Have you noticed the way the weather is being reported?

Have you noticed the way the weather is being reported lately?

Commentators refer to “extreme storms” — making them sound all exciting and daring, like “extreme sports”.

One opens with “this week’s wildest weather” as if we’re on a fun safari.

Another asks “Will any records be broken?” suggesting that, like athletic competitions, breaking a record will be a good thing.

And on a popular weather network website, the “photo of the day” shows a huge iceberg afloat, testament to the alarming melt of the polar ice,1and the caption reads, unbelievably, “Anyone else see a face in the iceberg?”

They’ve turned the death of our planet into entertainment.

And then there’s all that pseudo-scientific detail! The rain is going to be caused by water droplets, that’s droplets of H2O, in the air that will succumb to gravity, under normal conditions, and eventually reach us, possibly at 6:20 or maybe 6:21.

Thing is, all that drama and detail distracts us from what’s really going on with the weather. Notice the obsession with proximate causes? Is it because if they addressed the real causes, those remote causes like eating meat and using fossil fuels, they’d have to address blame? (Maybe that’s why they’re referring to “acts of weather”. Not, like, acts of humanity.) (And certainly not, anymore, acts of someone’s god.)

And, have you noticed the increase in climate change disaster movies? Right, yeah, let’s get everyone comfortable with the idea. The idea that survival is possible. All we need is a hero.

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1 “Six thousand years ago, when the world was one degree warmer than it is now, the American agricultural heartland around Nebraska was desert. … The effect of one-degree warming, therefore, requires no great feat of imagination. … Whilst snow-covered ice reflects more than 80% of the sun’s heat, the darker ocean absorbs up to 95% of solar radiation. Once sea ice begins to melt, in other words, the process becomes self-reinforcing. More ocean surface is revealed, absorbing solar heat, raising temperatures and making it unlikelier that ice will re-form next winter. The disappearance of 720,000 square kilometres of supposedly permanent ice in a single year testifies to the rapidity of planetary change. … Chance of avoiding one degree of global warming: zero. http://globalwarming.berrens.nl/globalwarming.htm

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I Don’t Have a Conscience

While I was very pleased, way back in 1997, to see the introduction of Bill C-272 regarding the use of taxes for military purposes, I was not at all pleased with its title: The Conscientious Objection Act. I object to paying for a lot of weaponry, but I don’t have a conscience.

Phrases such as “Follow your conscience” and “Do what your conscience tells you” suggest that one’s conscience is a fixed sort of thing, an unchanging absolute. Indeed, it often sounds like one’s conscience is innate, something we’re born with. And something quite separate from us, a sort of homunculus, or at least an ‘inner voice’ (the voice of God?). Chomsky may have proven that there are innate structures of language in the human brain, but to date, to my knowledge, no one has proven there are, in the human brain, innate moral principles. Nor, despite a dictionary definition of conscience as “the moral sense of right and wrong”, has such a sixth (?) sense been established.

On the contrary, our ‘conscience’ is acquired: it is the collection of moral principles, or more accurately, since the acquisition occurs before we have the cognitive competence to handle principles, it is the collection of moral habits, that have been inculcated during childhood. So our conscience is dependent on our parents’ moral principles, or, more likely, habits, and to some extent on the principles manifested by our community, our society. Our conscience amounts to nothing more than a moral reflex. We say “Examine your conscience”, but we do not intend a critical examination; rather, we mean a simple examination of discovery. We never say “Develop your conscience”’ or, God forbid, “Reconsider your conscience”.

And yet surely that’s what our attitude toward moral principles should be: moral principles should not be inherited by indoctrination, but developed and maintained by careful, rational thought. I propose therefore that we replace the word ‘conscience’ with ‘ethics’. ‘Ethics’ refers not to one’s sensebut to one’s system (hopefully it’s a system, a coherent collection) of moral principles. Bill C-272 should be called “The Ethical Objection Act” — for all of us who object, on ethical grounds, to the use of taxes for the military.

Now many people may be reluctant to replace ‘conscience’ with ‘ethics’ because, well, whose ethics? But that’s exactly the question that must be asked. And it should be asked of conscience as well. I suspect there’s a rather naive presumption of homogeneity with respect to conscience: when someone advises you to follow your conscience, my guess is that the person assumes you will choose to do the right thing, which is the same right thing he or she would do. But what if my conscience tells me to torture? What is the response to that — ‘Your conscience must be wrong’? Until we ask whose ethics, we’re avoiding the issue, skating on the thin ice of individual relativism, the very weakest of ethical systems: X is right because I think it’s right (I followed my conscience). It’s circular and most unhelpful: Why do you think it’s right? How do you come to that thought? That is, what makes you think it’s right? (Where did you get your conscience from?)

The fear, of course, is that the question has no answer, that we will set ourselves adrift on a sea of cultural relativism. Not true: we’re capable of making anchors. We must confront the fact that we decide what’s right and wrong, and surely deciding consciously is better than deciding unconsciously. Surely it is better to identify and compare, to critique, to evaluate, to choose our moral principles. And then to act, and lobby, according to those principles, instead of merely according to our ‘conscience’.

***

Appropriation or Imagination?

Two poems of mine have been published in a journal dedicated to “the Black experience”. An audio piece of mine has been aired on First Nations radio programs. I am neither Black nor a member of any First Nation. Had this been known, I suspect some might have accused me of cultural appropriation.

It’s an interesting idea, but as a reincarnation of the autobiographical school of writing — according to which one must have actually experienced what one is writing about — it is also a poor idea.

Taken to its logical extreme, any poem about a child must have been written by a child. Well no, one could say, you were at one time a child, so that’s okay. Hm. So memory is okay but imagination is not? I suggest that often the one is as accurate as the other.

But perhaps accuracy is not the point. Perhaps it’s a matter of “I can speak for myself, thank you” — a reaction against previous patronizing attitudes to the contrary. And if that’s the case, if you can speak for yourself, then by all means do so. But that shouldn’t stop me from also doing so if I want to. And if the editor or publisher selects only and always my speaking, then take that up with the editor or publisher, not the writer. Let’s be inclusive rather than reactionarily exclusive.

Further, there is a difference between speaking for and speaking about. Speaking for does entail the suggestion of advocacy — patronizing if unrequested, and possibly unnecessary. Speaking about entails no such suggestion. And actually, there’s a third option, the one that I thought I was doing — speaking with.

Think, for a moment, of all the literature that would not exist if writers had to limit themselves to what they have personally experienced. Entire genres would disappear: science fiction, speculative fiction, fantasy, historical fiction, probably most adventure and mystery too. Oh, and romance.

Also, to be consistent, this perspective should extend to non-fiction writing as well. So there goes most of the news — most stories are not first-hand accounts. But at least, you’ll say, the third person accounts remain third person — there is no saying ‘I’ when you really mean ‘he/she’. True. And this is one important difference between fiction and non-fiction — the leap of the imagination, the projection of oneself into the other.

But let’s not pretend for even one second that news reports are bereft of this very same imagination. If they were, they’d have to be written in a purely phenomenological fashion, bereft of all ascriptions of emotion, for starters. To say ‘the demonstrators were angry’ instead of ‘the demonstrators were shouting’ is as much a leap of imagination — unless the reporter spoke to the demonstrators (all of them) and they said they were angry. (Even then, strict accuracy requires you to report ‘they said they were angry’ rather than ‘they were angry’.) To merely assume anger on the basis of their behaviour is to project, to imagine, to fictionalize. Chances are, you’re quite correct, they were angry. If you know about human behaviour and if you know about the context, you can probably come up with a very accurate story without actually experiencing it yourself. The same goes for the fiction writer. (But then again, I suspect accuracy is not the issue.)

Furthermore, the ‘no appropriation’ perspective doesn’t seem to recognize that there are people whose awareness doesn’t go very deep. They live in and for the moment, they are not reflective, they are not analytic. Or they may be all that but just not very articulate. And there are others whose research is thorough, whose imagination is rich, and who are articulate to boot. Which is why Brian Moore can write a better novel about a woman with PMS than a woman who has it but doesn’t even know it. And which is why I can write a better poem about being Black or a First Nations person than some Blacks or First Nations people can. In short, one’s imagination can exceed another’s awareness.

But it’s not really ‘just’ imagination, it’s informed imagination — it’s empathy. So not only does the ‘no appropriation’ perspective discourage imagination, it discourages empathy. But surely to limit ourselves to ourselves is sad. And dangerous.

***

“I killed you. Killed you too. Got you.”

In the Library.

So I was working in my local public library the other day — well, tryingto work. I was distracted by the kid on the computer next to me who was playing a computer game. My first point. Is it appropriate for kids to be allowed to play computer games on the computers in public libraries? I suggest that libraries are repositories of knowledge that people peruse to borrow or access on-site. Given that, playing computer games should not occur in a public library. Libraries aren’t entertainment centers.1 Yes, perusing and accessing knowledge can be fun. But that doesn’t mean that that which is fun is necessarily perusing or accessing knowledge.

Furthermore, the kid was continuously commenting, not in a particularly loud voice, but certainly loud enough for me, sitting next to him, to hear. My second point. Goes along with the intense irritation I experienced while in the university library a few weeks ago, unable to search the stacks for what I was seeking (books containing arguments) because someone in one of the nearby carrels was talking on her cellphone. Not an emergency conversation, mind you, but a mundane hi-yeah-so-like-whatever one. Given that libraries are repositories of knowledge that one either peruses to borrow or accesses on site — both of which often require mental effort, requiring concentration, which is inhibited by the distraction of talking aloud — both the kid’s running commentary and the cellphone conversation should not have occurred.

Further still, the kid’s comments were “I killed you. Killed you too. Got you. Killed you.” and so on. Not only distracting, but disturbing. My third point? Given that the library is indeed a public library, and not withstanding what I’ve said elsewhere, I think there may be grounds for censorship — could that be considered “hate speech” or “disturbing the peace”? It’s bad enough that the kids’ parents are irresponsibly unaware of the damage being done to their kids, not to mention to the rest of us, by allowing such activity (it desensitizes the kid to death, and it forms an association between killing and fun/entertainment), but there is no excuse for public librarians to be so unaware. And, given the public status (and funding) of the library, they have grounds for acting on their awareness.

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1 But what about all that fiction? Okay, but isn’t it generally ‘serious literature’ — fiction that has, presumably, insight — knowledge — about the human condition? Actually, no. Don’t a lot of libraries have an extensive collection of genre lit (westerns, romances, mysteries … )? So maybe they are (also) entertainment centres, indoor parks, if you will. But then where or where is the quiet place? Are there no quiet public spaces left??

***

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SlutWalk: What’s the problem?

What exactly is the problem with SlutWalk? The event was reportedly initiated in response to a police officer’s comment about not dressing like a slut if you don’t want to get raped. The underlying assumption is that one’s attire—specific items or style—sends a message. And indeed it does. High heels, fishnet stockings, and a heavily made-up face are considered invitations. So if a woman is wearing ‘fuck me shoes’, she can hardly complain if someone fucks her.

But is that the message the woman is sending? A message that she’s sexually available to everyone? Maybe. Maybe not.1 Frankly, given the ambiguity, and the nature of the outcome in the case of misunderstanding, I wonder why women take the risk.

It’s much like wearing one’s gang colours in the territory of a rival gang. Of course it’s going to be provocative. Is any consequent assault legal? No. Is it deserved? No. Should it have been anticipated? Yes. So unless the intent was to make a point about the wrongness of gangs and violence, a point best made by arranging media presence for the incursion into the other gang’s territory, well, how stupid are you?

Granted, most women who dress in a sexually attractive way don’t go that far (fishnet stockings and heavy make-up), but why go any way at all? Why does a woman dress in a sexually attractive way? Why do women put on high heels, show their legs, wear bras that push up their breasts and tops that expose cleavage, redden their lips, and so on? What does she hope to attract exactly?

My first guess is that she hasn’t thought about it. She dresses in a sexually attractive way because, well, that’s what women in our society are expected to do.2 In which case she’s an idiot. Doesn’t deserve to be raped, but really, she should think about what she does.

My second guess is that she dresses in a sexually attractive way because she wants to attract offers of sex.3But then, she shouldn’t be angry when she receives such offers, either in the form of whistles and call-outs or in more direct ways. That she may respond with anger or offense suggests that she wants to attract only offers she’s likely to accept, offers only from men she’s attracted to. But, men may cry, how’s a man to know? Um, try to make eye contact. If you can’t do that, she’s not interested. If you do make eye contact, smile. If she doesn’t smile back, she’s not interested. Surely that kind of body language isn’t too subtle to grasp.

And yet, many men seem to have such an incapacity for subtlety that if you act like bait, they may simply reach out and grab you. Are they entitled to do that? No. Any unauthorized touching is a violation. Is clothing authorization? Well, sometimes. Consider uniforms.

So it would be far less ambiguous if a woman who wants sex just extended the offers herself. Why take the passive route of inviting offers from likely candidates? Why make men try to figure out whether they’re a likely candidate? Why not just let them know and go from there?

Another problem with SlutWalk is that many people may not have been aware of the police officer’s comment. So what are they to make of the event? What are they to understand is the point? (Prerequisite to deciding whether to support it or not.)

(a) “It’s okay to be a slut!” Given the ‘sluttish’ appearance that many women present during the walk, this understanding is understandable. But whether or not one wants to endorse that message depends on the definition of ‘slut’.4

(b) “We’re proud to be sluts!” Ditto.

(c) “No woman deserves to be raped, regardless of her attire!” This is probably closest to the intended message, but in this case, better to have called it a ‘Walk Against Rape’. Better, further, to advocate changes that would make rape more likely to be reported and rapists more likely to be sentenced commensurate to the injuries they’ve caused. Perhaps better still to advocate a male-only curfew.

Of course, ‘SlutWalk’ is far more provocative, far more attention-getting, than the ho-hum ‘Walk Against Rape’, but I don’t think the organizers considered the difficulty of reclaiming an insulting word. And ‘slut’ is a very difficult insult to reclaim. Harder than ‘bitch’ and ‘nigger’ (sex trumps skin color; better to be a black man than a white woman) and even those reclamation efforts haven’t been very successful. Mostly, success has been limited to conversations among women in the first case and conversations among blacks in the second. SlutWalk is not conducted in the presence of women only. So, really, did the organizers expect people in general to accept (let alone understand) their implied redefinition?

The organizers also didn’t think through the male over-dependence on visual signals. The gawkers and hecklers who typically undermine the event should have been expected. The inability of men to process any verbal messages (even those that are just a few words long) in the presence of so-called ‘fuck me’ heels should be expected.

Consider that even Gwen Jacobs’ action to make it legal for women to be shirtless wasn’t immune to sexualization, despite the clearly non-sexual nature of her action; men (BOOBS!) hooted, men (BOOBS!) called out, and the media, no doubt reflecting a decision made by a man (BOOBS!), or perhaps a thoughtless woman, continues to use the sexualized “topless” instead of “shirtless” when reporting about the issue (BOOBS!). Imagine the response had Jacobs gone shirtless while also wearing short shorts exposing half buttocks. It would have been, to understate, a mixed message.

And that is, essentially, the problem with SlutWalk. High heels, exposed legs, pushed-up breasts, and a made-up faces sends a message that one is sexually available (which is why it’s appalling to me that it has become convention for women to wear heels and make-up in public every day all day) (those who accept that convention accept the view that women should be, or at least should seem to be, sexually available every day all day).5 And if it doesn’t send a message that you’re sexually available, what message does it send? That you’re sexually attractive? Back to what are you hoping to attract?(And why are you trying to attract that when you’re at work, working?)

(d) “Women have a right to tease!” That seems to be the message SlutWalk conveys, given the likelihood that women who present themselves as sexually attractive aren’t actually trying to be sexually attractive to everyone or, at least, aren’t sexually available to everyone. And that’s a message that many women would not endorse. Especially those who know about the provocation defence.6

There’s nothing wrong with extending invitations to sex. Doing so in public in such a non-specific way—that’s the problem. Especially given men’s inability to pick up on subtle cues and/or their refusal to understand the difference between yes and no, let alone yes and maybe. Maybe when men can handle a sexually charged atmosphere without assaulting … Maybe when other men penalize, one way or another, those who can’t handle a sexually charged atmosphere without assaulting …

In the meantime, we’re living in an occupied country, a country occupied by morally-underdeveloped people with power who think women are just walking receptacles for their dicks. So women who make themselves generally available, or present themselves as being generally available, are, simply, putting themselves at great risk (and, yes, in a way, getting what they asked for): some STDs are fatal; others are incurable; most have painful symptoms. And pregnancy has a life-long price tag.7

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1 Given that the values and norms are different for men than for women and given that we are neither accustomed nor socialized to giving (or requesting) explicit consent for sex, it’s essential to be clear about the signals of ‘implied consent’. It’s also almost impossible: the signals, ranging from mere presence to attire to a gesture to a look, are ambiguous and variably sent/received—some men assume mere presence in their apartment means ‘yes’, some do not; some women intend a certain outfit to mean ‘yes’, some do not. Even on the few occasions when consent may be given or withheld explicitly, men may understand ‘no’ to mean ‘yes’. And indeed, given the socialization discussed earlier, a woman maymean ‘yes’ when she says ‘no’. As Margaret Jane Radin puts it (in “The Pragmatist and the Feminist”), ‘Just say no’ as the standard for determining whether rape has occurred is both under- and over-inclusive. It is under-inclusive because women who haven’t found their voices mean ‘no’ and are unable to say it; and it is over-inclusive because, like it or not, the way sexuality has been constituted in a culture of male dominance, the male understanding that ‘no’ means ‘yes’ was often, and may still sometimes be, correct.

However, as Susan Estrich points out (in “Rape”), “the ‘no means yes’ philosophy … affords sexual enjoyment to those women who desire it but will not say so — at the cost of violating the integrity of all those women who say ‘no’ and mean it”. This is the minefield when ‘group membership’ is ‘mandatory’ (when females are considered a group — women): if there is no room for individual subjectivity, serious errors will be made.

2 There’s a difference between attractive and sexually attractive. At least, there should be. Perhaps because men dominate art and advertising, the two have been equivocated. (No doubt because everything is sexual for them.) (Which may be to say, everything is about dominance for them.)

3 Maybe part of her smiles to think of herself as a slut. She’s a bad girl, she’s dangerous, she’s taking risks, she’s a wild girl for once in her life. But that’s exactly what they want. Sexual access. No-strings-attached sex. We fell for that in the 60s too. Free love, sure, we’re not prudes, we’re okay with our bodies, we’re okay with sex, we’re ‘with it’. But they never took us seriously. They never considered us part of the movement. Behind our backs, they’d snicker and say the best position for a woman is prone (Stokely Carmichael). (Read your history, learn about our past.)

4 See “What’s Wrong with Being a Slut?”.

5 Of course there’s the possibility that if/when women forego the heels, bared legs, accentuated breasts and butts, and make-up, men will consider a little ankle to be an open invitation. Which just means the issue isn’t attire at all. It’s being female. In a patriarchy. (Which still means SlutWalk is off-target.)

6 See “The Provocation Defence”.

7 I hear the objections already: ‘No, wearing high heels and make-up doesn’t mean I’m sexually available! That’s the point!’ (And around and around we go.) Then why do you wear high heels and make-up? Seriously, think about it: high heels make the leg more shapely, attracting the male gaze, which follows your legs up … ; make-up makes your face younger, hence more sexually attractive; lipstick attracts the male gaze to your lips, your mouth … If you just want to be attractive, then what you do to your body wouldn’t be sexualized: you’d wear funky gold glittered hiking boots, you’d paint an iridescent rainbow across your face, you’d do a hundred other aesthetically interesting things …

***

The Futility of Teaching Business Ethics

or Why Our World Will End

There are a few reasons why teaching ethics to business students is an exercise in futility.

1. The profit motive trumps everything. As long as this is the case, there’s no point in teaching students the intricacies of determining right and wrong. Whether something is morally acceptable or not is simply irrelevant to them. It might come into play when two options yield the same profit, but how often does that happen? And even so, other concerns are likely to be tie-breakers.

But is this the case? Doesthe profit motive trump everything? Yes, according to their economics, marketing, and even human resources professors: profit is the bottom line. It’s primary. It’s the raison d’être of business. Good thing. Because business students enrol in business because they want to make a lot of money. I have yet to meet someone who’s enrolled in business to make the world a better place. (Wait a minute. Don’t shareholders matter? Doesn’t what they want trump everything? In theory, yes. In practice, no. Most don’t cast their vote. And anyway most shareholders also want to make a lot of money. As much as possible, in fact. I have yet to meet someone who becomes a shareholder, who invests, to make the world a better place.)

2. Ethics is for girls. (Apparently.) And business is dominated by boys. It’s mom who teaches us right from wrong; she’s the moral compass. And anything mom does is to be held in contempt as soon as a boy hits twelve. In order to become a man, it’s necessary. To hold in contempt all things female. Ethics presumes caring, and real men don’t care. (Qualification: they don’t care about others. They care about profit, their own place in the scheme of things, and because their sons are extensions of themselves, they care about them, theirplace in the scheme of things, but caring about strangers? Strangers are other; the other is the competition.) Ethics is something for priests to worry about and we all know priests aren’t real men. They’re celibate for god’s sake. So, men avoid ethics—it’s effeminate to be concerned about right and wrong.

3. Ethics is a grey area. It’s complicated. There are often no clear-cut answers. Ironically, there’s seldom a right and wrong answer to questions of right and wrong. Men prefer black and white. They gravitate toward the quantitative, the ill-(but sexually aptly-)named ‘hard sciences’ of engineering and chemistry, rather than the ‘soft sciences’ of psychology and sociology. They say such fields are not as legitimate, but really they’re just harder to navigate because the reasoning and the evidence are ‘stronger’ and ‘weaker’ rather than ‘right’ and ‘wrong’. (Which is why, when men do get involved with ethics, they prefer moral legalism, the approach that equates right and wrong with legal and illegal, which is black and white.)

So actually, there’s just one reason why teaching business ethics to business students is an exercise in futility: business is dominated by men (point 2), and the masculist mode is quantitative (points 1 and 3). This explains, or is supported by, their obsession with size. Girth which in a woman would be considered disgusting is carried by men as if it increases their legitimacy, their authority: they thrust out their gut just as they thrust out their chest. It brings to mind animals that inflate themselves to achieve greater size (the balloonfish can actually double its size). Simply put, for men, the bigger, the better. I think this is because the male mind is more primitive, and at a very primitive level, the contest for survival is won by the bigger animal. (Actually, that’s not true even at that level: small creatures with toxic stings and the capacity to remain hidden often survive. But unfortunately, men have evolved enough to create a system in which it is true.) (And anyway, even as they don’t win, they’ll take the rest of us down.)

***

The APA is so Fucked Up

Why Are Some People Transgender? an APA pamphlet asks.1

Their answer? “Many experts believe that biological factors such as genetic influences and prenatal hormone levels, early experiences, and experiences later in adolescence or adulthood may all contribute to the development of transgender identities.”

Um, no. People are transgender because they are intelligent and thoughtful enough to realize that gendered behaviours are typically constraining and that feminine behaviours in particular are subordinating. And so, they reject them; they refuse to conform to the gender expectations aligned to their sex.

How Does Someone Know They Are Transgender? the pamphlet then asks.

Their answer? “They may have vague feelings of “not fitting in” with people of their assigned sex or specific wishes to be something other than their assigned sex. Others become aware of their transgender identities or begin to explore and experience gender-nonconforming attitudes and behaviors during adolescence or much later in life.”

Again, no. I know I’m a writer because when I write, I actually realize that that’s what I’m doing when I do it. Similarly, when I refuse to wear make-up and high heels, I know I’m doing it. I’m that aware. And I know it’s transgressive. I’m also that aware. I know what the gender expectations are in our society, so I know when I’m refusing to meet them. That’s how I know I’m transgender.

One doesn’t “become aware” of one’s gender identity. One creates it. One chooses it. Unlike sex,2sexual orientation, height, skin colour, eye colour … gender is not a biological given. It’s an arbitrary collection of preferences that our culture says should you should adopt: the so-called feminine collection is supposed to be adopted by female people, and the so-called masculine collection is supposed to be adopted by male people. Do you always do what you’re supposed to do?

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1 “What Does It Mean to Be Transgender?” from “Answers to Your Questions About Transgender People, Gender Identity, and Gender Expression” American Psychological Association 2011. https://www.apa.org/topics/lgbtq/transgender

2 Which is why it’s particularly disturbing that professional psychologists believe that “Sex is assigned at birth …” No, sex is recognized at birth (or before, if a conclusive ultrasound is obtained). Typically by external genitalia.

***

“And son? Take care of your mom while I’m gone.”

Excuse me? I don’t need a child to take care of me. I know, he might reply, I’m just trying to — trying to what? Teach him to be a man? Teach him that grown women need looking after? And that he, as the one with the penis, is just the person to do it?

For six months while we’re pregnant — if we get pregnant — we’re vulnerable, yeah. And while we have kids, okay, yeah, if we’re attacked, one of us should protect, hide, get the kids to safety. We could both fight, but the kids need one of us alive. Though of course who does what need not be determined by sex. If I’m closer to the gun and you’re closer to the kids — be reasonable! But otherwise — that is, for the other 594 months of our lives …

So whatever it is you think you’re trying to teach the boy, it’s at my expense. He grows up to think — hell, already at thirteen, he thinks he’s more capable, more competent than me. Than a thirty-five-year-old — woman. And since everything tells him to, he generalizes: he comes to think he’s more capable, more competent, than allwomen. And the patriarchy lives on.

It’s interesting that when there are two boys in the family, it’s the older one who’s told “Look after your mom and your sisters and your younger brother.” Then, age is the critical factor. But when there are boys and girls, sex trumps age.

Which is why I love Sarah Connor (Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles). Even when her son is sixteen, she’sthe one protecting, looking after, him. And why not? She’s twice his age. And he’s no less ‘a man’ for it — John still manages to be capable, competent, interesting, sexy-in-progress. True, they’ve added the ‘He’s more important, she’s more dispensable’ factor, perhaps because without that, male viewers would consider John emasculated by her protection. But still.

(“Tell me again why are the boys in here and the girls are in there?” “’Cause one of the boys is still wanted for murder and one of the girls is harder than nuclear nails.” “And the other one’s a cyborg.”)

***

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You’re wondering how it happened. How did we survive? How did our population suddenly plummet from six billion to half that. Enabling our natural resources to recover and, eventually, support us. All of us.

In 2020, all of the indicators pointed to our imminent extinction. We had to reduce our greenhouse gases by 50% before 2030 in order to have just a hope in hell of avoiding what would otherwise become inevitable in 2050, eventual human extinction. And in 2020, we were nowhere near being on target. The U.S. continued to deny that there was a problem; Canada continued to allow the production of greenhouse gases just for fun (via snowmobile, PWC, and ATV use; in fact, the government had gone so far as to designate 121,000 kilometres of crown and private land specifically for snowmobile use).

And so there continued to be—and every year, more—devastating droughts, forest fires, heat waves, floods, superstorms, and pandemics, as well as all the rage that typically accompanied such events—riots, assaults, mass shootings …

In the middle of all this, single mothers just … gave up. They’d had enough. Enough part-time, temporary, casual work for which they earned half of what men would have earned. (No, what am I saying? Men would never be offered, would never have to accept,part-time, temporary, or casual work. Not if they had kids to support.) Enough of no pension, no benefits. So no affordable medical care. Enough of looking after other people’s kids as well as their own, but needing to do so in order to feed their own. Because no affordable daycare.

They’d had enough of fighting for child support every fucking month. They’d had enough of the men, the absent fathers, still calling the shots. For example, preventing them from moving back to where they could get the help of their extended family, because said family was in a different state or a different country and they, the men, wouldn’t therefore be able to see their kids as often, as easily. (Suddenly that mattered.)

They’d had enough of living in a culture that “values work that contributes to the destruction and exploitation of life over and above work which nurtures life,” to quote Abigail Bray. And Marilyn Waring. And how many other women who had been ignored.

They’d had enough of being considered, treated like, damaged goods and sluts.

Why were they single, you might ask. Their husbands, the kids’ fathers, had abandoned them, saying they just weren’t cut out to be fathers.

Or they’d left their husbands, the kids’ fathers, after years of abuse, psychological and physical, that hadn’t started until the first pregnancy.

Why were they mothers, you might ask. Their husbands had refused to use a condom. They’d said they’d pull out, but didn’t. Usually, they just raped them. It was their right, after all. (The consequences, apparently not their responsibility.)

So the next time their kids were with their fathers for the weekend, they just … disappeared.

You might think it would tear them apart. Well, they were already torn apart.

Yes, their daughters would likely be raped. That would’ve happened anyway. Eventually. The famous ‘one in four’ had crept to ‘one in three’ as men got angrier and angrier with the world at large.

Yes, their sons would be raised to be misogynistic psychopaths. That too would’ve happened anyway. The porn culture enabled by the internet had turned most men into misogynistic psychopaths. Which was no surprise, if they’d been watching women being humiliated and hurt, and apparently liking it, since they were eight. Which was the case now for most males.

And then it wasn’t just the single mothers. Married women started divorcing their husbands and insisting that said husbands, their kids’ fathers, assume full-time custody.

“I’ll take them every other weekend,” the women would say, magnanimously.

And oh my god, was it wonderful. They’d work from nine to five, and the rest of the day, the evening, was theirs. All theirs. To do as they pleased. The housework, the laundry, the cooking—it was surprising how little was needed for just themselves. And the quiet. It was … bliss.

In a way, it seemed that women had started getting over themselves. Truth be told, in most cases, the kids would be no worse off with their fathers. It’s not like they, the mothers, had been doing a stellar job. Their kids were, across the board, oh so ordinary. At best.

In a way, it seemed that they’d finally realized they’d been suckered into believing that raising children was something that only they could do, something that they could do best, being women, being mothers …

“You know, it’s strange,” Ann said to Beth during their coffee break, as they read the latest statistics on the phenomenon. “It’s like all these women, single and married, suddenly don’t love their kids anymore.”

“Yeah, well, love,” Beth replied, cynically. “Oxytocin by any other—”

And that’s when it hit them.

They did the research (suspending, for the moment, their development of an air-borne contraceptive, with a somewhat onerous and impossible-to-regulate antidote, like holding one’s breath for 60 seconds every hour for 24 hours straight, that would change the default from having to do something not to get pregnant to having to do something to get pregnant), and sure enough.

There had been a decrease in oxytocin. For many, that bond was all that had been holding mother-and-child together. Once it started to dissolve, once their oxytocin started to decrease, well, it was … easier. To just give up. Give up their kids, leave them with their fathers. It actually didn’t tear them apart. Quite so much.

We should have seen it coming. After all, we’d been using pesticides, handling plastics, wearing cosmetics (that turned into a nice irony: you want us to look attractive all the time, well, okay, but … it’s gonna cost ya), and coming into contact with god knows how many other industrial chemicals for almost a century.

We even knew that many of these chemicals were endocrine disruptors: they could increase, or decrease, certain hormones (special signal-sending chemicals); they could interfere with the signals hormones were supposed to send; they could even turn one hormone into another.

In fact, we had proof way back in the 1940s that DDT, for example, caused problems for bees, and in 1962, biologist Rachel Carson sounded a strong alarm about such pesticides (and was dismissed as hysterical for doing so). It took ten years for the U.S. to ban DDT. And another forty to make the link to breast cancer.

But, well, research into women’s bodies was not exactly a priority. The first-ever statement about women and heart disease—the signs of heart attack in women are different than in men—was published in 2016. And we had Viagra (and Cialis and Levitra and Stendra …) long before safe contraception. And—

Simply put, women weren’t as important as men. It was an opinion that was, apparently, impossible to change. After all, Viagra (and Cialis and Levitra and Stendra …) was covered by health insurance plans ten years before any of the various contraceptives were covered.

As more and more women entered the sciences, there were attempts to change that, but men continued to dominate the funding decisions. (Ann and Beth had resorted to crowd-funding for their research.)

As for research into mothering, that was especially emasculating. Only a wuss would choose to do that! I still remember when I first read Levitt and Dubner’s Freakonomics, in which they present an astounding connection between access to abortion and the crime rate: twenty years after Roe v. Wade, the U.S. crime rate dropped. Astounding indeed. That men were surprised by that. What did they think would happen when a woman is saddled with a squalling baby she does not want, on an income she does not have, because she has a squalling baby she does not want— She’d get a ‘Mother of the Year’ award?

So. Oxytocin is a chemical produced by the hypothalamus. It motivates and reinforces attachment. Therefore.

Their conclusion was validated when almost overnight, the proportion of new mothers (single or married) with so-called post-partum depression went from one in seven to four in seven. That’s over half.

We’d only recently hypothesized that post-partum depression could be caused in part by low oxytocin. Turns out that it’s not so much that low oxytocin causes post-partum depression as that high oxytocin masks post-partum depression—the reasonable (healthy) response to the forementioned state of being saddled with a squalling baby … (Especially reasonable when you were absolutely exhausted from having just birthed it, in part because you went into that labour in a weakened state due to the multiple stresses, emotional and physical, of being pregnant for nine months in the first place.)

Those who thought post-partum depression was just a medicalization of not wanting kids were right. Maybe, just maybe, women’s sole responsibility for that squalling baby explains why they experienced “a loss of energy, changes in sleep patterns, a diminished ability to think or concentrate, and recurring thoughts of suicide.” I mean, duh.

So when the increase in oxytocin that typically accompanied pregnancy and labour didn’t occur …

Almost overnight, most new mothers acted like those with post-partum depression. Or like men. Quite simply, they weren’t all that interested in their newborns. They saw them as the demanding shit-machines that most new fathers, truthfully, had always seen them as. (‘Honey, I have to stay late at the office again, sorry.’ Right. Code for ‘I can’t stand another minute of its crying. You’re different, you’re a woman, it doesn’t bother you, just like you don’t mind changing its diaper ….’ Right.)

And, simply put, most women did not want to have to look after a demanding shit-machine twenty-four/seven. Who would? Looking ahead, they saw nothing but exhaustion, frustration, resentment, anger, rage … Being completely responsible for a completely helpless human being for years …

So, many women just left their newborns with their husbands.

