He smiled a mostly toothless grin. “I have family there! Do you know the Archambault family?”
I smiled. “Yeah! I grew up a few houses down from them.”
“What’s your family name?” he asked.
“Littlechief,” I told him.
“Is Robert your granddad?” he asked, grinning.
“Yes! My mom’s dad. I use her name.”
He shrugged. “I knew Robert Littlechief a long time ago. Went to school with him.”
“The Mohawk Institute?” My grandfather had spent years in that residential school. He came out a raging drunk with a violent temper who liked to hit my grandmother and my mom.
The man nodded.
“Name’s John,” he told me.
I held out my hand and watched as he transferred his bourbon to his left so he could shake it. “I’m Joe,” I said.
“Want a drink, Joe?” he held out the bottle to me.
“No thanks. I don’t drink.”
He took a swig before settling down beside me.
“I don’t have much, but you’re welcome to share my dinner with me if you’ll tell me the news from back home, Joe.”
So I did. I told him about Old Mr. Yazzie’s decision to eat healthier and how his wife wouldn’t cook for him anymore. I told him how my school’s lacrosse team was doing. I told him about my Aunt Ava’s garden. I described how my grandfather puttered around in it all day and then sat on the porch with a shotgun to keep the rabbits and deer away from the tomatoes. When I told him about my friends and our bonfires, I missed home so much that it hurt.
John nodded. He patted my arm when I got homesick and shared his own stories about his home, his garden, and how much he missed fry bread.
“You’d think I’d miss venison stew or fresh fish right out of the river more. Nope. Fry bread, hot from the pan and smothered in my wife’s strawberry preserves.”
I could almost taste it.
Chapter 13
Giving In
So that’s how I spent my days. I would hang out downtown, asking people for spare change and filling out job applications at every store and restaurant I could find. Not one of them called me for an interview. It wasn’t surprising considering my work experience consisted of mowing lawns, helping tend to the sweat lodge back home, and odd jobs like painting. In the city there were too many applicants and not enough jobs. And the few dollars I got from people on the street didn’t buy nearly enough food and certainly didn’t allow me a bed or shower.
At night, I found a corner in the park with John. We swapped stories, shared what little food we had, and looked out for each other. He made me miss home, but it made things more bearable to have someone to talk to.
John coughed beside me. I pulled his cardigan more tightly around him.
“Are you okay?” I asked. His cough had been getting worse. John waved me off and took a drink from the bottle of water I held out to him.
“I’m fine. Just a cold. I got you something,” he announced, rummaging around in one of his shopping bags.
“For me?” I asked, surprised. John pulled out a navy blue hoodie and handed it to me. It looked nearly new. The word GAP written across the front was barely faded. It had been washed enough that it was soft and it was lined in some kind of fleece that made it look invitingly warm.
“John, you didn’t have to do this. You should have bought yourself some soup or some cough syrup,” I told him.
He shrugged. “Saw it at the Salvation Army and thought you could use it. Nights are getting colder.”
“But . . .” I stammered.
“It’s okay, son. I had a couple of bucks and you needed something warmer than that old thing.” He gestured toward my old sweatshirt.
“You could probably use a new coat,” I said, looking at his threadbare overcoat.
“I’ve got my bottle to keep me warm,” he patted his pocket, winking at me.
“Did you start drinking when you came to the city?” I asked.
John shook his head. “Hell no! Me and the bottle go back a long time, Joe. We used to try to make our own back at Mohawk. It was rotgut stuff but it did the trick. Made you forget where you were for a little while.”
I nodded. I was curious about John’s time at the Mohawk Institute but I didn’t want to ask too many questions. I knew how sensitive survivors could be about it. Like my grandfather who never talked about what happened there. Asking him questions had earned me a slap or two.
I changed the subject. I thanked John again and put the hoodie on, marvelling at how much more bearable it made sleeping outside. I had a new hoodie and I had eaten dinner. I had my new friend, John.
But it wasn’t enough.
I didn’t want to take sponge baths in the restroom at McDonalds. I didn’t want to sleep in a park. I didn’t want my only friend to be an old man who drank too much. And I didn’t want to be constantly hungry.
I found myself dreaming about food. Not the fast food from the dollar menus or the day-old donuts I was living on. Real food from back home. Fry bread hot from the oil. Indian tacos. Venison stew with huge chunks of meat, carrots and potatoes. My mouth fairly watered for meals that tasted like home. I ate stale donuts and hot dogs from street carts until I wanted to scream for vegetables and fruit.
And I went hungry until I finally said yes to one of those men who drove by trolling for young boys.
I said yes and climbed in beside a man who smelled of cigarettes and cheap aftershave.
I said yes and let him unzip his pants and reach over to take my hand and place it on him.
I said yes until he finished and handed me two twenties and a ten. And dropped me off in front of Tim Hortons where I ran into the washroom and scrubbed my hands for fifteen minutes with so much soap that I bled the dispenser dry.
