Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
When my shift ends, the rain comes down hard like bullets. The persistent clatter drowns out all other sounds. Riding my motorcycle is out of the question, and I don’t have enough space on my Visa to get an Uber or Lyft. So I’m stuck taking the trashy transit.
Waving goodbye to Wayne, I step out into the storm and make a mad dash for the subway. By the time I make it to King Station, my clothes are soaked all the way through and stick to my skin. Every step I take is punctuated by a distinct squish.
The train is delayed, and the platform gets more packed by the second. I stand in the middle of the throng of disgruntled and mostly wet commuters.
Ten minutes comes and goes. Finally, the train arrives. Doors ding open, and a few passengers struggle to step out as a mass of people surges forward, eager to board. I manage to be one of the lucky ones, squeezing into the train car just before the doors chime as they close. The car is bursting at the seams. It reeks of wet clothing, stale breath, and body odour.
The janky train sways and screeches on the tracks. I feel my nausea return and grip the metal pole a little tighter. Beside me, a dirty old man with chapped lips and an unkempt beard coughs. He isn’t covering his mouth, and I see spittle. Recoiling, I try to sidestep to put some distance between us, but there isn’t anywhere for me to go. I’m trapped, and he’s still hacking away. Turning my head, I give him my best side-eye. Either he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
“You’d think after Covid, people would learn to cover their damn mouths,” I mumble. My words fall on deaf ears.
Nearly an hour and a half later—after enduring a second crammed train, a frustratingly late bus, and another walk in the rain—I finally get home and kick off my sneakers. My socks leave imprints on the wooden treads as I descend the squeaking staircase that leads to the basement apartment I share with Sarah—my best friend and soon to be ex-roommate.
Our space is roomy, but that’s pretty much its only good attribute. The dropped ceilings are stained, the cheap vinyl floor tiles are peeling, and the horrendous faux-wood panelling is everywhere—even in the bathroom. No amount of Febreze or Bath and Body Works candles can rid the air of its musty smell, and I’ve yet to find a bug repellent strong enough to keep the ants out. I hate my living situation, but it beats living with my mom.
Like many large cities, there’s a renter’s crisis in Toronto. It’s probably easier to win the lottery than to find a decent place with a reasonable rate. And soon, even my shitty Scarborough basement apartment won’t be affordable.
I want to be mad at Sarah for putting me in this situation—for moving away. But she’s moving away because of me.
Last night, Sarah confessed to being in love with me and told me that she is U-Hauling all the way to Vancouver to be with Veronica, who she met like a month ago at a Pride party. Almost immediately after her confession, I bolted to the bar—shutting down the conversation.
I know Sarah has more to say on the subject. I fear what else she might say. She’s been my best friend for forever, and while I have love for her, my feelings aren’t romantic. What if she tells me we can’t be friends anymore? What if her move to Vancouver isn’t the worst part?
Usually, I call for Sarah when I get in to see if she’s home. Today, I don’t. I walk into my bedroom and slam the door shut behind me. Stripping out of my sodden clothes, I hesitate to grab my towel.
According to my grandma Janet, taking a hot shower immediately after coming inside from outdoors is a sure way to get sick. So many of my grandma’s Caribbean beliefs are not grounded in science, but I grew up hearing them so much that I kind of believe them myself.
Deciding to take the risk, I wrap my towel around my torso and head for the bathroom to wash off the cold and stink of the day. Post shower, I feel somewhat refreshed.
I’m lotioning my legs when I hear the side door jerk open. Soon after, footsteps drum down the staircase—Sarah’s home. My stomach clenches. I reach for a pair of boxers and I am just sliding them up over my ass when the door to my bedroom bursts open. Sarah steps in.
“The fuck—how many fucking times do I have to tell you to knock?” I cover my chest and rush over to my closet to grab a t-shirt.
“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” Sarah says.
Very true—there’s been more than a handful of occasions over the last decade where we’ve hooked up. Our last hookup had been on St. Patrick’s Day. We’d both gotten sloshed. I don’t remember much, but I awoke sprawled naked on top of Sarah with my strap still inside her.
Wayne has warned against us having casual sex, saying we’re both playing with fire. Sarah and I had laughed him off. Looking back, maybe it had just been me laughing. Not once had I considered the possibility of one of us getting burnt. Not once had it ever crossed my mind that Sarah might want something more than our friendship. She’s never so much as hinted at it.
The definition of a “Hey Mama” lesbian—complete with the swag, the undercut, and a long list of women whom she’s rendered heartbroken—Sarah fit the role of a detached fuckboi for the entire time I’ve known her. Her sudden declaration of love flipped my entire world upside down, and I don’t know what to feel or think. Like, who even is this person standing in my bedroom? Have I ever really known her? The Sarah I know doesn’t get attached. The Sarah I know would never want a relationship to work out so badly that she’d jet all the way across the country. The Sarah I know wouldn’t abandon me.
I pull on my shirt and turn to face her. My insides are still all coiled up because I know she wants to talk and I’m not sure I’m ready to finish last night’s conversation.
“I come with a peace offering.” Sarah smiles and lifts a grease-stained brown paper bag.
