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.