“If you didn’t want to look after it, you shouldn’t’ve had it!” Dave said when Diane told him she was going back to work the next day.

She waited a few moments, then saw that she had to say it out loud. “Same to you.”

And then in the morning, when she was on her way out ahead of him—in many households, there was actually a race for the door—he objected. He’d obviously not taken her seriously the night before. But then, when had he ever?

“But … this is crazy.”

She stared at him. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Dismiss as ‘crazy’ anything you don’t agree with. As if you’re the standard of sanity.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did.”

“But … I can’t stay home, quit my job. I make more money than you!”

“Yeah, pity you never joined the fight for equal pay for work of equal value.”

“But—”

“And,” she sighed, “it’s not all about money.”

Many women took their newborns to their rapists. In many cases, in many countries, that meant the same as leaving them with their husbands. But in many other cases, it meant taking the infant to a male relative, a ‘friend’, an acquaintance … As statistics have shown, in most cases, women are raped by someone they know.

“You can’t leave it here!” Tyler said. “I don’t want it!”

“Then why’d you make it?”

“I didn’t make it!”

She waited just a moment. “Do you really not know how babies are made? When sperm—”

“I know that shit! Do you think I’m stupid?”

“Well, unless you taught your sperm how to swim backwards …”

It was amusing, though appalling, that so many men seemed to assume that women had some sort of innate control over fertilization. That getting pregnant was their choice, hence their fault.

“Why didn’t you take care of it?” He glared at her.

“I am taking care of it. I’m giving it to you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Then say it. Say what you mean.”

“Why didn’t you get an abortion?”

“Why didn’t you get a vasectomy?”

“I thought you were on the pill or something.”

“Why did you think that?”

He shrugged.

“Well, shouldn’t you have made sure? Before you put your sperm into my vagina?”

In many countries, women organized and took their newborns, en masse, to their legislatures. They walked in, close to a hundred at a time, and set their infants, strapped into carriers, baskets, and car seats, onto the long meeting tables.

“What’s this?” The Man-in-Charge would say.

“The babies you forced us to have by prohibiting abortion.”

“Well, we don’t want them.”

Then you shouldn’t have forced us to have them.”

And then they started to walk away.

“Wait! You can’t just walk away! What kind of mothers are you?”

“The unwilling kind. The coerced kind.”

And then with great self-righteousness, the Man-in-Charge would call Security and have the women arrested for abandonment. Right then and there. They’d be taken away to holding cells. Sentenced for, possibly, five years. With smug satisfaction, the Man-in-Charge would turn back to—

The babies were still there. Now wailing. Every one of them.

Oops.

Initially, it was concern for the kids that received all the media attention. (Of course. Even fertilized eggs are more important than women.) Women with post-partum depression don’t bond with their newborns; as a result, said newborns don’t thrive. They are likely to have a wide range of cognitive, emotional, behavioral, and medical problems: lower IQ scores, attention problems, mood disorders, anxiety disorders, substance use disorders, conduct disorders, my god the list goes on. (Tell me again why mothers, if they’re so very important, are ‘paid’ just room and board.)

Most women fully understood the importance of the first six years; they were the formative years. Literally. But why were women best suited for those first six years? Why was onewoman best suited for those first six years?

And if those years were so fucking important, they said, they screamed, why did men keep undoing what women did? With advertising—sugar-sweetened drinks and cereals, fat-laden and nutrient-poor fast food … With toy stores—stocked with gun-wielding action figures on one side and pretty pink princesses on the other … With television, intentionally attractive, intentionally addictive—the more kids watch tv, the worse their social skills, their language skills, their school performance, their physical fitness …

Of course, many women argued that the ‘What about the children?’ response was just a guilt trip, and a way to keep so many of us sequestered, segregated, in the home, overworked, too tired to care about, or to do anything about, anything else. And not an expression of genuine concern for the children, for those formative years.

And so … the men found out what it was like. To be home alone with one, two, three kids who demanded their attention every minute, every second. They’d had no idea how exhausting it could be. Physically, psychologically …

What did they do? Some desperately hired other women to look after their kids. But ten hours a day, five days a week, it added up.

Naturally, those who were married expected their now-working (wait, now-working?) wives to pay half the mortgage, half the electricity, half the insurance …

“I can’t afford that. We’ll have to sell the house, move, find something cheaper.”

“Sell the house? But—”

“And of course I won’t be paying half the nanny’s salary.”

“But they’re your kids too.”

“I can’t afford it.” It was true.

Suddenly men were speaking out for equal pay for work of equal value. Suddenly they were insisting their wives get pay increases and promotions. Suddenly they were appalled at the jobs their wives didn’t get hired for.

“But you’re qualified! More than qualified!”

Duh.

“Can’t you pay at least part of the nanny’s salary?”

“Why should I? It was your decision.” Because oh, the rage. Their husbands were paying some stranger more than they’d ever paid them. To do the same work.

And, again, “If you didn’t want to look after a kid, why did you make one?”

And, of course, it wasn’t just about money. Unless they hired a 24/7 nanny, the men whose wives had left found they no longer had their evenings and weekends to themselves. To put it mildly.

When hiring a nanny proved impossible, the men stayed home. What choice did they have? Many were fired because they didn’t show up for work. Or couldn’t stay late. Or had to leave suddenly in the middle of the day for an emergency. (Fortuitously, this opened positions for all the women now seeking paid employment.)

Suddenly men were speaking out for, demanding, state-funded daycare.

They insisted that their estranged wives pay child support. But when the arrears for 24/7 nanny services to date had been calculated, minus their portion for all the joint expenses, in most cases, the men still owed the women. No child support would be forthcoming.

Regardless, most men found they simply couldn’t handle the non-stop neediness of babies, infants, toddlers, their relentless whining presence … When their infants wouldn’t stop crying, some men threw them against the wall. Or worse.

So when that proved impossible, the staying at home with them, they just started leaving them alone during the day. And often during the night. Some men just left the house at one point and didn’t come back.

The kids died. Of course they died.

Some starved to death. Some died of thirst. Some had fatal accidents. They fell when they tried to get out of their cribs, or they drowned when they slipped in the tub, or they died in a house fire when, so hungry, they tried to make supper …

Call it ‘failure to thrive’. In a big way.

So, yes, the incidence of infanticide increased. The incidence of child abuse and neglect increased. More prisons were required. More foster homes were required. Proposals were made to bring back orphanages.

The number of street kids increased. More social services were required.

Juvenile crime increased. More young offender facilities were required.

Governments were overwhelmed.

Of course, early on, almost immediately, actually, the men realized they hadn’t wanted kids after all. Not really. They’d just wanted the badge of respectability, the measure of maturity. And they realized they’d been duped by the association between the two: being able to get a woman pregnant had nothing to do with respectability. Or maturity.

And they realized, now, that if they did have kids—that is, if they did create some new human beings—they’d have to look after them for a good fifteen years. Actually look after them.

And then what happened?

Nations that had hitherto spent half their budgets on weapons found that they had the money for state-funded daycare.

Legislation was passed for equal pay for work of equal value. And enforced.

Legislation was also passed for equal opportunity for promotions. And enforced.

Contraception became not only easily available, but free of charge.

Abortion became legal. And available. On demand.

And, finally, there was an increase in vasectomies, from a global rate of 2.2% to 81.9%.

And then, zero population growth.

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She was so tired of it. They all were. Every day, as they walked from one classroom to the next, or to the cafeteria, or to the gym, “Hey, ho!” “Gonna do me?” “C’mere, I got somethin’ for you!”

Then from school to the bus stop. “Y’all jus’ bitches, you know that, right?” “She’s a slut!” “No, she’s a slut!” Laughter. Always laughter.

And as they wandered through the mall. “Hey, look, a bunch of cunts!” “Yo, slag, c’mere!” This last, with a British accent.

Of course, they’d all tried to respond in kind. Problem was, there was no ‘in kind’. ‘Asshole’, ‘dick’, and ‘prick’ just meant idiot. ‘Stud’ was a compliment. There was no word—

Then one Saturday afternoon, when she and her friends were standing in line to see a movie, one of the older boys they knew called out to a guy, “Oh, look at the little puss-in-boots!” The guy was a young man, actually, not someone from their school. And he completely lost it.

Someone called 9-1-1. Everyone got it on their cell phones. Mall security managed to stop the fight and hold onto the two of them until the police arrived. Shortly after, the paramedics wheeled them both away, and they read all about it in the following weeks.

There had been a number of nasty punches, resulting in one very broken nose and one seriously bruised kidney.

The boy charged the young man with assault.

The young man responded with the ‘fighting words’ defence.

And won.

They looked up from their smartphones. He won? The same eureka-moment flickered on each of their faces. They started googling, as they settled into more comfortable positions in Teague’s room.

Women had tried suing men for defamation. After all, surely relentless sexual insult ‘causes injury and damage to the woman’s character’.

“It fucking dismisses her character,” Teague muttered when they start read the definition.

“Maybe the courts didn’t see it as making false statements,” Sophe suggested as she continued to read the rest of the definition.

Teague and Em stared at her. Fuck. She could be right.

“It also says,” Sophe read aloud, “‘The statement must have been made with reckless disregard for the truth, meaning the person questioned the truthfulness but said it anyway.’”

“Right,” Teague said with disgust. “How often do men question the truthfulness of anything they say?”

Em nodded.

“They’ve been bullshitting so long,” she added, “they believe their own bullshit.”

“But,” Em pointed out, reading, “damages include ‘pain and suffering’, which covers ‘personal emotional reactions such as shame, humiliation, and anxiety’.” She looked at them.

Yeah.

“And,” she continued, “‘being ostracized from a social group’.”

“That certainly applies,” Teague said, angrily. “Every time a woman is called a cow or a cunt, she’s ostracized from humanity.”

“So,” Em said thoughtfully, “wouldn’t sexual insult be cause for a class action suit?”

“You’d think so,” Sophe murmured, tapping away, “but the charge seems to stick only when lost income is at issue. Figures.” She looked up at them. “Money. Business. The world.”

In any case, they discovered that defamation was considered damaging only when the statement was public; one-to-one didn’t count.

“Maybe it’s just as well,” Sophe said, leaning back, “because do we really want to limit freedom of speech? I mean, remember that article we read in class? ‘Freedom to Offend’? The way to deal with something you don’t agree with is to make a counterargument.”

“But when they call us sluts, they’re not making an argument,” Em pointed out. “So there’s no—

“True, but—”

“And remember Stoltenberg’s comment,” Teague added. “Exceptions to freedom of speech exist because some speech causes harm that cannot be redressed or undone by more speech. That’s why defamation is illegal.”

They turned back to their phones.

Women had also sought remedy on the basis of ‘intentional infliction of emotional distress’.

“Also called ‘outrage’,” Sophe announced happily, looking at her screen. “‘This cause of action may be available for cases that involve just words or in cases that involve both words and acts’,” she continued with optimism, then deflated: “‘In order to be actionable, the defendant’s conduct must be extreme, meaning that it exceeds all bounds of decent behavior.’”

She sighed and leaned back.

“And that’s the problem,” she said. “This sort of thing has become normalized.”

“Yeah. Wonder how that happened,” Teague said bitterly.

Because they knew the answer. The internet had made porn easily available, and therefore (therefore?) widely viewed. And it had become, almost all of it, so completely degrading: women were invariably presented as subservient, doing, willingly or not, whatever disgusting thing the men wanted them to do. And apparently boys, and even men, were unable to distinguish reality from fantasy: they came to believe that women actually existed to please men, sexually; they came to believe that they were entitled to women’s bodies. And so boys, and even men, routinely reached out and touched women’s bodies. Grabbed women’s bodies. Not only their behinds, but also their breasts. Thus routinely proclaiming that girls, and women, were sexually available to them. Hey ho.

“Hang on,” Em had a thought. “Schools already have rules about bullying …” She started tapping at her phone again.

Sophe nodded and joined the effort. “Here we go. ‘Bullying can be defined as repetitive, aggressive conduct growing out of an advantage in power and a desire to control. Said conduct can include the repeated infliction of verbal abuse such as the use of derogatory remarks, insults, and epithets.’”

“Perfect,” Teague said.

“‘While the techniques of bullies vary,’” Sophe continued, “‘their object almost always is to gain control over the victim by engendering shame, anguish, fear, and/or humiliation.’”

“Our entire sexist society bullies,” Teague said. “It’s designed to enable bullying. By men. Of women.”

Em nodded.

Sophe continued. “‘Most victims of bullying experience guilt, shame, fear, embarrassment, and diminished self-worth. These effects can lead to anxiety disorders, depression, and insomnia. The targets have an increased risk of suicide and other forms of self-harm.’”

They looked at each other. Anorexia. Cutting. Two girls killed themselves last term.

Not to mention the self-fulfillment prophecy. Call a girl a whore often enough …

They found dozens of articles in law journals about bullying. But not one presented a gendered analysis of the phenomenon. Not one specifically addressed males bullying females.

And bullying in itself was not a crime.

Go figure.

“Why can’t we just charge them with hate speech?” Em asked, then turned back to her phone.

“‘A hate crime’” Em read, “‘is a criminal offence committed against a person or property that is based solely upon the victim’s race, religion, nationality, ethnic origin, sexual orientation, or disability.’”

There was a moment of silence. Then Sophe pointed at the elephant in the room. “Sex isn’t on the list.”

“How can that be?” Em was aghast. She looked it up again. And again.

Five definitions later, she echoed Sophe. “Sex isn’t on the list.”

“Which explains why Reddit banned GenderCritical as hate speech,” Teague grimaced, “but continues to allow AntiFeminists and StruggleFucking. Previously called RapingWomen,” she added with a grimace.

“Wait,” Em was catching up, “how was GenderCritical hate speech? Gender isn’t on the list either.”

They looked at each other. Blankly.

“So,” Teague concluded a long moment later, coming full circle, back to their starting point, “‘fighting words’ it is.”

Em nodded. “If ‘puss-in-boots’ is considered an instance of ‘fighting words’, surely ‘cunt’, ‘slut’, ‘ho’—”

“Not necessarily,” Sophe interrupted.

“What? Why?” Em asked.

“They’ll consider the context. For a man to be called a woman is more insulting than for a woman to be called a cunt.”

Sophe was right. And they both knew it.

“A lot of men genuinely believe that,” Teague added anyway.

“So a judge might decide that calling a woman a cunt is … okay,” Em said, with disbelief, “because it’s just …”

“Fact.” Teague’s voice was hard. “Women are sexual. They are to be fucked. They are to be incubators. End of story.”

Geezus. How the hell did they get here?

“Even ‘girls’ is used as an insult,” Sophie said. “And ‘ladies’. When they say it … The way they say it. You know what I mean.”

They did. Bottom line, it was insulting just to be called female. What do you do when what you are is an insult?

“Regardless,” Em said, “it’s a defence, right? ‘Fighting words’? So we have to be hit first?” She wasn’t keen on that part.

Sophe started tapping again. “‘Fighting words alone are not considered assault,’” she read, “‘but may be folded into an assault charge,’” she emphasized the word, “if accompanied by threatening acts, for example, raised fists—’”

“A grabbed crotch?” Teague suggested.

“What about a smirk?” Em asked. “A facial expression is an act, right?”

Sophe sighed again. “That would probably be hard to prove.” And she wasn’t sure what ‘folded into’ meant, exactly.

“Wait a minute,” Teague said, “I thought I saw … Here it is. ‘Fighting words are words intentionally directed toward another person which are so venomous and full of malice as to incite him/her to immediately retaliate physically. … The offensive language is such that the person temporarily loses control of their actions.’”

“And that’s exactly why women are at a disadvantage,” Sophe said with frustration, leaning back again. “We’re more mature than they are. We have greater self-control.”

Em nodded.

“Which is truly ironic,” she added, “given the laws against contraception and abortion, which deny us self-control …”

“Well, we’ll just have to change,” Teague announced. “The critical factor isn’t the retaliation per se, it’s that the resulting fight is a breach of peace.” She’d continued reading. “We just have to make a fuss. We have to breach the peace.”

“And,” Sophe was thinking it through, “we just have to do it often enough to convince the courts that it may happen.”

“Exactly.” Teague consulted her phone again. “‘Provocative words may be justification for an assault, provided the person uttering the words understood or should have understood that physical retaliation would be attempted. The words must be ‘fighting’ words.’”

“And,” Sophe was getting on board, “since the court uses the reasonable person standard …”

“What difference does that make?” Em asked. “I mean, it’s not always reasonable to retaliate—”

“Because the ‘reasonable person’ in courts of law has always been assumed to be the ‘reasonable man’.”

“Ah.” A reasonable man would retaliate.

“That’s interesting,” Teague said. “Maybe we’ve been unreasonable not to retaliate. By ignoring it all these years, we’ve been doormats. We’ve let them insult us.”

“And so stayed alive,” Em protested. “Atwood.”

Yeah. Men are afraid women will laugh at them. Women are afraid men will kill them.

“Hang on,” Sophe said, backing up. “Isn’t it the case that if escape is possible, assault isn’t justified?” She started tapping away again. Teague and Em, as well.

“Here it is,” Em said. “‘According to the Castle Doctrine, victims threatened with physical aggression are required to retreat if they can safely do so, before responding with force. If the victim were to respond with physical force when she could safely retreat, she would be charged with a crime concomitant with the amount of force used and the harm done to the aggressor.’”

“Oh, sure, in that case they identify the person as ‘she’!” Teague said with disgust.

“But it’s everywhere now,” Em said, thinking about retreat. “Where are we supposed to go?”

Teague agreed. “Some days I feel like I’m spending all my time trying to avoid these assholes.”

“Wait,” Sophe said, still reading. “It’s changed. The Castle Doctrine has given way to the Stand Your Ground Doctrine. ‘In the last ten years, most states have extended the Castle doctrine to both public and private places. In these jurisdictions, everywhere a person stands is his or her castle. That is, most states have jettisoned the duty to retreat.’” She looked up at them, a smile creeping onto her face, then continued.

“‘The major justification for Stand Your Ground laws is summarized most succinctly by the Supreme Court of New Jersey in State v. Abbott’, which says ‘The law should not denounce conduct as criminal when it accords with the behavior of reasonable men’” —she grinned at Teague— “‘The manly thing is to hold one’s ground, and hence society should not demand what smacks of cowardice. It is obvious that the interests to be protected by stand your ground laws are dignity and pride.’”

Sophe looked up to see both Em and Teague smiling, then finished the paragraph. “‘So, if pride is a protectable interest … why should the law not protect other emotional and psychological interests …?’”

“Yes!” Teague almost shouted. “Why shouldn’t we be able to defend our dignity and pride and everything else required for our emotional and psychological well-being? Especially since defending one’s physical well-being is allowed!”

“Wait—” Sophe sounded discouraged again. “‘Although the law is currently without protections for those who use physical force in defense of their emotional and psychological well-being,’” she glanced up, then resumed, “‘jurisprudence’—that’s the lawyers and judges—’has always vindicated the idea of physical force when certain non-physical interests of the victim are at stake.’”

“Aha!” Teague raised her fist.

They organized it on social media. On one of the ‘by invitation only’ sites.

“I don’t know,” ChatCat posted. “I’ve never hit anyone in my life.”

“I’ll do it,” NotYrPrincess posted. She was a boxer.

“Me too,” HockeyStick posted.

“Keep in mind that we don’t have to really fight,” Teague posted. “We just have to retaliate in a way that causes a fuss. The point, if we understand it correctly, is that the insult disturbs the peace or whatever.”

“And if you don’t feel comfortable with the physical part of it,” Sophe added, “that’s okay. You can be one of the people at the edge getting it all on your phone. We need people to post the incidents online.”

“We also need someone to call 9-1-1,” Em chipped in. “You can be that person.” She was going to be that person.

“And we need people who can write about it,” Sophe said. “So everyone who blogs, tweets, spins …”

“We have to be prepared,” Ruby49 cautioned. “The backlash will be vicious.”

“Agreed. Hell hath no fury like a man one-upped by a woman.” Sportster described an incident wherein she was playing basketball in a mixed league. She’d set up such a perfect pick, the guy ran right into her. Hadn’t seen it coming at all. He was understandably embarrassed. But so embarrassed, so humiliated, by a woman, that he actually came at her and proceeded to plow her right off the court. No foul was called. Duh. She withdrew from the league.

“And that’s how they do it,” ButListen remarked. “They don’t even have to pass any laws, to keep us offside ….”

“Yeah,” Sportster replied, “but it wasn’t fun anymore. As it was, the guys hardly ever passed the ball to me.”

“A metaphor if there ever was one,” said ButListen. And everyone heard the sigh.

The first reported incident was textbook perfect. If there’d been a textbook about this sort of thing.

“Hey ho!”

She glanced at her friend to make sure she was recording it.

“What did you call me?”

“A ho!” he laughed.

She started to walk toward him. Three other young women walked with her.

“Take it back!” one of them said.

“No!” he laughed again.

So she shoved him. So hard, he fell down.

Then, as predicted, all hell broke loose. His rage!

Someone called 9-1-1. The young man’s broken nose was tended to. The young woman’s black eye was tended to. They were both wheeled away for various x-rays.

And they were both charged with disorderly conduct and assault.

The young woman’s lawyer argued that ‘fighting words’ had been uttered. Six different videos proved it.

Within an hour, said videos had been posted. Everywhere.

Accompanied by commentary that placed the blame, the responsibility, clearly on the young man. None of this ‘A woman was raped’ shit. No, it was ‘A man, with malicious intent, provoked an assault, with complete disregard for women’s moral right to be free of sexualized insult …’

Even so, the young woman lost the case.

But the idea spread like wildfire.

Early on, someone suggested organizing ‘Take Back the Day’ marches, reminiscent of the ‘Take Back the Night’ marches of the ’70s. Someone else suggested that ‘Take Back the Public Space’ was more accurate. But it was ‘Take It Back!’ that caught on.

“But we don’t want them to say it in the first place,” Sophe had lamented.

No matter. ‘Take It Back!’ got its own hashtag.

Social media exploded with videos and reports … ‘Men triggered five fights today …’ Then ten. Then twenty.

It was hard, though. Women had to overcome a lifetime of ‘Don’t hit,’ ‘Don’t hurt’…

“And that’s how they’ve kept us subordinate all these centuries,” ButListen posted.

And so the women who’d already broken through helped the others.

“Aim for their knees,” JustDoIt7 posted. “Once a man’s down, their upper body strength isn’t as much an advantage!”

“Men have a weak spot,” FightFire posted, “front and center, that we have not taken advantage of. It’s time. Surely, it’s time.”

Schools had to hire extra security personnel. They’d already had to hire guards to oversee metal detectors at the entrances because so many young men came to school with weapons. Now they had to have personnel walk the halls all day.

Malls had to do the same. They too had already put guards at the entrances to watch for ‘trouble-makers’. Now they had to have circulating guards.

Every day, the police lay more and more charges. Breach of the peace, disorderly conduct, causing a disturbance … and, always, assault.

Apparently, men couldn’t help themselves. They kept up the insults, and once they were shoved, they could notjust walk away. Let alone take it back. As requested. Said request seemed, universally, to elicit a ‘Fuck you!’ Which didn’t help matters.

When was society going to get fed up with their young men? (‘Young’ as in ‘under forty’. That seemed to be the age at which misogyny— Well, no, it didn’t disappear, it never disappeared, it just … went underground. Still.) When would they be shamed for their immaturity?

“I get it,” a prominent black man posted. “I’ve been called a nigger my whole life.”

“Thank god for the SNCC, right?” a prominent black woman responded.

“You know it, sister!” He attached a smiley face.

“You do realize,” the prominent black woman then posted, “that Stokely Carmichael said the only position for women in the SNCC was prone? Stokely Carmichael, the civil rights leader? What does that tell you?”

Apparently the prominent black man had logged out. No doubt, he had something important to attend to.

“I get it,” a prominent gay man posted. “I’ve been called a faggot more times than I can count.”

“All in one day?” a woman asked.

“And when it happens,” another woman asked, “do they reach out and grab your penis when they say it?”

Apparently he too had logged out.

And, as predicted, the men upped their game. First, by outnumbering the women. No insult was made unless there were ten of them present. They were used to acting as a gang.

Women responded in kind. No retaliation was made unless there were twenty present.

“No fair!” The beaten men cried.

“No fair?” One blogger responded. “But gang rape—gang rape—that’s fair?”

Then the men made sure they were armed. Baseball bats were too obvious, knives and guns could be discovered, and would most definitely lead to more serious charges, so they started putting palm-sized stones in their pockets.

Women responded in kind. And discovered it was relatively easy to swing a purse full of marbles.

Even so, fearing cracked skulls, those who already had pepper spray started using it.

Men started wearing face shields. And using acid.

And then, in a long-awaited landmark case, a judge was convinced that the young man before him should have expected retaliation. He should have known that a scuffle (yes, ‘a scuffle’) would ensue when he called the young woman in question ‘a fucking cunt’.

The young woman in question won her case.

Sexual insults were considered fighting words. No question now.

And then, much to women’s surprise, and delight, several of the lawyers who had been involved in pushing the ‘fighting words’ defence, pushed for sex to be added to hate speech legislation. Pushed to make the insults themselves an offence.

They succeeded.

Sexual insults were considered hate speech. No expectation of retaliation required.

And then, surprisingly, wonderfully, years later, when men no longer routinely called women sluts and hos, when they no longer heard other men routinely call women sluts and hos, they just … stopped thinking of them in that way.

But not after many, too many, young women had died from their injuries. They were appropriately remembered as martyrs to the cause. One headline that made mainstream news said it all: “Young woman dies defending our humanity”.

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1

He cried. He screamed. No one came running to attend to his needs, let alone his wants.

This isn’t right, he thought. Improbable as that was for a newborn.

They just smiled at him and told him to Shhh.

They smiled at him a lot. More often. In fact, the mobile above his crib had happy faces. It used to have Lego bricks.

They also made eye contact more often. Spoke to him more often. Sang to him more often. In softer voices. It was nice.

Eventually, he smiled back.

But oh, was he handled! Being held, and cuddled, it made him feel … secure, it enabled him to relax in the world. But the gratuitous touching— Sometimes he just wanted to be left alone. Didn’t matter. It was as if his body was considered communal property. Common property.

And he was fussed over to no end.

“Such soft skin!”

“What lovely hair!”

No one told him how big he was.

No one told him how strong he was.

His mother put ribbons in his near-non-existent hair, which he pulled out angrily. She put him in frilly dresses, with too much … everything. She got so upset when he spilled something on them. But what did she expect? And at the beach, he had to wear a top that kept riding up his chest or slipping down over his shoulders, pinning his arms to his side—what was that all about?

They all praised his first steps, but then wouldn’t let him go very far. “Honeybun, no, you’ll hurt yourself!” It was infuriating. Why did they call him a toddler if they didn’t let him toddle about?

Suffice to say, it wasn’t like before.

• • •

When he was two, his baby brother was born. He’d watched his father, and then his mother, turn the spare room into the baby’s room, but he didn’t understand why they’d done that.

“Baby here!” The crib would fit in the room he and Sarah shared.

“Oh, honeybun, Kyle’s a boy! He needs to have his own room!”

At two, he could tell boys from girls. He just didn’t assign any importance to the distinction. Though certainly, on some level, he understood there was something important about that distinction. After all, Kyle’s room was blue and green; the room he shared with Sarah was pink and yellow. Kyle’s room had spaceships on the wall; their room had princesses.

One evening when Jess said goodnight to his new baby brother, he tucked one of his dolls into the crib beside him, taking out the stuffed alligator to make room.

His mom objected, reaching into the crib. “Jessica, honeybun, Kyle doesn’t like dolls!”

How did she know?

Then his mom took the stuffed alligator out of his dangling hand. Until then, he’d never had any toys taken away from him. Until then, the only toys in the house were girl toys.

His face scrunched up. He was going to cry. No, he wasn’t. He wasn’t! He did. It was okay to cry now. It felt good.

Every night, his mom read a story to him and Sarah. Now they had to wait until she’d read a story to Kyle first.

He didn’t know the stories were different.

As Kyle grew older, there were other differences. Other changes.

Whenever Jess had trouble with something, his mom was quick to help him. Kyle was left, was allowed, to struggle.

At snack time, Kyle was often given a second cookie. “Me too,” Jess said, reaching out for the cookie jar. “Oh honeybun, no, you have to watch your weight!”

On Saturdays, his mom took them to the park to play. Kyle wasn’t reprimanded when he got dirty, but Jess was. But how could you play outside and not get dirty? Maybe that’s why Sarah just stood there. Is that what girls did?

One day, Kyle grabbed the dump truck Jess was playing with. To his horror, he let go. Before, he’d hang onto it. Or grab it back. Maybe even hit Kyle over the head with it. What was wrong with him?

Despite Kyle’s aggressive behaviour, Jess wanted to play with him. At least, he wanted to play with Kyle as often as he wanted to play with Sarah. Kyle liked to play monster. Sarah liked to play dress-up.

He and Sarah got to do more stuff with his mom. He especially liked when they made brownies. The two of them took turns licking the big spoon after the batter was mixed.

Kyle, on the other hand, got to do more stuff with his dad. His father hadn’t paid much attention to Jess even before Kyle was born. Now, it was like he was invisible.

And whatever they did, wherever they went, he kept being lumped together with Sarah—they were ‘the girls’—even though he had more in common with Kyle. Actually, no, he didn’t have more in common with Kyle. At least, not now. A lifetime ago, maybe.

2

Things got worse once he started school. He kept remembering stuff that seemed a bit … off. Not that he could put it in those words. Or in any words, actually. He just knew he was doing it all wrong.

He chose the wrong toys at play time. When they went to the library, he signed out the wrong books. He joined the wrong games at recess. When they lined up to go back into the school, he kept standing in the wrong line.

He didn’t understand why it all mattered so much.

And he didn’t understand Mikey. Mikey was a big boy with a crewcut. He was loud. And pushy. And he kept poking him. He poked him when they happened to be in the same play group or the same quiet time group. He poked him on his way to the blackboard. And again on his way back. He poked him when they were standing in line to get their jackets for recess.

“Stop it!” Jess would say. Again and again.

Mikey just laughed.

“I mean it! Stop it!”

Sometimes it was a really hard poke, almost a punch, but sometimes he simply touched him. Not a poke, just a touch. Here and there—

One day, Jess hit him. To make him stop.

“Young lady, you’re coming with me right now!” The teacher’s aide grabbed Jess and hauled him out of the class. Straight to the Principal’s office. He’d never been to the Principal’s office before. He was a good girl.

Mr. Woodrow listened to Ms. Ellison’s account, nodding. Then he sent her back to the classroom, but told Jess to sit in one of the chairs outside his office. “You wait right there, Jessica,” he said sternly. “I’m going to have to call your parents.”

His mother would be busy. She was always busy. She had to work during the day, and then at night she always had stuff to do. And his father, he wouldn’t come. To school?

But, much to his surprise, both of his parents showed up. Within the hour.

“I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Everett, but we have a zero tolerance rule about hitting.”

“But Jessica doesn’t— Jessie, honeybun, did you hit Michael?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

“He kept poking me. I told him to stop. But he wouldn’t.”

“Oh sweetheart, just ignore him. He’ll eventually stop.”

No, he wouldn’t. He knew he wouldn’t. Boys don’t stop. They don’t have to.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No, but he kept touching me. I don’t want him to do that.” Isn’t that enough? Why isn’t that enough?

He was punished. Told he couldn’t come to school for two whole days. And his mother was very angry about that, because she had to give her shifts to someone else. She grabbed his hand roughly as they walked out to the car.

“You know, honey,” his father glanced in the rear view mirror and grinned, “he’s just doing that because he likes you.”

Boys hit you when they like you?

Things were a little better in grade two.

Sometimes he played with the boys. He liked running around, exploring, doing stuff. But they were always shouting. And pushing and shoving. So sometimes he played with the girls. Except when they wanted to play princess.

But still …

When they lined up to get something, he saw the boys butt in ahead of him. So he did the same.

“No, Jessica, you have to wait your turn,” the teacher said. Again and again. But he was tired of waiting for his turn. It never seemed to come. Now.

And whenever he drifted off on his own, the teacher called out to come back to the group.

At home, he got to read more; he wasn’t always told to go out and play, to do something. So every week, he went to the school library to choose a few books to take home.

One day, Petey stomped over and grabbed at the book he’d just taken off the shelf. He held on.

“Now, Jessica, don’t be selfish,” the librarian chided as she walked over to them. “You have to learn how to share.”

And cooperate. Girls were expected to cooperate. Always.

“That wasn’t very nice,” his teachers would sometimes disapprove.

He didn’t recall it being so important before. To be nice. To be good.

One day, Jess had trouble putting the cover on a scrapbook. It had clips he hadn’t seen before.

“Like this!” A boy took the book from him and put the cover on. “The teacher showed us!”

But the teacher hadn’t. She hadn’t shown the girls. She’d just told them to put the covers on and left it at that.

Another day when the class was on a field trip that involved walking to the local museum, they all had to wait and wait while a bunch of cars left a parking lot before they could cross and continue. Eventually, Jess screamed. Yelled.

“Inside voices,” the teacher reprimanded. Even though they were outside.

“And it’s okay,” she soothed. “You’re safe here on the sidewalk.”

“I’m not afraid!” Jess retorted. “I’m angry! Why don’t any of the cars just stop to let us cross?”

Another time, “Calm down,” the teacher said, smiling.

She said that a lot to the girls. When they got angry.

And “If you can’t say anything nice, you shouldn’t say anything at all.” Jess had said that the play the other students wanted to present that year was stupid. But it was! Even Andrew thought so!

On yet another day, “Jessica, would you please help Tony with this arithmetic?”

“No.”

“Excuse me?” The teacher was horrified.

“I don’t want to.”

“But— Well—” She was so disconcerted, she almost stuttered. “That doesn’t matter,” she finally said.