I spot the bright blue logo, depicting a plate of piping-hot poutine flanked by angel wings, and frown. “Homophobic poutine is your peace offering?”
Sarah snorts. “Hypocrite. I’ve seen you forking down Poutine Heaven before. You love it.”
“Only because they’re open after last call.” I’ve always found it ironic that there’s a Poutine Heaven in the heart of Toronto’s gay village. “Otherwise, I avoid eating there, and you should too.”
“So you don’t want it?” She arches a brow.
“I’m not going to let perfectly good food go to waste.” I snatch the bag out of Sarah’s hand and collapse into my desk chair.
The aroma of oil and salt greets me when I tear into the bag and pop open the container’s lid. My mouth waters. It’s only now that I’m realizing just how hungry I am.
One of those stupid wooden forks with the too-short prongs sits at the bottom of the bag. I won’t be using it. Not only is it useless, but it has the effect of making anything it touches taste like a rancid popsicle stick. I miss plastic straws and plastic utensils in a bad way. I care about the environment, but I also miss the days when I wasn’t rushing to finish my pop because my paper straw disintegrates in two minutes.
Ravenous, I pick up a few fries with my fingers. The cheese curds stretch out, becoming a long and unmanageable string. Hot gravy drips onto the hand I have cupped under my chin. The poutine does taste like heaven. I close my eye in bliss as I chew.
Despite being drenched in gravy and transported in a covered container, the fries are still so crisp—a feature unique to Poutine Heaven that sets them apart from competitors. The establishment discovered the secret to preventing fries from turning to mush, and it’s the reason why the young chain restaurant is seeing so much success. In some areas of the city, you can now find more Poutine Heavens than Tim Hortons, which is really saying something. Last I heard, they are starting to expand internationally, opening a few stores in the U.S. and a location in Tokyo.
Usually, I’m all for Canadian businesses doing well, but Poutine Heaven’s founder—Noémie’s father—is a hateful bastard who backs the most despicable political candidates. Every time he opens his mouth, he makes the most ludicrous statements on national news, and he openly donates to anti-2SLGBTQIA+ organizations.
As I shovel a few more fries into my mouth, I start thinking about my least favourite customer. In my mind’s eye, I see Noémie’s face—her auburn hair down and framing her face. I wonder—not for the first time—if she’s anything at all like her father, Hugo St. Pierre.
“You know there’s a fork in the bag?” Sarah says.
“It’s one of those stupid wooden ones.”
Sarah makes a face of disgust and leaves. I hear rattling in the kitchen, and she returns half a minute later with a metal fork. She holds it out to me.
“Thanks.” I lick the gravy from my fingers and take it.
“Are you ready to talk now? Or are you going to run again?” Sarah folds her arms over her chest and leans against the doorframe.
I look away from Sarah and stare down at the container of poutine resting on my lap. “Is there even anything else to talk about? I understand why you’re leaving. Do I think it’s the right decision? No. But I get it, and I …” There’s a lump forming in my throat. I try to clear it away, but it’s not going anywhere. So I decide to not even bother finishing my thought.
I’m so terrified about the state of our friendship. Is bringing romantic love into a friendship the equivalent of bringing a wrecking ball over to a construction site? I wouldn’t know.
It’s hard to imagine my life without Sarah. We’ve been in each other’s orbit for so long, and I fear distance will weaken our gravitational pull. Or has that already happened with Sarah’s confession? She mentioned needing to move on, but did moving on mean we’d find ourselves in different galaxies.
“Jay, quit doom spiralling.”
My eyes snap to Sarah’s. Hers are brown and warm, like honey. “I’m not doom spiralling.”
She snorts. “Sure, you’re not. What’s on your mind? Spill it. Let’s just get it all out in the open.”
I close the lid on my food and set the container down on my desk. “I don’t know what any of this means,” I say. Bending forward in my chair, I rest my elbows on my thighs and rub my temples. The headache I awoke with this morning is making a reappearance. A cigarette would help. “You say you love me, but what does that mean? You want a relationship with me?”
Sarah snorts again. “Absolutely fucking not.”
I blow out a breath of relief, but I’m still so confused. “I don’t understand.” I pin Sarah with a hard look and sigh.
She moves away from the door and crouches down so that our heads are level. This close, I smell the Irish Spring soap on her skin and the cinnamon gum on her breath. I don’t know how Sarah can chew cinnamon gum. It’s gross.
“I’m not a bitchy femme pillow princess, so we’d never work out even if you did do relationships.” Sarah chuckles, and then she sobers immediately. Her gaze narrows on my face. “That’s not a stab at you, Jay. There’s nothing wrong with you. Your preferences are your preferences, and Samira’s a bitch. She didn’t appreciate what she had with you, and that’s her loss. But I really wish you’d get over her.”
It’s my turn to snort. “I am over her.”
“Are you though? Are you really? Because it seems to me like you’ve let her dictate your entire future?—”
“Can you stop? I don’t want to talk about her.” Just the mention of my ex raises my blood pressure, and I’m back to rubbing my temples. My head is pounding.
