Baggage

Alex stared out a big east window of the Trinity Community Recreation Centre. The clouds were an incredible grey-blue and Alex imagined that they were a school of enormous fish crammed gill to gill and passing over some sunken, post-apocalypse Toronto or a tiny model of this city as it is today sinking slowly past the thin layer of ocean through which the sun’s light remains visible. One of the men playing ping-pong behind Alex roared as the ball bounced off the wall behind the man and took shorter and shorter hops back to where he stood waiting for it. Another bolt of bright blue electricity found its jagged way to the tip of the CN Tower. Standing nearby, dripping, was a short, thick guy wearing a T-shirt with fluffy white emoji clouds spitting yellow, stylized lightning bolts. In his right hand he had small bag of dog shit and a thin black leash roping him to a shivering Italian greyhound frantically lifting one tiny foot then another in some sort of spastic panic dance. The dog nearly fell over when the thunder banged and rumbled through the community centre.

Alex sat down on a bench and pulled a cell phone from a back pocket, ran a hand through drying, bleached then dyed grey hair.

No texts from River.

Under the tree where River and Alex were supposed to be meeting, under the tree where Alex and River first kissed publicly, proudly, under that tree right then in the pouring rain and thundering electrical storm a sloppy cis couple staggered and swayed and swigged from the same can of beer, first him, then her, she chucking the can into the wet grass, then each of them clawing at each other’s asses and necks and pressing rain-soaked bodies and mouths together, she nibbling on an ear and running her hand through his soaking hair.

Alex looked at the tiny screen of the cell phone, unlocked it and typed to River, “Is everything ok?” because Alex had already asked, “Where are you?” twice. Alex feared that River was moving on, that River’s name might be a metaphor, River might have chosen the name as fucking metaphor. I am a river. I am river, quintessentially.

Isn’t there enough movement in our lives? Alex asked once after Alex and River had fucked for, like, only the second time in Alex’s bedroom, for only the second time with Alex’s face pressed into the pillow and River with their new cock stretching—transforming—Alex’s anus for only the second time, and River had seemed bored, had said, when confronted, I’m just turned on by new things.

New name. Shifting identity. An arsenal of dicks, most of them good enough, each one fine with Alex—though River always carried more than one, sometimes three or four in a dirty, light-blue JanSport—but not one dick so much the same as another to sate River’s need for something else, for choice, for movement.

Alex had had enough of change.

Alex kept binders and sports bras after the point that they smelled too much, to the point they were torn and ineffective.

Alex still lived at home with parents who used old gender pronouns because so much of Alex’s odyssey required maintaining balance on the tossing deck of their gender identity, required sailing from port to port as Alex tried to get home and Alex was looking for shipmates. For real, Alex’s parents were a crusty crew, but they were reliable, had been sailing with Alex from the outset, and there really was no one who could replace them, no matter that they didn’t respect the captain’s authority. The captain’s navigational decisions. The captain’s complex self.

So Alex lived a lie with them and River liked the lie to a point—having to use Alex’s old pronouns, fake at being cis, or sort of cis—because it was a shift. But River wanted to shake Alex’s parents up, too, and would speak too loud about Alex’s “real” or “true” self or sometimes “selves” in Alex’s—Alex’s parents’—basement rec room, which still housed Barbies, a coral castle, a neon Corvette with the streaks of black paint over the pink on the trunk—little Alex had only gotten that far when Alex’s mother had caught Alex and cried and cried and cried.

