Other from you
But same with the land
We are the Others
The change we need
The change we demand
Their braids cascaded down their backs in infinite patterns of knots, criss-crosses and jewels. The crowd of Others cheered, some of them cried, some of them watched with their hands at their hearts, trying to hold on to the magic they were seeing onstage. Shots of police officers standing along the perimeter of the crowd, suspicious and poised for action.
The segment cut to the twins speaking to a reporter. “In the face of a dramatic increase in hate crimes, our duty is to travel from city to city to educate as many people as possible,” Amana said. Adea chimed in, seamlessly, the way twins often do: “We want safety for everyone, no matter what your religion. No matter what your gender identity. No matter what your skin colour. We want peace.”
Now that Nolan was in full drag, I could read him and his emotions easily. As we arrived at Wet Bar, he was already casing the joint looking for familiar faces. I had to remind him to pay his cover charge, he was that distracted. Across the crowded dance floor stood Cole with two big electric-tape Xs on their* sweatshirt where the surgery was going to take place. Their asymmetrical haircut bobbed side to side, and they did a nonchalant step-touch to a bass-heavy R&B song. With that same amount of giving zero fucks, they nodded in Nolan’s direction. That was Nolan’s cue to begin the ruse.
“Kay! Not here!” With a faux chuckle, Nolan playfully slapped me, and his chunky Lalique ring got caught on the Chantilly lace on my sleeve. “Fuck.” He continued his laughter as he pulled. He decided to cut his losses. He whispered conspiratorially into my ear, “Just leave it there and I’ll cut it out later.”
All was well once a dancehall song came on. It gave Nolan the perfect opportunity to show off his moves. During the climax of the song, he descended to the floor on all fours, ass-clapping to the beat. When the song shifted to some trance, he composed himself and whispered again to me. “Here’s the deal, handsome. I’ll give you a wink if I decide to go off and do my thing. Otherwise, let’s stick together, okay? I need you!”
It didn’t take long for me to receive the wink signal. A couple of songs, max. Some muscle-head with a mesh shirt, the same mesh shirt I was going to wear that night, caught Nolan’s eye and he was off. His high ponytail disappeared among the pumping fists and slamming bodies. I sighed and looked around.
I moved past the dancing bodies to the side to assess my sad situation. Two hipsters stood beside me, leaning against the wall and staring at the bright lights.
“Fuck, man. Your dealer hooks it up.”
“I know, right? He doesn’t play.”
“Like . . . my dealer charges twice as much and I don’t feel this fucked up.”
I rolled my eyes and sighed hard. There were worse birthdays, for sure. But this night was giving some stiff competition. I decided to tuck myself away in the corner of the lounge beside a long corridor to the back of the bar so that the darkened shadows could obscure my pouting. I made a mental note to commemorate all future birthdays in complete isolation. For the rest of my days, I planned to brood in level-ten sulking all alone without anyone to bother me.
The lighting changed. A spotlight dragged itself across the sweaty crowd to the stage, where a femme with a 1920s bob haircut entered. It wasn’t so much a stage as a raised flat of particleboard atop two mouldy skids. A nineties tune blared through the speakers, and the crowd roared in recognition. She sat on a chair and took out a bowl of raspberries. In time with the music, she put one raspberry on each finger on her right hand, then naughtily sucked each finger’s raspberry into her mouth. The crowd went wild in anticipation of every lick. As the song faded, she made her way through the crowd, sexily slinking her way past me, down the corridor, to the back of Wet Bar. One person whose shoulder she touched in her journey swooned and held their* heart. What a hot show.
Her titillating walk slowly switched into a tired gait the farther she got from the stage. As soon as she was out of sight of the audience, she removed her heels and sighed before entering the dressing room. Just as I was about to approach her and tell her what a stunning performance she had given, I felt someone brushing past me.
It was you, Evan.
In the dim club lights, I saw you holding a large sheet cake while fumbling with a lighter to touch it to the tips of a dozen birthday candles.
“Can I help you?” I offered.