When he was invited to Brittany’s birthday party, his mom took him to a huge toy store to buy a birthday gift. As soon as they entered, she steered him to the girls’ side. Jess wandered up and down the aisles, inundated with pretty and pink. He wouldn’t want to play with any of what he saw. Would Brittany? Probably. She participated in all the Little Miss Beauty Pageants. During show-and-tell, she’d brought lots of pictures and two of her costumes: the evening-gown-and-heels and the bathing-suit-and-heels. She wore her tiara at recess.

His mother picked out something. Something pretty and pink and princessey. “Jessica, honey, how about this?”

“Okay.”

Jess wanted to explore the other side of the store. Not for the guns or the monster ninjas. He actually didn’t like playing with guns. Or monster ninjas. But he thought there might be something there that was more … interesting. More … challenging. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it because he couldn’t quite remember the chemistry set he’d loved when—

His mother reached out and steered him toward the check-out.

Then one day in grade three, the teacher read a new book out loud during quiet time. It was about a girl who liked to play with firetrucks, not dolls, a girl who would rather climb trees than play dress-up … Jess loved the book. It was titled But I’m NOT a Girl!

The following week, the class had a guest speaker, a pretty young woman in a nice outfit. She looked like she came out of one of the magazines Sarah was always looking at. Ms. Gerson introduced her, then seated her in the special Speaking Chair in front of her desk. The pretty woman smiled at all the children.

“Girls, who doesn’t feel like a girl?” Such an interesting question. Jess raised his hand.

“Boys, who doesn’t feel like a boy?” Two little boys raised their hands. Jess raised his hand again, but when the teacher smiled and shook her head, he lowered it.

“You know what? That’s okay!” the pretty woman smiled. “Sometimes we’re born into the wrong body. We feel like a boy on the inside, but on the outside we look like a girl! Isn’t that silly? Or we feel like a girl on the inside, but on the outside we look like a boy!”

Ms. Gerson smiled her endorsement.

“Sometimes things get mixed up,” the young woman continued. “Isn’t that right? Don’t you sometimes put your right shoe on your left foot?”

Many of the children giggled.

“See?” the woman smiled. “It’s just like that.”

The woman talked for a bit longer, and then they had milk and cookies. They always had milk and cookies when they had a guest.

When Jess went home that afternoon, he told his mother that he was all mixed up.

“What do you mean, honeybun?”

He explained.

“Oh, no, sweetheart, you’ll grow up to be a pretty girl, you just wait and see.”

His mother thought it was just a phase.

In grade four, his teacher called his parents to ask if they could come for a meeting.

“What is this concerning?” his mother asked as she sat in one of the three chairs arranged in front of the Principal’s desk. Jess sat in the chair beside her, and his father took the remaining chair. After moving it a bit. Away. As if he needed more space. Or distance. From.

His teacher, Ms. Matthews, was on the other side, seated beside the Principal.

“Jessica’s grades are good, aren’t they?” His mother glanced at Jess, then glanced back at the teacher.

“Yes, Jessica’s grades are fine,” Ms. Matthews smiled. “We’re concerned about her gender socialization.”

“Her what?” Jess’ father spoke up.

Mr. Woodrow turned to her father. “We think your daughter could benefit from meeting with a counsellor a few times. We’ve prepared a list of therapists for you to consider,” he slid a sheet of paper across the desk, “though I’m sure you’ll find all of them to be—”

“You want us to send her to a shrink?” Jess’ father was angry. “There’s nothing wrong with our daughter!”

“But Todd,” Jess’ mother said to him in a calming voice, putting her hand on his arm, as if it were her job to control his outbursts, “you know she always wants to do boy things. She’s been like that since she was little, you knowthat!” And it had been starting to worry her.

“Well, maybe that’s because boy things are more fun!” He laughed.

“Yes,” Ms. Matthews said gently, “but we have to ask why Jessica considers them to be more fun.”

The conversation continued for a few more minutes, then Mr. Woodrow stood up, indicating that they had taken enough of his time. Jess’ mother took the list, and the three of them went out to the car.

“She’s just a tomboy,” Jess’ father said as he started the car. “She’ll grow out of it, you’ll see.” He looked in the rear view mirror and winked at his daughter. “Just as soon as she discovers boys!”

The following year, the school implemented a dress code which stated that girls had to wear dresses or skirts. No shorts or long pants were allowed. True, the county had a reputation for having the most conservative board in the province, but other schools soon followed. In any case, it didn’t affect Jess because that had already been his mom’s rule. He usually wore a smock top and a plain skirt.

What did affect Jess was that the grade five boys wouldn’t let him play baseball with them at recess. “No girls allowed!” they’d shout, one even physically pushing Jess away.

But the girls just stood around in giggling clumps. Which was stupid.

So he joined a threesome that played catch. “Lezzies,” the boys muttered with disgust as they passed them. Sadly, many of the girls followed suit.

Then some of the boys started laying in wait and when they saw a girl, any girl, on her own, by herself, they rushed at her, pushed her to the ground, yanked up her dress or skirt, pulled her underpants down, took a picture, then ran away laughing. The picture would be sent around until they got a new one. Of another girl with her dress or skirt yanked up. And her underpants pulled down. Jess watched for them. Every day. Whenever they were outside. And made sure never to be alone.

As his teacher had said, Jess’ grades were good. By grade six, he was a straight-A student. But the teacher often passed over her raised hand, though often with an apologetic, embarrassed smile, and on some level, Jess understood that he raised his hand too often. But the teacher always asked “Who knows …?” or “Who can tell me …?” and Jess always knew, could always tell her. So it’d be a lie to pretend he didn’t or couldn’t, to not raise his hand.

If he’d been a bit more perceptive, a bit older, he would’ve realized that the teacher was acknowledging boys more often than girls. Yes, of course, maybe she was just doing her job, trying to bring everyone along, teasing out understanding where none was present, but she paid more attention to the boys in general. In fact, eight times more attention. True, they needed more attention, because they kept calling out without raising their hands, they kept butting in at line-up, they kept refusing to sit still when told to do so. Refused or simply couldn’t? Jess remembered— No, how could he?

In grade seven, two things happened at home …

“Sarah, you’re not leaving the house dressed like that! Kyle, don’t forget your homework! Jessica, don’t forget your lunch!” Every day, his mother seemed overwhelmed with the task of raising three kids. No matter their ages.

So one day he asked her why she’d had a third kid. Hadn’t two been enough?

“Your father wanted a son.”

The words slapped him in the face. He wasn’t good enough? What could, what would, Kyle do that he couldn’t do?

Oddly enough, given the conventional understanding that aligned active and passive with male and female, respectively, it wasn’t a matter of doing. But he didn’t understand that. Then.

A few weeks later, when his dad had to leave for a couple days, he told Kyle to look after their mom. What? Jess was older than Kyle. And Sarah was older than Jess. If their mother needed looking after, wouldn’t he’ve told Sarahto look after her? And seriously, did their mother need looking after? By a kid? It didn’t make sense.

So he asked his father about it. He just grinned. As if her question wasn’t meant to be serious. As if she hadn’t been serious.

She saw Kyle looking at her. A smug expression on his face. Already.

Part way through grade eight, he started asking people to call him Jess, not Jessica. Couldn’t say why. Not exactly.

3

The following year, things started coming together. They also started coming apart. That’s what happens in high school.

“Time to wake up!” Sarah rustled his bed. She was already up, showered, and in her robe. Clearly a morning person.

“What? What time is it?” It felt early. Too early.

“Six o’clock! We’ve got to get you ready!”

He sat up, groggy. “Ready for what?”

“Your first day of high school!” Sarah beamed at her younger sister.

But he was already ready. He had a new knapsack, notebooks, pens …

“We have to make you pretty!” She trilled the word and started to pick and choose among the many tubes and jars at her vanity. Aptly named. His side of the room had just a dresser and small mirror. “Into the shower with you. I left my razor and shaving cream on the counter. Pits and legs! We can talk about your bush later.”

“What?”

“Go, go, go!”

Her enthusiasm was a little infectious. But just a little. He groaned, then got himself out of bed and into the shower.

“And use the conditioner!”

It took a while. Soap, shampoo, conditioner… Plus, he’d never shaved before. Had never shaved his pits and legs before. It took longer than … He tried to grab onto the thought, but … couldn’t.

“And the lotion!”

The lotion was cherry-scented. He liked it.

“Okay, sit right here, my little princess, and let’s see what we can do!”

Jess sat in the pink faux-baroque chair and faced Sarah’s large mirror. And the seemingly even larger array of products spread out before him.

“First, let’s do something about those brows of yours.” She leaned in with a pair of tweezers.

“OW! That hurt!” In fact, a spot of blood appeared.

She plucked out another hair. “OW!”

“Oh, don’t be such a baby. It only hurts for a second. You’ll get used to it.”

What? Why should he get used to something that hurts?

Ten minutes later he had— A quizzical face. She’d arched the brows somehow so they gave the impression of thoughtfulness. He kind of liked it. Even though it felt like a little like cheating.

Next, she spread some goop on his face, rubbing it in more than he would’ve liked. Then she put a different kind of goop on his face, this one she rubbed in with a lighter touch. Then she reached for a small tube and applied a dab here and a dab there. If he had to cover up his face this much, he thought, he may as well wear a burka.

“Take this one with you,” she said, giving the last tube to him. “You can touch up during the day.” Right.

Then she applied eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick, all the while giving instructions and explanations. As if she expected him to do it himself the next day. And every day thereafter. Like that was going to happen.

He actually didn’t mind what the eyeliner did, or even the mascara. The eyes were the windows to the soul, and she’d added … depth, drama.

But what was with the lipstick? Was he supposed to appear ever ready to kiss? No, lips don’t get red when you’re ready to kiss. Do they? He was embarrassed to admit that he hadn’t yet been kissed. Clearly he was some kind of freak. Many girls he knew back in grade eight had already ‘done it’.

“Okay, now close your eyes,” Sarah said. He did so, wondering for a moment whether he could open them again with all that gunk on. And she was putting on more?

“Ta-dah!”

He looked at the outfit she was holding on display.

“My gift,” she smiled. “For your first day!”

It was a flouncy skirt and a tight little blouse. Not what he would have chosen. At all. But what could he say?

“Thanks.” He took it from her and started putting it on. He fumbled with the blouse. The buttons were on the wrong side. Wait, how— And why would—

“No,” she said as he reached for his knee socks, “here.” She handed him a new package of panty hose.

He felt exposed wearing a skirt and knee socks, and often cold, but wearing panty hose was worse. And took forever to get on without it feeling twisty. Finally done, he reached for his penny loafers, but Sarah swooped in and took them out of his hands.

“Not today! Here!” She’d gotten Jess’ dress shoes out of her closet.

“But these are for—”

“Your first day of high school is a special occasion. It’s okay, I cleared it with Mom.”

She and Mom had talked about this? It felt like a conspiracy.

Reluctantly, Jess took the shoes and headed out the bedroom door. He’d break a leg if he tried to go down the stairs in them.

“Wait!” Sarah cried out and reached into her jewelry box. Jess had a jewelry box too—it was a birthday gift, along with the brush-comb-and-mirror set he never used—but it was mostly empty. He had a couple bracelets, one a gold chain, the other a leather braid, but Sarah and his Mom had pronounced both of them inappropriate. For what?

The necklace Sarah had chosen was okay, but the earrings were way too tight.

“If you get your ears pierced, you wouldn’t have to wear clip-ons,” she said, repositioning them a bit to make sure they were both centered.

The logic troubled him. Why not just not wear earrings?

He headed toward the door again. Once downstairs, he poured himself a bowl of cereal and put a slice of bread in the toaster.

“No time!” Sarah nodded to the clock. “You need to cut back anyway.”

He looked at her with puzzlement.

“That skirt is a size eight!”

The number meant nothing to him. Should it?

He grunted, then went to the closet for his jacket.

“And don’t forget to keep your tummy tucked in,” Sarah said as she watched him walk across the room.

He turned to stare at her.

“I’m your sister, Jessica, but you look like a slob with your stomach out like that.”

He took a deep breath, pulling in his stomach. Was he supposed to keep his abdominal muscles contracted all day?

He didn’t know, yet, about the Kegel exercises he was supposed to do.

Sarah wasn’t satisfied. “We should get you some Spanx.”

He didn’t want to ask.

“It’s basically a body girdle. You’ll look great!”

He found his way to his homeroom, and claimed an empty desk near the back. Everyone who was already there stared at him. A few minutes later, he realized that that was where the boys sat. At the back. Well, so what. He didn’t like sitting near the front.

His homeroom teacher, Ms. Kelly, seemed nice enough. She would also be his English teacher. Jess looked around the room, but saw no one he thought he could become friends with. But then, it was too early to tell. First impressions were unreliable, he realized that much. He recognized a few kids from his grade eight class, but they weren’t kids he’d hung out with. In fact, he’d become a bit of a loner.

English, Biology, Algebra, then Lunch. He gravitated toward another loner at the end of Algebra, and once they’d gone to their lockers to drop off their books and pick up their lunches, they sat together in the lunch room. Maria turned out to be in his afternoon History class as well.

After a few weeks, Maria drifted away and eventually Jess saw her with a group of giggling girls. He wasn’t surprised, really, nor upset. They didn’t have much in common.

Around the middle of the month, he found himself making a note during announcements about try-outs for the football team. It jarred him. There was a girls’ cross-country team. He joined that instead.

Even so, a couple weeks later, he went to a football game. Found himself sitting at ground level, as close to the field as possible. He missed— What? Again, he couldn’t quite catch the thought, the memory …

He had Gym second semester. Usually, the boys and girls had gym separately, but for some classes, they met in the large gym together.

“Look at the stumps on that one!” One of the boys called out.

Jess was mortified. He ignored the calls as best he could, but that night he put on his shorts again and took a good long look in the full-length mirror Sarah had insisted on having on her closet door. Were his legs stumps? They were pretty much straight up and down, not tapering toward his ankles like the women’s legs he saw in all the ads. But what could he do about that? He couldn’t control the shape of his legs! He knew that guys didn’t even consider the shape of their legs, let alone agonize over it.

Curious, Jess put on the dress shoes he’d stopped wearing early on. Ah. He saw now why women wore heels. They lengthened the leg. Tightened the calf muscle. Made the ankle look thinner. But of course he couldn’t wear heels in gym even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t. He kicked them off and put his penny loafers back on.

Maybe he could convince his Mom to let him wear pants to school. Not likely. He’d have to expose his stumps to the entire student body every day, all day.

He thought about organizing a bunch of girls to comment on boys’ appearance. On things they couldn’t control. “Look, that one has knobby knees!” “That one has thick wrists!”

Quite apart from what gave boys the right to judge girls’ appearance in the first place? An image suddenly flitted through his mind: holding up score cards as young women passed by a men’s dorm… What the hell?

One day, as he was leaving History class, the last to leave, thank God, his insides suddenly clenched and he doubled over, crying out.

“Call 9-1-1,” he managed to say to the teacher, Ms. Tremblay, as his—bowels? No, that wasn’t quite— Was it his appendix? Something was ripping apart inside.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Ms. Tremblay chided, though there was a kindness, a sympathy, in her voice. “Surely it’s just— Your time of the month?”

What? He doubled over again, with a sharp intake of breath. Feeling a bit of dampness, he rushed to the washroom as best he could, and went into a stall. Yes, it was blood. But— So what he was feeling— These were the so-called cramps that every woman he’d ever known had felt?

Pain sliced through his gut again, and he gasped. Almost started panting. He felt vaguely nauseous. This was going to last for five days? And he’d have to go through this every month? It was unthinkable.

“Caught you off-guard, did it?” Ms. Tremblay had followed him into the washroom. He heard coins clatter through the dispenser on the wall, the sound of a package dropping out, and then he saw her hand reaching under the door. “Here you go, dear.”

He fumbled, he fiddled, he cursed … A frustrating fifteen minutes later, he emerged from the washroom, and went straight home.

He washed out his clothes, then headed to bed. Curled into a tight fetal position as his insides continued to wrench. How could this not be causing permanent damage? And how could there not be a cure for this?

After a couple hours, he went online. He found heating pads, chamomile tea, ginger ale, Midol. Which was just acetaminophen. Great. Well, at least that was in their medicine cabinet. He considered also trying ibuprofen. And naproxen. Maybe all three together. He couldn’t believe this was the best science had to offer. For something so debilitating, so regularly debilitating, to half the human species.

“You’ll get used to it,” so many sites had said. That was not comforting. In fact, it was disconcerting.

At the beginning of grade ten, Jess was invited to a party. It surprised him and, in retrospect, he suspected it was sort of an accident. He’d just happened to be with three other girls when they were invited. But he went anyway. He was curious. He’d never been to a party before. Well, not—

It was pretty much what he expected. There was loud music, there were bunches of kids, standing around, talking, laughing, there was beer, and something fruity for the girls to drink …

After a bit of wandering around, he joined a group of girls dancing in the middle of the room. It was fun, bopping around. And it suddenly— He’d never danced before. Yes, he’d shuffled around, slowly, holding a girl tightly to him, but it was more … it was just public foreplay, really. Men never got to dance. If they had, if they’d danced like he was dancing now, they would have surely been taunted. “Look at the little faggot move!” With a jolt, he realized that that was the most complete memory he’d had to now. Wait—memory?

The music changed, and the girls switched from bopping to … slinking. They stuck out their boobs, arched their backs, swayed their hips, to the sexy moans of the vocalist who wanted it now, baby. They were advertising. He left the floor.

“Hey Ho!” a guy sitting on the couch called out and waved him over with his beer bottle. He smiled—a reflex—but it confused him. What he’d called him. Her. Yes, he was in a short skirt and tight-fitting cropped top—at Sarah’s urging—but that’s what all the girls were wearing. Had he overdone his make-up? He glanced in a mirror. He didn’t think so. He ignored the guy.

But then one of the girls he’d come with nudged him. “Go on,” she smiled.

“Go on what?” Jess asked.

“Go suck his dick!”

“What?” He turned to the girl with a look of horror.

The girl made a face and moved on. Away from Jess.

He just stood there. Confused, shocked, more confused— Then, not wanting to stand out, he started circulating a bit, trying to find someone he knew.

“Hey Ho!” another guy called out to another girl. The girl smiled, flounced over, then went down on her knees to suck his dick. All the boys cheered.

Jess stared. The guy had his hand on her head, to keep her from pulling away. When she gagged, they laughed. They laughed.

“It’s no big deal,” the first girl appeared beside her again. “You should try it. It’s fun.”

He didn’t believe it. And it looked a little like the girl on her knees didn’t either. But all the girls said they liked it. He suspected, now, that it was a way to save face. Because it was so clearly a humiliation. That’s exactly what the boys made it. And they knew it. He knew it. He knew it. (What he didn’t know was that there were ‘fellatio cafés’ in Europe where coffee and a blow-job might cost 50 pounds.)

But apparently there was no other way to become popular.

What did ‘popular’ mean though? Well, it meant that girls would be friends with him. It meant that boys would ask him out. Did he want that? Well, yes. He was tired of being a loner. And on some level, he knew that if he wasn’tsomebody’s girlfriend, and later somebody’s wife, he’d be invisible.

Of course, even if he was somebody’s girlfriend, somebody’s wife, he’d be invisible. But he didn’t know that yet.

He started wearing less make-up. At the beginning, it had been kind of fun. And he could see that it was expected. Not wearing make-up was … shameful. That was weird. Because it indicated laziness? But men didn’t wear make-up, and they weren’t considered lazy because of it. So where was the shame? He couldn’t figure it out. The moral undertones of it. Bottom line, he didn’t like how it felt on his face. And he hated the time it took, the fussiness of it all. And he didn’t like looking like a hooker.

Then one morning, he did it wrong. Apparently.

“Oh, look at the clown!” Justin had jeered as a dozen of them stood around the door waiting for Mr. Blummett. “Jessica’s running away to join the circus!”

He marched into the washroom right then and there and scrubbed his face raw. He was so embarrassed. More by being reduced to tears by the boys’ laughter than by mucking up his make-up.

“You should have told him he was butt ugly without a bit of make-up himself.”

He looked up from the sink to see Shane standing behind him. A grade eleven student, he thought, but nevertheless in his grade ten Geography class. Shane must’ve been waiting like the others for Mr. Blummett to come open the door.

He liked Shane. She was quiet, but when she spoke, what she said was worth listening to. He liked even more how Shane looked. Strong, lean. He wished he had a body like that. He used to …

And no make-up.

And no blouse and skirt either. Shane always wore jeans. Torn at the knee. And boots. And the most interesting t-shirts. The one she had on at the moment—

“Who’s that?” Jess nodded to her t-shirt.

“Taran Tula. You’ve never heard of her?”

Jess shook her head.

“You’ve got to get out more.” Shane grinned.

“Yeah,” Jess agreed with a grimace.

“Want to get out now? We can do you a make-over.”

“No thanks,” he continued to rub at his face.

“Well, we wouldn’t use that shit,” she nodded to Jess’ open purse. “Do you even know what’s in that stuff?” Shane reached in and pulled out his mascara. “Propylene glycol,” she read. “Isn’t that in antifreeze?”

Jess stopped rubbing. In horror.

Shane pulled out a little bottle of nail polish next. “Formaldehyde,” she read. “Doesn’t that cause cancer?”

It took all of two seconds for Jess to dump it all into the garbage bin.

He’d never skipped class before, but he certainly didn’t want to go back. Justin would be waiting. With his friends. He’d be the Entertainment of the Day. He’d seen it happen before.

They went to the mall. Shane led the way to the men’s section of the large department store they entered. Using the credit card his parents had given him for emergencies, Jess bought a pair of baggy cotton pants, with lots of pockets (actual pockets you could put stuff in), a large, loose t-shirt, and an equally large hoodie. Wearing the new clothes, he felt more like himself since—ever.

He transferred his wallet, keys, and phone from his purse into the pockets, then dumped the purse.

In an athletics store, he bought a pair of track shoes and a couple tight fitting sports bras. He’d hated the push-up bras Sarah had steered him toward on previous shopping trips. He had no desire to show cleavage. What in god’s name for? He had always compromised by purchasing a padded bra. Though, alas, he didn’t really need it. And the whole idea of needing to pad … The sports bras flattened his breasts to his chest so they didn’t jiggle. He liked that.

He had pants at home, of course, and t-shirts, but they were for after-school and week-ends. Even so, they weren’t nearly as comfortable as— Standing there, he suddenly understood why. Men’s pants were way looser than women’s pants. Given his thighs, now, they should have made things the other way around. And women’s t-shirts had shorter sleeves, they kept coming untucked because they were shorter overall, and they were, of course, tighter. The hoodie was something new; he liked it. And he really liked the track shoes. He had sneakers for gym class, but these were more … substantial.

“What?” Shane saw the look of deliberation on Jess’ face.

“I can’t leave the house wearing this stuff tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after.”

“So leave the house dolled up a bit and change when you get to school. Bring your new clothes in your knapsack.”

“Can’t. My sister, Sarah, will see me. During the day. Looking like this.”

Shane considered that. “And what will happen if she sees you? Looking like this.”

“She’ll tell my parents.”

“And?”

“My mother will disapprove.”

“And?”

Jess thought it through. “You’re right. It’s not like she can force me. She’ll be upset though.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time, right? Or, probably, the last. So …?”

“Yeah,” Jess agreed. “But I’ll probably get grounded.”

He hadn’t been going out at night anyway, so that wouldn’t be a big deal. Wasn’t allowed to. Go out at night. At least not alone. Wasn’t allowed to wear earbuds when he went running either.

While they were eating pizza and sipping milkshakes at the food court, Shane took out her smartphone, wiped one of the earbuds, gave it to Jess, then played Taran Tula. It sounded like retro riot-grrls. The song was about— Of course! Shane was a lesbian! Did she think—? Was that why Jess liked Shane? Was that why Shane was being nice to Jess?

“Don’t worry, you’re not my type.” Shane had seen the realization cross her face and gave her a way out.

Jess grinned gratefully, nervously. “I don’t know whether to be relieved or hurt,” he tried to toss it off. Unsuccessfully. “I don’t know what my type is.”

“Yet. You’ll figure it out.”

He tried to figure it out during the next cross-country practice. He thought better when he was running. Okay, so he wasn’t a girly-girl. That much he knew. He wasn’t like Sarah. In fact, all his life, he’d felt more like Kyle than like Sarah. Except that there was a lot about Kyle that made him uncomfortable. Thing is, he didn’t know why, exactly. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Kyle. Though, often he didn’t like Kyle. But there was something— It was more complicated than that.

He tried to put his finger on the emotion, the emotions, he was feeling. And that in itself was complicated. He’d never done that before—

There it was again. A sense of before. Of remembering.

He felt— He felt wrong. Because he wasn’t a girly girl? Yeah, partly. But also because he didn’t like Kyle. It was almost as if he didn’t like himself. But he wasn’t like Kyle. Was he?

No, how could he be?

He was like Shane.

No, he wasn’t quite like Shane either.

He tried again. Who was he sexually attracted to? He was fifteen, he should be feeling some sexual attraction, shouldn’t he?

Okay, yes, he— No, he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t separate attraction from sexual attraction.

Wait a minute, yes, he could. It’s just that he wasn’t attracted to who he was sexually attracted to. Hm. That would be a problem.

He thought he should be sexually attracted to girls, but he was actually attracted to boys. Thinking about a few of them made him … moist. Moist? Okay, that was new. Different.

Wait—different from what? And ‘thought he should be’?

There it was again. That familiarity. As if his body was used to something else, wanted to do, wanted to be, something else.

But he couldn’t imagine dating any of the boys he knew. They were, in a word, obnoxious. Most of the time.

He really enjoyed hanging out with Shane. But what did that mean?

He decided not to think about it anymore. For now, he knew he didn’t want to wear make-up. He knew he’d much rather wear pants and track shoes than dresses and heels. He knew he liked English more than Geography. He knew he wanted to run. In fact, he added a parenthetical, now that he didn’t feel so competitive, he really enjoyed running. The experience itself, not the end result. Maybe all of that was enough for now.

“The garage needs to be cleaned out,” his mother said one day at the dinner table. She looked to Kyle sitting on her left, and Jessica and Sarah on her right. Their dinner table seating arrangement had always bothered Jess. It made sense that his father was at one end, and his mother at the other, but why was Kyle on one side, and he and Sarah on the other? Because boys and girls. Everything had to be divided into male on one side, female on the other.

“Sarah, you’ve got your cheerleading tournament this weekend, I haven’t forgotten,” she added. “But the two of you,” she nodded at Kyle and Jess, “can get the job done.”

So next day, they got to it. Jess had always thought that men were detail-oriented. Certainly that’s what he’d been told. But once he and Kyle had moved all of the big stuff out of the garage, Kyle considered his work done.

“Where are you going?” Jess called after him as he walked away.

“I gotta call Dave. Let me know when you’re done, and I’ll help you move everything back in!”

“What? You’re not supposed to help me do this,” Jess protested, “you’re supposed to do it. We’re supposed to do it together. All of it together.” But it didn’t really surprise him that Kyle had assumed that the cleaning part of it—wiping the grime off all of the no-longer-used toys, the patio chairs, and the garden decorations, then brushing off the shelves, then sweeping the floor—would be done by Jess. By Jess alone. After all, he and Sarah had been doing the dishes, some of the laundry, the dusting, and the vacuuming since they were ten.

And, but, it wasn’t just that it was cleaning work. It was also fussy work, detailed work: when Jess did the dusting, not only did he have to wipe the table tops and counter tops and window sills, he also had to pick up every bloody knick-knack in the house and run the dust cloth along every groove on every bloody knick-knack in the house—and crawl under the dining room table and run the dust cloth along every bloody chair leg and cross piece.

Standing in the middle of the garage, Jess looked around him with despair. It would take an hour just to clear the work table for some space—to sort out the mess of screws and nails that covered the table and put them into their respective little drawers in the unit fixed to the wall. Kyle seemed blind to such tasks, blind to the little stuff, blind to the details.

It was the same when Kyle cut the grass. He just did the broad strokes, the easy part. Apparently it was up to Jess and Sarah to clip around the trees and bushes, to do the finickity stuff, the stuff that took twice as long.

What was the logic? Men are bigger than women, so they should handle bigger stuff? That included driving bigger vehicles, Jess noticed. His mom’s car was smaller than his dad’s. He imagined his mother buying a car that was bigger than his and laughed. His dad would probably buy a bigger-still car the very next day. And yet, men were surgeons. They were also biologists and physicists. Blood vessels, bacteria, atoms—you couldn’t get much smaller than that.

Besides, men weren’t bigger than women. Sure, according to all the ads and every movie and tv show he’d ever seen, they were. But they’d clearly selected the smallest women and the biggest men. Most real men had narrower hips, thinner thighs, and smaller chests than women. Most real men were taller than most real women, and they usually weighed more, but that was about it, really.

So why did Hollywood select the smallest women and the biggest men? Because men must be better, and bigger is better? But it isn’t. Bigger can just be fatter. And in many cases, smaller is better. The firefighter crawling under a bed to save a terrified kid needs to be small.

Maybe men handled big stuff not because they were bigger than women, but in order to feel bigger than women. Because they stupidly believed bigger was better. Which was true in the case of physical fights, but— Actually, no, even then …

Part way through grade eleven, Jess cut his hair. And felt even more like himself. Shane was delighted. Sarah was horrified. And his Mom—

“But you had lovely hair! Why would you do such a thing?” she wailed.

“Because I like it better this way,” was all Jess could say. He didn’t have the words, the analysis, for the real explanation. Long hair made him feel more like a girl, more female. And being female, in our society, was not a good thing to be.

A few days later— Jess had been doing as Shane had suggested, leaving the house in a skirt or dress, then changing as soon as he got to school, but it was only a matter of time …

Sarah had graduated and gotten a job, but Kyle was now in grade nine. And he saw Jess in the hallway. Jess saw him first and made a dash for the nearest open room, but.

At first, Jess thought Kyle hadn’t said anything, but a week later, his parents ambushed him with an appointment with a therapist.

“Hello, you must be Jessica,” the neatly dressed, manicured, and coiffured woman offered her hand, “and Mr. and Mrs. Everett. Please have a seat,” she gestured to the three chairs in her office. Once again, her parents flanked her. This time, Jess sat reluctantly between them. He did not want to be here.

“I understand that you do not want to be here,” Jess looked up sharply, “but your parents are concerned about you.”

Jess grunted.

“Can you see that they love you?” the therapist, Miss Dinelli, said to Jessica. “In their own way?” People said that to women about their abusive husbands. It wasn’t the way Jess wanted to be loved. “They just want you to be happy.”

“If I could wear what I want, I’d be happy.”

“And you’d like to wear …?”

Jess told her.

“Is that it?”

“I don’t want to wear make-up.”

“Clothes and make-up. That’s what you’re upset about? Those are pretty superficial things, aren’t they?”

“Yes! So why are they so goddamned important?” So definitive is what he meant.

He heard the sharp intake of breath from his mother.

“Sorry,” he said to her. Then turned back to the therapist. “And I want to be able to swear.” He grinned. Kyle was allowed to swear.

“Is there anything else? Anything more substantive to your complaints? About being a girl?”

Jess glared at her. “I’m not complaining about being a girl, I just—” He just didn’t want to be a girl. No, that wasn’t completely true. There were some things he liked about it. It was just that— What?

“I have to be polite all the time.” He grimaced. Stupid example.

“Is there something wrong with being polite?”

“No, it’s just—” What was it? Being polite was good. Men should be polite. More polite. “My mom always tells me that if I can’t say anything nice, I shouldn’t say anything at all.”

“And?”

“It’s—” He didn’t have the words. The understanding. It was a way to silence women. To mute their opinions. Because she never said that to Kyle.

“I’m not allowed to be angry,” he tried again. “I have to be polite even when the other person isn’t entitled to politeness.” That sounded convoluted. But it was closer to what he meant. ‘Deference’ wasn’t in his vocabulary. Yet.

“And I don’t like having to explain myself!” he summarized in frustration. Even though he recognized, again, that that was a good thing. Shouldn’t people be able to, be expected to, justify their feelings, their claims, their actions? Yes, of course. It was just that he hadn’t had to do it before. And it was hard.

“Before, when I—” No, he couldn’t tell her that. She’d think he was crazy. “I mean if I— Boys don’t have to. Explain themselves.”

“I see. Well, all of this isn’t uncommon, Jessica. Many people experience a kind of mis-match between their sex and their gender. It can be a source of great distress, and that’s what we’d like to explore.”

It wasn’t so much a mis-match between his sex and his gender. It was a mis-match between his past and his present. Though, yes, okay, now, there was a mis-match between his sex and his gender: he was clearly female, he knew that, but he felt— No, he just remembered— No, he also felt— He gave up.

“Explore how?”

Ms. Dinelli went on and on, but the long and short of it was that Jess had three options: talk therapy, aversion therapy, or gender correction camp.

Next day, when Shane saw Jess dolled up again, she knew something had happened.

“The mall?”

Jess nodded.

As soon as they got to the mall, Jess changed. Before she’d left home, she’d stuffed her other clothes into her knapsack for exactly this reason. They headed for a quiet spot at the food court.

“Back in a minute,” Shane said, heading for their favourite pizza place. She returned with a couple slices of pizza, a couple chocolate milkshakes, and a couple Chocolate Brownie Thunder sundaes.

“My treat,” Shane said. “You look like you need it.”

“Yeah.”

Shane waited. Jess took a bite of the pizza, then a long, delicious, draw on his chocolate milkshake. Then a big bite of the Thunder sundae. And then he told her.

“What the fuck is aversion therapy?” Shane exploded. Actually, she thought she knew.

“She’ll show me a bunch of images, you know, like girls wearing pretty pink dresses, bows in their hair, and lipstick, I guess, then girls wearing jeans and hiking boots or something, and every time the image is wrong, I’ll get zapped.”

“Shock therapy?” Okay, she hadn’t known.

“Not, you know—not like when they hook up those things to your head. I’d wear a bracelet, kind of like a dog collar —”

“You’re not some animal!”

“It doesn’t hurt much. She let me try it. It just —”

“Doesn’t hurt, my ass! It might not hurt you physically, but it’d be doing serious damage to your psyche! After that, every time you think of what you really want to do, you’ll be— Hesitant. She’ll be planting a reflexive fear of your own desires.”

