With one hand, Liv wipes her chafed nose with a tissue, while the other begins opening and closing cupboard doors and the fridge; she shakes her head at the lack of choice. She settles on grilling strips of bacon and making it a stir-fry with leftover rice and frozen veggies. I swallow hard, watching the bacon fold in on itself with the heat and sizzle. I feel like passing out from anticipation, so I focus on amplifying the podcast by placing the phone in a clean coffee cup on the table. The voice of a journalist can be heard over Liv’s cooking.
“It is a crisp Wednesday morning. Khalil blows warm air on his hands as his silhouette spirits across a fiery dawn towards the mess hall,” the journalist narrates. The sound of cutlery clinking. Plates being piled. Barely coherent words of thanks from a lineup of people. “After mass environmental displacement, homelessness and hunger once plagued the lives of these workers. But not today. Despite his lofty task of feeding hundreds of people at this factory, Khalil still finds the time to check in with those enjoying the meals his team has made and to shake the hands of everyone sitting at each table. This includes the children of the workers, who, despite the rumours of separated families, are schooled and housed on the compound alongside their parents. With his apron still stained from today’s prep, Khalil makes his way to a little girl holding her teddy bear.”
The microphone shifts and catches the audio of a small girl’s sweet voice. “Can Bear-Bear get a muffin too?” she pleads.
“You betcha!” Khalil replies.
The sound of the mess hall cross-fades with the clunk of cans being stacked on a shelf. “There isn’t a moment to spare today. Once the breakfast plates are cleared, Khalil is busy with planning lunch and tracking inventory. I ask him the question that’s been on minds around the world in the wake of reports smearing the Canadian government with charges like ‘genocide’ and ‘fascism.’
Ambient noise of Khalil counting cans. Finally, “So what do you say when people call the workhouses ‘concentration camps’?”
He scoffs. “Absolutely not. They’re not concentration camps. I’m in charge of cooking three meals a day for these workers, seven days a week. We’re all housed. No one’s getting hurt. No one is starving. Even with the food shortages and floods, the compound helps people get access to free meals and clean water. You wouldn’t call that a ‘concentration camp.’ That’s called ‘teamwork.’”
I wrap my hands around the cup to feel the vibrations of the podcast reverberate through my palm. I feel the power of connection through the device, of the ability to connect with others and be seen online. I resist the urge to scroll through Liv’s social media. No one, including you, is reachable anyway.
Khalil continues, “If it weren’t for the workhouses, many of us would be homeless, useless. As the Renovation creed says, ‘Through our work, our nation prospers. Through our unity, we end conflict. Through our leader, we find peace. Through order, we find tranquility.’”
“And what does that mean to you, Khalil?” asks the interviewer.
Khalil’s voice is determined. “It means all this was for the best. We need to pull together and stop fighting each other. Know your place and do the work that’s needed. The Renovation taught us that. Mother Nature taught us that. When she stepped in and showed us who’s boss, we had no choice. We all had to pitch in. Others like me have to put our talents to good use, instead of fighting each other and arguing over who has what.”
At the sound of this, Liv lets out a heavy sigh and reaches for the phone. “I’m so sorry,” she says. One tap of her thumb and the podcast is paused. “I download and listen to it for appearances, in case my phone is seized.” Two plates are collected from the cupboard and the stir-fry is served. “As if Khalil isn’t white and Christian. As if Khalil is his name. As if he even exists. We can’t even see him. It’s a fucking podcast. And yet, people still believe it.”
We sit quietly as I devour the meal, making sure to leave the fatty ends of the bacon for last. Every onion, every pea, every piece of shredded carrot has that delicious bacon grease on it, so I eat until all that is left are smears across the plate. An oil painting. I drink heartily.
“It feels so damn good to resurface every now and then to drink running water and eat perishable food.” I chuckle to myself even though Liv’s mind is far away. “Jesus be a juicy burger. Jesus be a glass of cold milk. Jesus be a plate of freshly fried potatoes.”
Now that I have finished eating, I will fill containers with my rations. Anything that can stay in my hideout for extended periods of time and not rot. When I first started hiding here, Liv’s instructions were clear: if I had to run, I was to stack the containers without any crumbs on the canned-goods shelf, lean my makeshift bed against the wall and toss the coats into a pile so that it wouldn’t look like anyone was staying there. It would just look like a messy basement. Before I go back to my dank hidey-hole, I begin restocking all the things I once loved and now abhor after eating them again and again. Wasabi chickpeas. Purple tortilla chips. Dried snap peas.
“You don’t have to do that now. We can wait. You need to stretch your legs a bit.”
Do I ever. The ceiling downstairs is low enough to graze the top of my unkempt hair.
“Our usual?” she asks me. I nod. I am so happy she asked. Liv takes my hand and we go upstairs. She is quiet again. I stay quiet with her.
Liv draws me a bath. I sit silent on the toilet as she attempts to get the remaining bubble bath soap out of its bottle by filling it with water, swishing it around and dumping it out. My skin is so hungry for that heat that I get goosebumps.
After one last swirl of her hand in the bath, she dries her hands. She searches the cabinet and places a pink razor and a toothbrush on the counter.
“Remember to just hide the razor and toothbrush in the garbage after you’re done.” She leaves the bathroom to give me privacy. I want to tell her that I don’t want privacy. That being above ground means light. It means speaking. It means seeing people’s faces. It means hearing things clearly rather than muffled through the floorboards. But she is gone before I am brave enough to ask. I see her feet walk away through the slit under the door.
I undress. It feels incredible to peel off these sorry clothes. I scratch my skin heartily and watch tiny parts of me fall like snow onto the bathroom tiles. It feels so good to be naked. As usual, I open the bathroom door a bit to leave my clothes outside for Liv to launder. She always refuses to let me do it.
I test the water with my toes and it is delightfully hot. My hair stands on end, and I remember to grab the razor and place it on the ledge of the tub. I sink into the hug of this bath. This bath that reminds me of who I am.
Who I am. Who am I? Oh, yes. I am Kay. And I marched.
During the Pride festival, the LGBTQ2S community would emerge from their closets or lack thereof to march and be proud of their identities. I marched with them to the horizon of asphalt, heat mirages snaking into the air. I applied makeup in alleyways, a compact mirror sitting in a void of missing brick to ready my face and parade down the path of cheering crowds. We marched in the name of screaming nights; us queens circling lampposts like stripper poles, circling stripper poles like lampposts. We marched in the name of sparkles and leather, mesh and feathers. We marched for those who could not march. We marched south on Yonge Street, the main artery of the city, turned the corner at Carlton, then dispersed amid the crowd along Church Street towards the centre of the gay village. To the tune of bull dykes drumming, we danced through streets, baring all; our sweaty shoulders shiny against the sun like apples waiting for a hungry bite. And we ate. We ate at the bounty of us, this buffet of body, at the bathhouse or club. We ate. We ate well. Some of us grew families. Some of us grew gardens. Some of us were lucky enough to grow older. Some of us did not survive.