River didn’t understand because River’s parents had fully embraced their son when that’s what River wanted to be, had given him money for binders and cocks, had bought him the butchest jeans and an array of plaid shirts and toasted their new son with the new name. Alex thought the acceptance had been all too much for River, so he had to move on, had to ditch the simple, new pronoun and become gender-fluid to push those accepting, lovely parents to their breaking point because all the other people in River’s support group were suffering, had parents way less cool and open and further along, so River, Alex thought, was exploring the borders of what River’s parents could understand and accept. Alex knew that this was an ungenerous and, well, phobic perspective, knew it even before Alex shared the idea, tried to cut River with it, probably, as they lay in the dirt in the woods in High Park after Alex had disappointed—upset—River by saying no to River cracking one of those cocks out of that dirty JanSport and fucking Alex in the swaying, diffuse discs of summer sun the canopy couldn’t catch. River had a different reading about change and about constant revolution and about the culture’s and the individual’s inability to think past language and popular paradigms and River sounded smart, which was hot and Alex felt chastened—schooled—and angry because of the shame Alex felt River wanted Alex to feel.

But also turned on.

Until River tried to eat Alex out. Actually, Alex nearly let River do it—despite the fact that Alex’s body would menstruate soon—but Alex didn’t let River do it because no matter how dirty River talked, no matter how into it River said they were, no matter how into it Alex thought they might be, Alex still wasn’t comfortable with their pussy.

Then River told Alex that the boundaries Alex drew around Alex’s queerness were the wrong boundaries, that maybe Alex was simply F to M and not non-binary enough or genderqueer enough or “whatever you are saying that you are this week,” enough.

Alex walked northeast alone, trying and get out of High Park as quick as possible. Later, once they’d made up and River had leaned Alex over the counter in the Alex’s parents en suite bathroom and fucked Alex’s ass, River said that they took their JanSport down to the lake and even walked around for a while looking for someone to eat out, but that no one looked half as good to them as Alex, except one hot femme with Serena Williams thighs.

The cis couple was rolling around in the wet grass now and Alex was feeling so dejected and abandoned and misunderstood that they cursed the stubborn persistent shape of the tree, the unlikelihood of lighting crackling down and splitting that old oak—or was it maple?—so one of the massive branches would drop and press the cis couple into each other in one pulpy, boneless mess. As if responding to Alex’s fantasy, lightning sounded and burst into some building nearer than the CN Tower, but unseen over Alex’s horizon. 

Alex’s phone buzzed.

Alex moved so fast that the nervous Italian Greyhound crashed into her owner’s ankles and he said some name—it sounded like Casey—cursing the nervous dog. Alex smiled to themself.

Sorry, the text read, I couldn’t find my phone. Just leaving now. Should we forget it?

Alex looked out at the guy and girl under the tree, muddy now and covered in grass bits, but the guy’s hand between their bodies, the girl’s legs cocked up. Was she biting his shoulder?

No. Come, Alex texted.

Alex looked up and the guy with the dog was watching them. He smiled. It was gentle, inviting. Alex smiled back. Nodded. Turned back to the phone.

Bring your bag of dicks, Alex wrote. It was a question, almost. Are we going to fuck? Are we breaking up? Alex texted a question mark and waited, listening to the monotonous, conflicting rhythms of the multiple ping-pong games, drifting into memories of playing ping-pong at Alex’s grandparents house with Alex’s aunt and mother, remembering the joy of playing, remembering Mom’s skill, thinking about the hours Alex spent playing with Mom and the hours Alex’s mother and aunt must have played as children, considering the simplicity of the game and limited variability, considering how peaceful and safe and pleasing the repetition was.

The phone buzzed.

River had texted, Always, with an emoji of a hand, index finger pointing to the left.

The couple under the tree were sitting up now, soaking wet, the girl laughing, the guy laughing with her. The girl reached into her backpack and pulled out two tall cans. She handed one to the guy and they toasted each other or the rain or orgasm and they laughed again.

Alex wondered how many people were watching or had watched this couple make out, how many people had not said anything about it because it was two straight people having sex in a park.

All at once, Alex understood something. Alex wanted to use—thought that probably River would be thrilled to let Alex to use—one of River’s cocks to fuck River however and wherever River wanted to be fucked. Like, wherever as in anywhere location-wise and body-wise. Even from behind under the tree, even if it meant being seen and being seen as deviant, monstrous, some violation. Even if it meant being arrested by cops who could probably beat a couple of queer kids with total impunity.