Yeah. Jess hadn’t been able to put his finger on it. But Shane nailed it.

“So you’ll have to work extra hard, you’ll have one more bloody obstacle to overcome, just to do what you want, dress how you like, God damnit!”

Shane took a long draw of her milkshake. And a big bite of her Thunder sundae.

“And gender correction camp?” she continued. “What the fuck is that?”

“I think it’s like those old-fashioned finishing schools where young ladies were taught how to set a dinner table, which spoons and forks to use—”

“How to balance a book on your head—”

“Instead of how to read it—”

Shane barked like a trained seal. He grinned. He enjoyed talking to Shane. It was nice. It was new. Men didn’t really ever talk to each other. Everything they said was code for ‘I’m better than you.’ It was pathetic, really. And incredibly boring. Now that he thought about it. Wait, what?

“How to snare a husband,” Shane continued. “First, don’t let him know that you’re smarter than him.’ Which means act stupider than him.” She grimaced. “You know, sometimes I think it’s our own damn fault.”

“What?”

“That men feel so frickin’ superior. They believe our bullshit.”

She was right, Jess realized. Men did believe women’s bullshit. About how smart they were, how competent they were …

“Actually,” Shane said a moment later, “I think it’d be more like those Christian ‘normalizing’ camps. You know, the ones that tried to make gays and lesbians straight with deconditioning or reconditioning or whatever the fuck it’s called.”

“Deprogramming. That’s what they called undoing the brainwashing done by cults.”

“Who is this woman?” Shane asked then. “Is she actually a certified therapist?”

“I don’t know. I guess so.”

“Does she have a Ph.D. in … something? Emotional abuse, maybe?”

Jess grinned again. Sort of.

“And what the hell is gender anyway? It’s bullshit. It’s nothing. It’s just a word we use to describe two sets of traits and desires arbitrarily associated with one sex or the other. It’s certainly not innate.”

Jess nodded. They were proof of that.

“Gender is how sexism is maintained,” Shane said. “As Dee Graham put it, masculinity and femininity are code words for male domination and female subordination. Any intelligent woman will reject femininity.”

Jess thought about that. Later, he would come across Lierre Keith who said something similar: “Femininity is just a set of behaviors that are in essence ritualized submission.”

“You know,” Shane continued, “all this trans shit became a big deal only when men started crossing the gender line. No surprise. I mean, women have been crossing the gender line for centuries: we’ve been assertive, even aggressive; we’ve entered so-called ‘male professions’; we’ve chosen to wear unisex or men’s clothing. And we’ve never felt the need to call Newsweekabout it.”

Jess grinned. She was absolutely right. Men thought everything they did was newsworthy.

“Feminists—real feminists—have been gender queer, gender non-conforming, gender variant, non-binary, whatever the hell you want to call it, since forever. See this is what happens when people don’t know shit. Don’t they teach history in school anymore?”

“You know they do,” Jess grinned. “Just not women’s history.”

“Yeah.” Shane took a long draw on her milkshake.

“So what are you going to do?”

“What can I do?” Jess said with despair. Then he shrugged with resignation. “I said yes to the talk therapy. We’re going to ‘explore and resolve childhood conflicts that have led to the wrong gender identification’.”

Neither of them said anything for a while.

Then Shane spoke. “You’ve got to get the fuck away from those people. Your parents.”

“Yeah, well.” It would be two more years before he could move away. To go to university. Two years.

They finished their pizza and milkshakes, and, sadly, their Chocolate Brownie Thunder sundaes, then just walked around.

“Our carbon dioxide is at 450,” Shane said. “We’re past two degrees, and well on our way to three. And they’re worried about pink and blue.”

Next day, in the hall at school, he overheard a girl gush, “He thinks I’m cute!” and he almost stopped to correct her. He probably says that to all the girls, he would’ve said. Because he himself had once been that insincere. He’d never thought that the girl would actually believe it. He’d thought that she’d see it as the come-on it was. And either respond with a smile, which meant she was interested or— He shook his head. Took a few deep breaths. Focused on the here. The now.

And here, and now, he realized that Shane was only half right. About believing bullshit.

“That’s not lady-like,” her mom would often reprimand, gently, when he did something that felt … normal. She thought she was helping with the therapy, helping Jess understand how to act like a lady.

But it wasn’t that he didn’t understand. It was that he thought the rules, for acting like a lady, were stupid. He couldn’t just ask for what he wanted. That was rude. He couldn’t just say what he was really thinking. That was rude too. He had to defer to others. All the time. No matter what was at stake. Apparently his primary objective in life was to not hurt others. Others’ feelings. It was a new way of living. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

The following week, Jess started looking for a part-time job. He was surprised to discover that even jobs were colour-coded: an after-school job at the hardware store paid more than an after-school job at Tim Horton’s. But Tim Horton’s was the only place that even gave her an interview. Good thing he’d started looking now, he thought. Two school years and two summers might be enough for first year tuition. He’d apply for a scholarship, of course, but he wanted a back-up plan. Because he hadto get away.

It turned out that Shane had failed a couple courses required for graduation, so while Jess progressed through grade twelve, she re-took those two courses. Jess helped her through. Honestly, they were both happy that they’d be heading to university at the same time.

But first, that last year of high school stretched out before them …

And during that year, Jess started to worry that something was seriously wrong with him. He kept having the déjà vu episodes. No, they were more like flashbacks. Almost hallucinations. He thought maybe he was heading for a psychotic break. Or developing schizophrenia. It happened. He thought about telling Ms. Dinelli, then decided not to. She’d probably have him committed. He thought about telling Shane, but was afraid that she’d see him differently. Gender bending was one thing; mental illness was another. And God knows, as it was, he was struggling with how people saw him.

One day in Chemistry, Jess and his lab partner, Liam, were conducting an experiment. Their results were unexpected. They considered various explanations, but none of them quite fit. Then Jess hypothesized that the beaker had not been thoroughly cleaned, and it was the residue of a previous experiment that accounted for their results.

Liam said as much to their teacher.

“Good thinking, Liam,” Mr. Killick said. “Given the experiments we did just last class, I think your hypothesis is correct!”

“Wait a minute,” Jess spoke up. “That was my idea! I was the one who suggested that our results may have been contaminated by something in the beaker—”

“Just ignore her,” Evan said playfully, “she’s on the rag!”

Mr. Killick grinned at him.

“What?” Jess was horrified. “I’m not ‘on the rag’! I’m angry! Because—”

“Yeah!” he laughed. “What I said.”

To his dismay, Jess started to notice his breasts when he was running. Fortunately, this happened only a few days a month, but still.

Then one night, when he escaped into video games, as he had always done, he noticed all the big breasts. No, surely he’d noticed them before. Yes, but now— All of the women were in such skimpy clothing. And they were all just big breasts, long legs, and big behinds.

And they were all beaten up or raped or both, by the main characters. The men. How had he not noticed this before?

It was as if women existed for men. For their pleasure, for their entertainment, for their use— For whatever the men wanted to do to them.

And when the attacked woman cried out for help or cried out in pain— “Quiet, bitch! Shut the fuck up!” or “You worthless whore, you’re fucking pathetic!” How had he not—

Ah. He was the ‘you’ now. That changed everything. He tried a few more games, but felt sickened—literally, he felt sick to his stomach—at what he saw. Woman after woman, fucked, beaten, spat on, killed, discarded. That was how men saw women, girls, him. Her.

Grand Theft Auto, Assassin’s Creed, Hitman, Far Cry, Watch Dog … He tried in vain to find something—else. Something that could give him the rush of power, control, agency, that he was used to getting from gaming. Without— Nada.

He found one game that had a female main character—but she had that perfect, so-called perfect, body, and it was almost completely unclothed. It cancelled whatever she was trying to do, trying to be.

He turned off the computer.

And never played another video game.

“Mom, sit down, you’re not our servant,” Jess said. His mother always walked around the table, dishing out everyone’s food. They could just as easily pass the bowls and platters around the table.

“Oh, I know that, but your father worked all day…”

“So did you.”

She just smiled. And truth be told, Jess hated her a little bit for it.

Then he decided to speak up about something else he’d often noticed.

“Why does Kyle get a bigger slice than me?”

Everyone stared at him. Her.

“I’m older, don’t I need more?” In some cultures, men got not only the most food, but the best food. They ate before the women did.

“Men need more because they have more muscle,” his sister explained.

“Maybe that’s the effect and not the cause. Besides if you want to bring biology into it, as females, and the ones who will create the babies out of our own bodies, surely we’re the ones who need more.”

“Are you planning to create a baby any time soon?” Sarah mocked him.

He hadn’t yet found “Trust Your Perceptions”, and perhaps never would, as the blog would soon be taken down, but someone had pointed out that women feeding men was an appeasement, an international campaign to plead for niceness—Here, take this food, just please stop killing the children, okay?

His mother was right, of course. His father did work all day. He ran an advertising firm, and he often came home late. And he always came home exhausted, impatient, angry. At what, Jess didn’t know, but he’d lash out at anything that upset him. They all kept their distance. Jess asked him once why he worked so hard. Why he didn’t somehow make room in his life for enjoyment and pleasure.

“Somebody has to do it!” he’d shouted at him. “Do you think I like working this much? Who do you think puts food on the table? A roof over your head? I’ve got three kids to support!”

Yeah, Jess got that. But it was his choice to make those three kids. Didn’t he know he’d have to support them? Of course he did. So why was he so angry about having to do so?

Jess figured that his father attributed his stress level to his hard work. More likely, Jess thought, it was because he treated everything like a competition. Whenever his father had to drive him somewhere, he acted like it was a race, a race he had to win. Every time a car overtook him, he got so angry. “It’s okay,” Jess would say, “let him pass. It’s no big deal.”

It was like cooperation hadn’t even occurred to his father. In his mind, competition, competition toward control, was the only way to get anything done. Was he right? Had men never cooperated except under orders to do so? Or as a team, competing toward control over another team?

His father also probably thought he was doing the right thing because he was working so hard. But just because you’re working hard, that doesn’t mean, that doesn’t say anything about, moral rightness.

But how did he know what his father thought? He gave a mental shrug. He just did. He knew that men’s level of introspection, their self-awareness, was low. Men had little insight into why they did what they did, even into what they wanted. That’s why they were less apt to seek help—psychological, emotional, help. They can’t explain their problems. They don’t know what their problems are.

Well, in addition to it was emasculating to ask for help. Any help.

Regardless, his mother worked too. Surely she was contributing to their support. But it was as if her job, her contribution, her effort was invisible. It was—

Suddenly, his mental shrug slipped … into place. Oh god. That’s it. He used to be a man. That’s how he knew. That’s why his tendencies, his expectations, were—male. For the most part. So, what, he used to be a man … in a previous life? So reincarnation— It does happen?

“So how’s it going with the talk therapy?” Shane asked one day. “You’re almost done, yeah?”

The agreement with his parents was that he’d do it for a year.

“Yeah,” he replied. “A few more weeks. It seems I’ve finally convinced the therapist that I do realize that I have a female body.”

“But it came with a male brain?”

“Not exactly …”

“You didn’t tell her you were a lesbian, did you?” Shane asked, horrified. That could lead to worse problems. “Because that’s not what a lesbian is. Male brains in female bodies—”

“No, I didn’t tell her I was a lesbian. But— Look, can we postpone this discussion?”

Shane glanced at her, an odd expression on her face. “Of course.”

“Where were you? I was worried sick!” His mother met him at the door.

“I was—” He’d gone out for a long run. And had stopped in the park. Because it was such a clear night, there was no moon, and the stars—

“It’s almost midnight!”

He saw Kyle slouching in the doorway, a smirk on his face.

“You could’ve been—”

“Kyle stays out until midnight!” None of them had an actual curfew.

“Kyle’s not a young woman!”

Right. Of course. He’d forgotten for a moment that he was more at risk of attack. Now. Well, more at risk of sexual attack. Because wasn’t Kyle at risk of— Well, no. Unless they thought he was gay, he probably wouldn’t be beaten up. And until he was older, he probably wouldn’t be robbed. And Kyle was seldom alone at night. That was the difference. He remembered now. He was always with his buddies, he was always part of a pack.

“The sex gangs!” His mother wailed.

“What?”

“Kyle said there are gangs of men going around raping young women!”

Seriously? In Barrie? Why was this the first time he was hearing about this? He read the newspaper from time to time. There should have been headlines. Was it on the back page? He listened to his teachers. Why didn’tthey mention this?

And anyway, why should he be the one to change his behaviour?

Remembering the many times boys had criticized her body, it suddenly occurred to her: perhaps the right to criticize a woman’s body derived from a right toa woman’s body. And if men felt they had a right to every woman’s body …

And the right to the sexual use of a woman’s body leads to, includes, the right to the reproductive use of a woman’s body. Hence, no abortion.

Or is it the other way around: the right to reproductive use of women’s bodies, perhaps thought to be grounded in the continuation of the species, leads to the right of all sexual use of women’s bodies.

But women don’t think they have a right to men’s sperm. And hence to the sexual use of their bodies.

The following week, all of the girls were called to an assembly. It was the annual ‘How to Avoid Rape’ assembly. Be vigilant, be careful about where you go, and when you go …

Angrily, Shane glanced at Jess beside her, then spoke up. “How about you just tell the guys, ‘Keep it in your pants’?”

Someone cheered.

“And,” another girl shouted out, “tell them, ‘Don’t put any drugs in a girl’s drink!’”

More cheers.

“And ‘If you can’t resist your dick, don’t go out at night!’”

“Or during the day!”

Next day, when Jess walked into the school, she saw that someone had written on the general notice blackboard: “Women do not rape. End of story. If someone doesn’t want to have sex with us, we feel sad and go home and write about it in our journals. Hypotaxis.”

When it was time to apply to universities, Jess announced to his parents that he wanted to become a psychologist.

“That’s nice, dear.”

What? No discussion about whether that was a good choice? About which university to attend? It didn’t really matter, because he’d already decided to apply to UBC and SFU. Toronto wasn’t far enough away from Barrie. Still.

They’d already discussed which universities were best for Business—Kyle’s choice—and Kyle was only in grade ten. Actually, now that he thought about that, he didn’t think Kyle wanted to go into Business. Their fatherwanted Kyle to go into Business. So he could join him at his firm.

Their response was nothing new. No one had said anything when he’d announced that he’d gotten the Tim Horton’s job. No congratulations on getting the job, no comment that he could’ve gotten a better job, no concern that the job would take time away from his school work.

It was like his aspirations weren’t … important. They acted like he was just putting in time until— Until what? Ah. Marriage and kids. Seriously?

But he had no intention of getting married.

And he certainly no intention of having kids. He hated kids. Sarah babysat for a neighbour and once Jess had done it for her, because it was prom night. He vowed never to do it again. (Though he was glad that it had meant not having to deal with the expectations that he fuss and fawn over Sarah and the god-damned prom.)

“It’ll be different when they’re your own kids,” his mother had assured him, when he’d confessed that he’d hated their whiney demands, their emotional outbursts, their relentless egoism.

Jess doubted that. But he hadn’t, at the time, recognized the assumption that had prompted the assurance.

Whatever, he understood that his parents had no academic expectations of him. On the one hand, it was insulting. On the other hand, it was liberating. He enrolled in a double major program of Psychology and Gender Studies.

Shane, on the other hand, thought it was a great idea. “And that’s a great combination! We focus so much on gender studies as a cultural or sociological phenomenon, but surely individual psychology plays a huge role.”

Jess nodded. That’s exactly what he’d thought.

“I mean, look at you and me,” Shane continued. “We were exposed to the same cultural influences as all the pink vapourheads and yet … How do we explain us?”

Jess grinned. How do we explain us indeed.

“Are you still thinking about art school?” he asked her.

“Absolutely.” Shane was into something she called new media collage art. Her YouTube videos were amazing. One of them, Jess’ favourite, was a collage of what looked like home movies—the squealing engagement announcement, the dress-fitting, the bridal shower, the procession down the aisle, the reception and the speeches and the wedding cake and the first dance—all presented against a soundtrack of “Here Comes the Bride” with a voice-over enumerating the terms of the marriage contract through history, clearly indicating its origins in property transfer, and then the current statistics of wife abuse. The piece ended with the statement that 94% of all women get married. Shouted in silence with bold type on the screen, that fact then became covered, completely hidden, by confetti.

Shane had gotten a clerical job at an art gallery and was, like Jess, trying to save enough money for her post-high school dream. She had her eye on VanArts, a school in Vancouver specializing in media art. It was especially hard for her, because she’d just moved out. Her parents had never really accepted ‘the lesbian thing’. That’s what they called it. So Shane was supporting herself, sharing rent with two women who’d befriended her at a local GLBT meet-up.

Jess was offered admission by both UBC and SFU, but only UBC offered an entrance scholarship. It would cover first year’s tuition, and it would be renewed every year for as long as he kept his grades up. So that’s the offer he accepted.

“Congratulations!” Shane was happy for her. “I knew you’d have no problem getting in!”

A week later, Shane was in at VanArts.

“They’d be idiots not to want you!” Jess said, ecstatic about their future together.

They’d find a small apartment near the campus, share the rent, bike to school, and everywhere … They’d each find jobs to make that happen … They were both getting away, from their families, from Barrie …

They decided to celebrate by spending a week hiking on the Bruce Trail. The stretch between Tobermory and Dyer’s Bay was supposed to be drop-dead gorgeous. They bought backpacks, hiking boots, a tent, and a few other supplies recommended by the outdoor store they’d gone to. Everything was more expensive than they would have liked, but they intended to make good use of it on the west coast.

Jess’ mother disapproved. Hard to say of what, exactly. Women bearing a backpack? Women wearing hiking boots? Women hiking? God forbid, women being adventurous? Her father’s response, as always, was no comment.

They took the city bus to the Northland bus station.

“Good morning, girls. Or should I say, ladies,” the man at the ticket window smiled. “How can I help you?”

“You should say neither,” Shane replied.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You called us girls, then changed it to ladies. Why don’t you just call us people?”

Jess glanced at her. She was apparently feeling strong and confident … Maybe it was all the gear. Or the adrenaline of their adventure, the beginning of their new lives—

“What is it you want?” the man went from patronizing to irritated in a flash.

“I want you to figure out why you mention our sex every time you refer to us. Why is our sex so very important to you?”

Standing slightly behind Shane, Jess grinned.

The man glared.

“Two tickets to Tobermory, please,” Jess stepped up. If Shane pushed him too far—

“You’ve never thought about it, have you?” She wasn’t giving up.

“Nope,” the man said as he took their money and passed them their tickets. “And I’m not going to. Next!” he called out even though there was no one in line behind them.

“But we call them boys, men,” Jess said once they were outside. “Guys.”

“Yeah, but somehow none of those terms is a put-down.”

“Listen up, ladies,” the voice was suddenly in his head. Coach. At half-time. He was trying to goad them to a better performance by … insulting them.

“You’re right,” Jess said. Shane was absolutely right. To be called a female was insulting. Was considered insulting. By men.

Because to be female was … to be inferior. According to men.

Their week on the Bruce Trail was wonderful. It was rugged going, but the solitude, the quiet— It was what they both needed. And every time they came to an overlook, they were absolutely stunned by the impossibly blue water, teal and turquoise and indigo, the expanse of it, the huge sky …

During one of their many breaks, sitting on the sun-warmed rock, leaning against their packs, sipping from their water bottles, Jess came back to the conversation he’d asked to postpone.

“So I’m not dysphoric, and I’m not gay, but … I keep having these … flashbacks. It’s like I remember being male.” He held his breath.

“Like reincarnation? You think you were a man in a previous life?”

Wow. She’d gone there so easily.

“Well, thing is, I’m not sure I believe in reincarnation. Because if everyone were reincarnated, the population wouldn’t be increasing, right? It’d be stable. We’d have same number of people, just—”

“Maybe in addition to the reincarnated … souls? minds? … there are new ones being created.”

“Maybe.”

“But then we’d have to explain why you’re a recycled person,” Shane grinned, “and not a new person. Karma? Is being female this time around a punishment?”

“Actually, I think it might be the other way around. I think being female is better, in a lot of ways, than being male. But my memories— I don’t think I deserve a … reward. I think I was a normal guy.”

“Which is to say a disgusting piece of shit.”

“Yeah.”

They stared out at the water.

“Maybe male bodies are becoming non-viable,” Shane suggested. “I read that the Y chromosome has disintegrated into ‘a trainwreck’ of about 45 surviving genes. Down from about 2,000.”

“Really? Maybe that’s why male fetuses are more likely than female fetuses to spontaneously abort.”

“And, or,” Shane suggested, “we know that fetuses are female unless the Y chromosome, from sperm, gets to it. And sperm counts are declining. By 80% in just the last two generations.”

“Hm. I didn’t know that.”

“And as much as 85% of it is abnormal,” Shane was enjoying this, “likely to swim in the wrong direction.” She couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing.

“Didn’t know that either,” Jess grinned.

“The world’s best kept secret,” Shane replied, without the laugh. “Because.”

“Yeah.”

And then, after a moment, “Is all of that because of the chemicals in the environment?” Jess asked.

“Maybe. Maybe especially in the food men eat. Meat. Dead animals. Fed a shitload of god-knows-what … Growth hormones, steroids …”

Shane was vegetarian. Jess had become so, as much as was possible, living at home.

“Or maybe it’s because of global warming,” Jess suggested. “Heat is bad for sperm. That’s why the testicles are on the outside of the body, right?”

“Right …”

The water was just so … so beautiful.

“How do you know you just don’t have your old male brain, in a female body?”

Jess thought about that for a moment. “Because I’m not thinking about sex all the time.”

Shane laughed. “Case closed.”

And it was so nice, Jess thought. Not to have a sexual thought every eight seconds. He’d come across that figure somewhere. He believed it.

“And I don’t feel as … driven,” Jess continued. “And I definitely don’t feel as … combustible.”

“But maybe that’s because you’ve got estrogen rather than testosterone coursing through your body. Not because you’ve got a female brain rather than a male brain.”

“Could be. But a male brain would trigger the production of testosterone, not estrogen, right?”

“Yeah, but without the testicles to produce it—”

“No, we, female bodies, have testosterone too,” Jess said. “Just not nearly as much.”

“You’re right. Okay, so it must be produced by something other than testicles. So … where were we?”

“Female body. Female brain. Now.”

“Ah. Right.”

Again, the water.

“Maybe your parents arranged a brain transplant,” Shane suggested. “You know, like that thought experiment by what’s his name, Williams? Shoemaker? No, wait. You said you don’t have a male brain in a female body.”

Shane gave it some more thought.

“What if we’re in the future and you really fucked up and you’re in one of those prison sentence machines that makes you feel like you’re living years in hell when in fact it’s just a few days.”

Jess looked over at her. “I saw that in an Outer Limits episode.”

“Yeah, The 100 had something like that too. But,” Shane reconsidered, “that doesn’t explain me. I mean, I’m not some part of your private Truman Show. I cut myself, I bleed. ’Course, I don’t cut myself, I also bleed,” she grimaced. Menstruating on a week-long hike was a real hassle. To say the least.

“Plus, I wouldn’t say this is hell … ”

“So what exactly do you remember?”

“Most of the time, I don’t have explicit memories. It’s more like having strong expectations.”

“Like you’d have after a lifetime of living as a male. Expectations of male privilege.”

“Yes!” He turned to her. She’d nailed it. Expectations of male privilege. “And those expectations keep getting slammed. My experience, my actual experience, keeps surprising me.

“And,” Jess continued, “it’s like I have all these … habits. Like a couple weeks ago, I went out for a run at night. By myself.”

“Habits or genuine desires?”

“It felt like a habit. As if it was something I’d just always done.”

“But did you want to do it?”

“Well, yeah but—”

“So maybe you’re just rejecting the socialization that says women shouldn’t go for a run at night.”

“But I’m not rejecting everything female. And that wouldn’t explain the flashbacks. If that’s what they are.”

“Right.”

They both stared out at the water again. In silence.

“Maybe,” Shane suggested after a moment, “you’re just crossing into another reality from time to time.”

“I dunno. It’s been like this since I was born.”

Shane turned to him with surprise. “Really? Even as an infant?”

Jess nodded. “I think so. I think that’s why everything felt … wrong.”

“Hm.”

(free download of the complete novel at pegtittle.com)

You can do this, she told herself as she sprinted—well, as she ran as fast as she could—along the road toward the curve in the distance. Heart thundering, lungs heaving, she made it to the curve, rounded it, and saw an intersection in the distance. You can do this, she kept telling herself, as she kept moving, getting closer and closer to the intersection … Yes, she was over sixty, just a tad over sixty, but she’d been running since she was thirteen, since she’d entered high school and discovered something called ‘cross-country’. She’d done track in grades seven and eight, but— They ran through the forest! Or at least through the wooded parks on the edge of the city, which was, back then, the closest thing to forest she knew. She fell in love with it. The beauty. The quiet. The solitude. The rhythm. The distance. Between practices, she ran through her neighbourhood. Every day, further.

So she could do this. She’d been surprised to discover there wasn’t a women’s team at university, so she joined the men’s team. But then discovered that women weren’t allowed to run the long distances. It was the 70s. At all the cross-country meets, women did just three miles. Men did five. At the track meets, women couldn’t run even the 5,000, let alone the 10,000; the longest event for them was the 3,000. But she kept running further, and further. On her own. She didn’t know she was ready for a marathon in her late twenties. There was no internet. She couldn’t just google. She’d thought she’d have to be running twenty miles several times a week. Which is what she did. Which is why she was always tearing this or that.

Even so, she told herself, now trotting along a sidewalk, you can do this. It wasn’t until her forties that she’d discovered that a total of fifty miles a week was sufficient preparation as long as she ran something over ten miles once a week. And by her forties, she’d been doing that for almost twenty years. So she ran her first marathon. At forty-five. Finished in under four hours.

As she approached the intersection, she could feel her heart still pounding, her lungs still straining. Okay, so you don’t have the cardiovascular anymore, and you definitely don’t have the flexibility, you’ll be the tin man for days, but you’ve still got the strength. And the stamina. Because even at sixty, she’d been walking ten to fifteen miles every day, through the forest behind her cabin. You just have to get to forest, she told herself, you just have to lose whatever vehicles will be following you, and then you can walk. She stopped briefly to read the street signs, got her bearings, and was relieved to find herself at the south end of the city. She headed left. She could cut through the Walmart parking lot, then it was just a short bit to Seymour, which was the first exit, if you were coming from the south. She was jogging now. Limping, actually. It had been years since she’d run on sidewalk, on pavement. She was going to have shin splints. For the rest of her life if she didn’t get into forest soon. Scrub bush, at least.

But she would be. Soon. There was forest on both sides of the highway all the way from her cabin to North Bay. Ergo, she grinned, all the way from North Bay to her cabin. It was 80km by highway. Probably more if she stuck to the forested edges. She could do 20km a day. She’d be home in four days. She could find safe places to sleep along the way … Thank god it wasn’t winter. The bear would be hibernating, but there would be wolves, and coyotes had moved up from the south … Though, now that she thought about it, they were unlikely to live, or hunt, this close to the highway.

A year ago, she would’ve just hitch-hiked. A year ago, she was stupid. Out of step. Behind the times. Now, she understood that there was a good chance that anyone who stopped to pick her up would report her. Unless it was a woman who stopped. But, she grimaced, it could be illegal for women to drive now. It suddenly occurred to her that an unescorted woman might attract attention. Especially a sixty-year-old woman who was running. Even if she had been dressed for it. She abruptly slowed to a walk, her knees screaming.

And then it occurred to her that she couldn’t go home. That would be the first place they looked. Well, she could set up some sort of alarm system, prepare an escape route … into the crawl space, maybe. No, wait! Sam had turned his little cottage into a year-round rental, then decided it was too much trouble, to manage the renting of it. She still had the key he’d given her when she’d confessed that she often stopped at his place on her way back, having paddled the ten mile stretch of river past the end of the lake, to sit and watch the sunset. “Have a beer while you’re here,” he’d said. “Make yourself at home.” Okay, she would, yes. She ventured a small smile.

You can do this, she told herself again.

It had happened so quickly. One day, she was walking along the dirt lane, as she did every day, along the fifty metres from her cabin to the path that led deep into the forest, dressed as she always was, sweatshirt over a tshirt, baggy cotton cargo pants, thick socks, and track shoes. She had a small pack belted around her waist, that held her ID, a small pad of paper and a pen, an alarm and, in case that didn’t work, bear spray, and a flashlight if she did something stupid and took longer to get out. Bug spray in season. Earplugs for Thursdays when the gun club had their get-togethers, a shot every six seconds, echoing for miles and miles. Once when they’d started early, it had been sheer hell for the hour it took to get back inside her cabin, windows closed, music on.

She hadn’t had to use the bear spray. A bear did catch her by surprise one day, as she no doubt did it, but it just growled and took off running. She’d also come across a momma bear and its two cubs, but they were far enough away that she noticed in time to stop. They were on the path ahead of her, the only way out, so she just stood there, patiently, to let them go where and when they wanted. Tassi had been so good, content to be held in her arms—they must’ve been upwind and too far away for her canine nose and eyes to notice them. After a while, she carried on, talking in a singsong voice to let Momma know where she was and, hopefully, to convey her harmlessness. That had always worked with the dogs who’d come charging at her on her long-distance runs. Back when.

She’d also met a wolf one day. A juvenile by the way it was moving, so easily. It had been trotting along the path toward her, oh what a wonderful day—she’d been thinking pretty much the same thing—and when they rounded the curve to find themselves suddenly face to face, they both came to a sudden and complete halt. Astonished. As for her, also delighted. The creature was absolutely gorgeous, its coat a mix of cream, tan, and chestnut. It considered her, then simply turned around and trotted back the way it had come.

The only other animal she’d come across—aside from the numerous, though decreasing numbers of, squirrels, rabbits, and grouse—was a young moose. Like the bear, it too had just taken off when it heard her.

The day it happened, she was a few feet from the path when a car coming down the hill pulled up next to her. Was a time she’d’ve waited, ready to be helpful, to offer directions, to tell the driver ‘No, you can’t get to the highway from here, it’s a dead end, you have to go back—’

“Are you Kat Jones?” The uniformed man in the passenger seat had quickly gotten out to stand before her, blocking her way onto the path. He was young—that is to say, under forty—and clean-cut.

“Yes.” So?

“Would you come with us, please?”

What? “Why?”

The uniformed man in the driver’s seat was also out. And standing behind her.

“We’ve received reports.”

This wasn’t making any sense. “Reports of what?”

He flashed a badge. “You are hereby under arrest for Fraudulent Identity.”

“Under arrest? For what?”

“Fraudulent Identity. Section 380(1) of the Criminal Code. Subsection 4(a). Gender Fraud.”

The second one reached for her arm before she had time to process— Certainly before she had time to get out her bear spray.

“You’re presenting as male,” the first one explained, “when, in fact, you’re female. That’s fraud. And a criminal offence.”

The second one pulled her arms behind her, bound her hands together with one of those black plastic zip ties she’d often used around her cabin, then forced her into the back seat. Just like that. Her world ended.

It hadn’t even occurred to her to make a run for it.

She never did find out who had reported her. It could have been Chuck, who lived down the lane. Nancy’s husband. When she’d left a print-out in their mailbox, informing them of the toxicity of the smoke that blew her way every time they burned their leaves—something they often did, forcing her inside—and there was no reason they couldn’t simply rake them into a corner of their one-acre lot and leave them to decompose—which was actually better, ecologically, than burning them—he’d been enraged. He’d knocked on her door and when she’d opened it—foolish, yes—he’d stepped inside without invitation and proceeded to yell at her, thrusting out his massive ex-footballer chest and punctuating his words with a jabbing finger. When she’d tried to respond, to engage in a civil conversation, he’d screamed at her to “Just Shut Up and Listen!” and a few moments later concluded his tantrum by calling her a cunt.

Or it could have been Mike, the guy who owned the property across the cove. When he started cutting down the trees along the shoreline, she’d called the Ministry to ask whether there were any by-laws against that. So the next time he saw her, he too screamed at her. Gave her a shove and called her a bitch. And kicked Tassi.

Or it could have been Alfred. He’d wanted to hire her to clean his house; she’d declined. She already had a job, with a company in Princeton, writing logical reasoning and critical reading questions for the GRE. He hadn’t known that. And why would he? It’s not like she walked around proclaiming it to the ’hood, and no one had ever invited her to dinner or whatever. She didn’t … fit. He’d just assumed: she was a middle-aged woman, ergo.

Or it could have been Don, who owned the cottage two lots down from her and the empty lot next to her. She’d told him, thirty years ago, when she’d bought her cabin—a cabin on a lake in a forest!—that if he ever wanted to sell the empty lot, she’d buy it. The previous summer, she’d had occasion to speak to him because he kept letting his dog crash his way through her fence—admittedly a sorry affair of chicken wire strung from tree to tree—but it did the job, which was to keep Tassi safe inside—with the added bonus of being virtually invisible. His dog was big and young and unruly, whereas Tassi was relatively small and, by then, elderly. And although the dog’s intent was to play, Tassi would’ve been hurt if Kat hadn’t intervened. Three days after she’d asked Don—yes, with some vehemence—to keep his dog on his own property, a ‘For Sale’ appeared on the empty lot, and when she’d called to make an offer, he said he had no intention of ever selling it to her. She’d been anxious for weeks, knowing that she’d have to move, give up her little paradise, if someone bought the lot for a permanent residence. They’d be too close: her solitude would be forever ruined. Even if they’d bought it just for seasonal use … If they had screaming kids or ATVs or snowmobiles or late night parties or used a generator instead of paying for an electrical hook-up … The sign eventually disappeared, and a year later someone told her he’d had no intention of selling it; he’d just wanted to upset her.

