Crosshairs Page 8

  “You watch, ha? See this?” Ma points to the fine hair at the end of the tone arm. “This is the needle.” When she lifts the tone arm, the platter automatically begins to turn. She carefully and ceremoniously places the stylus onto the record’s first track. “Clair de Lune” fills the speakers. Fills our apartment. Fills my heart.

  “Don’t touch this, ha?” Ma says before heading to the kitchen to begin prepping dinner. I hold the album cover in my hands. Liberace Piano Gems it reads on the cardboard sleeve. On it is a picture of a man beaming from ear to ear and wearing a silver cape. On the side is a superimposed image of his graceful hands, covered in jewels and rings, on the piano keys. I have never seen a man look like that before: smiling so genuinely and wearing such lavish clothes. Still holding the album cover, I begin dancing around the room. I can feel the swoosh of air past my ears with every flourish of my hands, every waltz step through the house. The music sounds like birds just about to take flight. It sounds like eyes slowly opening in the morning. It sounds like fog dissipating in the warmth of the sun. I dance and dance through the house, bracing myself on chairs to lift my legs up, rolling along the floor on my knees, reaching up to the sky at these sensations in my body.

  “What is this?” My mother stands there, a plate of rice and beefsteak in each hand, staring at her child.

  I awake to the sound of a black Grand Caravan rolling up to the stop sign at the corner of Dufferin and Alma. At first I am unsure. Is this the one? I see a white man inside unfold a map over the steering wheel. Maybe not. But when I see him briefly, ever so briefly, let his eyes stray from the map to look around, I know this is it.

  I bolt from the fence to the van. The van’s automatic door slowly slides open, and once I am inside it slowly slides shut.

  “Get down,” the white man says as he begins driving. He drives over a couple of potholes and I bump my head on the ceiling of the van. “Head to the back. Get under a blanket. We should be there in five hours.”

  “Did anyone follow you?”

  “I didn’t see anyone.”

  “Good. Watch your head.”

  I crawl past two bucket seats laden with boxes to the back of the van, where the seats have been stowed down and there are several heavy grey blankets. I grab a blanket, and when I lift it up I see someone else lying there. They* look Queer too but younger. Head unevenly shaven. I can see from the barrel shape of their sweatshirt that their hefty chest is bound.

  “The other one. Not this one,” they say. I grab another blanket and cover myself. I feel the van move through stop-and-go traffic until I am asleep again, my face moist from my own breath.

  When I wake, the road sounds smooth like one continuous hum. I lift up my blanket. From my position down below I can see blue skies from each of the van’s windows. I catch the eyes of the white man in the rear-view mirror.

  “I’m not going to look back at you. I’m going to keep looking forward. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “How are you doing? You all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Beck. Did Liv give you something for me?”

  I feel for the manila envelope under my shirt. “Yes.”

  “Good. I will need you to hand that to me at our next pit stop. As much as I want to tell you when we will stop, the truth is, we’re never a hundred percent sure when it will be safe to do so. I might have to just fill up with gas and keep going, you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  After the sunlight shifts from the driver’s side of the car to the other, we finally stop. The white man opens the door. We are unsure if we should still hide.

  “Okay. We’re in a safe zone, but I need you to run to the washrooms and run back. The gas station attendant is in with us. But we don’t know who’s watching. I will need you to be back inside this van by the time I am done.”

  The other person and I lift ourselves up from the back of the van and crawl forward. Our bodies are achy and sore. I hand the white man the manila envelope and he points us in the direction of the washrooms.

  “What’s your name?” I ask in the cramped stall.

  “Bahadur,” they tell me as they lift up their sweatshirt to clean themselves. There is no time for privacy between us. The binding around their chest smells musty and old. I imagine I mustn’t smell any better.

  “I’m Kay.”

  “Holy shit. This feels good.” Bahadur splashes water on their face, neck and arms. The sound of it all reminds me to pee. I face away from them and do my business.

  “Wow. Sounds like you actually had access to water.”

  “I did. Some white lady gave me her watering can to drink.”

