Warm sugar wafted through the air, catching my nose, threatening to make my eyes water again. As I turned to seek out the smell, I found a fried dough vendor a few meters away, selling what were essentially round donuts filled with jam and covered with confectioner’s sugar. I watched at a distance as one of the workers used a sieve to sift the sugar, like a cloud of fairy dust, over the balls of light dough that were still hot from the vat of grease in which they’d been fried. My stomach threatened so loudly to revolt that I was nearly compelled to give up on my search for a coat. A flash of red caught my eye, and glancing to the left of the food vendor, I saw a tent full of clothes. Hung from one of the columns holding the awning aloft was a bright red Cocoon coat.
Surely, this coat is for women.
It looks like wool.
I bet it smells like the sugar from the food tent.
As I approached the tent, my hand anxiously slipping into my front hip pocket so that my frozen fingers could feel for the two bills given to me by Mr. Paquette, I realized that the coat was indeed intended for women. It was slightly tapered through the waist and hips, though I knew that would not be a problem for me. Getting closer, I could tell that it was probably not wool, but some synthetic material that was passable for wool. If you squinted your eyes tightly enough. My fingers found the sleeve of the coat and felt of the material. While it looked as though it would feel scratchy against my skin, its appearance belied its softness.
Red is a pretty color.
But this is for women.
I reached out and flipped over the price tag that was hung from the sleeve with a cord.
Twenty dollars.
It feels warm, and it is exactly half of the money you have, as you wished.
Beggars cannot be choosers, and I should not have lost Noe’s coat anyway.
This coat will be my atonement.
I brought the sleeve to my nose and inhaled.
Warm sugar.
Sighing to myself, wanting to be unhappy with finding a warm coat that would fit that would not take all of my unearned dollars, I chose to be happy. Even if it might be intended for women, no one would know that when I wore it. It was inexpensive—obviously shoddily made—though it would last through the winter. My intention, as my fingers dropped away, letting the price tag
fall back into place, was to get the attention of the vendor to ask to purchase the coat. However, loud English, something that always caught my attention, and the flash of more red, drew me away from the coat and the tent.
At the vendor selling the jam-filled donuts next to the clothing tent, one of the workers was having an animated discussion with a man standing on the other side of the counter. My head tilted to the side as I took in the tall—though not quite as tall as me—man, with the shock of red hair atop his head. Long and wavy on top, brushed towards the back of his head, and much shorter on the sides, it was a very stylish haircut. His skin was pale, a stark contrast to the dark black of the heavy wool peacoat he wore, and the gray scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. He looked like something out of a fashion magazine—one which I would never be able to afford. He spoke English perfectly, though loudly.
American.
I found myself smiling.
Americans, though sometimes a bit much at once, were friendly.
I loved the way they always smiled with their teeth showing.
I loved their attempts to speak French when asking for directions. They butchered my native tongue in the most glorious ways.
When we had lived in France, many of my fellow countrymen and women barely hid their annoyance with touristes—especially Americans. But I had always found their boisterousness and friendliness exciting and refreshing—a stark contrast to the blasé and perpétuellement irrité disposition of everyone else.
America had always seemed so exotic to me, though I knew embarrassingly little about it that was probably actually true. All I knew about America I had learned from shows I had seen on television or movies I had seen in the cinema. It seemed like a theme park. One I would have given anything to attend for even a single day. It was garish and loud and rude and boisterous and bright. Everything about it appalled me. I wanted so desperately to visit one day.
“How much?” The American asked the vendor.
The vendor appraised the man, sizing him up. Obviously, he had figured out, just as I had, that the man was not Québécois.
“Quoi?” The vendor held his hands up, making me frown.
He spoke English. He was giving the man a hard time. Just because he could.
“Money?” The man asked as he reached for his pocket, finally extracting his wallet to wave at the vendor. “How much?”
“Cinq dollars pour toi, mec.” The vendor replied, causing my frown to deepen at his extremely informal, thus rude, response to a stranger.
The man with the stylish red hair’s eyes seemed to scan the air around him, his brain trying to understand what this man said to him. A few moments later, a smile bloomed on his face, obviously figuring out which number “cinq” was in English. He began to open his wallet, a wicked grin overtaking the vendor’s face as he watched the man reach for a bill. Frowning to myself, and going against what was typical of my behavior, I found my feet move into action, closing the few meters distance between myself and the man with the red hair.
Without thinking, I placed a hand over his wallet, shoving it down. “Non.” I turned to the vendor without even looking at the American in the eyes first and began speaking in rapid French. “A basket of these costs two dollars at most. You are not going to charge him five dollars and give him just one of your shitty donuts in exchange.”
“Shitty?” The vendor’s chest puffed out, and his cheeks turned red as he replied in French. “You obviously have not had them.”
“For five dollars I couldn’t afford to, sir.” I snapped back in French.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the American examining me, wondering what was going on, especially since a few people nearby had taken notice of my arguing with the vendor.