“Yes, please!” I heard your voice for the first time. Deep and rich. I quickly held the bottom of the cake. A few flicks of your thumb along the spark wheel of the lighter and it became obvious the safety guard was confusing you.
“Would you like me to try?” I offered again.
We switched positions. You holding the cake. Me sparking the lighter. Our heads inches apart as I lit each of the birthday candles. The soft light from below catching your gaze upon me.
“It’s—” Something caught in my throat and my voice squeaked out of nervousness. “It’s my birthday today, too.” You smiled, watching me finish the last few candles.
“Then I guess you’ll have to join us.” You took the cake from me and ceremoniously walked down the corridor to the dressing room. The muffled sound of performers prepping rose to full volume once you opened the door.
“Happy birthday to you . . .” you began, and everyone joined in. “Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to youuuuuuu!”
It was obvious by the look of things that the dressing room was actually the bar’s office during the week. With the performers present, a strip of bare bulbs screwed into the wall lit up two greasy mirrors. The ambience of the lighting helped us ignore the administrative elements of dusty photocopiers, posted staff schedules and laminated inspirational posters. The dressing room was larger than the one at Epic, but with the dancers doing their makeup sitting on office chairs and their kits sitting atop plastic inboxes, it was just as sad.
“Where are all the Scorpios?” you asked. “Inez, Kiley, Sandra! Blow out these candles before my arm gives out. This cake is huge.” The three performers stepped forward as if they had won something. “And you, birthday boy. Sorry . . . what’s your name?”
My face got hot. “Kay.”
“It’s Kay’s birthday today, too,” you said with a grin. I cautiously joined the Scorpios and we blew out the candles. Smoke filled the air.
One dancer approached me wearing only one tassel while she fanned the other nipple’s adhesive dry with a folded computer mouse pad. She gave me a peck on the cheek. “Happy Scorpio season, Kay.” She kissed you on the cheek next. “Thank you, Evan. This is amazing.” Another dancer approached me with a bong.
“Take a hit first so that it tastes like one of those artisanal cupcakes you get from a hipster pastry shop.” I obliged, and with eyes dry, I dug into the cheap chocolatey goodness.
“I wanted to pop in to see you all and let you know that thanks to your performances, we made our goal for Cole’s surgery.” Everyone cheered. I gulped.
What do I remember of you that night? Oh yes. Your suit was well tailored. I had never seen craftsmanship like that in real life. I had to fight myself not to touch the fabric. The deep-grey wool with the most modest lines of pinstripes sat well on your wide chest and brought out the sleek texture of your black skin. The light of the bare bulbs caught your eyes and reflected back to me as the colour red. I shook my head, wondering if it was an optical illusion, but when you stepped forward and extended your hand, your eyes went back to the most delicious shade of brown. Fuck. I admit, I was so stoned. It took every last calorie in me to not touch the perfect bald fade on the nape of your neck, not to trace the exact lines of your beard edging, not to offer you the lip balm in my pocket in case your lips needed moisturizing. Instead I stood there, in my ridiculous Queen Victoria ensemble, and curtsied. You put your hand away and bowed deeply.
“Thank you for your help, your majesty,” you said. I fell in love. It was you who had o
rganized the joint Scorpio birthday party in support of Cole’s top surgery. It was you who took me by the hand and led me outside for our first kiss. It was you who paid for the cab that drove us to my humble apartment, where we made love for the first time.
“Who put you in this outfit?”
“My roommate, Nolan.”
“Queen Victoria?”
“Yes.”
“Nice. Take it off.”
We made love like lions, growing skinny with the passage of time and sex. We took a selfie of us under the low canopy of my bedsheets, you biting my ear.
“You know when I post this on Instagram, it’s official, right?”
“I do,” you said while kissing the backs of my hands. We received dozens of well-wishes from friends who commented on the post. We were too busy making love to care about the comments from trolls telling us that we were abominations and deserved to die.
I ran out of groceries, and you went out to get supplies using your Verification Card. Like all of us, you too had mysteriously dwindling funds in your account.
“I had to use what little cash I had in my pocket. You okay with Pop-Tarts for dinner?”
“As long as I can have you for dessert.”