  “Jealous.”

  “No, I’m jealous. Looks like you had access to an electric clipper.”

  Bahadur’s jaw drops in both laughter and shock. “Let me guess. You did drag.”

  “You bet.”

  “I can always tell when people were paid to throw shade.” They wet their hair and armpits, what my ma would call a “cowboy shower,” where everything gets splashed with water but no soap.

  As we run back to the van, its automatic door slides open and we resume our positions. We see the white man in the driver’s seat briefly leaf through the manila envelope’s contents, then reseal it. He rolls down the window of the van and slides the envelope in between two jugs of windshield washer fluid. We drive away. The continuous hum.

  “Pssst.” Bahadur’s hand taps my blanket. We join blankets as if we are at a slumber party. Only we are not wearing pyjamas. We are two smelly Queers wearing our runaway clothes, acting like teenagers whispering gossip with glee. It has been a long time since I have had a decent conversation. I pray that the odour between us will become bearable sometime soon.

  “So? How did you get here?” I tell them my story. I tell them about you. I tell them about Fanny and her dog. I tell them about Liv’s basement and the lynching. I tell them about sandwiches on windowsills and children through fences.

  They tell me their story.

  One of the first signs that Bahadur was in trouble was during the processing of their refugee claim. They had a very clear case as a claimant, having survived a gang rape involving two of their cousins who found out about their Queer identity. They endured repeated threats. They were ambushed in broad daylight.

  “You should kill yourself!”

  “You whore!”

  “You disgusting piece of filth!”

  With the help of the Transgender Assistance Centre of Toronto, they filed the paperwork for a refugee claim.

  “Now it’s just a waiting game,” said Bahadur’s caseworker, Firuzeh. “Be prepared. It may take some time. Especially with all of the recent budget cuts to the centre.”

  “Is your job in danger?” Bahadur asked.

  “When is it not?” Firuzeh said, sarcastically. “The centre itself is owned by the city, and the programs are provincially funded. Between our asshole provincial premier and asshole mayor, not to mention our newly elected asshole prime minister, we’re pretty much screwed. That’s why I’ve stopped putting things up in my office.” She gestured towards her desk calendar with pictures of Hawaii. “It’s just this flip calendar and my laptop. That’s all. But for now, we wait and hope for the best.”

  She smiled and winked at the same time, which made Bahadur’s cheeks flush. Firuzeh presented them a gift bag. “I wanted to surprise you.” Bahadur’s face was practically crimson. “This week, we’re expecting the first snowfall. It’s coming early this year. I wanted you to be prepared.” She took out a striped Blue Jays toque, a chunky winter coat and a pair of boots that were two sizes too large.

  “I look like a marshmallow.”

  Firuzeh stifled a laugh. “No! No. You don’t look—”

  “Yes I do.”

  “Okay. Maybe a little.” Firuzeh’s laugh subsided into an affectionate smile. She held her face with her slender hands, then intertwined her fingers ove
r her lap. She said with a sigh, “I’m proud of you, Bahadur. You’ve made it this far. Now you just have to make it through this winter.”

  Bahadur considered stepping forward and perhaps kissing her on the cheek but thought better of it. Bahadur adored watching Firuzeh as she struggled to put her mess of curls into a ponytail. No elastic band was strong enough to keep it in place, and Bahadur would count down the minutes during their appointments until the elastic would inevitably loosen and let Firuzeh’s golden-brown locks fall to her slight shoulders.

  “Let’s schedule you in next week, okay? We have to finalize the paperwork for your work permit, and I want to get that done sooner than later.”

  That Wednesday, according to plan, Bahadur made their way from their shelter at Jarvis and Shuter Streets to the centre at Carlton and Sherbourne streets. The winter gear Firuzeh had given them was perfectly timed. Hail followed by freezing sleet came down in unforgiving sheets of painful granules. Unlike the sparkles that fell gracefully within a snow globe, real hail fell sideways, accumulating in the cuffs and collar of Bahadur’s gifted coat. Perhaps this was why the streets felt empty and quiet. With their scarf covering their face, Bahadur marvelled at the tracks they created while travelling north on Sherbourne. The street was wider than Shuter, and the wind picked up speed. Bahadur learned to lean into the gusts in order to move forward.