Sarah doesn’t stop. “All I’m saying is that you deserve to be happy, Jay. You deserve to find someone who treats you right,” she says. “And while I’ve dreamed of being that person, I don’t think I ever could be. Yes, I love you, but I love our friendship more. And I think some distance will help me get over my stupid feelings. Also, I really want things to work out with Veronica.”
Sarah’s new girlfriend is beautiful and super nice, but she’s also super clingy and jealous. And Sarah’s a huge flirt. I can see Veronica never fully trusting Sarah to be faithful. I don’t think they are end game. I probably should have told Sarah as much earlier. But now I can’t. I’ve lost the opportunity. If I tell Sarah what I think about her girlfriend, she will likely think I’m inventing shit to try to get her to stay.
“Okay, I think I understand,” I say, releasing a breath.
I feel a bit lighter. The coils in my stomach unspool. Some of the tension behind my eyes recedes. I’d been so afraid about what Sarah’s confession meant for our friendship, but it seems like nothing will be changing between us. Unless she’s lying. Unless the physical distance manifests into actual distance. I bite my bottom lip.
Sarah stands and changes the topic. Now she’s the one doom spiralling. She tells me that she’s worried about what moving to Vancouver will mean for her financially. “I will have to start all over—all my clients are here.”
Sarah runs a personal training business, and while she’s great at her job, I’ve always felt that she undercharges her customers. So maybe Vancouver will be a good change for her. It will be a fresh start, and she can raise her rates without feeling so guilty. I tell her as much, but she’s not really listening.
When Sarah finally leaves my bedroom, I feel a lot better about everything. Sarah’s acting like nothing’s changed. I can try to do the same.
The fries are still somehow crispy when I dive back into the poutine. Despite being lukewarm, it’s still fucking delicious. Every bite is bittersweet. Two-thirds through it, I’m stuffed and can’t eat anymore. Leaning back in my chair, I pat my stomach.
Above me, the floorboards creak loudly as the tenants on the first floor walk around. I hear their muffled voices and the hum of their TV—I grit my teeth. My neighbours aren’t being loud, they’re just living. But still, their noise annoys me. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced true silence before. Like most things, it feels like a luxury that is bought and out of reach for someone like me.
From my desk drawer, I remove a pair of noise-cancelling headphones that my father bought me a few years back. While I’ve treated them with the utmost care, the ear pads are cracked in places, exposing the brownish foam beneath.
Next, I take out my iPad and pencil.
I slip my headphones over my head and start up my playlist. I click on my tablet and stare down at the last panel I’d drawn.
Zara Williams—the main character of the graphic novel I’m working on—takes up most of the rectangular frame. In many ways, she’s a replica of me. In many ways, she’s an alter ego—someone I’d maybe want to be in another life. Like me, Zara is black with short curly black hair. Her style leans masculine, but her face is too pretty to be mistaken for a boy’s. Unlike me, Zara is successful, but not in a good way. What nobody knows is that she lives a double life.
By day Zara’s an accountant who fiddles with spreadsheets. By night, Zara paints the streets with blood. Nobody knows that Zara is an assassin, killing villainous men who have more enemies than allies.
I’m currently halfway through completing the third volume of The Diaries of Zara Williams , and I think it’s my best work yet. Not only are my drawings better, but the story really feels like it’s taking shape. The plot is far more immersive and compelling—perhaps because I’ve finally introduced a bit of romance.
The love interest is Detective Pamela Cross. She’s been tasked with finding the culprit behind the gruesome string of murders. The perpetrator, Zara, cozies up to Pamela to find out more about the investigation.
I’ve reached a point in the story where the cold-hearted Zara is starting to fall for Pamela, and she doesn’t know what to do about it—she’s never been in love before.
As I pick up my stylus and begin sketching out a new scene, for a flickering moment I wonder again why I even bother. Is art even art if only the artist sees it? Is art even art if I create it just for me?
I’m proud of my work, but I know it isn’t a good fit for mainstream publishing—I’ve been told as much. But even if I think The Diaries of Zara Williams is stronger than the first series I pitched, it might not be—I might never be good enough. I’ve been told that there isn’t a market for the stories I want to tell. No one wants a comic with a dyke as the main character.
After I got rejected all those years ago, I’d been so devastated that I gave up drawing for years. My father had been on my back about not giving up. He’d always been my biggest fan, and he’d been the one who fed my love for comics as a kid. After he died, I start drawing again. I got lost in my art to escape my grief, and I think I’m creating something beautiful.
I wish my father could see it. If he was still around and was sober, I’m sure he would have talked me into trying to reach for my dream again. But he’s gone, and I’m scared to put myself back out there.
Sighing, I fill in a box with markings that soon render a busy bar, and then I sketch out Zara’s androgynous figure. My heroine is pulling out a stool to sit down beside a gorgeous woman who will be depicted to have auburn hair and orange-painted fingernails.
Pamela Cross, the beautiful detective, probably looks a little too much like my least favourite customer. I don’t know why I modelled her character after Noémie. Okay, I do know why. But it’s kind of embarrassing to admit that I wish there existed a universe where the Poutine Princess saw me as something more than just a barista.