We strolled around Yonge Street, window shopping in the freezing rain. We held hands until we saw two cops doing a random check on a Black boy of about seventeen years old, arresting him for not having his Verification Card on his person.
“Let’s go into this store until they move on down the street.”
“Sounds like a plan, babes. I hope they leave soon.”
Time passed. You called your mother to tell her the good news of our partnership.
“Put him on the phone. I need to hear his voice,” she said.
“Hello, Mrs. King.”
“Hello, Kay. When can I expect you two for dinner?”
I enter the cottage looking for Bahadur, assuming that they ducked out of digging ditches and transporting dead chickens, but they aren’t to be found. I proceed into the main farmhouse with the screen door creaking behind me.
“Is that you, Peter?” Hanna calls out.
“No, ma’am. It’s me. Kay.”
“Come on in, young man.”
I wipe off my shoes, walk past the hallway of dead-people pictures and into the living room. Hanna and Bahadur are sitting on the couch together looking at old photo albums. An entire pile stands in a toppled-over mess atop a multicoloured crocheted couch cover.
“We’ve been at this for a while, but you’re welcome to catch up,” Hanna says, motioning for me to sit down in the nearby corduroy reclining chair. I am surprised she even wants me to touch anything. I am covered head to toe in sand. When I sit my butt down, I sink into the soft comfort of its cushion. I feel weary and weak.
Bahadur looks at me with a forced smile, stressing each word to ensure I understand the torture they have just endured. “Hanna has shown me each and every one of these albums.” Blink. Blink.
“We got a bit sidetracked. Bahadur here was helping me sort out the last of our canned preserves. So many jars shattered in the floods. Next thing I know, I’m cracking open the spines of these old things, showing pictures of Beck during his hockey days.”
Bahadur and I share a glance. The album she holds has a soggy bottom, but the photos in the upper half remain intact, albeit discoloured. Hanna turns another creaky page of the album and uses her crooked fingers to pry open the adhesive sleeve. With one of her fingernails, she manages to lift up the corner of one photo, peel it off and hand it to me.
“Can you believe how handsome he was?” Hanna says wistfully. She leans her head on the tops of her knobby knuckles. In the photo, Beck wears full hockey gear, the blade of his stick extended in a staged slapshot. He has that awkward teen smile, where the grin is present but the lips do not want to betray the line of braces underneath. Even then, you can see a longing in his eyes. “When he was a toddler, I can’t tell you how many times people would stop me, wondering why on earth I would dye my child’s hair. I’d try to explain that that was in fact his natural colour. He was blessed with the reddest of hair. It faded a bit to more of a strawberry blond when he became a teen. It broke my heart when he enlisted and had to get that darned puppy cut.” She sits for a moment, looking to the right, as if imagining what could have happened had Beck remained in town, then looking to the left at the trajectory of what happened following that life-changing haircut, wincing a bit.
“You, young lady,” Hanna says, grabbing Bahadur’s knee with what is meant to be a loving and firm gesture. “I hope you never forget who you are.” And with that, the old woman uses her cane to get up from the couch and heads to the kitchen to continue inspection of the canned goods.
Bahadur throws me a look so horrified I think their eyes are going to fall out of their sockets.
At the kitchen table, with all of us eating a modest dinner of pickled beets, Ritz crackers and jam, we hear a vehicle approaching the farmhouse. The sound of wheels over pea gravel. The sight of headlights through the front curtains. Peter tells me and Bahadur to hide in the attic. Quick as lightning, Beck pulls a seemingly magical ladder from the ceiling over the hallway and tells us to ascend. Before he lifts the ladder into place, he looks at me and puts his fingers to his lips.
Bahadur and I crouch in complete darkness. We both feel with our hands, as silently as possible, for a place to hide. My toe jams on a heavy box and I stifle a scream. I paw around until I can get behind the box. I crouch down further and make myself as small as possible.
From downstairs, we hear the screen door open and close. We hear Hanna’s cane poke the ground before her towards the front of the farmhouse, then silence. A few muffled sentences.
The screen door slams open, and we can hear Beck shouting orders. Beck suddenly pulls down the attic ladder and calls out to us.
