“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 over 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.