  They finally made it to the doors of the centre only to find it locked. Bahadur cupped their hands on the surface of the window, hoping for a glare-free view of the people inside. Normally, a security guard could open the door. Usually, a few people would be strolling about the front lobby, drinking coffee or perusing pamphlets by the community bulletin board. Bahadur walked to the other end of the centre, where the walk-in clinic was usually full to the brim. These doors were also locked and the waiting room was empty.

  A familiar feeling of dread percolated in their stomach, but they shook it off. Perhaps Bahadur had come on the wrong day. Perhaps the weather had shut the centre down.

  The next day, Bahadur tried again. This time, the Transgender Assistance Centre sign on the corner of Carlton and Sherbourne had been taken down. The week following that, Bahadur could see from a block away that the centre had become lousy with soldiers in boots and leather jackets. Their armoured trucks. Their unmarked boxes in and out of the centre. Burly white men shaking hands, then heading inside.

  With a scarf still shielding their face from the early winter flurries, Bahadur stood kitty-corner from the centre watching this unfold. They could have asked someone what was happening, but they already knew. This place, this city, this country, was no longer safe. Maybe it never had been.

  Bahadur tried their luck at a recycling factory located on the industrial outskirts of town.

  “Social Insurance Number, please?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Work permit?”

  “No.”

  The middle-aged Black woman scratched her head through her beige industrial hair cap. Putting down her clipboard, she leaned in to Bahadur.

  “Come with me.” She led Bahadur down a long hallway with threadbare carpeting. She opened a fire door into a stairwell, then paused. “What’s your name again?”

  “Bahadur.”

  “Okay. So here’s the thing. We’re going to the lower-level factory where the majority of the recycling takes place.”

  “Recycling? I thought this was for loading. I’m very good at lifting and packing.”

  “I can see that. But that’s the problem. People can see you. We don’t want anyone to see you.”

  Bahadur looked at their winter boots from Firuzeh, now soaked from another snowstorm.

  “I’ve been where you are. I know. I came here from Eritrea to this exact factory five years ago, before my permit came in. These are jobs regular Canadians don’t want. But new people, refugees, illegals, we all need them. We have families. We can’t wait for paperwork. And I’m guessing you can’t either.”

  Bahadur shook their head.

  “I have to warn you, this job is dirty business. But trust me,” the woman leaned in conspiratorially, “the way things are changing, these dirty jobs are the safest for folks like you and me. The less they want these jobs, the less likely they’ll take them away anytime soon. Nice to fly under their radar, you know what I mean?”

  Bahadur nodded.

  “Good. Let’s get you some steel-toe boots.”

  The people in the factory resembled ants. Dust-covered with goggles, Bahadur took their place among the masses.

  “Stand here and watch.” Isaac, Bahadur’s training supervisor, began selecting certain items from the endless line of garbage. “I want you to just concentrate on electronics. Nothing else. Once you find something, you are to throw it into this bin here.” Isaac tilted the bin to show various VHS tapes, remote controls, batteries.

  Using thin rubberized work gloves that did not protect from moisture or filth, Bahadur picked electrical wires from piles of unfurled diapers, TV antennas from half-wrapped burgers teeming with maggots. Countless times, a rat would jump from the detritus and attempt to hitch a ride on the shoulders of one of the workers. It was typical to watch co-workers scream and dance about, striking their own bodies to rid their gear of vermin. No one could stop and assist. They all had to keep going. The only time they could stop was when the thirty-minute alarm went off to allow the workers to sit for a whopping two minutes. So all they did was watch and sort at the same time.

  “If you see any of these, I want them.” Ricky, the only white man in the factory, stood opposite Bahadur leafing through an ancient copy of Hustler. Bahadur saw images of hairy crotches and large breasts gracing each page and almost vomited. The thought of nude bodies among the putrid landfill made their stomach turn. “You don’t see chicks like this anymore. I love hairy pussies. See, this was beauty. Of course, these women are, like, seventy years old now, but whatever.”