I wiped angrily at my eyes. Then I took my fifty dollars and bought steak sandwiches on fresh rolls smothered in onions and gravy, thick-cut fries drenched in salt and malt vinegar, and ice-cold Diet Cokes. I took it all back to the park with me and shared it with John.
“Where did you get the money for this?” he asked through a mouthful of tender beef and onions. I shrugged, gulping down my drink. He didn’t need to hear what I had done for the money. John had lived on the streets long enough to have done the same for a hot meal.
Chapter 14
Looking for Trouble
Going with men for money got easier after the first time. And easier still after the second and third time. I put some weight back on. I made sure John ate and I got him some cough syrup. I was surviving. But not really living. I can honestly say my life changed . . . it began even . . . in yet another man’s car on yet another night.
I got into a car and earned my fifty dollars. But this guy was different from most of the men who picked me up. He was nervous, and asked me a few times if I was a cop. He kept telling me he had never done anything like this before. He assured me that he wasn’t gay, just curious. I tried to calm him down but it just made him edgier. I tried to get out of the car, but he locked the doors. I turned to find a gun pointed at my face. I had grown up around guns, but no one back home was stupid enough to point one at someone’s face. I felt my blood run cold and put my hands up.
“Whoa,” I said. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I’m not gay,” he insisted.
“Okay. That’s alright. I’ll just leave then.”
“Why did you go and convince me to pick you up?” he moaned.
“What? I didn’t . . . you stopped and asked me to get in . . .” I blustered. Then I realized I was just making things worse and shut my mouth with a snap.
“This is your fault!” he screamed at me. “I have a family! I’m not gay!”
“I know. It’s okay. It’s my fault completely. Just open the door and I’ll leave.”
“No! You’ll tell my wife!” he said. The gun was waving unsteadily at me.
“I won’t. I promise. Just unlock the door and you’ll never see me again.”
He seemed to think about this. I thought I’d be able to get out without any problems. But then he hauled off and pistol-whipped me so hard on the side of the head that I saw stars dancing around in my line of vision. I felt a trickle of blood make its way down my temple as he unlocked the door. I reached for the handle. But just as I opened the door, he leaned over and hit me again. I fell out onto the sidewalk and the car sped off, tires screaming against the asphalt of the alleyway where we had parked.
I shook my head, trying to clear my vision. But the pain was unbearably bad and I felt like throwing up. He had hit me hard, right in the temple. I dragged myself against a dumpster and closed my eyes.
“Are you okay?” A kind-sounding voice broke through the fog.
I looked up at a beautiful girl standing over me. I remember thinking that her skin was the colour of the coffee I drank with my mom on Saturday mornings.
“Yeah,” I groaned. “I think so.” I tried to stand up but fell back against the dumpster, clutching my head.
“You might have a concussion,” the girl said. “Do you have somewhere to go?”
“I sleep in the park,” I admitted to her.
She nodded. “I have a place you can stay tonight,” she told me.
“Why are you helping me?” I asked her. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll rob you or something?”
She laughed. “What would you take? Anyway, it doesn’t look like you can do much harm to anyone right now.”
She helped me up. “It’s just around the corner. Can you make it?” she said.
I nodded, wincing at the pain that shot through my head as I moved it. I was leaning on her more than I cared to admit. But she was strong and managed to hold me up without too much trouble.
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
“Obsidian,” she replied.
“I’ve never heard that name before,” I told her.
“I made it up,” she smiled. She led me past Ryerson University and down an alley to a boarded-up building. “It’s right here.” She ducked under some construction horses and unlocked a huge padlock with a key she was wearing on a chain around her neck.
“What is this place?” I asked.
“It’s an old theatre. They were going to tear it down to make condos but they ran out of money. So I put a lock on it that looks like the kind the construction company would use and no one bothers me. So far, anyway.”
She led me into what looked like an office that still had a sofa and movie posters on the walls. She set me down on the couch and turned a camping lantern on.
“So you made up your own name?” I asked.
“Sure. It’s better than the name I was born with. Obsidian suits me. It’s dark and mysterious. Just like me.”
I laughed and then groaned. Obsidian wet a napkin with a bottle of water she took out of a cooler and wiped the blood off my face. I leaned back and closed my eyes. I hadn’t slept on a bed — or sofa — in ages.
“Don’t fall asleep!” Obsidian called out sharply.
I dragged my eyes open with difficulty. “Why?” I asked, yawning.
“You could have a concussion. You have to stay awake.”
She sat down beside me, nudging me upright and handing me a bottle of water.
“You haven’t told me your name,” she smiled gently at me.
“Joe,” I told her, drinking deeply. “My name is Joe Littlechief.”
* * *
Obsidian — Sid, as she told me to call her — asked me questions to keep me awake. She was really easy to talk to. Maybe it was the head injury, but I found myself telling her things that I hadn’t told anyone else. I told her about my crush on Benjy. I told her how my friends had turned on me when they found out I was gay. I talked about my aunt and how she accepted me, no matter what. I told her that my mother called me a disgusting abomination and threw me out of my home.