“And he speaks English just as we do,” I said in my slow, measured, though heavily accented, English. “Do not pretend you do not know what he is asking so that you can screw him over with your overpriced food.”
The American man let out a barking, shocked laugh as the vendor’s face grew redder.
“You little piece of—” The vendor began, glowering at me, which made me back up marginally.
I can be bold but not so bold as to welcome a physical fight over street food.
“Hey!” The American barked, his brow furrowing. “There’s no reason to argue. Or be rude, sir.”
He was speaking to the vendor. Not me. The vendor turned to him, his angry expression slowly fading away as he remembered he had a customer who wanted food.
“I’ll still give you five dollars.” The American shrugged.
“Do not do that.” I turned to the American, pleading with him not to give in to the awful man. “He is overcharging you. And he is rude.”
The vendor hissed—hissed—at me.
The American held a finger up to the vendor.
“But I want the amount you would normally give a customer for that price.” He explained sternly as he pulled out a United States bill and held it towards the vendor.
Watching the American, I was suddenly struck by the beauty of him. Not just that he looked like a fashion model, but that he was obviously older than I had thought when I first saw him. Slight lines formed at the corners of his mouth, I suspected from smiling and laughing for more years than I had known. The corners of his eyes had a few small lines, and his eyes had obviously seen more years than mine, though I felt his had been happier. He was distinguished and handsome, and obviously unaffected by the scene that had played out before him. My stomach fluttered again, though it was not about food for once that day.
The vendor was appraising both the American and myself, wondering if he should give in and admit that he had tried to gouge the man with the handsome face and amiable nature. Staring straight ahead, allowing me to examine his features, the American continued to hold the money out to the vendor, his expression unchanging. After several moments, the vendor made a noise, not unlike something Ebenezer Scrooge would utter when greeted with a cheerful Merry Christmas, the vendor reached over the counter and snatched the money from the American’s grasp. Providing a mere smile in response to the rudeness, the American returned his wallet to his back pocket, his movements graceful and practiced. My eyes took notice of his long, elegant fingers, perfectly clean with manicured nails.
“Thank you.” He said to the brusque vendor. “They smell delicious.”
Finally, chastened by the politeness of the American, and knowing that further rudeness would only make him look more awful, he gave a nod and turned to complete the American’s order. As though emboldened by being within the boundary of the American and his confidence, I continued to stare at his profile. The sharp angles of his nose and jaw made less severe by the plumpness of his cheeks and brightness of his eyes. Which was a weird thought to have about brown eyes, nearly as dark as my own, but there was an intelligence and warmth that radiated from them. Again, my stomach had another reason to flutter.
In an attempt to distract myself from thinking unwelcome thoughts about the American, I stepped away, knowing that at least the American would get a sufficient amount of food for the money he had given the awful man behind the counter. When I turned back to the tent that had been selling the coats, the red coat was being pulled down by the vendor there, and a woman was handing him money, Deflating, trying not to chastise myself for allowing a distraction to allow someone else to purchase the coat, I pulled my hands up into my sweater sleeves in an attempt to warm my fingers. An involuntary shiver ran up my spine as I tried to decide where to start looking for another tent that would be selling a similarly priced coat that would last through winter.
All around me, kids were running around, squealing joyfully as they played with the light-up toys purchased for them by their parents. Adults, probably the parents of said children, were strolling hand in hand together, or lifting giant bites of street food to their mouths. Steamy, food-scented air permeated the festival as the lights overhead twinkled whimsically, and laughter echoed from al
l directions. I flexed my fingers within the confines of my sweater sleeves and shifted my feet, trying to warm my toes, hoping that I could find an affordable coat before autumn spilled over into winter. I had gone without a coat in winter before, but I did not want to endure the snow and icy wind another year if it could be avoided. Maybe if I were able to afford good, warm meals with consistency, having a warm coat to protect my frame would not have felt so critical, but I knew that my life was operated on a “one problem at a time” basis.
Maybe I could have one plate of something inexpensive?
Then I could search for another tent with cheap coats for sale.
The dry toast I had had for breakfast and the meager portion of pasta I had managed for lunch had done nothing to warm me for the day.
“Here.”
The sound of loud English, now very close, startled me, nearly making me fall over. As my head turned to find the source of the sound, though I instinctively knew it was the American, my eyes must have made me look crazed. An amused grin was affixed to his face, and he was holding something out to me. My eyes flicked downward to find a cardboard basket of the sugary, jam-filled donuts in his hand.
“I can’t eat all of these.” He said simply. “And you just had to intervene, so now I have more donuts than a human should eat in a year, so you have to help me eat them.”
I found myself just staring at him.
“Okay.” He gave a half shrug. “I probably could eat them all. But I shouldn’t. So, I’m going to share them with you.”
He jiggled the basket of donuts he held out to me.
Again, I found myself unable to speak, unsure of what I could possibly say to the American and his offer of free food. My stomach told me one thing while my reticence to trust anything another person, let alone a stranger, offered as a kindness tugged at my gut. Surely, this was a joke—a stranger, who was more attractive than a person had a right to be, offering to share anything with me.