Or it could have been the guy who’d called out at her from his fume-belching ATV, when she was picking up the litter along the trail—as she often did, partly just to do her bit to keep the trails clean, but, eventually, mainly because she liked it better without the beer cans and the fast food containers and the cigarette butts—that it was ‘Good to see she was good for somethin’!’ She hadn’t understood the comment until it was explained it to her: the man had probably thought she was a lesbian and so, since she wasn’t any good for sex …

Yes, she lived in what she privately called ‘a hostile neighbourhood.’ But to be honest, she wasn’t convinced it was just her neighbourhood. Men everywhere seemed to take offense when a woman spoke up, challenged them in some way. Or when she didn’t at least pretend to be sexually available to them. Women weren’t much better, either treating her like a kid, presumably because she wasn’t married with kids of her own, or treating her like she was, in some way, off-putting. She didn’t understand it. And yes, she was hurt by it.

So yes, she’d become a hermit. At sixty, she’d had enough, quite enough, of her uneducated, thick-skulled, and downright dangerous neighbours. And as for the world beyond, she found kin online. Sites like I Blame the Patriarchy and Feminist Current became her community. They were frequented by intelligent women who offered insightful discussion. Women much like her, she imagined. Radfem, for the most part. Probably over forty, for the most part.

And she was content. To live so alone. Though, actually, she didn’t live alone. Well, hadn’t lived alone until just recently. Tassi, her sole and constant companion, the love of her life, had died after fourteen years of happy, fourteen years of … sheer joy. A tumour had developed in her urethra. Malignant, aggressive, inoperable. Two months later, at the end of an absolutely wonderful day together, Kat had had her euthanized, to spare her the last stages of transitional cell carcinoma. And she was still … convalescing.

Maybe that’s why she hadn’t really noticed the car until it had pulled up beside her.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked, after the initial shock had worn off. They were on the highway, heading north. The nearest police detachment was south, in Burks Falls. But at least they weren’t headed to Barrie or Toronto, two and three hours away. Already her shoulder was hurting. She should have asked them to bind her hands in front rather than behind. Thirty years of kayaking and snow shovelling had done something rather permanent to her rotator cuff.

“North Bay. You’ll appear before a Justice of the Peace by end of business today.”

“And then? How do I get back home?”

The responded with silence. And maybe a hint of laughter.

An hour later, the officer behind the wheel pulled into an underground lot that led into to a secured entrance area. The other one helped her out of the back seat and, holding firmly onto her arm, then led her through one, then another, set of doors into what was obviously some sort of processing area. He handed some paperwork to the officer behind the counter, then left.

The processing officer took her photograph, fingerprints, and a DNA sample, then led her to an adjoining room that had benches along three walls.

“Have a seat,” he said. “It may be a while.”

“Wait—”

He turned.

“Can you undo these ties? Or at least bring them to the front?”

“Sorry, no can do.”

“But—”

He locked the door behind him.

A few hours later, it looked like she’d be spending the night. Surely if her case hadn’t been called by what she guessed was around five o’clock, it wouldn’t be called until the next day.

“Excuse me,” she called out to the officer who had relieved the day shift.

He looked up from the other side of the reception counter. It was the limit of his acknowledgement. Of her existence.

“Could you please undo these ties. I’ve lost almost all circulation, and by morning, you may have to amputate both arms. I’m serious.”

He merely grunted. But he did snip the ties. She almost screamed as the blood rushed back into her arms, setting her nerves on fire.

She’d missed supper. But she wasn’t hungry.

What she was, was tired. Dead tired. Her body wasn’t used to this kind of stress. So when she stretched out on the bench, she actually fell asleep.

Next morning, she could barely move for the pain and stiffness in her neck, her shoulders, her hips.

But move she did, led from the holding cell, along several hallways, into an elevator (yes, thank you!) (though a few flights of stairs might have loosened her up a bit), up to the third floor. Down a hall to a row of chairs outside Courtroom #5.

“Wait here,” she was told. “Your lawyer will come get you.”

Her lawyer?

The Courthouse in North Bay was not terribly imposing. She’d driven by it several times. But it was, nevertheless, official, and after a while, an armed guard came out of the room.

“Ms. Jones?”

“Yes.”

“Come with me, please.”

She was led into the dead-quiet room, up the centre aisle, to one of the two tables facing the Judge. A young woman at the table, smartly dressed in an ivory skirt and tailored jacket over a pale pink blouse, glanced at her and nodded.

“All rise. Justice Richard Meyers presiding. Court is now in session.”

The young woman stood, then pulled Kat to her feet beside her.

“The Court calls Katherine Elizabeth Jones.”

Confused, Kat stayed on her feet. Beside, presumably, her lawyer.

“Cynthia Seder, Your Honour, representing Katherine Elizabeth Jones.”

The Justice nodded, and the Clerk continued.

“Katherine Elizabeth Jones, you are charged with Gender Fraud, pursuant to The Criminal Code of Canada, Section 380(1), revised, Subsection 4(a). How do you plead?”

What? Already? She glanced over at the young woman. Who nodded again, ambiguously. But they hadn’t had a chance to speak. Well, she supposed her plea didn’t need any discussion.

“Not guilty.”

The Justice looked up at her in surprise.

“Do you dispute the facts in evidence? To wit,” he read the record of arrest, “that you were, are,” he looked at her, pointedly, “wearing men’s clothing, that you are not wearing make-up, that your hair is short and undone, that you are not wearing any jewelry, that you are unmarried, that you do not have any children, that you have had your breasts removed, that you have had your reproductive capacity nullified via tubal cauterization, and that you have pursued an advanced academic degree?”

She was stunned. How had he gotten all that information about her? And why? And when? It must have taken a while … Which meant …

“In Philosophy, no less.”

And if she were a man, that advanced academic degree, in Philosophy no less, would be evidence in favour of—well, anything.

“No,” she said, trying desperately to get up to speed, “I dispute the interpretation of the facts. Your Honour. I was, am, not intending to defraud anyone. I am not intending to deceive anyone about my identity.” She stared at her lawyer. Her absolutely useless lawyer.

“You are female, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then absent intent to deceive, your appearance and demeanour would be feminine.”

What?

“And it is not. The court orders six months treatment in a psychiatric facility.”

“Wait, what?”

The Judge banged his gavel, and the bailiff called the next case.

“I don’t understand,” Kat turned to the young woman, as two officers of the court approached her. “I’m being committed? Not just fined or …”

“Conditions justifying involuntary commitment to a psychiatric facility include gender dysphoria,” she explained, “and gender fraud is considered conclusive evidence of gender dysphoria.”

What?

“Can’t we appeal? Prove my mental capacity?” Because she could surely do that. GRE and all that.

“That would apply in the case of danger to oneself or inability to care for oneself. But in the case of Gender Fraud, you’re considered a danger to others.”

What?

“How so?”

The young woman didn’t answer.

“Wait—” Kat said as one of the officers gripped her arm and began to lead her away.

“Trust me,” the young woman assured her, “you’d rather be incarcerated in a psychiatric facility than in a prison.”

“Are you sure?” Kat said, looking over her shoulder.

“We’ll appeal, of course, but … that’ll take time. Good luck!”

What??

Kat was escorted—pulled and shoved actually, as her hands were zip-tied again, but at least in front this time—out of the room through a different doorway, into another elevator that descended one, two, three, four floors, then opened into an underground parking lot. This couldn’t be happening, she thought. When she was able to think at all.

She was forced into the back of a transport van. Two women sat on a bench along the left side of the van, their hands, similarly shackled, in their lap. Kat was directed to the bench along the right. The door was closed. And locked.

“Either one of you know what the fuck is going on?” Kat asked. Absurdly. Why would they know about her case?

One of the women was sobbing, the other looked drugged. Neither one responded.

Half an hour later, another woman was brought into the van. Then another. And another. Only one was able to speak, and she seemed as stunned as Kat.

Six was apparently maximum capacity. “That’s it!” she heard someone call out. The back panel of the van was slapped a couple times—why did guys do that?—and a minute later, it was moving. Presumably toward the psychiatric facility. What the fuck.

What happened next, when she arrived at the psychiatric facility as a court-ordered admission, was pretty much what she’d expected. She was taken into a small room. She was asked to empty her pockets, but everything she’d had with her was in her waist pack, which had already been taken. Next, she was subjected to a body cavity search, followed by a chemical shower. Probably for lice and what have you. She was given a paper gown to wear. Then a DNA swab was taken. And a blood sample. Presumably to test for contagious diseases such as HIV. She was photographed. And fingerprinted.

“If you’ll just wait here for a few moments,” the woman said, smiling—god knows why, “your counsellor is on her way.”

“My what?”

“Every resident is assigned a counsellor. In addition to the psychiatrist you’ll see once a week.”

After a few moments, a woman appeared in the doorway. She looked like she was in her thirties, but she also looked like she’d been born in the 20s. Because she looked exactly like her mother had looked, in the 50s. The hairdo, the lipstick and rouge, the plucked-quizzical eyebrows, the tasteful earrings (as her mother would have called them), the string of pearls, the belted dress with a full skirt … She even wore an apron. It was all so very … odd.

“Hello, Katherine?” She smiled. Of course she did.

“Kat.”

“But Katherine is such a pretty name.”

“It may be, but I prefer Kat.”

The woman made a note on the pad of paper she took from the pocket of her apron, then introduced herself. “I’m Mary-Anne, and I’ll be your counsellor.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“It means I’m the one who will help you adjust,” she smiled. “On a daily basis. You’ll also be seeing Dr. Gagnon, weekly.”

“Adjust to what?”

“To life here and,” she waved her hand, “out there. Eventually. We hope.”

“But I was adjusted. To life … out there.” She resisted the temptation to wave her hand.

“Well, no,” Mary-Anne said gently, “you were living like a man. And you’re a woman. That’s what I’m here to help you with. Living like a woman.”

Oh god, what rabbit hole had she fallen into?

“If you’ll come with me,” she said cheerfully, no doubt because permanent cheer was surely part of living like a woman, “we’ll get your physical out of the way first. I don’t imagine you’ll want to walk through the facility in a paper gown, so I’ve brought you some clothes. Tomorrow you can take some time to pick out your wardrobe.”

“Why can’t I just wear my own clothes? I mean, this isn’t a prison, right?” No need for the bright orange jumpsuit. Though, truthfully, she would’ve been relatively happy with that.

Mary-Anne just smiled, and handed her a medium-sized gift bag. Kat looked inside. And saw a dress. Oh god. She hadn’t worn a dress since grade ten. With knee socks, she’d always felt so exposed, but wearing leotards was worse, they were so clingy and forever twisting on her legs. When she was in grade eleven, the school allowed girls to wear jeans. Most wore Levis, which were close-fitting on the thigh and a little flared at the bottom, but fortunately ‘painter pants’ made by Lee were also in style, offering a loose, baggy fit in a lighter denim. Kat loved her painter pants.

She gingerly pulled out the dress—a lavender flower print, no less—and then saw the bra that had been tucked underneath. She burst out laughing. For one, not since university. She was small, and her twice weekly work-outs in the weight room, along with her gymnastics coaching, had kept her pecs in good shape. Even as she aged, snow shovelling and kayaking … And for two—

“Did I get the size wrong?” Mary-Anne asked.

“I don’t know,” Kat finally said, still holding the dress. “I don’t actually know what size I am.” Because—who cared? Mary-Anne made another note. In grade ten, Kat had worn a size twelve. Which was why, when she’d started hearing her students—in her forties, she’d become an sessional at Nipissing University and could finally say good-bye to the precarious patchwork of part-time jobs— When she’d started hearing her students say they were a size four or a size two, she thought surely that can’t be right. Even with anorexia. When they started saying they were trying to become a size zero, she laughed. What was next, a negative size? Yes! Agree to become invisible! Agree to actual female erasure! Young women were such idiots. Kat was often admonished, on feminist blogs open to comments, for her lack of solidarity, but she was having none of that. Once you hit your late teens, you should be thinking for yourself, and while she didn’t expect anyone to ‘wake up’ overnight, she had no patience for fools of either sex.

She looked at the label on the dress. Her painter pants had been a 28/30, then a 30/30, and her cargo pants, a 32/30. A few months ago, she’d started wearing 30/30 again; she’d lost fifteen pounds from the moment of Tassi’s diagnosis to her death and another ten since. Her t-shirts and sweatshirts were generally a large. No help there.

“Well, why don’t you try everything on and see?”

“Do you have any other outfits? Just a simple pair of pants and a … top?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Everything we do here is intended to help you.”

“Help me … how?”

Mary-Anne didn’t respond. Except to make another note.

If you wanted to help me, Kat thought, you’d let me wear comfortable clothes.

“Well, I don’t need the bra.” She stood up then, faced Mary-Anne, and shrugged the paper gown off her shoulders.

Mary-Anne gasped. “Oh. I didn’t— Have you already had bottom surgery as well?”

“What?” Kat was momentarily confused. “I didn’t get top surgery! I mean, I did, I guess, but— I’m not transsexual. It was a bilateral mastectomy. For breast cancer. Stage zero.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. We can get you a mastectomy bra.”

“Isn’t that a bit of an oxymoron?” she asked.

Mary-Anne didn’t understand.

“Since I’ve had a mastectomy, I don’t need a bra,” Kat explained.

“But—” Mary-Anne stuttered, “of course you need a bra! Back in a minute—” She hurried out of the room.

Kat just sat there. Her mind racing. And stuck. At the same time.

Mary-Anne rushed back into the room. “Here you go!”

It was a bra with built-in falsies.

“Seriously? You expect me to wear this? Why?”

Mary-Anne couldn’t say.

Kat could. “You want to sexualize me. And why do you want to do that?”

Mary-Anne couldn’t say.

Kat could. “Because sexualizing women is a way to subordinate them. And why do you want to do that?”

Mary-Anne couldn’t say.

Kat could. “Because men’s power, men’s privilege, depends on it. Well, fuck that.”

Mary-Anne gasped. And made a note.

Kat tossed the bra onto the chair. “I’m not wearing it.”

“But— You … you have to.”

Was it so incomprehensible? A woman not performing femininity? Apparently.

“No. I don’t have to. The fact that I haven’t been doing so for decades is proof of that.”

“I mean— Please. It’s for your own good. I’m just trying to help.”

Kat was tired. Suddenly very tired. If it meant she could get on with the intake, get to her room, get into a bed … She put on the clothes. What choice did she have? She felt ridiculous. She felt like she was going to a Hallowe’en party. Though actually, she recalled, for the only Hallowe’en party she’d ever gone to, back in university, she’d simply put on a flannel shirt with her jeans, added a cowboy hat, and called it a day. Her friend was not impressed. But even as a kid, playing dress-up had so not appealed to her. She just couldn’t— She felt so strange being, appearing to be, someone other than herself.

She was so not going to make it out of here.

Mary-Anne handed her another bag. “Some shoes,” she said.

Kat opened the bag. Of course. A pair of high heels. Again, she sighed, not since grade ten, and even then, low heels. Penny loafers, for the most part. Saddle shoes for a while when they made a comeback.

“I can’t walk in these.”

“Sure you can!”

“No. I can’t. I’ve never worn heels.”

Another note.

“And at sixty, I’m not about to start. I’ll twist an ankle or something.”

“Well …” Mary-Anne was thinking, “I suppose a pair of ballet slippers would do.”

“No, they don’t have any cushioning. My feet have taken a lot of pounding over the years, and now unless I have some sort of shock absorption …” About ten years ago, when she’d had to slam on the brakes, a piercing pain shot up through her leg. Her physician ruled out muscle, ligament, and tendon issues—and Kat concurred, as she’d experienced all three and this had been something quite different—and suggested that maybe the sheath of one of her nerves had simply worn thin. It would explain the occasional, out-of-the-blue pain that started happening not only when she had to slam on the brakes, but whenever she stepped on her right foot the ‘wrong’ way. That’s why she had wall-to-wall carpeting in her cabin and why she always wore thick socks. She’d tried slippers, but didn’t like the … confinement. As for outdoors, track shoes. Good track shoes. Always.

She stared at the thin soles of the high heels. No shock absorption whatsoever. And the facility probably had hard tile flooring everywhere … She suddenly had an idea. “How about a pair of nurse’s shoes?”

“Well, there might be some available,” Mary-Anne said, “but at least for now, I’m afraid you’ll just have to try …” As if Kat simply wasn’t making the effort. As if women who didn’t wear make-up, who didn’t at least try to look good, were lazy. Kat sighed. It was an attitude she recognized.

It took half an hour to get to the infirmary. Which was just down the hall and around the corner. Kat didn’t want to take any chances. And yes, she exaggerated her difficulty a little. She hugged the wall, trailing one hand along it for balance, and for each step, lifted her foot straight up so as not to catch the heel and then put it down full weight so as not to teeter.

“Try putting one foot directly in front of the other,” Mary-Anne had encouraged. “You want to walk in a straight line.”

“No, I do not. Want to walk in a straight line.” What was next, practising with a book balanced on her head?

Mary-Anne surely made another note.

The institution was clean, Kat was happy to see. But very white. Winters were long in the north, and a few years prior, she’d become so tired of nothing but white and dark green and grey and white and dark green and white and grey that she’d bought some diffraction sheets to hang in her cabin windows so when she looked out, she saw rainbow streaks. She discovered, with delight, that she could buy a pair of clip-ons for her glasses that did the same thing, and she often wore them while walking through the winter wonderland forest. Because her cabin was tucked in a cove, she couldn’t see the sunset—a great disappointment, though the privacy of her location was good compensation and, at least for six months of the year, she could make sure she was out on the lake at sunset. So, and, she filled her cabin with orange and magenta and fuchsia—the carpeting, her bedding, the covers on her couch and her tv lounge chair—the only pieces of furniture other than her desk and its chair … God, she missed her cabin already. How was she going to get through this? Not being able to see the sparkling water all day— Not being able to go kayaking or walking every afternoon, all afternoon— It was going to send her into some sort of withdrawal.

They passed several offices and various rooms of all sizes—recreational areas?

“All of the residential rooms are on the upper floors,” Mary-Anne said, in a perky tour guide voice. “On the ground floor, we have our administrative offices, the infirmary, the cafeteria, a few on-site services, and the classrooms.”

Classrooms?

The infirmary, she saw once they got there, was impressive. Clean. Spacious. Staffed. Supplied. Perhaps they’d spent so much effort on that in order to minimize the need for patients, residents, to go off-site. She wondered what the mentioned ‘on-site services’ included.

Kat was given a clipboard on which there was a five-page questionnaire to fill out. She checked most of the ‘no’ boxes and listed her few surgeries: as a child, she’d had her tonsils removed; in her twenties, she’d broken her elbow when a car hit her motorcycle, requiring the insertion, and later the removal, of a pin; at thirty, she’d gotten herself sterilized—neutered, as she liked to think of it; and in her early fifties, she had the bilateral mastectomy. She’d had no illnesses to speak of, she wasn’t taking any medications …

“No medications at all?” the nurse asked when she scanned her questionnaire. “You’re … sixty-one.”

“Yes. No. Just a multi-vitamin, one of those eye tablets when I think of it—”

“You mean the AREDS formulation? For macular degeneration?”

“That’s it.”

“You’ve been diagnosed?”

“No, it’s just a precaution.” Because if she ever became unable to read, to see … “I understand it’s recommended for people over fifty.”

“It is. Good for you. Anything else?”

“Vitamin C, especially in the winter, when my fruit consumption decreases, and B12 when my back acts up.”

“Your back?”

She explained. She’d gotten shingles—she’d thought she’d just been scratched when she’d had to negotiate her way through a dense tangle of bushes and trees to get to Tassi, who was stupidly, dangerously, challenging a raccoon, but over the weekend it got worse, not better, eventually feeling like someone had slashed her back with a knife. When she went to her doctor on the Monday, she was told it was shingles—and that she’d missed the 48-hour window during which medication would have almost guaranteed no permanent nerve damage. So now, every now and then, the nerves on the left side of her back started to tingle, but, fortunately, if she took a large dose of B12 right away, the tingling went away. And, so far, never developed into the searing pain that can apparently occur with permanent nerve damage.

“Ah. Your doctor recommended that?”

“No, I googled. And I’ve since been told it’s common among baseball players with nerve damage in their shoulders. My doctor recommended the shingles vaccination, because you can get it twice, so I went ahead with that as well.”

“Yes, good. Any other vaccinations? When was your last tetanus shot?”

“I have no idea. I went to Europe, oh, twenty years ago, and had some sort of package vaccination then, against hepatitis and some other stuff, I think. Had to get one shot, then go back, and get another. I’m now covered for life, I think.”

“Probably Twinrix.”

“Yes, that sounds familiar.”

She looked again at the form Kat had filled out.

“You’re not taking estrogen? A woman of your age?”

“No.”

“But— Surely your physician recommended that you do so. There are many health benefits—”

“Actually, she didn’t.” It was, after all, ten years ago. When things were … so very different.

“But every woman past menopause should be on estrogen. To compensate for the reduced production …”

“No thank you.”

The nurse made a note.

Did they interpret a refusal to take estrogen as a sign of gender dysphoria, a sign of illness?

“All right then,” she put down the clipboard, “I’d like to update your tetanus and give you a broad-based antibiotic. We keep our residents pretty healthy, but living in close quarters with so many people … we want to be proactive.”

With some reluctance, aware of the spiralling downside of antibiotics, Kat gave her consent. Though, truthfully, it wasn’t clear the nurse was asking for it.

“And can I keep up with the AREDS? And the vitamins?”

“Yes, I’ll make a note in your file and issue you some of each. You can keep them in your room. Other meds will have to be controlled by the dispensary, you understand.”

Kat nodded.

The nurse proceeded with a brief physical, pronounced her pulse and blood pressure to be excellent, took several vials of blood, gave her a couple injections, and then indicated that she was good to go.

“Feel free to make an appointment whenever you feel you need to. We don’t often see seniors in as good a condition as you,” she smiled, “and we want to keep you that way!”

Then let me the fuck out of here, Kat wanted to reply.

“Now, are you hungry?” Mary-Anne had been waiting for her in the outer room. “It’s past dinner, but I can get you something to eat.”

She hadn’t eaten since … yesterday morning. She usually had half a sticky bun or a small piece of tiropita, a Greek pastry she’d discovered when she’d lived in Toronto, for breakfast. After her hike, she had some fruit, and then later some stir-fried veggies or a slice of pizza. And then a bit of snacking through the evening. Raisins in peanut butter or a handful of chocolate-covered pecans.

But she wasn’t hungry. Must be the stress, she thought. The shock of it all.

“No, thanks.”

“Okay, then, here’s your welcome package,” she handed her a thin file folder. “In it, you’ll find our list of Rules and Responsibilities, which we expect you to follow. There’s also a map of the facility. Meals are in the cafeteria at the stipulated times. Eventually, we hope that you’ll become part of our Kitchen Team.”

Not fucking likely, Kat thought. She didn’t even have a kitchen. She had a kitchen counter. A sink and a fridge. She’d gotten rid of the oven to put in a doggy door. The counter held a microwave, a toaster oven, a hotplate, and a kettle. It was all she needed.

“I’ll take you to your room then!”

Good. Kat wanted very much to be left alone. She’d interacted with more people in the last two days than she usually did in two months. This was going to be hard. Very hard.

As Mary-Anne led the way out of the infirmary, down the hall, toward the stairs, Kat followed. Tried to follow. Fell off the heels. The file folder went flying.

“Damn it!”

Mary-Anne sucked in her breath. “No swearing, please.” She bent to help Kat pick up the scattered sheets.

“Well, I’m going to twist an ankle wearing these things.”

“Are they the wrong size?”

“No, they’re the wrong height. I told you, I’ve never worn heels before. I haven’t mastered walking on mini-stilts.”

“You’ve—you’ve neverworn heels before?” She made another note. Then resumed leading the way.

“No, so just slow the fuck down!”

“Please, Katherine, language!”

“Don’t tell me how to talk! I can use whatever language I want!” She sounded like a child. She knew it. But.

“Well, I guess you can, but you’ll rack up so many demerit points, you’ll never get out of here! Is that what you want?”

Kat was so busy trying to walk, Mary-Anne’s words didn’t quite register.

“You’ll be sharing with Holly,” she said pleasantly as she started up the stairs.

Oh. No.

“I don’t mind being by myself,” she said. Lightly. She hoped.

“But we do, I’m afraid.”

Did they consider her a suicide risk? No, more likely, they thought women were supposed to be social. Maybe she could get the earplugs that had been in her waist pack. Maybe she could get herself committed to solitary. Did that happen in psychiatric institutions?

As they neared the room, her room-mate’s name registered. Could Holly be Holly? How many people named Holly lived in North Bay? Assuming that this facility would be filled first, or mostly, with those nearest. And that Holly had moved back. They’d fallen out of touch when she’d married and moved to Ottawa. Though probably it was the marriage more than the move that had led to the dissolution of their friendship. Kat hadn’t accepted Holly’s invitation to the wedding. She couldn’t, given her views about marriage. Simply put, as far as Kat was concerned, it was institutionalized sexism. Being a wife—well, frankly, she’d been flabbergasted when Holly had announced that she was getting married. She wasn’t the type. At all. She’d thought. And since Kat thought it was a grave mistake, she couldn’t possibly support it by attending the wedding. But, as Holly had pointed out, the wedding was important to her and as a friend— But if it was so important to her— Holly hadn’t even introduced her to Darryl. It was all very strange.

The last time Kat had seen Holly was during a quick visit outside on the campus of the university; Kat was a sessional by then, teaching a few courses, Applied Ethics of one kind or another and Critical Thinking, and Holly was finishing up her Master’s degree. She’d just gotten a dog, and Kat had wanted to meet it. (Okay, conceded, she hadn’t actually asked to meet Darryl.) It was a delightful pup, whom Holly had jokingly said she was going to name ‘Gun’. It took Kat a second, but she burst out with a laugh.

Kat had tried to maintain the friendship. But after a few weeks, her emails went unanswered. She’d been especially concerned when she’d asked Holly if she could email a completed screenplay—she’d had aspirations at the time, justified in that what she enjoyed writing most was dialogue, and was, she thought, good at it, but naïve in that getting a screenplay produced was all but impossible even if one had connections. She wasn’t asking Holly to read it; she was just asking if she could send it in order to establish a sort of copyright—the email would be dated, so if she ever had to prove that the screenplay was hers, was written in such and such a year … Holly had refused. Why? Darryl had advised her to. Why? She didn’t say.

In fact, it was Holly who’d provided the idea for the screenplay. She’d been trying to become a firefighter for years, and although she was amazingly fit, working out every day, and a very likely candidate, as she’d been a volunteer for Search and Rescue for years, she kept failing the physical test. As she’d explained, with great anger, the test favored men of a certain height and weight. First, the push-ups and sit-ups requirement. Push-ups favor bodies with a high center of gravity. For the most part, male bodies rather than female bodies. Sit-ups, on the other hand, favored bodies with a lower center of gravity. Female bodies. Applicants had to do fifty push-ups, but only thirty sit-ups. Second, the timed test for getting a folded hose off the rack and carrying it twenty feet. The rack was about five and a half feet off the ground. Shoulder height if you were over six feet tall. If you were five-four, it was over your head. Shoulder height was nice if that’s where your center of gravity was. Hip height would be nice for women. Around three feet off the ground. No matter how hard Holly tried— To lift the hose off the rack and keep her balance, she’d have to stand with her feet apart and her knees bent. But then she wouldn’t be able to reach it. To reach the hose, she’d have to stand on her tippy-toes, feet together. Which meant she’d topple over as soon as she got it off the rack. Third, running an eight-minute mile fully equipped. The smallest heavy coat was still too big, she’d told Kat. It flapped around her ankles. And the boots. It was like wearing clown shoes. So of course she kept tripping. Of course it took more than eight minutes. And climbing ten flights of stairs, let alone a ladder—so equipped— Out of the question.

All of which, Holly had pointed out, was stupid. There was no reason they couldn’t put racks at different heights. No reason they couldn’t make the coat and boots (and gloves) in women’s sizes. And every reason to do that. Yes, a firefighter crew needs the brute force bodies. They could hold up the roof when it was collapsing and move the heavy stuff that had fallen on top of people. But it also needs small, yet flexible and strong, bodies to crawl under and behind, to rescue hidden and terrified kids.

Had Holly gotten pregnant? Was that the reason for the sudden and uncharacteristic decision to get married? Kat had considered the possibility. But no, that would have been even more puzzling. First, Holly would’ve been on contraception. Second, if the contraception had failed, she would’ve gotten an abortion. As far as Kat knew, Holly didn’t want kids. She was so not the nurturing type.

Which was another reason Kat had lamented the loss of her friendship. Women who were mothers seemed to become … someone else. Over the years, having kids, more often than getting married, seemed the reason for Kat’s shrinking social circle.

As soon as she entered the room, she saw that it was indeed Holly. Fifteen years older, of course, and not in her usual sweats and track shoes, but— Kat broke into a smile. A nervous smile.

“Holly, this is Katherine, your new roommate,” Mary-Anne said.

Holly glanced at Kat, then stared, surprise and what might have been dismay, seeping across her face.

“Holly, I trust you’ll provide an orientation for our new guest,” Mary-Anne said cheerfully.

“Yes, of course!” Holly responded. As cheerfully. It was eerie.

“Well then, I’ll leave you two girls to get acquainted!”

Both of them winced at the word.

After Mary-Anne’s departure, they faced each other awkwardly. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, a moment’s deliberation, Holly flicked her head ever so slightly to an upper corner of the room where, Kat saw, there was a camera. Probably with a microphone.

Kat turned her glance into a full appraisal of the room. Each side was identical. A bed. A closet that was bigger than she’d need, and a desk that was smaller than she’d like. No windows. No bookcases.

“Mine?” she nodded to one of the beds. It was hard to tell because they were both made up so neatly. So unslept in. Well, not for long, that.

“Yeah.”

Kat sat down heavily. Sighing, she kicked off her damned shoes. One hit the wall above her bed, the other narrowly missed Holly.

“Hey!”

“Sorry.” She lay back then, rolled over, and curled into a fetal position.

“Yeah.” Holly repeated. “We’ll chat in the morning.” Or not.

But Kat didn’t fall asleep. Couldn’t. Her mind was racing, trying to catch up. She was incarcerated in a psychiatric institution. For six months. Simply because she wasn’t feminine. It was insane.

Okay, first things first. Her cabin. She hadn’t left any appliances on, she hadn’t left any windows open, the furnace wasn’t on, but it wasn’t winter, so the pipes wouldn’t freeze … All of her bills were on automatic payment, and she had enough in her account for the next six months. And then— Hopefully before then, hopefully well before then— There had to be a way …

The door to her cabin was unlocked though. She never locked it when she went into the forest. Truth be told, she didn’t lock it when she drove into town either. Her car would be in the driveway though, so things would seem— No, someone could notice that her lights never came on. But who could she call? The police? They were responsible to grabbing her off the road … On second thought, better to leave it unlocked. If anyone wanted to rob the place—though who would be interested in books and classical music?—she didn’t even have a flat-screen tv yet, because as long as the old one was working—then at least they wouldn’t have to break her windows. Her precious, gorgeous, five by five windows looking out at the water …

Thank god Tassi was no more. When Kat thought of what might have happened if she’d still been alive— She would’ve been taken to some kennel, as there was no one Kat knew who would look after her for six months, and she wouldn’t have understood— She would’ve waited and waited, dying slowly of a broken heart, abandoned by the one she loved …

GenJen: Hey, ThinkAboutIt, I’ve been going through your archive—great stuff!! I especially like your piece on all the Gender Recognition Acts, back when.

↳ ThinkAboutIt: Thank you!

Youngun: What are Gender Recognition Acts?

GenJen: In the UK, The Gender Recognition Act allowed adults to officially register a change to the gender assigned at birth. But as ThinkAboutIt points out, gender isn’t assigned at birth. Sex is. And you can’t change sex. You can’t go from XY chromosomes to XX chromosomes. You can get plastic surgery and take hormone injections, and that’ll affect your secondary sexual characteristics, but that doesn’t change your sex. Your secondary sexual characteristics change anyway through your life; before puberty and after menopause, males and females are more similar than they are during the 35 years in between, just half of their lives, of sexual maturity. According to the Act, applicants had to “provide psychiatric assessments and proof of living for two years in the gender they wish to be officially recognised”. That doesn’t make sense. Whoever wrote that must have meant sex, not gender. We’ve never officially recognized people for being feminine or masculine.

ExAcademe: California’s Gender Recognition Act said one could request that the gender marker on a California birth certificate be listed as “male,” “female,” or “nonbinary.” Again (and again and again), gender is not sex! And except for intersexual people, sex is binary. Biological fact. ‘Nonbinary’ refers to gender; it indicates that one prefers to be neither exclusively masculine nor feminine. And that has no place on a birthcertificate, since one is not born with gender.

RiseUp: In Canada, the Canadian Human Rights Act was amended to add “gender identity or expression” as a prohibited ground of discrimination, so it became illegal to deny services, employment, accommodation, and what have you because of a person’s gender identity or gender expression. At least within a federally regulated industry. And that would have been great. About time, actually. No more firing female airline attendants if they don’t wear make-up, to name but one example (assuming airlines are a federally regulated industry). If only they’d interpreted the amendment correctly!!

BigRed: Yeah, it was seriously messed up.

↳ LovesSarcasm: But a shining example of international harmony!

ThinkAboutIt: Yeah, interesting phenomenon. I still haven’t figured out how so many countries—half! worldwide!—so quickly adopted legislation that (1) used the wrong word, and (2) allowed people to officially change their sex, (3) just on their say so.

Word: The gender recognition acts weren’t the first to make that mistake. Years prior, forms started changing, didn’t you notice? Instead of asking you for your SEX, with boxes for Male and Female, they started asking for your GENDER—same two boxes. I always corrected the form.

↳ LovesSarcasm: I always wrote ‘My favorite color is none of your business!’

Word: The problem (well, a problem) is, if gender means sex, what word do we use to refer to gender? And if we don’t have a word for something …

↳ BigRed: The same thing is happening with ‘vagina’. It now means female crotch or groin. Apparently. Because I’m reading about women who shave their vagina. WTF? You do NOT want to stick a razor blade up your vagina!! Quite apart from there’s NO HAIR in there!

↳ Word: Yes! And so what word do we use to refer to the tunnel to the uterus through which semen can reach our eggs and result in pregnancy? I mean, if the word for that has disappeared, then how do we get pregnant?