  Before heading to the cafeteria, the factory workers would go to the washrooms and try to wash their inflamed hands clean enough to eat, but rarely did the dispenser have enough soap. Knowing full well that they were in danger, Bahadur kept silent in the men’s room so as not to reveal their higher voice. The men at the urinals began peering over their shoulders to stare at Bahadur as they washed up.

  In the lunchroom, one worker removed his helmet and sat down among other men equally curious about Bahadur. “Didn’t I see you in the men’s room?” he said, loud enough so Bahadur could hear. “Why were you there?”

  “Aren’t you a woman?”

  “Maybe she’s a she-male.”

  “Really, are you?”

  “Hey! Bahadur! Over here!” Ricky, the perverted white guy, invited Bahadur to his table with an eager swing of his arm. No one else sat with him. Bahadur made their way to Ricky’s table and ate quietly, hoping for the conversation to end. “So how does that work anyway? You know . . . muffin bumping?” Ricky banged the back of his fists together, sincerely asking for a demonstration.

  The next day, Bahadur tried to go to the women’s washroom instead.

  “We’ve had some complaints. Some of the women in the factory have said that they caught you looking at them while they were on the toilet.” Isaac leaned his office chair back enough that Bahadur feared he would fall. With their goggles strung around their neck, Bahadur shrugged.

  “I can’t see them. We all pee in stalls.”

  “So then, you’re telling me you have tried to peek?”

  Bahadur stopped using the washroom altogether. Trans bladder. Surely an eight-hour, no-pee shift wasn’t going to kill them. After one week, they developed a urinary tract infection. With their crotch sore and throbbing, they waited for the thirty-minute alarm to go off and ran to the men’s washroom to pee in one of the closed stalls. It was just a trickle. Bahadur banged their fist on the stall’s walls. “Fuck!” They looked down. Two pairs of steel-toe boots stood outside the stall.

  “Come on out, she-male.�
� The two on the other side of the door laughed. Bahadur managed to escape the stall but not without one of the workers cupping their chest to confirm the presence of breasts. “Don’t ever come back here, you fucking freak!”

  The next day, Bahadur allowed themselves to pee through their hazmat suit. It didn’t matter anymore. They were covered in dirt anyway. The chemicals in the air had all the workers coughing. The moisture in the garbage had everyone’s hands rotten. Pee didn’t matter.

  It was payday. Bahadur sorted garbage, considering that envelope of illegal earnings. Enough to pay for rent at the shared housing, groceries and maybe a fun trip to the dollar store to buy something frivolous or sweet. An alarm went off.

  “That’s weird.” Ricky sat down on his stool across from Bahadur. “It’s not time for the thirty-minute alarm. But I’ll take it!” He took off his helmet and scratched his head. His face shifted, seeing something from behind Bahadur. “Who the fuck are they?”

  The Boots bled down the complicated steel stairwells in their leather jackets and boots. At first it was a spectacle, like a choreographed dance, all in sync and graceful in their movements. But when the workers saw Isaac with his hands above his head, everyone stood up off their stools. Isaac attempted to flee and was swiftly shot. Screams. All it takes is one person to be killed, to be humiliated, to be raped, to make everyone compliant. They rounded up the Brown and Black folks without any further fight, shoved them into several cube trucks and drove off.

  “Hello? Anyone there?” Ricky’s voice echoed amidst the silent machinery of the empty factory. Or at least he thought it was empty. Bahadur, at the first sight of the Boots, had jumped into a pile of recycled clothes, covered themselves and waited for quiet.

  Months were spent braving cold nights beneath wooden stoops and escaping ice storms and floods under highway overpasses in an endless game of hide-and-go-seek. As the weather warmed, Bahadur managed to sneak into a condo parkade, where they nestled into a corner of the building’s storage room undetected. They slept between cages of surplus belongings with the hum of the electric lights ringing in their ear.