Wiping the edges of his beard with his napkin he continued. “I dunno, Liv. It’s a little more complicated than that. There are thousands of employees here in Canada and thousands more elsewhere. Take this dessert we’re enjoying right now. This ridiculous toasted-pumpkin-seed, beetroot-reduction, cane-sugar crisp, whatever dessert. I want you to consider the hands that processed the pumpkin seeds, harvested the beetroots and extracted the sugar cane juice. In order for us to even afford organic food, we have to ensure those very hands are not paid well. And in order for those people to be willing to be underpaid . . .”
“They have to be desperate.” Liv scooped another spoonful into her mouth, careful not to smudge her lipstick.
“Exactly. Just last month, in one of our facilities in China, those desperate people we employed were ravaged by a third typhoon in two years. The Chinese are hard-working. They know how to take orders. They do things quick and they do things cheap. It saddens me to think of how many of them were lost. Truth is a bunch may die and they have millions more willing to take their place.” Charles tossed his napkin onto the table.
“I’m sorry. That’s a lot to handle.”
“Meanwhile, here in Canada, we aren’t desperate enough. There are people here, especially after the floods on the east coast and the droughts on the west coast, who should be begging to keep their hands busy with repairing what we have left. But instead they’re asking for handouts. You have these Others wandering around aimlessly, when they should be proving themselves and being useful.”
Liv chimed in, playing along. “There’s this one waitress over at Legal Tender who drives me up the wall with her hipster discourse about fair trade. We’re all folding napkins and wiping wine glasses; meanwhile, she’s preaching to us about how important it is for us to buy vintage clothing to ‘divest’ from sweatshop operations.” Her fingers made rabbit ears in the air at the word “divest” and Charles pressed his palm to his forehead, closed his eyes. “But no one thinks of how, even if this little Bengali girl is making five cents a day making my sweater, it’s a hell of a lot better than her selling her body in some brothel. ‘Divesting’ without giving actual options to these Others is talk I don’t have patience for.”
Charles waved his hand in agreement. “Here’s the thing. Your co-worker feels bad about these little Brown children making shoes because, unlike China or Bangladesh or the Philippines, people here in Canada, no matter how poor, are not willing to do this kind of work. It frustrates me to no end seeing these Others who would rather ride a gravy train than put their skills to good use. And when people like this . . .” He pointed his fork towards the waiter, “accept handouts they become dangers to our society. But I want to change that. That’s why we’ll be ending our overseas manufacturing within a year and have everything Canadian-made.”
“You can afford that?”
“There are ways.”
They left Flax and strolled east along King Street’s theatre district, with its marquee bulbs blinking rhythmically over the faces of restaurant hostesses hoping to lure passersby to their overpriced menus. Everything was overpriced due to the shortages. The more expensive the food, the bigger the hostess’s smile. At each intersection, partygoers sat on lines of sandbags to enjoy their cigarettes, the swollen lake lapping at the other side. Some were inebriated enough to stand knee-deep in water that had yet to recede back into the lake, with high heels hooked in one hand and splashing people with the other. Some sat on the roofs of halted streetcars, unable to move in the deluge, and playfully shot plastic pistols at passersby.
In a dry clearing stood a hot dog cart with the promise of street meat sizzling on its grill. Liv turned to Charles.
“Be honest with me. Are you still hungry after that organic meal?”
“Starving. But I’m sure these hot dogs are organic free-range something or other.”
Charles sat on the edge of a concrete tree planter to eat, and she perched on his lap and leaned in close to grab a bite.
“Great. Now I’ve got ketchup down my bra.”
They laughed. They held hands. They kissed.
They kept strolling until the crowds from the clubs and bass-heavy music dissipated amidst the quiet of the skyscrapers in the business district, stopping to kiss heatedly in the shadows of buildings. At the sight of his Adelaide Street East condo building Charles said, “Come upstairs.”
Just as Liv was about to play the nice girl and shrug her shoulders coyly, Charles pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger. It was rough enough to throw her off balance. He held her steady and gazed directly into her eyes. His breath was heavy and laboured. Liv hardly breathed at all. “That wasn’t a question.” He let go to retrieve his keys from his pocket. She straightened her blouse and went through the door.
From elevator to hallway to Charles’s penthouse, the pair vacillated from licking to choking to sucking to pushing to fucking. By the end of the ordeal, after he finally orgasmed, Liv sat at the edge of Charles’s bed, an ice pack placed on her swollen cheek. The twinkling lights of the sprawling city, and south across the lake, could be seen from his expansive window. In the foreground of St. James Park below, clusters of tents glowed with the goings-on of the newly homeless, thankful for a dry place to rest their heads. Yet another tent city.
“Here.” He surprised her with a lollipop. Liv was able to resist the urge to flinch. He unwrapped the lollipop and handed it to her. She didn’t move. “Take it,” he said firmly. She placed the candy in her mouth. Strawberry. Softly he said, “Good girl.” He kissed her temple, then headed into the shower.
Sucking the lollipop, Liv tried to look around the bedroom, considering what information she could gather from its numerous drawers and cabinets. But she could only think of Erin and their baby.
Time passed. Just as quickly as the relationship had bloomed, she resigned from her internship at CAN Create and her waitressing job at Legal Tender. Over the course of a year, Liv traded in photocopiers and pencil sharpening for executive luncheons, company soirees and more-casual catered barbecues at lavish estates. She shook hands with numerous bigwigs the Resistance had been watching closely over the last several years. Footwear tycoons. Firearms distributors. CEOs of social media networks. Government officials. For Liv, feigning ignorance was easy when she pretended to be more fixated on backsplashes and light fixtures in people’s homes than the hushed conversations happening between businessmen and politicians in corners.
“Who was the father of the bride, again?” Liv asked in bed while Charles massaged her sore feet after an epic wedding. “His speech tonight was hilarious.”
“Quincy Rutger of Q Tobacco. He’s one of our affiliates.”
Liv pretended to luxuriate in Charles’s touch and adjusted her body so he could massage the other foot. “Whoa. Isn’t Q Tobacco under investigation because of that murder on that plantation? Is that the one?”
Without warning, Charles pulled Liv’s leg until she slid down and was pinned underneath him.
“You ask a lot of questions.”
Liv smiled. “Just trying to make conversation. I really don’t care.”
“You don’t? Because you should.” An aggressive kiss was pressed on Liv’s mouth before he grabbed a fistful of her hair. “Do you know how difficult it is to manage thousands of workers, only to find out one of those Jamaicans has been syphoning goods? Do you know how difficult it is to make an example of that person so that others don’t do the same?” His weight was unbearable.