No, Alex thought. No. I am not that tough or radical or whatever.

Alex wondered, even, if they would have the courage to tell River what they had fantasized about, that they wanted to wear one of the cocks.

Alex looked at the phone. Would texting it be the way? Type it now while Alex maybe had the courage instead of letting the thought, the hope, get swallowed up by the army of butterflies that gathered in Alex’s guts when River was around in body or in thought?

Alex ran their hand through their hair and looked out at the rain and waited for the next burst of lightning.

Toronto, ON-Duncan, BC, July 2016

Emoji sequence: Sammie Urquhart

Story: Lee Sheppard

Still New, Part I

They were having a beer at the campus pub because it was, by a few paces, the nearest place that served. Jill got up from the table. Robin thought he saw Levi, silhouetted by the window, watch her go. Levi maybe raised his eyebrows at Robin, then he definitely made a circle with the thumb and index finger of his left hand and slid the index finger of his right hand into the circle and out again. Levi meant, Are you guys fucking? Robin was glad Levi hadn’t spoken the question; Robin didn’t know what word he liked for sex—other than maybe “sex”—but “fucking,” Levi’s preferred term, was not it.

Robin held up his right hand and made a circle of his thumb and index.

Levi pointed at Robin, then held his pointing finger sideways, his eyebrows still raised it seemed.

“I have no idea what’s going on,” Robin said.

“Are you guys schtupping?”

Robin turned towards the bathrooms to make sure Jill wasn’t on her way back to the table. “That’s the hope.”

“But not yet?”

“No. Not yet.”

Levi nodded and looked off to the side like maybe he was doing a calculation. When Jill got back, Levi asked her a series of questions. Where is your all-time favourite illegal swimming hole? When T.P.ing someone’s house, how many rolls of toilet paper is too many? What’s the best bathroom graffiti you ever saw? Was it a drawing or a phrase? When egging someone’s house, how many eggs are too many? What album is the best for fucking to?

Jill didn’t know how to answer any of the questions and Levi didn’t know how to stop. No one ordered another round when the waitress came to offer it.

While Jill wrestled on her leather jacket, Levi maybe mouthed the word, “Sorry,” to Robin. Robin nodded, grimaced and looked down.

Robin and Jill talked about The Viennese Actionists as they rode a rattling streetcar to Jill’s place, a large semi-detached home in a neighbourhood with an overwhelming population of unfortunate people. Less fortunate people. Drunks and drug addicts. Needy. Robin never knew how to refer to these people in a way that conveyed respect rather than fear.

Jill had four roommates, all students at the university. Two boys and two girls. Kay and Taylor were the girls. Kay, a business student, was a bulimic and a flirt who had posters of Motörhead, The Misfits and Madonna up around her room. Taylor was studying midwifery. Marlon and Jack were the guys. Marlon was studying journalism and his beautiful voice, fine face and keen interest in current events suggested a pretty likely future in television. Jack had attended alternative schools, lived in group homes and had problems with drugs and drinking until he started training and eventually working at a boxing gym. He was a philosophy major. All four of them were home.

“Jill?” Jack called.

“Hey Jack.”

Three other voices called out Hey, Hi, Hello.

“Robin’s here too.”

All four said, Hi, Hey, How’s it going? and What’s up? to Robin.

Once Jill got her twelve-hole Doc Martins off, Robin followed her to the big double doors into the living room.

Jack was passing behind Marlon, a bottle of massage oil in his hand. Marlon was holding a pair of scissors and standing over Kay who was wearing terrycloth short shorts and wrapped in a towel. Taylor was sitting against the front of the couch, her head hanging loose, the narrow straps of her white tank top pushed off her shoulders. “What’s up, guys?” Jill asked.