↳ LoveSarcasm: Immaculate conception.

↳ GenJen: It boggles the mind.

RiseUp: I think a partial explanation can be found in the desire to be tolerant. (Or at least the desire to be seento be tolerant.) Respect for other people’s opinions is considered a sign of maturity. In the 60s and 70s, ‘we’ started ‘accepting’ gays, lesbians, and bisexuals. After a while, transsexuals were added: LGB became LGBT.

↳ Word: A category mistake if there ever was one! ‘LGB’ refers to one’s sexual orientation, to which sex one was sexually attracted to. ‘T’ refers to—well, that’s part of the problem. A big part of the problem. ‘Transsexual’ got changed to ‘transgender’ somehow. Regardless, it doesn’t refer to sexual orientation.

↳ BigRed: Weren’t they initially called transvestites? Men who dressed in women’s clothing. Big deal.

↳ Word: Yes, we also had a word for women who dressed in men’s clothing: tomboys. The word has (or at least had) less stigma attached.

↳ BigRed: You’re right! Interesting … about the relative stigma. But it wasn’t just (or completely) about dressing in men’s clothing. Tomboys were simply girls who didn’t embrace all the feminine shit.

↳ Carol33: But weren’t transvestites the same? Wasn’t clothing just part of it for them too?

↳ Abby8: I’m okay with transvestites. It’s fine if a guy wants to dress in women’s clothes. As Word implies, women have been dressing in men’s clothes forever. I’m even okay with transsexuals—it’s an extreme body modification, and can only be partial, but it’s on the spectrum: tattoos and piercings on one end, bigger boobs in the middle, penis turned inside out on the other end. But transgenders? Why do we even need a word for it? I’ll tell you. Because cowardly men started thinking they had to change sex in order to change gender. And because they were stupid as well, they used the word ‘gender’ instead of ‘sex’. Or maybe because they thought of themselves as such special snowflakes, they wanted a word, a new word—’transgender’—just for them. And they chose badly.

↳ RiseUp: Yes! Let’s legitimize men’s actions by reference to what women do! ’Bout time!

↳ LovesScience: I’m not okay with transsexuals. They too are using the wrong word. Since you can’t change your chromosomes, you can’t change your sex. So calling themselves transsexual is lying.

↳ GenJen: And transsexuals take hormones. That might put their body modifications onto a different spectrum.

↳ LoveSarcasm: The one with guys who take steroids?

↳ Shazaam: Transgendered men are nothing other than male tomboys. They should’ve just called themselves bettygirls.

↳ Word: Oh, I like that!

↳ Abby8: Except that tomboys typically don’t get surgery or take hormones.

↳ LovesScience: Because they understand that you don’t have to change your sex in order to change your gender.

↳ OffTopic: Remember drag queens? What were they? Transvestites? Transsexual wannabes? Transgenders? Just opportunistic homosexuals?

↳ SeeJaneScream: Whatever, they mocked the straitjacket of femininity those of us who are born female have to contend with, one way or another. Except they mocked, by overstatement, by exaggeration, not the straitjacket, but us. It was as if they were ridiculing us, making fun of the shit so many of us have to do to get by. As women. Not realizing that if we didn’t, we’d be ostracized, not hired, sometimes fired. Their ignorance alone was an insult. It’s like a white man singing Al Jolson in blackface, blissfully, shamefully, completely unaware of racism. More here[1] on the radfem analysis of drag queens.

ExAcademe: I think another explanation for the widespread embrace of transgenderism was the postmodernism fad in university programs. According to postmodernism, there is no truth. There is only your truth and my truth. We constructreality.

↳ LovesSarcasm: Click your heels together three times and say ‘There is no gravity.’

↳ RiseUp: Yes! It’s like they think how one feels is more important than any physical reality. Subjectivity trumps objectivity.

↳ ExAcademe: It’s not quite that subjectivity trumps objectivity. Post-modernism says objectivity is impossible.

↳ GenJen: Either way, it’s very compatible with the princess/entitled male phenomena: me, me, me, I’m the center of the universe.

ThinkAboutIt: Interesting comments … But I wonder whether postmodernism created all those special little snowflakes or whether snowflakes created postmodernism.

ExAcademe: I think second-wave feminists, especially those who didn’t stay in academia, forget that third-wave feminists became feminists largely because of their university studies—Women’s Studies, then Gender Studies.

GenJen: Or at least have been influenced by the material in those programs.

DrWho: On that note—the post-modernism note, not the third-wave feminist note—there’s been a serious decline in critical thinking. (Pity it’s not a mandatory course in first year.) That’s probably another reason for the blanket adoption of Gender Recognition Acts. To be critical is considered a flaw! People criticize me all the time for being judgmental.

↳ LovesSarcasm: The irony.

DrWho: Indeed. And the two are related, of course: if one is to tolerate everything, accept everything, then who needscritical thinking? Who needs to know how to judge, how to evaluate, how to determine whether X is right or wrong, whether Y is better or worse than Z …

ThinkAboutIt: And again, I wonder whether the increase in tolerance led to a decline in critical thinking or whether a decline in critical thinking led to the increase in tolerance.

SeeJaneScream: No doubt the opportunists among us—i.e., men—saw the cult of tolerance as a good thing: if everyone tolerates everything, everyone can ‘get away’ with everything. No doubt they also endorse the lack of critical thinking: no standards of judgment means no passing judgment. Yippee.

BigRed: I agree. This whole ‘inclusive’ shit is just Tolerance 2.0. What’s so good about including everything and everyone? What’s so wrong about excluding some things and some people?

Word: Yes! When the word ‘discrimination’ entered the popular vocabulary, people understood it to be negative, they thought that all discrimination was bad, instead of recognizing that sometimes discrimination is justified. The designated parking spaces closest to buildings for people using wheelchairs is discrimination, but few people object to them because they’re justified! Classic overgeneralization, that mistaken understanding of ‘discrimination’. Symptomatic of lesser minds.

Carol33: The problem with tolerance is that it doesn’t discriminate, it makes no judgments. Maybe that’s why it’s so popular, in a world full of people unable to make judgements, incapableof critical thinking.

ExAcademe: And it’ll take us, of course, into an amoral world, one in which there is no right or wrong, no good or bad, because everything’s okay. Do you really want to live in that world? Fine. Let me hire unqualified people. Because otherwise, I’m being exclusionary.

↳ LovesSarcasm: Will you hire me to be a pilot? Because I really feel like I could be good at it.

RiseUp: But let’s not forget all the irrational, emotional causes. Tolerance and post-modernism and the embrace of transgenderism became fashionable, even contagious(viral) thanks to social media. And legislators are not immune to either, emotion and social media, directly and/or indirectly.

ExAcademe: Yes, that’s another thing second-wavers forget to include in their analyses. The old ‘peer pressure’ is nothing—nothing—compared to the power of social media.

GenJen: I read an article that suggested that there was a pattern in girls’ schools, where they were ‘transitioning’ in clusters. One girl decided she was a boy and got to wear pants instead of skirts, then two or three others decided they were boys and so got to wear pants too.

↳ LovesSarcasm: Yeah, much better to change your sex than lobby to change the uniform.

Shazaam: And like a lot of immature people, transpeople—at least some of them—and why shouldn’t they have the option of being immature, just like the rest of us—want the attention that comes when you do something extreme. It has nothing to do with gender or sex per se. Look at all the press they got back when it all started. Bruce Jenner crowned Woman of the Year. Puh-lease!

↳ BigRed: Though that might have been the ‘freak factor’ at work.

↳ Shazaam: True, but restroom laws changed. For what, less than one percent of the population?

↳ SeeJaneScream: Less than half of one percent!

↳ ExAcademe: Because, as RiseUp pointed out, it’s a fashion fueled by social media. And fashions fueled by social media take off more quickly and more than fashions fueled by face-to-face social interaction. Things go viral. That’s the difference, the power, of social media.

↳ RiseUp: Too bad we haven’t harnessed that power for good.

↳ ThinkAboutIt: Oh but we have. At least, people are working on that. Political movements. Health movements. Disease vectors. So much more is possible now. If only …

↳ Word: Yeah. If only.

__________

https://www.feministcurrent.com/2014/04/25/why-has-drag-escaped-critique-from-feminists-and-the-lgbtq-community

*

(free download of the complete novel at pegtittle.com)

1

A woman in her mid-twenties, wearing a simple blouse, skirt, and heels, waits in a room. A room that looks much like a cell, with its concrete floor, its concrete walls. She sits at a bare table. In an uncomfortable chair. She pulls a folder from her bag and lays it onto the table in front of her.

Two young men, both in their early twenties, both in prison garb—pity it’s not bright pink instead of bright orange—are brought in by guards who sit them in the two chairs opposite her, then cuff their hands to the heavy rings set into the table. They stare at her.

“Who are you?” the first one finally asks.

She stares back. Disbelief on her face. “Who am I?”

“Yeah. Are you our new lawyer? Figures.” He snorts with disgust.

He doesn’t recognize her. She looks at the second one. He too— Do we really all look the same to you? Was it that simple? That horrible?

“I’m the waitress at Bud’s Bar.”

“Oh yeah,” the first one says, after a moment, “you do look a little familiar.”

“I’m the woman you assaulted. Sexually.”

“No,” he says. Casually.

“What do you mean ‘No’?”

“We didn’t sexually assault anyone. Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he adds. Then looks at the second one. “Do you know what she’s talking about?”

The second one shakes his head, grinning slightly. He’d like to cross his arms on his chest, but the shackles prevent it. Instead, he leans back as far as possible and spreads his legs far apart.

“That night, after closing,” she—reminds? No, can’t be. Insists.

“That was you? Okay, yeah …” The first one smiles. As if remembering a rather pleasant day at the beach.

“But,” he leans forward slightly and expresses genuine confusion, “you wanted it. Didn’t she?” He turns to his buddy for confirmation. Because it wasn’t really a question. “You remembered it wrong,” he turns back to her, then leans back. “As we said in court.”

No doubt. Victims were no longer required, forced, to face their assailants. In a public courtroom, no less. It was finally understood that the shame and intimidation could be too strong, too influential, especially in cases of domestic abuse—a misnomer if ever, since there was nothing domestic about having your body beaten beyond recognition by the man you (thought you) loved, the man you married by choice.

Some had objected to the change, reasoning that if the victim didn’t have to look her or his assailant in the eye, she or he would feel free to embellish and fabricate.

But other arguments had prevailed, and now victims presented their testimony in closed chambers with only the judge, the prosecuting attorney, and the defendants’ lawyers present. In some circumstances, a friend or family member was allowed to be present for emotional support. A recording was made and, if applicable, shown to the jury during deliberation. Testimony seemed as honest, as accurate, and not nearly as reluctantly given. There was talk of extending the change to all crimes.

“I didn’t remember it wrong!” she says with some vehemence. “It was raining. You offered me a ride.”

“And you said ‘Yes,’” he says. Smugly. She is so naïve.

“To the ride! Not to sex!” Did they really think that consent to the one meant consent to the other? That when a woman accepted a ride—or an invitation to a party, or a drink, or dinner … Perhaps. After all, men defined … everything. She sighed.

“As I recall,” the first one continues, “you said ‘Yes, please’.” He grins. Case closed.

And yet, here they were.

“Did you hear me say ‘Yes’?” she asks. “To the sex.”

“Didn’t hear you say ‘No,’“ the first one snickers.

“But I did. Say ‘No.’ Several times. Loudly. Clearly.”

“Didn’t hear you,” he says. Cheerfully. Definitively.

“Besides which,” she ignores that, tries to ignore that, “it’s not like the default is consent. You don’t assume ‘Yes’ unless otherwise indicated. You assume ‘No’ unless otherwise indicated.”

“Well, maybe we can just agree to disagree about that,” he smiles. It’s such a patronizing smile.

She tries to ignore that as well.

“Do you figure you have the right to just walk into someone’s house without an invitation? Walk down their halls, into their rooms … “ She shuddered. Every time— She’d have to move.

He doesn’t respond. It was a stupid question. That was break and enter.

“Do you think the rules are ‘It’s okay unless the person says it’s not’?” she persists.

Again, he doesn’t respond.

“Then what makes you think you have the right to come into my body without an invitation?”

They refuse to accept the analogy. She knew they would. A woman’s body isn’t a house. It’s public property. That was part of why contraception and abortion were … issues.

Of course, she doesn’t accept the analogy either. Her body wasn’t her house. It was her. And after such a … violation, she couldn’t just move.

“So, what, we have to asknow?” He stares at her in disbelief.

What? She stares at him in disbelief. “Yes!” Why was that so … objectionable?

Ah. To ask for permission is a sign of weakness.

“Then again,” she reconsiders, “no. Because if you have to ask whether a woman wants you, she probably doesn’t. If she wants you, she’ll move toward you, rather than away from you. For starters.” How clueless were these guys?

And then it occurs to her. Neither one of them had probably ever made love. Or even made like. They had never engaged in simple, mutual pleasuring.

So they honestly didn’tknow. They genuinely thought this was the way it was supposed to be. Because it was all they’d ever seen. In the porn they no doubt watched. It was all they’d ever heard about. From their bragging buddies.

Why is rape something to brag about?

Even if they’d gone to a prostitute— Most are raped while on the job.

What these guys needed were a few sessions with a sex therapist.

Absent love, or even friendship, genuinefriendship, between young men and women, that might lead to affectionate sexual interaction …

But the male-female divide was so great now—walk into any toy store—it was nearly impossible to cross over and just talk to someone on the other side. Surely a prerequisite. What would they talk about? All they knew about the other, all they’d been told, by television, by advertisements …

Worse, all they knew about the other’s sexuality, informed not just by porn, but also, even, by the ubiquitous pop music saturating their lives, pumping them full of sexualized energy—it was a far cry from the Pointer Sisters singing about a slow hand …

’Course even back then, did menlisten to the Pointer Sisters? They laughed at Barry White.

“We didn’t mean to hurt you,” the second one speaks up. “We just meant to have a little fun.”

What? She stares at him. Surely they’ve seen the photographs. (Though even absent physical injury …) Their lawyer must have presented that evidence during a pre-trial meeting. The prosecutor would surely have presented that evidence during the trial. Maybe they had their eyes closed. Their heads stuck in the sand.

She opens the folder and spreads the eight-by-tens onto the table in front of them. Like tarot cards.

“Does that look like fun? For me?” she has to add.

The first one glances at the photographs, then looks up at her. He shrugs. He has no idea what she considers fun. It’s not really his concern, is it.

The second one’s eyes widen before he looks away.

She repeats her question. “Does that look like I’m having fun?”

No, of course not. When people, almost always men, said ‘We were just having fun,’ what they meant was ‘We don’t want to be held responsible for what we did’ or ‘We didn’t think it through.’

“Sorry,” the first one shrugs. “Is that what you want to hear? Is this one of those victims’ rights things? Are you here to tell us what bad boys we are?” He laughs and grins at his friend. Who grins back.

“No, I’m here to ask why.” It was another change. These meetings, these confrontations, between victim and perpetrator, were permitted as part of the process. Any recommendations, by the victim, regarding sentencing, would be taken into consideration.

“Why did you rape me?” She asks the question.

“Because we could,” the first one says. The second one giggles. Sort of.

This is all just a big joke to them. She is just a big joke to them.

One of the guards happens to pass by the door, so she signals to him. She needs a break.

*

“We thought you were okay with it,” the second one said, perhaps a little too eagerly, as soon as she returned. “We thought you wanted it. It wasn’t rape,” he insisted. “It was just—sex.”

She selected one of the photographs from the folder. “You thought I wanted—this?” She stood, to lean across the table and shove it in his face. “Why in god’s name would you think anyonewould want this?”

“Okay, maybe we, maybe he,” he nodded to his buddy, “got a little carried away, but …”

His buddy smirked.

“Why would you think I wanted any of it?” she asked. Still standing. Still very much standing. “Why would you think I wanted some guys I don’t even know to stick their dicks into me? At all?”

“But you know us! We’re regulars!”

Well, that was true. She sat down. It was partly why she’d accepted the ride. They were regulars. And they seemed like nice guys. In fact, she thought they were students at the university. None of which, now, seemed to vouch for their character, their morality.

“That’s not—that’s not knowingyou. And even if I did know you, that doesn’t mean I want to have sex with you.”

“But you’re always smiling at us,” the second one said. With what seemed to be genuine confusion.

“It’s my job!” she protested. It was every woman’s job. To smile at men. To appease them. To make them feel good. But then— Damned if you do …

And no wonder men didn’t like it when women didn’t smile.

“I was just being friendly!” She saw that she had to spell it out. “When a woman is friendly toward you, that doesn’t mean she wants to have sex with you!” Were they so blind to nuance, to subtlety, to the whole spectrum of social engagement?

Perhaps. Thanks to cell phones and social media, society seemed to be devolving, moving backwards, from complexity to simplicity. Texting prevented full expression. Emoticons were essentially pictograms.

Men in particular seemed insensitive to … communication. She was going to say they weren’t as good with words as women, then she was going to say they weren’t as good with body language …

It would make things so much easier if we were open and clear, if we didn’t have such a taboo about talkingabout sex. Though, oddly enough, words like fuck and cunt seem to come pretty easily to most people. Most men. So why isn’t ‘Do you want to have sex?’ just as not-awkward?

Perhaps these two were just especially inept, misinterpreting social signals, failing to appreciate the multiple possibilities.

Or maybe there were no multiple possibilities for men. Men considered caressing to be foreplay. They considered kissing to be foreplay. In fact, everything but penetration was considered foreplay, was considered something inevitably leading to penetration. Because sex was defined as penetration, as penis-in-vagina. Women, on the other hand, might define a caress, or a kiss, or any of several other things, things other than penetration, as the desirable end point in and of itself.

Or maybe—maybe she was the one who didn’t know the language. The thought startled her. Maybe she was the inept one. Maybe accepting one kind of invitation did mean accepting another. Now.

No, maybe men and women just used different languages. And there wasn’t a word for ‘no’ in their language. Not that could be spoken by a woman.

“You didn’t scream,” the second one said. Trying to explain.

“I’m not a screamer. I use my words. And I did say ‘No.’”

And actually, she did scream. When the first one—

“‘No means yes, yes means anal,’“ the first one said. And laughed. “Didn’t you get the memo? Came from Yale even.”

So he did hear her. Say ‘No’.

“I also said ‘STOP!’ and ‘GET OFF ME!’ Tell me, what part of ‘STOP!’ and ‘GET OFF ME!’ didn’t you understand?”

“We thought you were just—”

“Did I look like I was just— What, bluffing? Kidding?” How could they know? They didn’t look at her. Not really.

“You didn’t fight back.”

“I did so! I tried to push you off me. I tried to get out from under you.”

He shrugged.

“And anyway, why should I have to fight back? Victims of other kinds of assault don’t have to prove they resisted or that they didn’t consent.”

“Well yeah. Because no one in their right mind would consent to be beaten up.” He laughed.

She stared at him. Waiting. In vain.

“We didn’t think you meant it,” the second one said.

Right. Men never took women seriously. Why should this be any different? What we say, what we do— None of it means anything. Certainly not anything important.

“Didn’t you notice that I suddenly went still?” She’d hoped that that would minimize the injuries. If she stopped moving, stopped struggling—

“Yeah,” the first one said. “We just figured you were frigid or something.”

She considered that.

“Okay, and what does that mean? Doesn’t it mean a woman doesn’t enjoy sexual intercourse?” Or that you’re not doing it right. Or that she’s just not into you. “So … wouldn’t that make you stop?”

He shrugged.

She sighed. Whether or not a woman enjoys sex is irrelevant. We have vaginas, they’re meant to have penises shoved in them, and especially if they’ve had penises shoved in them before, well, what’s the big deal. Though they hadn’t mentioned that yet.

And if the woman hasn’thad a penis shoved in her vagina before, then, what, they were doing her a favour? Helping her out? Breaking her in?

She couldn’t wrap her head around the logic.

Because there was none.

Or there was. And it was just so—

“Look, we thought you liked it,” the second one tried again.

“Most women do,” the first one took over. “You pretend you don’t, but deep down you do.”

“Most women like rape?”

He nodded. “I know for a fact that you like it when we hold you down, when we use force.” There. Let her deal with that.

She doubted he knew anythingfor a fact. It was just the way some people, mostly men, talked. It made them appear knowledgeable. Presenting opinion as fact was how people, typically men, achieved and maintained their status as authorities, experts, fonts of wisdom … ‘I know for a fact’ just meant ‘I’m guessing it’s true.’ Or ‘I hope it’s true.’

“It’s a turn-on. Admit it.” He was so smug.

She ignored the challenge. “And you know this because?” Because—wait, ‘Most women’? She wondered how many …

He rolled his eyes. It was common knowledge, wasn’t it.

“I want to be sure I understand you. You think most women like this?” She presented the photographs again. He refused to look.

“Oh no, you don’t get to turn away,” she said angrily. “LOOK!” She stood up, reached over, grabbed his hair, and forced him. To look. “Look at what you did to me!”

He tried to pull away. Couldn’t, really.

A guard appeared at the door, glanced inside, then stepped back, away from the small window.

She let go. Couldn’t stand touching him.

“You did this to me! And this! And this!” She pointed to the photographs, one at a time. “Can you honestly tell me you thought I’d like it? Would you like it?”

He didn’t answer.

“Then why do you think I’dlike it?” She sat back down. Suddenly exhausted.

“You women like this sort of thing!” he insisted.

“‘You women’? You’ve done this to other women? And they liked it? How did you know? When they struggled, you thought that meant they were having fun? When they begged you to stop? When they cried? When they screamed, you thought that meant they were enjoying it? And then when they just lay there, limp, hoping to get out of it alive, you thought they were having a good time?”

No response.

“Yes, many women moan during sex and cry out when they have an orgasm. Can you honestly not tell the difference between those moans and cries and my moans and cries?”

And that’s when she knew for sure.

“You’ve never had sex,” she said. “Real sex. Good sex. Sex with a woman who wanted it. Neither one of you. You don’t know what happens when a woman has an orgasm.”

The first one snorted.

She anticipated. “A woman who’s not acting in a porn film. You know they’re acting, right?”

Oh my god. They didn’t know.

“You thought porn was real?” She stared at them. How stupid were they? “They’re actors! Following a script! The director tells the woman to pretend she likes it. Pretend.Understand? It’s make-believe.”

All of their knowledge about sex was based on make-believe. Certain men’s fantasies.

And why do certain men fantasize about raping, about hurting and humiliating, women?

“Even prostitutes are acting,” she said. Just in case. “They’re saying and doing whatever they think will make them the most money.

“Many of them are acting for their lives. If they don’t keep their customers satisfied, their employer, their pimp, will punish them. Hurt them. Horribly.

“In fact, many of them are actual prisoners. They’ve been kidnapped. Specifically to be bought and sold. Against their will. Ever hear of sex trafficking? Prostitution rings?

“They’ve been told what to wear, what to say, what to do. It’s all an act.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure they’re enjoying it,” the first one grinned knowingly.

She just stared at him. And her whole body sighed into her chair. Because he would never acknowledge that he was complicit in a slave trade. That he enjoyed the enslaved.

And because quite apart from that, prostitution institutionalized the idea that men have a right—at least an economic right—to women’s bodies. The idea that sex is a female service. As Brownmiller pointed out.

“Then you’re easy to fool,” she finally said. Because you’re not interested in facts. You’re not interested in truth.

She doubted they watched any erotica. She doubted they even knew about erotica. Because the erotica industry couldn’t compete with the porn industry. Hell, not even the NFL could compete with the porn industry.

And why is that?

The closest they could come would be to watch some of the steamier scenes in chick flicks. So never gonna happen.

“You’ve never even seenconsensual sex, have you. You’ve never seen two people make love. Say, a man and a woman, caressing each other, lingering with their hands on each other’s body, kissing, touching, stroking, each of them getting more excited, until eventually, it might take half an hour, but that’s okay because it feels so good, eventually the woman comes, usually because the man has been tickling her clitoris in a crazy-making way, and then the man enters her, and moves in and out, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, and sometimes she comes again in the time it takes for him to come, and then they lay together, lazily, tangled up in each other, languidly, with such …”

Both of them were just— Staring at her. The second one had his mouth slightly open.

“And you’ll probably never have consensual sex,” she muttered then. “You’ll probably never make love.”

The first one was, she had noticed, rather good-looking by contemporary standards. Which was initially a bit puzzling. Surely he didn’t have to rape. But as one of the beautiful people, he would have received, throughout his life, better jobs, better pay, more credit, more attention … And those to whom much is given expect that much, and more. That is, he felt entitled. To whatever he wanted.

And it was quite possible he didn’t want real sex. He didn’t want a real relationship with a woman; his relationships with men were more important. Men were more important.

“What makes you say that?” the second one asked. In a small voice.

“Well, because I can’t imagine any— You’re not— What’s there about you to love?”

2

A week later, she was back in the room, back in the prison. Five minutes after her arrival, still a little unnerved to have gone through the rigorous security check and then to have been escorted by an armed guard, the two men were again brought in and shackled to the table.

“What I don’t get is,” the second one spoke up as soon as he entered the room, “if you’re not looking for it, why do you all go around looking like Miley Cyrus?”

What? She didn’t go around looking like Miley Cyrus. Though, she had to admit, many of the younger women seemed to. They’d bought the same shit these guys had bought.

“With your short skirts and your fuck-me shoes,” the first one added.

“Well, I can’t speak for other women, but I was wearing a skirt because it’s my uniform,” she replied.

“And now?” he asked.

He was right. Even then, there, she was wearing a skirt. And heels. Not so-called ‘fuck-me’ heels, but perhaps men couldn’t distinguish between those and regular heels. If they couldn’t even distinguish between one woman and the next.

So, actually, she could speak for other women. Wearing a skirt or a dress, and heels, a bit of make-up, a bit of jewelry—it was just normal, just convention. It was expected.

And why is showing your legs expected? Of women?

She dressed that way to look nice.

Right, but what does ‘look nice’ mean? Didn’t she look okay just as she was?

She wanted to be attractive.

But what does wearing skirts as opposed to pants have to do with looking attractive? ‘Looking attractive’ could only mean, then, ‘looking sexually attractive.’ Because the difference was showing your legs. And legs, women’s legs, were, had become, sexualized.

And, if it was a tight skirt, a sheath skirt, the difference was restricting your movement.

And that had become sexualized?

And heels made your legs appear more … shapely. Longer, essentially. Because … why were long legs more sexually attractive? Ah. Long legs accentuated the eye’s journey to the apex, the prize, the point of entry.

Valian was right: sexualizing our appearance had become normalized. It had become just as much a uniform— It was expected. Almost required. Even feminists were wearing make-up now. Well, so-called feminists.

Even so. Dressing to be sexually attractive didn’t mean she wanted to attract—yes, it did. It meant exactly that. Attractive. Attracting. Attract. Bring to.

Well, maybe for a look. Not necessarily for intercourse. Certainly not for violence.

And she certainly didn’t want to attract all men.

But how could she be selective? With her appearance. It was impossible.

So she was attracting all men, then rejecting most of them. What an inefficient way to—to what? Find a mate? Why was she doing that with appearance anyway? Didn’t she want a mate to be someone who liked her for what, for who, she was?

Well, yes, if we’re talking about a long-term partner. But if we’re talking about just a hook-up, just a one-night stand … Then why was she making herself sexually attractive as a matter of routine. Here. Now. Wouldn’t she do it just when she went to parties or whatever?

They were right, she realized. It was, at least, part of the big picture. The cultural norm was that women should look a certain way, a way that emphasizes their sexuality, a way that turns men on a bit, a way that makes men think they’re available to them. When she conformed to that norm, she was, to some small extent, complicit. She didn’t tease, but yes, she tried to be attractive. She tried to attract.

Then again, if she intended to turn down most of the men she attracted—because no, she didn’t want to have sex with most men—wasn’t that teasing?

“Well?” the first one challenged.

“I’m thinking,” she replied. “You should try it some time.”

He rolled his eyes.

But the make-up, that was just to make you look younger, generally speaking. To get rid of the wrinkles and the other imperfections that developed as one aged.

Imperfections.

It was a little disturbing, now that she thought about it. That evidence of age was considered an imperfection. That youth was considered … preferable.

But it was true: younger bodies weremore physically attractive. And therefore more sexually appealing? Wait, did that necessarily follow?

More importantly, did it have to mean endorsing pedophilia?

Because women shaved their legs. Yes, but just to make them smoother.

And their armpits. Yes, but again—

And now their crotches. The result was a prepubescent look. Yes, but it also just made things … more accessible.

She sighed. It was complicated. Worse, it was ambiguous.

And then something else occurred to her. The time and energy it all took. The shaving, the plucking, the make-up, the hair … Was that part of it? Women were supposed to spend a lot of time and energy attracting men? Pleasing men? What for? Seriously. Because what have they done for us lately?

Under the table, she slipped off her shoes. Only partly because her feet hurt.

And that’s when that occurred to her: women were also supposed to be willing to endure pain if it pleased men.

There has been more research on male sexual pleasure than on female sexual pain. Five times more. One in three women feel pain during vaginal penetration; two in three, during anal penetration. They just don’t tell their partners. Women often ignore or downplay their own distress so as not to upset others, typically men. All this, why? Because, as Loofbourow put it, “We live in a culture that sees female pain as normal and male pleasure as a right.”

“You all go around looking like hos,” the first one summarized, impatient, “then cry rape when we treat you like one.”

What? It took her a moment. “Prostitutes don’t want to be raped.”

Quite apart from they couldn’t distinguish between prostitutes and women who’d just made themselves sexually attractive? Maybe not. It was, after all, just a matter of degree.

She recalled picking up a guy at a bar one night. She’d begun the conversation, she’d made the suggestion. He’d thought she was a prostitute. Apparently the only women who could initiate a sexual encounter were prostitutes. Denied that active role, no wonder consent could be troublesome. Maybe for a long time ‘no’ had meant ‘yes’. Because ‘yes’ meant ‘I’m a prostitute.’

And if the screaming and struggling was also just a matter of degree, expressions of protest too similar to expressions of acquiescence—no, she didn’t believe they were that similar. But maybe that was just her?

No. Because what about ‘Stop!’ and ‘Get off me!’

And, the thought occurred to her, the difference wasn’t just a matter of degree in appearance. The prostitute expected payment in cash, then and there. Other women expected … to have their way paid. For the night. For the rest of their lives. She sighed.

No wonder they have such contempt for us.

Then again, not all women.

And then again, men often demandsuch dependence. They often insist on paying our way. Their masculinity depends on it.

Or does their subsequent use of our bodies depend on it?

At the same time, they seem to resent our dependence.

And they often become enraged when we become, or are, independent. When we leave them or don’t need them in the first place.

Go figure the logic.

“All women are hos,” the first one said. With such disgust.

Yes. That was it. It wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. Because even when women were completely covered up, head to toe, in burkas, men hurt them. Because even women over fifty, over sixty, over seventy, were raped.

And the logic, again— They demand sexiness, and then, when we comply—or not, they insult, call us sluts. Hos.

“Even if my appearance didindicate that I wanted sex,” she backed up and made a turn, “that doesn’t mean I’m going to go through with it. I may want to eat a whole carton of ice cream. Doesn’t mean I’m going to. And if you offered me a whole carton of ice cream, I’d say ‘No thanks.’”

She realized then that that was another distinction they couldn’t make. The distinction between what they wanted and what they did. They just did whatever they wanted. Like two-year-olds.

“But you didn’t offer me anything. You just assumed. You made the decision for me. As if you know best. What I want and what I don’t want. Which wants I’ll satisfy and which ones I won’t. Who the hell do you think you are?” she glared at them. “You don’t know shit! About me!”

They stared at her.

“Or is it that you think women in general are unable to decide, unable to speak, for themselves?” She continued to glare at them. “We’re not stupid. And we’re not children.”

Despite what so many movies, certainly the ones these guys watch, say.

And not just movies, she thought with despair. In the real world, how many positions of power, of responsibility, are occupied by women? Somewhere between 20 and 30 per cent. And it’s the other 70 to 80 percent that gets media coverage. When media coverage is granted. To women. So no one sees, no one knows about, even that meager 20 to 30 percent.

“On the contrary, I can—and did—speak for myself. You ignored me.”

No surprise there.

So maybe— Maybe we’ve been looking at the wrong thing. For the wrong thing. We should be looking not for the presence of consent, but for the presence of coercion. MacKinnon once said, in Are Women Human?, that coercion has been hidden. Behind consent.

Still.

“Even if a woman does ask for it— Suppose she’s drunk or for some other reason isn’t acting in her own best interests— Are you obliged to do it? Might you not have a moral obligation to refuse? Take the higher road?”

“Okay, look, maybe we made a mistake,” the second one said. It was intended as a peace offering.

A mistake? No. Despite the porn, despite the ambiguities, she couldn’t quite believe they really thought that what they did was sex.

She thought maybe they really preferred rape. To sex.

Is that because that’s the way they’re built, biologically, or because that’s the way they’ve been made, socially? Studies suggest that exposure to porn eventually makes power, dominance, even violence, the only way to sexual arousal, to satisfaction. But maybe they’re wired that way from the get-go. Maybe sex, regular sex, for men, has always been all about power and dominance. That could explain why so many of them have been uncomfortable with her on top. Rape was also about power and dominance. Therefore.

And maybe they know porn’s fake. And maybe they just don’t care. Grisham’s The Appeal had opened her eyes on this matter. She’d realized that for most men, power matters. And she’d come to realize that truth didn’t matter. She’d also realized that money was important, because it could buy things. But she hadn’t put it all together the way Grisham had. Money can also buy friends. Not real friends, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is what those ‘friends’ say and do. Whether it’s sincere or not, whether it’s motivated by genuine affection or personal gain, doesn’t matter. So the women are acting? They’re just pretendingto like it? Doesn’t matter. What matters is that men have so much power over them, they can make them say they like it. That’s the turn-on. The power.

And that’s why so many rapists insist their victims say they like it. Not to assure them that what they’re doing is consensual, but to prove that they have that power. The more obvious the lie—that is, the greater the pain—the greater their power.