I even told her that I was suicidal before I left and had taken whole bottle of painkillers. I explained how I had made myself throw them up before they were digested. She listened and didn’t interrupt. She just nodded or murmured a response.
I told her that I felt so alone and so angry that I wasn’t like everyone else that sometimes I punched the wall until my hands bled. Sid reached over and took my hands in hers, running her fingers over the scars on my knuckles.
“You can’t hurt yourself like that, Joe,” she said kindly. “There are people out there who are more than happy to do that for you.”
I nodded. She was right.
Talking to Sid, I realized I was slowly starting to accept who I was. I wasn’t okay with it yet but I would be.
“So . . . you’re a religious, Indigenous gay boy?” she asked with a wink.
I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“I’ve got you beat, Joe. I’m an African-Canadian transgender girl.”
I looked at her, completely shocked.
“You didn’t guess?” she asked, smiling.
“No. Not at all. I thought you were . . . a girl.”
“I am a girl. I was just born in the wrong body.” She shrugged as if it was no big deal.
“Did you always know?” I asked carefully. “I mean . . . if you were born a boy, how did you know you weren’t supposed to be one?”
“I always knew,” she told me. “As soon as I was old enough to talk, I told my parents I was a girl and I wanted to wear girls’ clothes. There was never a time where I thought I was a boy.” She shrugged again. “I just knew. It was some genetic accident or something. Like being colour blind, which I also am. Now that’s a tragedy because I love fashion but I can never tell for sure if my clothes match.”
I laughed, feeling comfortable for the first time since I left home.
“Can I ask you something?” I yawned.
“Sure,” Sid smiled.
“If you’re transgender . . . do you still have . . . I mean . . . do you have . . . you know?” I looked over at her, gesturing downwards and then quickly continued. “Is that offensive? I’m sorry.”
“No, no. It’s fine. I’d rather people asked questions than just go ahead and make assumptions about me. So to answer your question, no. I haven’t had gender confirmation surgery.”
“Will you?” I asked. “Get the surgery?”
“I don’t know. Maybe when I’m older. I don’t really feel like I need to have surgery. I’m okay the way I am. I know I’m a girl,” she smiled.
This girl was amazing. Not only had she rescued me when she could have easily ignored me, but she was so confident! She was totally comfortable in her own skin. I wished desperately that I could be like her.
Chapter 15
Sid’s Story
I didn’t leave Sid’s place the next morning. Or the next. Or the next. My head was fine aside from the headache I had for a couple of days, but Sid went out for a bottle of Advil and that helped. She made me feel at home and comfortable with myself. With her. I actually felt happy holed up with her in the theatre. I found myself wanting her around all the time. I hadn’t felt this close to anyone since Benjy. It was confusing as hell.
Sid and I walked the streets, taking food to John in the park. With Sid’s blessing, I asked John to come and stay in the theatre with us.
“We’ll be a family,” she told him, taking his hand in hers. John loved Sid. Who wouldn’t? Obsidian Smith radiated life.
“I’m happy in my own little corner of the park,” he told her, patting her hand.
No matter how much we begged, John wouldn’t come back to the theatre with us for more than a visit.
“Why do you think John keeps turning down our invitation to live here?” she asked me later
. “You think he’s worried he’ll catch us fooling around or something?” She wiggled her eyebrows at me teasingly.
“What? No! Of course not!” I was blushing wildly. Which made no sense. Sid was a girl! I glanced over at her, and looking at her face made me blush harder. “It might have something to do with him being sent to residential school,” I told her.
“I didn’t know he was in one of those schools,” she said, looking horrified.
“Yeah. For years. He was in the same school as my grandfather. I thought maybe being locked up in there for so long might be why he prefers not having walls around him.” I shrugged. I was guessing. But I knew the school made him an alcoholic. It probably was at least partly why he left his home to live in the park. I knew from seeing my grandfather raging against his past and what the school had done to all those Aboriginal kids.
Sid was nodding slowly. “Yeah. You might be right.”
We talked about what we were going to do that night. I wanted to stay in and read one of the books I had picked up from a box left on the sidewalk on Jarvis Street. Sid wanted to hustle enough money to go to the Carlton and see the latest romantic comedy.
I didn’t want her going with men unless it was necessary. “Aren’t you worried that someone is going to hurt you?” I asked. “That they’ll be expecting something . . . that you don’t have?” I finished lamely. My face burned but Sid just laughed.
“I just touch them. They don’t get to touch me. What they don’t know won’t hurt them. Or me.”
“Oh. Okay then, I guess.”
We were draped over velvet chairs in the theatre, passing a bag of grapes back and forth.
“Joe, why did you leave home?” she asked. She peeled the skin off a green grape with her fingers.
“I told you why. My mother didn’t want me in her house,” I said, choosing a grape from the bag.
“I know. But you said your aunt was okay with your being gay. Couldn’t you have stayed with her?”
“No way. Aunt Ava is the younger sister. She might not agree with my mom but she won’t go against her. Anyway, she has her hands full with my grandfather. She takes care of him. And my grandfather wouldn’t have me in his house once he found out.”
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