“Well,” Jack said as he sat on the couch, his legs on either side of Taylor’s shoulders, “Taylor’s had a hard day and I’m trying to help her relax without alcohol.” He started to massage her head. She mmmoaned.

 Kay pulled the towel tighter around her shoulders. Marlon picked up a brush and ran it through Kay’s hair. “And Kay needs a haircut, but doesn’t want to spend sixty dollars at her hairdresser. If I make it worse, though, I’ll pay the sixty dollars for her and she can go get it fixed.”

“Marlon says he used to cut hair,” Kay explained.

“I had a girlfriend who was turned on by it.”

“He must be good,” Taylor said.

Kay and Taylor laughed.

“Thanks Taylor, but it was a kink. I’m sure you know. No matter who cut her hair, it made her hot.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Taylor said.

Marlon held Kay’s head with the tips of his fingers and with his free hand he gently ran the brush through her hair.

The bottle made a wet, flatulent noise as Jack squeezed oil onto his hand.

Without lifting her chin from where it rested on her chest, Taylor said, “You know, during a birth midwives use olive oil to help the vulva stretch.”

“I thought you were going to tell us about all the shit again,” Jack said.

“Why don’t you join us?” Marlon asked Robin and Jill.

Robin was relieved when Jill said, “Thanks, but I think we just want to be alone. No offence.”

“I’m hurt,” Taylor said.

“Me too,” Kay said.

Rubbing the oil into his hands, Jack asked, “Not actually, though, right?”

“Not actually, what?” Marlon asked.

“Like, no one’s actually hurt?”

“Of course not,” Marlon said.

“No,” Kay said.

“No,” Taylor said.

“Okay, good.” Jack stopped rubbing his oiled hands and started massaging Taylor’s bare shoulders.

“We’d love to get to know you better, Robin.” Marlon smiled his news anchor smile.

“Me too,” Robin said. “I mean, I’d like to get to know you guys better.”

“You feel like you know yourself well enough, I guess,” Jack said.

“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Robin replied.

Everyone laughed. Jill grabbed Robin’s elbow. “’Kay,” she said. “See you guys.” They turned and walked up the stairs.

The dark at the top of the stairs was surprisingly absolute for a house in the city. The only light was what managed to reflect up from the living room. Jill kissed Robin halfway down the hallway, pressing her body against his. She held his hand as they walked up a second flight of stairs to her third floor bedroom. She turned on the bedside light. On Photography and The Bell Jar were at the top of her pile of books. A Raggedy Anne doll slouched against Jill’s CD player.

Robin sat down on the edge of her bed because that was the only place to sit. “Look, I’m really sorry about Levi. He can be an ass hole.”

With her back turned to Robin, Jill unzipped her black hoodie.

“He can be funny, too, I swear.”

“I’ll give him another chance.”

“That’s good because”

—Jill turned—

“he’s my best— Holy shit . . .”

Her chemise was yellowed from the previous owner, or from its time at Goodwill maybe, but the message that it sent was still clear. Jill wiggled her shoulders to slip out of her hoodie. Robin lay back awkwardly then got up on his elbows. Jill held his gaze and walked towards him. With her toes, she nudged Robin’s feet apart, then stepped between his spread knees. Robin was frozen, feeling his shoulders burn and the blood rush between his legs. Jill brushed Robin’s thigh with her fingertips, then ran her hand along the waistline of her Levi’s. Robin swallowed. “Unbutton my pants,” Jill said.

“What’s that?” Robin asked.

“Unbutton my pants.”

Robin unbuttoned Jill’s pants and slid them down her hips. Her panties were, well, decorative enough to be worthy of the name panties.

Once Jill had stepped free of her jeans, she pushed Robin back onto the bed and fumbled with the buckle of the belt his father had handed down to him. Robin didn’t know it then, but removing each other’s pants would become part of their ritual.