“Yeah,” the first one chimed in. “It was a mistake. Get over it.”

Get over it? She turned to look at him. Get over it? She started to bring out the photographs again. But doing so would just show the physical trauma. Which, yes, eventually she would get over.

“You shouldn’t’ve gotten into the car,” the second one said, returning to the astonishing and indefensible overgeneralization of consent.

“Oh it’s my fault? My fault you raped me?”

Of course it was. Women were expected to take full responsibility for—what men do to them. Which required limiting their choices with regard to … everything.

“We were a little drunk, okay?” he added.

She stared at him. “So?”

He didn’t elaborate. Of course not. He probably couldn’t. How could he be so … stupid? And be a university student? Oh, well, no-brainer, as they say. This was introspection. Analysis of one’s beliefs and behaviours. Not something that came with a university education. Especially if one was male.

“You think that absolvesyou?” she asked. “You think getting drunk releases you from responsibility? For whatever you do while drunk? Wouldn’t that be convenient.”

At least she hadn’t been drunk or drugged. Though sometimes she wished she had been.

She remembered a video she’d seen showing a young man in close-up whispering to the viewer about what he was going to do to the woman in the background, who was passed out on the couch. He then goes to the woman and gently puts a pillow under her head and just as gently covers her with a blanket. What shocked her was that she was shocked. It was just a simple act of kindness. But—

“Works for me,” he grinned.

She got up. She had to get out of there.

And although she left the room, there was no getting out of there. She knew that now.

3

A week later, she showed up again. She would continue to do so until she understood. The first time, she heard nothing but denial. The second time, excuse. What would it be this time?

“What, you’ve turned into a dyke?” The first one sneered.

“Why do you say that?” She was truly mystified.

“Your clothes.”

She looked down at her sweatshirt, loose cotton pants, and track shoes. Yes, she had given all that some further thought. And had, obviously, come to several conclusions. But not that one.

“You think that any woman who doesn’t wear a skirt and heels is a lesbian?” she asked. “Why would you think that?” Again, truly mystified.

No answer.

“You also think that any woman who does wear skirt and heels wants to have sex with every man, yeah?”

No answer.

“So,” she put two and two together, “you think that to be a straight woman is to be sexually available to every man.” It would explain why they felt entitled to her body. To avail themselves of it without asking. “So it’s conceptually impossible to rape a straight woman.”

They were silent. They hadn’t followed the logic. Obviously Business students. No, that was unfair, she chided herself. Men of all stripes were notoriously lacking in logic. Logic was all about relationship. This therefore that.

“What if I was a lesbian?” she asked then. “Would what you did to me be rape then?”

“No, it would be teaching you a lesson,” the first one laughed.

She ignored the laughter. Had to.

“What lesson?”

He couldn’t say. Of course he couldn’t.

It was called ‘corrective rape’ in some countries. And it was, absurdly, intended to convert the woman to heterosexuality.

“That I’m supposed to be available to all men?” She stared at them. “Why would you think that?”

No answer.

“I think you’re lying,” she said then. Flatly. “You didn’t think I was okay with it, you didn’t think I wanted it, you didn’t think I liked it. You heard me say ‘No.’ You didn’t think I was joking, you knew I meant it. You didn’t just make a mistake. You knew full well you were raping me. So. Why?”

She looked pointedly at one and then the other.

The second one shrugged.

“That’s not an answer!” She raised her hands—as if she could shake him out of his complacence. “Why did you do it?” She shouted the question.

Silence.

Answering a woman’s question is emasculating. It’s acceding to her request. Paying attention to what she wants. It was beneath them. Even so, she asked yet again.

“Why did you rape me?”

Had they been victims of violence? That was the theory. A theory. What goes around comes around. Violence is a learned behavior.

But no, what were the odds. That both of them had been victims of violence, that both of them had been, specifically, sexually assaulted.

Besides, she didn’t buy it. Shenow had been assaulted, sexually, but she had no inclination, now, to go and assault, sexually assault, someone else. None whatsoever.

The first one shrugged. “It’s not like you’re married or anything.” He looked pointedly at her hand.

It took her a moment to connect the dots. “What, once I’m married, that would mean I’m off-limits? Because then I belong to another man? Whereas until then— I’m not a piece of property!” she said sharply.

But that is, after all, how it began. ‘To have and to hold’ was a legal phrase that referred to property ownership. Not physical affection. And until 1983—1983!—husbands could legally rape their wives. Because, after all, they owned them.

The ring? Remnant of the shackle.

The name change? Indicative of the transfer of ownership from father to husband, from one male to another.

How a man feels when his wife has sex with another man? Not sadness, for the loss of love. No. Rage. At the theft.

Then she saw another—

“Do you know what a false dichotomy is?” she asked them.

Of course they didn’t.

“You’re assuming that I’m available either to only one man or to all men. There is a third option. And a fourth.”

They stared at her. Incomprehension on their faces. That she might be completely unavailable had not occurred to them. Nor, apparently, that she might be available only to those she chose.

“It’s just physical,” the first one said then. Only slightly changing the topic. “Instinct. Basic needs and all that.”

Right. The myth that supports porn, prostitution, rape. Because we must, we absolutely must, provide whatever men need.

“First, no, it’s not a need.”

Despite what his Psych 101 text would have said. Because it was probably written by a man. Who either wanted to believe that sex was a need or who mistook what was true of the whole for what was true of the parts. On a species level, yes, sexual intercourse is needed, for survival. Of the species. But on an individual level?

“You won’t die if you don’t have sex,” she pointed out the obvious. “Oxygen, water, food, and a certain range of temperature are needs. Everything else is a want.”

But saying you need something makes it so much harder for others to refuse to give it to you. Because needs are, well, things one needs—they’re required. Needs take priority to wants.

But they aren’t, therefore, entitlements.

“And even if it were a need, even if you did have to ejaculate in order to survive, there’s nothing saying you have to do so inside a woman. Is there?”

Silence.

“So why not just jerk off when the desire overwhelms you?”

He snorted.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“Seriously,” she continued, when it seemed he’d thought she’d asked a rhetorical question, “I don’t understand your response. What’s snort-worthy of masturbation? Real men don’t masturbate? Is there something insulting about doing it yourself, about not having to need a woman to do something? I would think it’d be the other way around. Real men don’tneed women. Isn’t that right?”

Surprise flickered across his face. He hadn’t considered it that way.

“So I guess it’s not about sex. The need for sex. Because I’m sure there are, or could be, sexual aids, moist, warm, tight somethings, that would feel as good, probably even better. So … what is it about?”

No response. Were they truly that oblivious?

Perhaps. She’d read that when young women in a university classroom described what they did to avoid rape—be aware of your surroundings at all times, choose carefully when and where you go alone—the young men in the class “gaped in astonishment”.

“It’s about the need for dominance,” she told them. “So-called need. Because you don’t need dominance either. You won’t die if you’re not in power over someone. Will you?”

No response. No surprise.

If anything, sex was a social need. For men. A socially constructed need. Real men had sex, real men wantedsex, lots of sex. Their identity as men depended—depended—on having sex. And if they had to use force, all the better.

“You want dominance. You want to have power over. At least, over women. But why?”

No response. My god, it was like having a conversation with molasses.

“Because that’s what real men— You have to keep saying ‘I’m better than you, I’m one-up on you, I’m higher in the hierarchy than you.’ Because … if you don’t keep saying it, what, you’ll forget?” She laughed.

The first one’s hands curled into fists. She saw that. It actually looked involuntary. Atwood famously said men are afraid women will laugh at them. Whereas women are—

“No, because if we don’t keep saying it, you’ll forget!” the first one spat out.

Okay, good comeback, she had to give him that.

“That’s why you didn’t just assault me, why you didn’t just beat me up. That’s why you did it sexually. You wanted to send a message to me, to women as a group. You wanted to express your feelings toward women as a group.”

“I don’t have feelings toward women as a group.”

She rolled her eyes.

Then continued. “So you raped me to put me in my place. To remind me that I’m subordinate to you.”

She took the absence of denial to mean confirmation. It was as good as she was going to get.

“And what makes you think that?”

He snorted again. It passed for ‘I don’t know.’

“The fact that I’m a waitress? Because I’m also a student.”

The second one’s eyes widened.

“What, waitresses can’t go to university? University students can’t be waitresses?”

She turned back to the first one.

“But that’s irrelevant, isn’t it. Even if I were a professor, you’d think I was subordinate to you. That I’m female trumps whatever else I might be. And why again are females subordinate to, inferior to, males?”

They had no answer. Of course, they didn’t.

*

When she returned, she decided to try another approach. “How would you feel if you were raped?” Apparently empathy wasn’t one of their strong suits. No surprise, really. We don’t encourage our little boys to feel. Let alone to think about what others feel. In fact, we discourage it. Big boys don’t cry. So the tears of others? Not really on their radar.

“It’s different,” the first one said.

“Agreed. But—”

“You’re used to it.”

What? Not the difference she had in mind.

She supposed he was trying to say that a vagina was built for penetration but an anus wasn’t. Where to begin? Perhaps with the point that having a particular capacity doesn’t necessarily mean one wants to use that capacity. But no, one’s wants, at least herwants, were irrelevant. They’d established that.

“I assure you, I am not used to this.” She spread the photographs in front of them again.

“And even if I were—even if I werehurt this badly on a regular basis, how does that make it okay?”

They seemed to have no understanding of ethics. No idea about how to determine right and wrong. And it would take years to— Not her job. Not her responsibility.

So whose responsibility was it? Why were so many men apparently so ethically-challenged? Because being concerned about right and wrong makes you a wuss, a boy scout, a sissy. How, when—why did ethics become a sign of weakness, childishness, effeminacy?

“Well, you should be used to it. It’s all you’re good for.” Again he spat the words out.

“It’s all we’re good for?” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She could give them a few lessons in women’s history. No doubt it would be the first time they’d hear that a woman discovered pulsars. ’Course, they may not know what pulsars are. Okay, she could tell them that a woman invented Kevlar. But no, it wasn’t her job to educate them. Women got suckered into that far too often. We are not responsible for them. It is not our duty to make them better people. She had to remind herself that that wasn’t why she was here. She was here merely to understand. Them.

Besides, it wasn’t that he thought that that was all they were good for because he was unaware of women’s achievements. He didn’t consider women capable of achievements.

When he looked at a woman, all he saw was a sexual … thing. A cunt.

When he’d first come into the room, he hadn’t recognized her. This wasn’t personal. Just the opposite. It was impersonal. That is to say, he didn’t even consider women to be persons. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Any pers—any female, any cunt, would have done.

“I’m a person,” she said. “Just like you. Well, not just like you. Not anything like you, actually. What I mean is I’m not just— Women are not females. We are human beings who happen to be female. Consider it an adjective, not a noun.”

Their faces were blank.

She tried again. “We’re not women, ladies, girls, chicks, birds, cows, bitches, whores, cunts. We’re people. Just … people.”

Still blank.

“Okay, let’s try this. Tell me about some of the women in your life.”

“What do you mean?” the second one spoke up.

“I mean tell me about them. What are their likes, their dislikes? What are their dreams, their aspirations? What do they think about?”

Silence.

They didn’t know. She sank back into her chair. They truly didn’t see ‘person’ when they saw ‘female’.

Perhaps she shouldn’t be so surprised. Her own father didn’t seem to distinguish— There was Mike, her brother, and then there were ‘the girls’, her and her sister. They were undifferentiated. In his mind.

“We really aren’t people to you,” she said, slightly amazed. “None of us. We’re just … we really are just walking cunts. The only thing about us that registers with you is our sex. We have breasts. We must have a vagina. So we can be fucked. End of story.”

“What more is there?” the first one laughed.

“Well,” she said, and knew as soon as she started that it was a mistake, “I’m actually a grad student at the university. I just waitress on the weekends because I don’t make enough as a teaching assistant to pay for rent, tuition, my bus pass—”

“In what, women’s studies shit?”

“No,” she said levelly. “But I’m curious as to why you consider women’s studies to be shit. Oh wait. Because everything to do with women is shit. Because … Help me out here. Oh wait. You can’t.” Said not so levelly. She glared at him. At his inability, his refusal, to think.

“All right,” he seemed to switch a gear, “you’ve had your fun. Guard!” He looked toward the door, then back at her. “Play time’s over.”

At that moment, she—well, she already despised him. But the patronizing tone, the implied trivialization of what she was doing—and he was younger than her! It was unfuckingbelievable how men could do that. And of course, they’d been doing that to her all her life. Infantilizing her. All her life.

Perhaps because the more they infantilized others, the more mature they themselves felt.

No guard appeared at the door. She smiled.

“You are utterly and absolutely … unaware,” she continued, truly a little amazed. “You have no idea why you think the way you do, why you act the way you do. You’ve avoided introspection all your life, so you have no self-knowledge whatsoever. You’re just a robot. Completely bereft of consciousness.”

He tried to shrug off her criticism. Failed. His shackles dragged across the table as if he was getting ready to—

“If you only had a brain.” She leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and stared at him.

“GUARD!” He screamed. No fucking way he was going to put up with this.

And yet, he wouldn’t’ve been able to say why. Why he wasn’t going to put up with this. He was angry, yes. But whywas he so angry?

Even if he did know, even if he could say, he wouldn’t. Because explaining something to a woman is considered a favour. Not an obligation. Let alone a duty.

Though of course he wouldn’t be able to provide that explanation either. For his behaviour.

So much sexism. So much of it unconscious.

They don’t intentionallykeep us out of the loop, she realized. They don’t intentionally hoard the power that knowledge provides. They don’t intentionally take the lion’s share of … everything.

Nor, apparently, did they intentionallyrape us.

*

“Look, you’re making too much of this,” the second one said when she returned. Trying to … appease? By telling her she was exaggerating the importance, the consequences, of what they’d done to her? “You’re overthinking it,” he added. Helpfully.

Hm. She was overthinking it. Would he have said that if she hadn’t told them she was a student? How quickly they can turn the other’s advantage into a disadvantage. Damned if you do.

But no. She’d heard that a lot. Usually from men. Men who didn’t know anything about her.

Because any thinking at all would expose their lack of thought. The absence of reason, intent, consciousness.

Or the psychopathology. That is male. That is, masculinity.

“It’s just what guys do!” There was exasperation in his voice. Pity, no despair. “Happens every day,” he added.

Well, he was right about that. But he seemed to think that that made it inevitable.

“Yeah, it’s no big deal,” the first one piled on. “Everybody does it.”

“Everybody does not do it,” she said. “Besides, so what? At best, that’s an explanation, not a justification. Do you know the difference?”

No response.

“I didn’t think so. An explanation is simply that: it’s something that explains why or how something else happens. A justification is a line of reasoning that explains why the something is okay. Typically, morally okay. So unless you’re saying that you did it because other people do it— Areyou saying that?” she had to ask. “Do you do what you do because other people do it?” She looked at one and then the other. “Do other people run your lives?”

The first one turned his gaze to the ceiling. Maybe she’d get the hint.

“Regardless, it’s an inadequate response. Because many men have not raped a woman.”

But one in five have. One in three college-aged men say they would if they thought they could get away with it. And okay, that’s not even half, let alone most. But if you interact with, say, only a dozen young men during the course of a day, you can infer that four of them would rape you if they could get away with it. Every day, four of the men you talk to would like to hurt you.

And one in three is enough to make it normal, she thought. So these two, they weren’t sick, they weren’t broken, they hadn’t been abused. Or they were all of the above, and that was the norm. For men. To be sick, broken, abused. God knows, we raise them to be less than full human beings.

And because of that, it was the norm for women as well. To be sick, broken, abused. To consider themselves to have fulfilled their potential if they were attractive.

“You put up with it,” the first one said. Giving an explanation? A justification? “I wouldn’t.”

She looked at him.

“How would we not put up with it?” she asked. “What would you do?”

“Carry.”

She thought about that. He was right. Absolutely right. If packs of wolves were roaming the streets and thousands, tens of thousands, of men were attacked every year, they’d organize an extermination campaign. They’d shoot every wolf on sight. Whether or not it, individually, had shown signs of violent behaviour.

“But how would you prove that you shot in self-defence?” Because it was more like living in an occupied country.

He shrugged.

“So your ‘not putting up with it’ wouldn’t work, would it.” She stared at him. Because people in occupied countries don’t get a trial. Let alone a fair trial.

He didn’t say.

“I think if you carried a gun, if you shot someone who grabbed you, his buddies would just take care of you.” Odd euphemism. ‘Take care of you.’ Leave it to men to say exactly the opposite of what they meant.

“Kill you,” she clarified. “Probably with your own gun. Just to make a point.”

Silence.

“So I ask again. How would you not put up with it?” Because she really wanted to know.

(free download of complete novella at pegtittle.com)

One day, the women were gone.

It was … an opportunity.

1

Timmy’s crying woke him up. Or maybe it was Tommy’s crying. Diane could always tell which one it was, but he never could. Even though there were two years between them.

“Diane!” he called out to her. With annoyance. She must already be up, he thought, because she wasn’t in the bed beside him. Though, since they’d had an argument the night before—correction, another argument—that didn’t surprise him. She was spending more nights in the boys’ room these days. He’d told her that’s why she couldn’t leave. Because of the boys. He hadn’t meant it to come out like they were holding her hostage. But it did. He sometimes wondered if that’s why he’d pushed her to have kids. To make sure she didn’t leave. Because, truthfully, he didn’t really—oh he loved them, of course, they were his kids, but …

“Diane!” he called out again, more loudly. The other one had started crying as well.

“Mommy …”

“Mommy!”

He groaned, then got up. It was time anyway. He glanced at the clock on the night table. Shit! Past time! No, no, no, he muttered as he raced to the shower, he couldn’t be late today, he was presenting his report to the Board at ten. He’d been working on it all week … Diane usually woke him—where the hell was she?

On his way to the bathroom, he saw that she wasn’t in the boys’ room. Timmy and Tommy were there, wailing away, but Diane was nowhere to be seen.

“Diane!” he yelled. Damn it! He went into the room, picked Timmy up out of his crib, and started jostling him, trying to make him stop crying.

“Shh, it’s okay, Daddy’s here …”

“Where’s Mommy?” Tommy whined. “I want Mommy!”

He carried Timmy out with him, Tommy close on his heels, glanced in the bathroom, then went downstairs. No Diane. Had she left after all? She would’ve gone to her parents’ place. He didn’t see a note, but he was sure there would be one. A long, scathing analysis of each of his many faults. A protracted description about how she was unhappy, unfulfilled, and—

At the moment, he had more pressing concerns. He’dhave to get the boys ready and take them to daycare.

He returned to the boys’ room, and started to—truthfully, he didn’t know their routine. He changed Timmy’s diaper. He helped Tommy go potty. He dressed them. He fed them. He dressed them again. It was all very difficult. Apparently he wasn’t doing anything right.

“Juice!” Timmy had insisted.

“Okay, here you go,” Andrew poured some juice into Timmy’s sippy cup and gave it to him. Timmy threw the cup onto the floor, and the juice seeped out.

“Timmy!” He yelled at him then reached for a tea towel to wipe it up. Timmy started crying. Again.

“Sorry, Daddy’s sorry,” he said, taking a cursory swipe at the spill, then lifting him out of his chair. Where the hell was Diane?

“Why isn’t Mommy here?” Tommy asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Why?”

Andrew ignored him.

“When’s Mommy coming home?” Tommy tried a different approach. And then, for good measure, wandered over to the stove.

“I don’t know, Tommy. Please sit and eat your cereal,” Andrew said. He’d put Timmy back in his chair and was wrestling with the coffee maker.

“Don’t want to.” He ran his little fingers over the knobs. Andrew pulled him away and forced him into his chair. How was he supposed to take a shower let alone make a cup of coffee? He couldn’t turn his back on them for a minute …

“Eat!” He’d had enough. It was eight-thirty already.

“No!” Tommy threw his spoon onto the floor. And then his bowl of cereal.

By nine o’clock, Andrew was finally ready to leave the apartment. He’d managed a two-minute shower, but not a shave. And not a cup of coffee. He put Timmy into the stroller, grabbed his laptop case, then went out the door to the elevator, making sure that Tommy was following. He bumped the door in his rush, and Timmy started crying again. Down the hallway, into the elevator—no, Tommy refused to get in. He seemed to have developed a fear of elevators that Andrew knew nothing about. So Andrew pushed the button to keep the doors open, set his laptop case onto the elevator floor beside the stroller, then went back out to pick him up.

At the parking lot level, he managed to push the stroller out of the elevator without setting Tommy down. As soon as the doors closed, he realized he’d forgotten his laptop. Shit! He pressed the button immediately, but someone else must’ve beaten him to it. He waited anxiously, watching the floor indicators light up as the elevator ascended, stopped at the sixth floor, then started re-descending. It stopped again, at the lobby level—damn it, was some good Samaritan taking his laptop to the ‘Lost and Found’? Better that than stealing it, but— When the doors opened, he was relieved to see that it was exactly where he’d left it.

After putting the two boys into their car seats—almost a five-minute ordeal—Andrew drove out and into the street.

At the first stoplight, he called Sharon, his assistant, to let her know he was running late. There was no answer.

At the second stoplight, he called her again. Still no answer. Where the hell was she? He called general reception instead. Brittany or Brianna or whatever could get a message to Sharon. Again, no answer. What the hell? Was she too busy sitting there filing her nails? Actually, he thought a little shamefacedly, he’d never seen her sitting there filing her nails … He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat in disgust, then saw it slide off the seat and out of reach. Damn it!

“Where’s Mommy?” Tommy asked again.

“I don’t know!” Andrew said, again. “She went to Grammy’s.”

“Why?”

Andrew ignored him. Again.

He was surprised to see some sort of traffic jam in the daycare parking lot. Since he was so late, he’d expected an empty lot. He figured all the moms would have been there and gone already. But no, the lot was a mess, with cars haphazardly pulled up around the door. And all he saw were dads.

Andrew slapped the steering wheel in frustration as he pulled up behind the part that most looked like a line. He didn’t have time for this today! He had An Important Meeting to get to!

He watched with some confusion as men got out of their cars, stomped to the door, kids in tow, only to stomp back to their cars, gesticulating and shouting at other men. After a few minutes, during which the car in front of him hadn’t moved at all, hadn’t been able to move, Andrew got out to see what the trouble was.

“Fucking bitches musta gone on strike or something!” a man with a huge belly said. It occurred to Andrew, for the first time, to wonder whose kids his kids were playing with every day …

“Hey!” another one said sharply. “I’ll thank you for watching your language in front of my three-year old!” He put his arms protectively around a little red-haired boy.

“I’m jus’ sayin’—”

“I heard what you were jus’ sayin’,” the other man mocked, “and I doubt that’s true. I doubt the women even know each other.”

Was everyone’s wife gone? Is that what had happened? Or was the guy just talking about the daycare staff—

“Wouldn’t they though?” a bearded man spoke up. “Know each other? I mean, if it’s always our wives who drop off our kids …” he trailed off. A strike didn’t seem plausible, but …

“My wife has no reason to go on strike,” the watch-your-language man said. Smugly, Andrew thought. And, given that, probably incorrectly.

“Is there no one here?” Andrew asked then, walking up to try the door. As if he was the only one with brains enough to have thought to do that.

The door was locked. Of course.

Andrew stood around for another minute, trying to figure it out, but then decided there was no more information to be had, so he went back to his car. He’d have to take the boys to work with him.

He’d never realized until that day that whoever designed revolving doors must not have had kids.

Then, after struggling with yet another elevator, he saw that Sharon wasn’t at her desk. Damn it! He’d intended to ask her to get him a cup of coffee.

He started to detour to the small lunch room at the end of the hall, but then realized he couldn’t manage the stroller, his laptop case, and a cup of coffee.

So first he got the kids settled into his office, more or less. It was quarter to ten.

“Daddy’s going to get a cup of coffee,” he told Tommy. “Watch your brother, okay? I’ll be back in a minute.”

As he rushed out and down the hall, ignoring Timmy’s wail as he disappeared, he saw Matthew come out of the lunch room, coffee cup in hand. Great!

The coffee pot was empty.

“Hey!” he called after him.

“What?”

“You took the last cup!”

“Your point?”

“You should have started another pot!”

“Not my job,” he smiled.

“Well, whose job is it?” Andrew asked. “Who made the cup you have?”

Matthew shrugged.

“I did,” Kyle said, coming into the room. “Jackass!” he called after Matthew.

“Listen,” Andrew started, “could you make another pot? I’ve got my kids in my office—”

“Me too,” Kyle said curtly as he quickly tossed the used filter into the garbage and reached into the cupboard for another one. “We’re going to run out of these before the end of the day,” he noted. “Could you take care of that?”

“Okay,” Andrew had to say, as he watched Kyle measure coffee into the new filter then set it to percolate.

“Thanks,” he added, nodding to the gurgling pot. “Ten minutes?”

“Be gone then, come back in five,” he said grimly as he left.

Andrew returned to his office, relieved to see the boys still there and out of mischief. More or less. Timmy had stopped crying and was still in his stroller, but he was struggling with the straps. Tommy was spinning around in Andrew’s chair.

He lifted Tommy up out of the chair and set him onto the carpeted floor beside Timmy. As an afterthought, he tossed him a pencil and … a handful of his business cards. He’d find something better later … “Can you make some pictures? Daddy has to work.”

“Why?”

Andrew sat down to take a breath, glancing at his watch. Ten minutes. The meeting started in ten minutes. He opened his laptop and turned it on.

Richard, his boss, sauntered in. “Andrew, my boy …”

Andrew tensed. He hated when Richard called him that. He was thirty-five for god’s sake. And Richard wasn’t that much older. Fifty, tops.

“It seems there’s some sort of problem with the ladies, and I’m sure it’s nothing,” he waved his hand dismissively, “but we need you to answer the phones today.”

“What?” Andrew looked at him in disbelief. He was a Project Manager. He had a university degree for god’s sake. And he wanted him to answer phones? He couldn’t be serious.

“But I have the meeting with the Board—”

“Not to worry, I’ll take care of that for you, if you’ll just give me your report,” Richard said smoothly.

And let him take the credit? No way. But Richard was staring at him. Waiting. Apparently he had no choice.

“Okay, I’ll just get Sharon to—”

“Sharon’s not here. Weren’t you listening? None of the women are here.”

“What?” Andrew said again. But he’d intended to ask Sharon to look after his kids while he was at the meeting. She’d had kids of her own—no, maybe she hadn’t—now that he thought about it, he couldn’t remember seeing any pictures on her desk—in any case, she was no Brittany or Brianna, with whom he’d never leave his kids. Sharon was older and far more responsible; in fact, she had been the one who’d trained him when he first came to the company.

“None of the women are here?” Andrew stared out the window, trying to make sense of it.

“Your report?” Richard was waiting.

“Oh—”

“Andrew,” he said, with such exasperation, “what seems to be the problem?”

Seems to be. As if there really wasn’t any problem. Did he do that on purpose? My boy. Seems to be.

“Sharon has it. I mean, I have it,” he glanced at his laptop, “but she was going to format it and …” Make it all neat and tidy. She did that with all of his reports.

“We don’t have time for that now, just give me what you’ve got.”

Andrew opened the report. He was about to hit ‘Print’ but … it looked so … incompetent.

“Can’t we just reschedule?” he asked hopefully.

“No, the Board needs to see the numbers now,” Richard said impatiently. “Just print it and I’ll be on my way.”

Sighing, he pressed ‘Print’ and they both went to the printer. A dotted triangle was flashing. No report was forthcoming.

“Did you press ‘Print’?” Richard asked, patronizingly.

“Yes, I pressed ‘Print’!” Andrew said angrily.

“I don’t have time for this,” Richard said with disgust a moment later, as if the failing printer was Andrew’s fault. “Put the report on a flash drive, then get to the phones.” They’d been ringing since Richard had shown up. Since before he’d shown up, actually.

Andrew returned to his office and a few moments later reluctantly handed Richard a flash drive.

Richard turned and only then noticed Andrew’s kids in the corner.

“What are those?” he asked coldly.

Andrew stared at him. With a look of incomprehension on his face that could only be said to match that on his boss’s face.

“Kids,” he replied. “My kids, Timothy and Thomas.”

“And you brought them here to work with you because …”

“My wife—”

He waved his hand. Didn’t want to hear it.

“Make other arrangements,” was all he said. “And get to those phones.”

Again, Andrew just stared at him, as he sauntered out. With his report.

“And see to the printer, would you?” Richard called back.

If Andrew had had a slammable door, he would’ve slammed it after Richard. Instead, he simply picked up Timmy, mercifully quiet all this time, and put out his hand for Tommy.

There was no real place for the kids to settle in the reception area. It was open concept, with no corner. It wasn’t even carpeted. Andrew went back to his office for the stroller. There was no way Timmy would be content to sit in his stroller for very long, but what alternative did he have? Maybe he’d fall asleep. He lifted Tommy back into his desk chair and pulled it along behind him, awkwardly manoeuvring it around the counter.

Now what? He opened the top drawer of the receptionist’s desk, found a couple highlighters, then went to the printer for some blank sheets of paper.

“Can you make some more pictures while Daddy works?” he said to Tommy, thinking to clear a bit of space on the receptionist’s desk. But no, that looked impossible. He looked around, then grabbed a clipboard from the counter top, put the blank sheets of paper on top of what looked like a sign-in sheet, and handed it to Tommy.

“All set?”

Tommy nodded. Morosely.

“Will somebody please answer those goddamned phones?” Matthew stuck his head out his door as Andrew sat down at the desk.

He picked up the ringing phone.

“Hello?”

He heard nothing. The line was dead. No, it kept ringing. He pushed the flashing red button labelled ‘1’.

“Hello?”

“Hello— Is this Stride Enterprises?”

“Yes.” He’d just noticed that there was a column of such buttons, labelled 1-5. There were five lines? He had to answer five phones?

“May I speak to Mr. Belsen?”

“Um, just a minute.”

Andrew looked around for some sort of directory. There, pinned to the fabric of the reception divider right in front of him. When he reached out to run his finger down the list, it fluttered off the divider. Which, he realized, wasn’t really made for stuff to be pinned onto. Whose bright idea was that? It should be cork board or something. The list had fluttered between the divider and the desk, onto the floor. Damn it! He had to get onto his hands and knees and crawl under the desk to reach it. Tommy eagerly helped. And got his hands covered in something black. Timmy started crying. He wanted to get in on the fun.

Andrew crawled back out, put the list onto the desk, got Timmy out of his stroller, sat back down at the desk, and started bouncing him on his knee to make him stop crying. Jealous, Tommy tried to climb climbed onto Andrew’s lap as well.

“Damn it, Tommy!” He’d gotten the black stuff all over Andrew’s white shirt. Tommy started to tear up, and Andrew, immediately remorseful and not wanting two crying kids, pulled Tommy’s chair as close to him as possible and did make room on the desk for his drawing. “There. Better?” Tommy nodded. And wiped at his eyes.

Andrew scanned the list. Mr. Belsen was at extension 522. He pressed 5-2-2 on the phone. Nothing seemed to happen.

“Hello?”

“Hello?”

“Is this Mr. Belsen?”

“No, just a minute, I’ll try again.”

He pressed the lit button to put the caller on hold. The light went off.

“Hello?”

He’d disconnected the call.

He put Timmy back into the stroller and started opening the desk drawers to look for some sort of operating manual. And maybe some tissue to wipe Tommy’s hands. No such luck. He was about to take him to the washroom when the phone rang again.

“Daddy, I wanna go home now.” Tommy had had enough of drawing pictures.

“We can’t go home yet, but soon okay?” Andrew said. “Draw another picture?”

“I don’t want to!” He threw a highlighter onto the floor.

“Tommy, please don’t do that, Daddy has to pick it up now!”

Tommy eagerly clambered out of the chair and started crawling under the desk again.

“No, don’t, Tommy, it’s all dirty! Come on back up onto the chair.”

The phone was still ringing. He picked up the receiver and hit the flashing red button.

“Hello?”

“You cut me off.”

“Sorry.”

“Is Mr. Belsen there or not?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to connect you.”

“I don’t have all day.”

“Hey, I’m doing my best, okay? Our receptionist isn’t here today and I’m filling in for her.”

“Well, how hard can it be?”

Andrew pressed a button marked ‘Hold’ and then pressed 5-2-2 again. Still nothing. He pressed the ‘Hold’ button again, hoping the person was still there. Nothing. He pressed the ‘RLS’ button. What did that stand for? Release? As in ‘release hold’? No, that didn’t make sense. If you had several people on hold, how did it know which one you wanted to release?

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mr. Belsen?”

“No, I’m still trying—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” the caller hung up.

“Same to you!” Andrew shouted in frustration.

Maybe there was a number to press before the in-office extensions, like the number 9 you’d press to get an outside line. During the course of the next eight calls, he tried each one. None of them worked.

Then he noticed the ‘TR’ button. ‘Transfer’? Had to be.

Timmy started crying again. Andrew moved the stroller back and forth, back and forth, but it was awkward handling the receiver and buttons with just one hand. Tommy crawled out from under the desk and started pressing the buttons on the phone.

“Tommy!” Andrew shoved him away.

“I want Mommy!” Tommy started to cry as well. Understandably.

By the time Andrew had a minute to get a cup of coffee, the pot was empty again. Halfway through making another pot, the phone rang again. He ran out to answer it. And this time hit ‘TR’ before he dialed the extension number. Still didn’t work. Damn it! What the hell was he doing wrong? Why couldn’t he do this?

Five times he tried to deal with the printer. The first four times, the phone rang before he was halfway across the reception space. The fifth time, he’d opened it up—he’d figured out there were three panels that opened: one on the top, one on the front, and one on the back—but couldn’t see anything amiss. Anywhere.

Someone came to stand beside him, several loose pages in his hand. He was a little disconcerted to see Andrew at the machine, but then just said, “Could you make ten copies of this when you get it fixed?”

“What?”

“Ten copies. Thanks.” He set the pages on the table beside the printer. Slash copier.