“Kay! Bahadur! Come down! Quick!”
We carefully inch our way down the ladder, cautious of the scene below. It’s Liv. It’s fucking Liv! It’s her. She wears a leather jacket like the Boots. Her hair is in a tight ponytail. She looks at me and smiles, but when she sees Bahadur her jaw and lips begin to tremble, her eyes pooling and wet.
“She made it here. She’s safe.”
Bahadur stops in their tracks. Liv takes their hand and guides them to the kitchen table. Huddled on a chair is someone wrapped in a blanket, wilted and weak. Bahadur almost loses their balance. I grab them at the elbows, but they propel themselves forward into an embrace.
“Firuzeh?! Is that you?” Bahadur lifts the blanket to confirm. Her head is shaven. Her face is swollen and bruised. Her breathing laboured. But it’s her. She attempts to stand at the sight of Bahadur, then collapses.
“Firuzeh! Fuck! Firuuuuuzeeeeeh!” Bahadur manages to brace her fall and sits her back down. All of us watch with our hands over our mouths as Bahadur weeps, gently rocking her in a pained embrace. “Look at you . . . Firuzeh . . . oh . . . what have they done to you? Oh no! I’m so sorry!”
Beck shakes his head out of its stupor and leaves the kitchen, returning with a first aid kit and a bottle of water.
Liv touches the surface of Firuzeh’s neck, checking her temperature. “Once we got to the country roads, we were able to move her out of the trunk of the car. By then she was looking pretty weary. She’s been having a hard time keeping any water down.”
Beck and Liv work together to get Firuzeh to drink, even a little. She takes in small sips, although most of it dribbles down her cut chin. I hold Firuzeh’s torso upright, while Bahadur gently wipes her bloody body using an old shirt dipped into bottled water, which Hanna has warmed up over the stove. I notice that Firuzeh’s fingernails are missing, but I say nothing.
“We’re going to clean you all up, okay?” Bahadur says between sobs. Peter leaves to cry in the living room in private.
Once Firuzeh is clean, Beck carries her to the cottage and sets her up on a bed. Bahadur sits beside the bed to watch for any progress.
>
“Did you want me to move your bed next to hers so you can rest?” I ask them.
“No. I won’t rest. I can’t rest. Not until I know she’s okay.”
From my bed, I spy Bahadur’s silhouette over Firuzeh’s sleeping body until they become a shadow in the darkness. In the middle of the night, I hear the cottage door creak open. It’s Hanna. Bahadur and I startle at her arrival.
“It’s just me.”
She shuffles and pokes her cane on the floor until she is beside Bahadur. She sits on the bed beside Firuzeh and shakes her head. “What a poor and awful sight.”
Bahadur remains still.
“I’m guessing you knew her? Were you close to her?” Bahadur cries quietly into their elbow. “Shhhhhh. Shhhhhh,” Hanna says lovingly. “You need to rest.” Hanna begins a rhythmic stroke down Bahadur’s back. “Whatever she’s gone through, it’s going to take a while for her to heal from. You need to rest so that when she wakes up, she sees a familiar face. You understand?” Bahadur nods wearily and succumbs to the stroke of Hanna’s hands. Once Bahadur is snoring softly, Hanna quietly makes her way out of the cottage and back to the farmhouse under the light of a half moon.
7
In my sleep, I dream about meeting your mother, holding my pillow and willing the dream to last forever. Perhaps if we work together we can both imagine the pieces of her well enough that we can conjure up her whole self.
We emerged onto street level outside King subway station to yet another political demonstration. We waited to catch a streetcar to head west towards Parkdale, but the throngs of protesters had the vehicle stalled at Victoria Street. Hundreds of people stood in three distinct columns, the rainwater from the night before splashing at everyone’s feet. The centre column’s folks held eight-foot-long posts with red dresses flapping like flags at the ends. The outside column’s folks held smoke grenades, each one emitting a different-coloured cloud. They passed in intentional silence. My eyes widened at the arresting image. You threw up your arms in frustration. “I guess we have to walk all the way to Dufferin Street.”
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