Afterwards, though, after that first time, after Robin had finished and apologized, after Jill stopped him desperately working away at trying to get her off, after Jill apologized for not coming and Robin apologized again, after Robin removed and tied off the condom then held it up like a dead fish and asked Jill where to put it, after they lay there for a while marveling at each other’s warm, moving, flawed bodies and listening to the sounds drifting up from downstairs wondering if downstairs anyone had heard any sounds from upstairs, Robin apologized again for Levi.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jill said.

“He’s normally pretty funny.”

“He was probably pretty funny tonight, I just was getting impatient.”

Robin smiled and air burst involuntarily from his mouth, a sort of delighted laugh that he stifled because laughter in this situation could be tragically misinterpreted.

“What?”

“Sorry. I wasn’t laughing at you. I just— I mean, you really had this planned?”

“When’s the last time you saw me wearing a skimpy top to Claude’s Theory and Praxis class?”

Now Robin could laugh.

Jill laughed too.

Robin squeezed Jill tight and pressed his face into her shoulder. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For this.”

Jill rearranged herself so she could look Robin in the eye. “Oh, you’re welcome.” She smiled, her teeth and eyes slightly less vague shapes than the rest of her features. “Thank you, too.”

“My pleasure. Maybe only mine.”

“No, mine too. But let’s try it again sometime.”

“Let’s.”

They did try it again once more before falling asleep.

The next morning they ate cereal and drank orange juice and coffee in the sun-blasted kitchen of Jill’s house. Robin was worried Jack or Marlon, Kay or Taylor might interrupt his happy morning. They took second cups of coffee up to Jill’s room. Robin watched Jill change. They decided to spend the day together, but didn’t plan anything beyond heading to Robin’s apartment so he, too, could get fresh clothes.

They talked about Carolee Schneemann and Wes Anderson on the subway. At Robin’s place they showered together, then wrapped themselves in towels and ran tiptoed and giggling to Robin’s basement bedroom where, to Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy’s Ease on Down the Road, they got to know the look and touch of each other in whatever daylight made it through the small window above Robin’s bed. While they were eating a stir-fry Robin made with vegetables he could salvage from his fridge, Robin’s roommate Stephen came home from a shift at Second Cup.

“Steve,” Robin said standing, “this is Jill.”

“Hi Jill,” Steve said.

Jill smiled easily. “Nice to meet you Steve.”

“There’s some stir-fry,” Robin offered.

“I ate.” Stephen rubbed his eyes. “Look, I gotta go to bed. I’m sorry. Nice to meet you. Jill was it?”

Jill and Robin walked to a nearby park, sat on the swings and talked about their families. Who were their allies, who their enemies. Robin’s father, a doctor who recently prescribed Robin sleeping pills from the Valium family that helped Robin get through a really rough patch precipitated by a difficult production at school and, Robin doesn’t mention, a catastrophic break-up. Jill’s aunt, a childless psychologist whose feminism and socialism and encouragement had made Jill the first member of her immediate family to go to university. “She ever get you good drugs?” Robin asked. He’d only taken one and a half of the sleeping pills.

“I think that’s psychiatrists.”

“What’s that?”

“That prescribe drugs. Psychologists can’t.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

“Crazy.”

They were back at Robin’s place, sitting at opposite ends of Robin’s couch—the couch, Robin explained, that had been in his parent’s house, then his mother’s house, for as long as he could remember; the couch that Robin’s mother was going to throw out, but Robin was determined to one day have reupholstered because why throw out a perfectly good couch—when the doorbell rang.

It was Levi. “Hey man. I’m glad you’re home.” He wanted to apologize.

“Jill’s here.”

“Jill’s here?”

Robin nodded.

“Hey Levi,” Jill called from the living room.

Robin invited Levi in. 

Toronto, Dec. 2015-Jan. 2016

Emoji sequence: Reuben McLaughlin, brilliant writer, editor and friend; publisher of Pilot

Story: Lee Sheppard, other publisher of Pilot

Part II available here.