At lunch time, he wanted—well, he wanted to go to lunch. He desperately needed a break. He was hungry. And he still hadn’t gotten a cup of coffee. Kyle was right. They’d run out of filters.

And he had to do something with the boys. He’d forgotten Timmy’s diaper bag. He hadn’t thought to bring any toys, any lunch … Of course, he hadn’t known he’d have to bring them in to work …

He popped his head into Simon’s office to ask if he’d watch the phones for him.

“Sorry, no can do,” he gestured to his own kid, about ten, sitting in the corner on the carpeted floor, playing videos games on his tablet. Then turned back to the “Hot and Hard” website he’d opened.

“Hey, Matthew,” Andrew stopped at the next open door. “Would you mind covering me at reception for a few minutes? I’ve got to get my kids some lunch—”

“Not my problem,” Matthew said, shaking his head. Why should he pay the price for someone else’s choice? It was a choice, after all. To have kids.

So Andrew just left. Let the phones ring. Let them annoy everyone on the floor. And if Richard found out, well, what was he supposed to do, skip lunch?

Yes, apparently. Richard told him as much when he returned. Two hours later.

“If Brittany had pulled that stunt, she’d be fired on the spot!” he thundered at him. Andrew didn’t care. One morning on the job and already he was beyond caring.

When he’d left for lunch, he’d driven around, looking in vain for a park, for somewhere he could let the boys run around for a bit, but nada. He passed twenty parking lots, but not one park.

He’d also passed a great many designer and boutique stores, but nothing— He finally spotted a convenience store tucked incongruously between a Gap and a Bath and Body Works, both of which looked closed. In fact, many of the stores had looked closed. Profits are going to take a nosedive, he noted idly, then wondered when the women would be coming back. Where had they gone? He hadn’t had any time to consider the larger problem, he realized just then, with surprise. Well, he’d been busy with all the little stuff. There was so much little stuff …

He quickly bought some diapers, some wipes, a few sandwiches, a couple juice boxes, and some cheap toys. He forgot to buy some coffee filters.

On the way back, he finally thought to call Diane’s parents’ place, just in case. No answer.

The two-hour lunch break had tired the boys enough for them to want to nap, and Andrew had thought to bring the car blanket with him when they returned to the office. He made a hidey hole for them under his desk, laying the blanket onto the floor and then the seat cushion from Sharon’s chair. He hoped it would suffice. Fortunately, it did. The boys were asleep in minutes. Amazingly, given the constant ringing of the phones.

By mid-afternoon, Andrew figured out how to transfer a call. By accident. He had to press ‘TR’ not only before he entered the extension numbers, but also after he’d done so. He’d happened to do that only because he was so harried, he’d forgotten whether he was coming or going.

So he was rather pleased with himself when the flashing red light of the call he’d put on hold in order to transfer it to Mr. Lavigne, at 4-3-3, stopped flashing and went solid. Line 3 rang immediately. He picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“I’m on a call!” Mr. Lavigne’s voice.

“Oh, excuse me—” Andrew quickly pressed the button for line 3.

“Hello?”

“Could you tell Jack Riley—”

“Hang on, I can transfer you—”

“No, I don’t want to talk with him. Just give him this message, darlin’, can you do that?”

Andrew stared at the receiver.

“You tell Jack that we’re good to go on the nineteenth at six, I’ve got reservations at the Spear at seven, and he’d better come prepared, you got that?”

Andrew searched for a notepad and pen. “The nineteenth at—what was that?”

At some point, it occurred to him that if after a transfer the light kept blinking, that meant no one was there. He assumed he was supposed to go back on the call and take a message. Right. Like he was going to do that. Like he could figure out how to do that. He tried once, but apparently disconnected the call. Just as well. One of the other lines rang.

When he got home at six-thirty, he was exhausted. More exhausted than he’d ever been at the end of the day. Timmy and Tommy were crying. Timmy needed a change, Tommy’s hands were still black, they were both hungry, they were both cranky— But all Andrew wanted to do was to take a long shower, then sit in front of the TV with a bottle of beer, was that too much to ask? Yes. It was, if you had a two-year-old and a four-year-old.

So he changed Timmy, he cleaned Tommy’s hands, then made dinner. Of a sort.

“Can we play dinosaurs now?” Tommy asked. “You promised.”

“Can’t you just play quietly for a while,” Andrew begged, “Daddy’s tired.”

“No, I want to play dinosaurs! DINOSAURS! DINOSAURS!” he screamed.

Andrew would have belted him one right then and there, but he was just … too damned tired.

It was eight-thirty by the time they were tucked in bed. One of them cried himself to sleep.

Andrew still had to make arrangements for his kids. He’d intended, at some point during the day, to search online for other daycares or a nanny or something, but he hadn’t managed to get to it. How could the whole day go by without—he hadn’t even checked his email. Not once. Usually, truth be told, he even had time to check the news sites. And do a crossword.

As he reached for his laptop, it suddenly dawned on him that it was Friday. He had the whole weekend to make arrangements. Dead tired, he went to bed. It was only nine o’clock.

2

Saturday morning and part of Saturday afternoon was taken up with the kids and chores. It was a mystery, and a surprise, how doing the dishes, cleaning up the kitchen, straightening the living room, cleaning the bathroom, and doing a couple loads of laundry could take five hours.

Actually it wasn’t. Not a mystery at any rate. Timmy and Tommy were constantly interrupting him. They were so needy. How did Diane get anything done? He’d already yelled at them twice. Then immediately regretted it. It wasn’t their fault. They missed their mom. They were just little kids. He got that.

The washer stopped working during the second load. When he’d lifted the lid at the end of the cycle to put the clothes into the dryer, he found them sitting in ten inches of water. He called the appliance repair place. Busy.

Then when he returned to the kitchen to properly clean up the juice spill from the previous day, he found Timmy and Tommy merrily putting the ants attracted by the sticky mess into their mouths. He screamed at them. Really screamed. Then locked himself in the washroom for a time-out.

When he called the appliance repair place an hour later, the line was still busy. No doubt someone had simply taken the phone off the hook.

Should he try to fix the washer himself? He stared at it. It was even more impenetrable than the printer had been. Groaning, he pulled it away from the wall and saw a panel at the bottom. Right. Take that off and he was likely to electrocute himself.

He’d try calling again in a couple hours.

Now, now he had to find someone to look after his kids. His first thought was that maybe there was someone in the building. But he didn’t know any of his neighbours. His social world was at work.

Was there an apartment directory? He could just start calling. He looked around the apartment and found nothing.

Okay, so he could go door-to-door … No, he’d have to take the kids with him. He sighed. At the moment, doing that … it would be just … too much work.

He decided to go online first. Maybe there was someone in this neighbourhood advertising babysitting services on Kijiji. He was delighted to discover several people doing just that. Katy, Debbie, Irene, Meghan, Melody …

Door-to-door it was. Tommy cowered away from him. It took fifteen minutes of cajoling and then, yes, more screaming, before he got him into presentable shape. No one would agree to look after a tear-streaked, dirty-faced, half-dressed kid. Timmy, thank god, had fallen asleep, so he just carefully transferred him from the couch into the stroller.

Andrew knocked on the first door. No answer. He knocked on the second door. No answer.

“I wanna go home,” Tommy whined.

No answers at the next three doors either.

“I wanna go home NOW!” Tommy threatened a tantrum. Andrew ignored him. He thought it best. No, truthfully, he didn’t have the energy to do anything else.

The sixth door was answered by someone who could barely make it to the door. Andrew apologized for having bothered him.

A man in his thirties answered the seventh door. He looked employed. It was worth a shot anyway.

“Hi, I’m Andrew, this is Timmy, and this is Tommy, and I’m wondering whether—whether you know anyone who is available to look after my kids during the day—”

“No, sorry,” the man said, closing his door.

Andrew sighed.

“I’ll look after your kids,” a large man lingering two doors down called out. “Got laid off today,” he explained, gruffly, as he unlocked his door.

“Oh—great!” Andrew said. “I mean, I’m sorry— You’re—”

“Ivan Keller. I’m a plumber. At P and E Plumbing?”

Andrew shook his head.

“Yeah, they told me business is down. Don’t understand it. Just because the women are gone doesn’t mean people don’t need their toilets unplugged, am I right?”

“You are.” Andrew knew why business was down. He was sure he cost Stride Enterprises several new clients on Friday.

“Okay, so, how much do you— How much would you charge?” Wait a minute. He didn’t know anything about this guy.

“Eighty-five.”

“Eighty-five a day?” Andrew thought quickly. He’d hoped for something closer to fifty a day. But he could probably swing eighty-five. Until— Were the women going to come back?

“No,” the guy laughed. “Eighty-five an hour.”

“An hour? But—”

“That’s how much I charge as a plumber. If your kids aren’t as important as your toilets and your sinks …” He stepped into his apartment.

“No, no, they are—” They’re more important. But eighty-five an hour? Andrew did the math. That worked out to $170,000 a year! He didn’t make that much. And even if he did, he needed something left over to pay for—everything else.

“You in?” the man was waiting.

“No, I’m sorry, I can’t pay that …”

The man shrugged and went inside, and Andrew wandered distractedly back to his apartment.

He put Timmy in his crib. Tommy agreed to a nap.

The man was absolutely right though, Andrew thought as he sunk into the couch. Surely his kids, anyone’s kids, were more important than their toilets. So how was it that plumbers—and electricians, and auto mechanics, and probably tons of other guys—how was it they managed to charge so much? So much more? Because he and Diane sure weren’t paying $170,000 for daycare. True, the daycare looked after several kids, but even so, when all was said and done, he doubted that any of the daycare workers made anywhere near eighty-five an hour.

He tried calling the appliance place again. Still busy. No surprise. He knew it wasn’t because everyone’s washer had broken at the same time.

He started bailing the washer with one of the kids’ toy pails. Then he wrung out each item as best he could before tossing it into the dryer. Took forever.

And by the time forever had passed, it was time to make dinner.

Tommy didn’t want peanut butter and jam again. Nor did Andrew. He’d call out for pizza. Surely he deserved it. The line was busy.

“SHIT SHIT SHIT!!” he exploded as he threw the phone across the room. Nearly hitting Tommy and sending him wailing into his room again.

“Tommy, I wasn’t aiming at you, Daddy’s sorry …” He started to go after him, but then decided to just let him be.

He opened the fridge, saw that some vegetables in the crisper were about to go bad, figured he could manage pasta, put the veggies into the pot with the pasta and a can of pasta sauce.

Both Timmy and Tommy managed to get the sauce all over their tshirts. Of course they did.

Once the kids were in bed, Andrew popped open a bottle of beer and turned on the TV. He needed to pick up some more beer. When, though? Ordinarily, he’d just go now. But there was no way he could leave a two-year-old and a four-year-old home alone. Tomorrow maybe, on the way to work. No, tomorrow was Sunday. Monday then.

Idly watching Criminal, he realized they wouldn’t be able to make any more new episodes. Soon there’d be nothing but reruns. No, that’s not true, they could just replace the female characters with male characters. Truth be told, there weren’t that many, he noticed, relatively speaking, and they were always just minor characters. Mostly they were the victims of some horrible rape or murder. Or rape and murder. Sure, Grey’s Anatomy, Madam Secretary, and Ellen would be gone, but those were chick shows anyway.

He switched to the news. Yeah, that would just go back to the way it was when all the anchors had been men. He watched to see if there was anything about the situation. The anchor made a few mistakes. Had the teleprompter been run by a woman? Then there were some glitches about what was to come next. And then some dead air. Cut to a commercial break.

Oh that’s gonna change big time, he noted. Advertising.

The news resumed. The women were gone, no one knew how, no one knew why, no one knew for how long. Daycares and elementary schools were closed.

That’s it? That was all they had to say?

Guess so. The next item was something about the war in wherever, then there was the business report, which was always something about the economy and the stock market, then the weather report, and then sports. A full ten minutes like usual.

It shouldn’t have surprised him. There would be no more shots of gorgeous celebrities in the Entertainment segment of the news, but all of the other segments would go on like before. And why not? The news had seldom been about what women did.

3

Sunday was …awful. He almost went nuts being cooped up in the apartment with a two-year-old and four-year-old. For the second day in a row. But if he went out, he’d have to take them with him, and the mere thought of orchestrating that overwhelmed him.

Early in the morning—before Andrew was up, actually—Tommy had upended the toybox, then had chosen to play with both his police car and fire truck. They both had sirens. Loud sirens. Andrew groaned and rolled over. Then remembered he’d been the one to insist on buying for the boys that very police car and that very fire truck.

When Andrew insisted that playtime was over, Tommy refused to put his toys back in the toybox.

“Don’t you want breakfast?”

“NO!”

“Come on, you have to eat breakfast. Help Daddy put the toys back in the box.”

“NO!” That was Timmy. He’d finally gotten his hands on the fire truck.

“Yes, please, come on, no more fire truck, Daddy’ll read you a story.”

“Where Mommy? Mommy read!”

“Mommy’s gone.” As soon as he’d said it, he knew it was a mistake. “To Grammy’s.” Too late. Timmy’d started wailing.

Once he’d exhausted himself, Andrew revisited storytime. It did not go well. Timmy kept turning the pages; he didn’t care that Daddy hadn’t finished the sentence yet. And halfway through, Tommy got his fire truck out of the toybox again.

Andrew sighed, threw the book onto the coffee table, and turned on the TV. To the Kids’ Channel.

Monday he decided to call in sick. He thought he’d call HR first to confirm that he did indeed have five sick days left, but there was no answer. So he just went ahead and called Richard on his direct line. As he was dialing, he had a brilliant idea. He could telecommute! That would solve everything. Well, not everything, but—

“I could easily do my work from home,” Andrew told him, once he’d made the suggestion.

“As Project Manager, I’m sure you could,” Richard replied, “and I’d have no problem allowing you to do so one day a week, maybe even two, but we need our receptionist here. You understand.”

“Yes, but I’m not the receptionist.”

“You are now,” he chuckled.

Why was that funny, Andrew thought to wonder after he hung up.

He had to get out of the apartment. He had to get beer. He had to get groceries. And he had to take Timmy and Tommy with him.

It took the entire afternoon. Half an hour just to get out the door.

The beer store wasn’t bad. He left the boys in the car—thank god it wasn’t hot—and things were pretty much normal. Except, of course, for the longer than usual lines at the cashiers.

The grocery store, on the other hand, was hell. He put Timmy into the cart, fastening him securely in the baby seat, then told Tommy to hang on.

“Don’t let go!” he told him nervously. Why was the store so busy? And so loud?

He started down the first aisle. He hadn’t made a list; he thought he’d just cruise and get whatever he saw that he needed. Easier said than done. Everyone who was cruising just like him spent more time looking at the shelves than at where they were going. There were collisions. There were road blocks. No one said ‘Sorry’ and then moved their cart out of Andrew’s way. Instead, people seemed to intentionally block not only him, but the whole aisle, belligerently challenging someone, anyone, to say something. After all, they were entitled. They were men.

And, like Andrew, most of the men didn’t know where anything was. Their frustration was palpable; they’d clearly had to go down the same aisle several times, first to get this item, then again to get that item. Andrew had done the grocery shopping before with a list, a list Diane had prepared, and he just now realized that she’d prepared the list so the items on it were in the same order in which he’d come to them if he started in Aisle 1 and simply proceeded through to Aisle 8.

“Daddy, get this.”

“No, this cereal is better.”

“But I want this one!”

“Well, you’re not going to get it!”

Tommy let go of Andrew’s hand and started to get the box he wanted. Andrew yanked him back, and tugged him along, past the cereal.

They passed a kid in a cart kicking his father.

They passed another kid in a cart screaming so hard his face was red.

They passed a couple older kids knocking stuff off the shelves. Andrew wheeled carefully around several broken glass jars.

Timmy wanted to get out of the cart and walk. Like Tommy. Not on your life, Andrew thought.

When they turned into Aisle 4, they practically bumped into a father hitting his kid. Really hard. Andrew hadn’t separated the kid’s shriek from the high level of background noise, so the scene took him by surprise.

He tightened his grip on Tommy, then just said to the man, quietly, “Hey.” He was ready for “MIND YOUR OWN GODDAMNED BUSINESS!” He was ready to block Timmy or Tommy or both.

Instead, the man just looked at Andrew for a second, dazed. Then a switch seemed to flip on, or off, and he looked at his kid, aghast.

“Oh god, Davey, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he sobbed as he picked up his still screaming son and held him close. “Oh, god, Davey, I’m so sorry …” The two of them sagged to the floor in a mutual meltdown.

By the time Andrew made it through all of the aisles, his cart was full. He double-checked, thinking through the day: coffee, bread, jam, peanut butter, milk, cereal, juice; bread again, cold cuts, tuna, mayonnaise, peanut butter, jam, fruit; frozen dinners, meat, veggies, rice, pasta, pasta sauce; potato chips, cookies. And—he thought of these things only when he saw them—toilet paper, diapers, wipes, paper towels, laundry detergent, soap, shampoo, toothpaste. He also decided to buy a bunch of ready-made stuff at the hot and cold deli counters.

“Anything else, Tommy?” Andrew asked him. Actually, he might know. He always went with Diane. It was an adventure. In a way that today’s trip was not. Apparently. In any case, he didn’t want get home and then find out that he forgot something the kids considered essential.

“Yogurt,” Tommy said, in a small voice. “Mommy always buys yogurt.”

Right. But she was the only one who ate it. Nevertheless, it if helped maintain some sense of normalcy … They went back to the dairy section and got some yogurt. And then to the freezer aisle for ice cream. The yogurt had reminded him.

Andrew had noticed, pretending not to, that the line-ups at the only two check-outs that were open went halfway down the closest aisle. It had been difficult to get anything from those aisles and almost impossible to get through to the next aisle. Some men left a gap, but then some asshole always wheeled in to fill it. Andrew had seen the same thing happen on the road. A thoughtful driver would leave a gap so oncoming cars could continue to turn left, or cars coming out of a parking lot could get through, but then there were drivers who would move up and close the gap. ME next! His father was like that. Out on the highway, he’d get positively enraged when someone passed him. As if it mattered how many people were ahead of him. As if driving anywhere, everywhere, was a race. He’d actually timed how long it took to get to the family cottage each weekend. That’s what happens, Andrew thought, when you see life as a competition.

“Jeezus,” Andrew muttered, once he’d manoeuvred into one of the long check-out lines.

“Can’t we go now?” Tommy asked.

“No, we have to pay first,” Andrew said. “Soon though.”

Soon though, my ass, he thought.

He tried to initiate an “I Spy” game with Tommy. No, he just wanted to go home. After ten minutes, Timmy started to fuss. Don’t start crying, Andrew pleaded. Please don’t start crying.

Half an hour later, they were at the front of the line. And Andrew saw the problem. My god, but the man was slow. It reminded Andrew of how men crossed the street in front of his car. The women always hurried, as if apologizing for making you stop and wait. The men never did. They sauntered across, taking great delight in making you wait. And that seemed to be what the checkout guy was doing. No way he was going to hurry. Not for anyone. He took his bloody time reaching for each item, scanning it, then setting it on the other side.

And then when there wasn’t any more room, he’d pack. Instead of packing as he went.

It was painful to watch. He positioned the packages first here, then there, shifting them, repositioning them. And they say men are the ones with the spatial abilities.

When he started to put the heavy carton of ice cream on top of a bag of loose tomatoes, Andrew spoke up. “Wait, that’ll crush the tomatoes.”

The guy glowered at him. And took the tomatoes out. Then he started to put the hot deli container of scalloped potatoes beside the ice cream.

“It would be better if you put all the cold stuff in one bag, and all the hot in another,” Andrew suggested the obvious.

“You wanna pack it yourself?” the man challenged. It was a far cry from the smiling ‘Sorry’ Andrew normally would have gotten. The ‘And how are you today?’ had been completely absent.

“It might be better if I did,” Andrew said, and started to do so.

The man walked away then, apparently to have a smoke break.

Unfuckingbelievable, Andrew thought. He had to wait for the guy to return so he could pay for his groceries. No surprise that after just two or three minutes of no forward motion, guys several spots down from him starting banging their carts into those of the guys in front of them. Tommy whined. Timmy started crying.

The manager in the office above looked out his little window and decided he’d better hire a security firm. It had actually been suggested by head office the day before, but he’d scoffed at the idea.

As soon as Andrew paid, he went straight to that manager’s office to complain. The guy should be fired. Seriously. But no, the manager had no intention of firing him.

Andrew thought then of Richard’s comment about how he would have fired Brittany on the spot if she’d taken a two hour lunch. He was sure that if a woman had done what this guy had just done, she also would have been fired on the spot. It’s true, he thought, with amazement. Men doget away with a lot more shit than women. Women are held to higher standards. Diane had always said so, but he had always denied it. How else could you explain the overwhelming number of men in middle and upper management positions? If what she’d said was right, wouldn’t women be getting promoted over men? It didn’t make sense.

Part way home, he realized he’d have to call in sick tomorrow as well. He hadn’t had any time to make other arrangements, and by the time he unpacked and then—god, how was he going to get the groceries up into the apartment? Was he supposed to carry one bag at a time in his left hand, pushing Timmy’s stroller with the other, making sure Tommy tagged along? It would take ten trips! Tommy would rebel, and rightly so, after just two trips. Could he leave him in the apartment by himself? No, he’d surely start wailing as soon as he closed and locked the door behind him.

Maybe—ah! The shopping carts he saw in the parking garage every now and then! He’d always wondered why someone would take a shopping cart from a grocery store. Now he knew. Still he wondered—would they have wheeled the thing all the way from the store along the sidewalk? Or had some soccer mom with a minivan made a covert run one midnight in order to relocate a few carts for everyone’s use?

On his fifth trip—unfortunately, there weren’t any carts in the parking garage that day—did the grocery stores come and retrieve them every now and then?—it suddenly occurred to him that he could just call their babysitter! Duh! They paid her only $10/hour. He wondered now, just now, how much people paid boys to cut their grass. He thought it was about $20/hour. Well, that wasn’t fair, was it. Unless our lawns are also more important than our kids.

But if he offered $20/hour—which he admitted he should, at the very least—that would … geez, that would be about half his salary. Could that be right? Yes. It would also be more than a year’s university tuition for each of the boys. Well, when you thought about it, what universities provided for that money—a couple classes, access to a library and a gym—was nothing compared to looking after a kid for eight solid hours a day, attending to its physical, emotional, cognitive, and social development. So, he supposed $20/hour was—

No, he mentally slapped his forehead, he couldn’t just call their babysitter. Alicia would be gone as well. Okay, maybe he could find another high school student, a boy—if the schools were closed— Were they?

Three hours later—it took that long to get all the groceries into the apartment, then put them away, then make supper, then get the kids to bed—he went online again. Apparently most of the elementary schools were closed, but the high schools were still open.

4

Though ‘open’ wasn’t quite right, since, at least at Central High School, the entrance was guarded and incoming students were frisked. Metal detectors were on order.

“What the hell …” Mr. Archer had murmured as he made his way through the halls to the staff room on that Friday morning. The party atmosphere was unmistakeable. And, for the moment, puzzling.

Eventually he noticed that he wasn’t seeing any girls. Then he noticed that he wasn’t seeing any women. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen any girls or women on his way in either …

“I tell you it’s not going to work!” Mr. Laskey, one of the science teachers, was pacing and wringing his hands. “Best thing to do is close down altogether.”

“We can’t close down,” replied Mr. Nelson, the principal, in a tone that indicated that he thought Mr. Laskey was being a little hysterical about the situation. “It’s our responsibility to educate these boys!”

“But there are only, what, fifteen of us?” he looked around the room to count. Ten. The other five must be— Oh god. Several of the ten hustled out of the room, quickly.

“Come on!” one of them said to Mr. Archer as they rushed by him.

Mr. Laskey was right about the math. Female teachers outnumbered male teachers two to one at the high schools. So at nine o’clock, that Friday, two-thirds of the high school classrooms, and halls, world-wide, were ‘unsupervised’.

By nine-thirty, at Central High School, Mr. Nelson was on the public address system with a revised timetable that merged classes into an unspeakable horror.

Mr. Yoshi found himself with over a hundred grade twelve Math students in the auditorium. Next period, he’d have the same number of grade eleven Math students. In the afternoon, he’d take the grade ten and nine Math students. He arranged the students in clusters according to where they were in the text, intending to circulate and teach as he went, rather than attempt any sort of lesson per se, but maintaining discipline had been a challenge with thirty students in the room; doing so with over a hundred was impossible. Yes, there was a roster of teacher’s aides available to teachers who needed extra help, but well over ninety percent of teacher’s aides were women. And so no longer available.

Somehow reading, writing—indeed learning—had become a girl thing. Perhaps because they were typically better at it. Boys acted like high school was all about hooking up and competing. (Given that attitude, and the classroom atmosphere it must have created, and the demands it must have made on the teachers, it’s a wonder the girls ever learned anything. Let alone as much as they might have otherwise. No wonder there had been so many advocates of segregated schools.) Now that hooking up wasn’t an option, it was full-out competition.

So what started happening that Friday was really no different than what had been happening for quite some time; it was just exacerbated by the situation.

The constant shouting—real men spoke up—made it difficult to hear even the students right next to him. The relentless posturing tore his attention away from the task at hand, to make sure it remainedposturing, so he was seldom able to finish even the shortest of explanations without interruption. And when it escalated beyond posturing? Orders to report to the principal’s office were laughed at. Threats of detention were laughed at. And attempts to stop a fight single-handedly were suicidal.

Mr. Corming had a schedule similar to Mr. Yoshi’s, but for English, in reverse order, in the cafeteria. He figured it was do-able: he’d teach for half the period, then have silent reading for the remainder. But the first ten students he’d sent to the library to get a book came back—well, seven of them came back—with news that the library was locked. Plan B had been turning English into Home Ec—they’d all be hungry in a couple hours. And of course the cafeteria staff …

“Let’s take a look and see if we can prepare a killer lunch, shall we?”

“Yeah, let’s all turn into cafeteria ladies, shall we?” Lewis mocked. “Where are the hairnets, I want a pink one!”

This, from the student most likely to spend his life saying “Would you like fries with that?” In a prison cafeteria.

Once the food fight was over, no one acted on Mr. Corming’s suggestion that they clean up—because that’s the janitor’s job, right?—except for a few of the boys, who figured out that the task provided safety.

One of these boys was James, a smaller than average grade niner, who had been struggling, every day, to get an education. He had been so excited about starting high school, where the real learning happened. In particular, he had been looking forward to studying poetry—realpoetry, not the stupid rhyming stuff they’d done in grades seven and eight. In fact, he was going to be a poet. He’d already started writing stuff, which he kept in a spiral notebook that he kept with him at all times. Because if his father ever discovered it, he’d make fun of it so much he wouldn’t ever want to write another poem.

Plus, the high school had Music, which he’d looked forward to taking. When they got to choose instruments, he thought he’d choose the flute. It was small enough to fit into his knapsack.

But high school was nothing like he’d imagined. The other boys, almost every single one of them, was like his father. They’d mock and jeer. That he could take. Sort of. That is to say, he was used to it.

But when the verbal taunts didn’t have their intended effect, the other boys turned to physical taunts. They’d shove him and push him. What did they want? James kept ignoring them, he kept walking away from them, he kept trying to avoid them in the first place, but—what did they want?? Surely they knew he couldn’t fight back. If he even tried, they’d beat him to a pulp.

Did they just want to see him cry? He’d obliged them on a few occasions, much to his embarrassment, but the aggression didn’t stop. In fact, it got worse.

Unsatisfied with shoves and pushes, they’d started hitting. At first, not very hard, but again, when that didn’t have the desired result—what did they want??—they started hitting him harder.

So even before that Friday, James had been spending most of his time being on the alert for the worst ones and staying out of sight. It often made him late for class. And then the teachers, who until now had been his—okay, maybe not his protectors, but surely at least his allies—started thinking less of him. It hurt. He’d explained to Ms. Webster why he was so often late for her English class, and she’d believed him, she’d understood, but she couldn’t do anything about it.

None of the teachers could, it seemed. At first, some of them tried to stop the fights, but then a knife was pulled on one of them. Mr. Enright ended up in the hospital.

Shortly after that, the teachers stopped sending the troublemakers—an inadequate word if there ever was one—to the principal’s office, for fear of retaliation.

The day the students got their first term report cards, Tyler had screamed into Ms. Webster’s face that she was a FUCKING CUNT! He’d received a failing grade. What had he expected? He hadn’t done any of the work. But James would understand if Tyler ended up passing the course. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right, but—

He’d heard that the teachers—mostly the female teachers—had asked the principal why he didn’t simply expel any student who was physically violent or even verbally abusive. Apparently, Mr. Nelson had laughed, saying that that would eliminate almost half the student body and besides, they all had a right to an education.

The gym was turned into a huge Study Hall. Right. Study. Mr. Berini was hoarse within an hour. And tired of breaking up the fights that seemed to erupt every ten minutes.

The gym classes were taken outside into the field, where Mr. Delven organized a sort of round robin soccer tournament. And pretended not to see the students who simply left. Good riddance to many. Good luck to a few.

Mr. Ellis filled in for the missing vice-principal, Mr. MacKenzie supervised the halls, and the remaining eight teachers were assigned to classrooms, every one of which was overflowing. With male adolescents.

By noon, AV had signed out every single television monitor and its entire supply of movies. Though many kids were just watching whatever they wanted on their laptops and tablets. Watching? No, playing video games. Rehearsing theft, arson, assault, and homicide.

Mr. Tunney had fifty-five students—correction, fifty-five male adolescents—in his chemistry room. He double-checked that the gas to the Bunsen burners was turned off, that the cabinets containing beakers and assorted equipment were locked, and that the room containing the chemicals he used for the year was locked. When he had a moment, he’d suggest to Mr. Nelson that chemistry no longer be offered at Central High.

“Hey, out of my seat!” A boy he didn’t know, but knew of, and was certain wasn’t enrolled in any chemistry course, yanked a younger kid off a stool. And threw him against the beaker cabinet. Fortunately, the glass door held. Which made the boy angry enough to just smash it.

“Hey!” Mr. Tunney called out. But was, of course, ignored. “I want you to report to the principal’s office! NOW!” Completely ignored.

He watched helplessly as the boy selected a large shard of glass. And smiled.

Students started running out of the room.

“For later,” the boy simply said. Then sauntered out.

Mr. Tunney called the office immediately. No answer. He cautiously stuck his head out his door and looked to the left and then to the right. No bleeding kid on the floor. He made a note to check all the lockers before he left that day. It would be possible for a grade niner to die overnight in one of them. Especially if he’d been slashed.

Which was quite likely because at any given moment, not just every ten minutes, there was at least one fight happening somewhere in the school. It was appalling, really. And would have been an embarrassment had it not been shrugged off as ‘boys will be boys’. Hard to see how that attitude persisted when the weapons started escalating, in both number and lethality.

In the bedlam of that first morning, twenty-six kids were seriously injured. And, of course, there was no one in the nurse’s office.

By the end of the day, Mr. Nelson called the police station and asked if he could hire a few police officers to be teacher’s aides. That was really what they needed anyway: not pedagogical expertise, but … uniformed men with guns. The threat of even more violence. Oh god, he’d moaned to himself, where had they gone wrong?

“While I appreciate your concerns,” the Chief of Police had said, when Mr. Nelson had finally gotten through, “we simply don’t have any officers to spare.”

So Mr. Nelson spent Saturday calling private security companies, then, eventually, just going around in person to the addresses listed in the phone book. He waited in a relatively short line at one such company and was able to hire four men: he put two at the main entrance, locking the other doors, and told the other two to circulate, one per floor, and assist as needed. It wasn’t enough.

By the end of the week, he would give up the charade. The high schools had become, and perhaps always had been, just a holding tank for male adolescents.

On Tuesday, James made two mistakes.

“Who knows what density is?” Mr. Archer had asked. Shouted, actually, to be heard over the ongoing rumble in the class. There were fifty students crammed into the room, and since there were only thirty-five chairs, latecomers had to stand. No, that wasn’t quite true. Even if you got there early enough to get a chair, someone coming in later could simply take it away from you. James was, of course, one of those standing at the side of the room.

As soon as Mr. Archer asked the question, he raised his hand. Because he knew the answer.

His second mistake was forgetting to peek around the corner later before he turned from one hallway into the next on the way to his second class. He’d been thinking about what density was when it didn’t refer to individual things, like people per square yard. When it referred to something like, say, iron, was density a matter of how much there was by weight or how much there was by volume? It had to be by volume, because that’s what ‘by square yard’ essentially meant, right?

As soon as he saw them, he turned and ran, but they were faster. At least, one of them was faster, and that one just hung onto him until the others arrived.

He curled into a ball with his arms wrapped around his head and waited for them to be done. But what hurt the most was that they upended his knapsack, found the spiral notebook, and burned it. Right there in front of him.

Andrew found James huddled on the floor at the end of the hallway Tuesday afternoon. He’d opened the door to let Tommy run up and down the hall a couple times. It was so much easier than making a trip to the park. Which he’d already done. Twice.

“Hey, are you okay?” He crouched beside him.

James looked up, tears in his eyes. He had a bloody lip and a black eye, and the way he was holding himself suggested he might also have a broken rib or two. His clothing was torn, and his knapsack—Andrew remembered seeing the kid always with a knapsack full of books—his knapsack was gone. Along with, presumably, the key to his apartment. Hence, the huddling on the floor at the end of the hallway.

“Do you want to come wait in my apartment?” Andrew asked. He’d left Timmy there. And had told Tommy to go back inside as soon as he saw—

Just then, James’ father came through the door from the stairwell.

“Oh jeezus, what the hell happened to you?” He stared at the boy, clearly disgusted. “You let them beat you up again?”

Again? Andrew was shocked.

“Didn’t I teach you how to fight back? D’ya want me to take a few swings at you again?”

Then appalled.

“No,” James said in a small voice. “Because I’m not going back.”

“Like hell you’re not! I won’t have you sittin’ around here all day like a little princess when I’m out workin’ my butt off—”

“I’ll hire him,” Andrew spoke quickly. James looked at him with hope. With desperation. With ‘thank you’ screaming from his eyes.

“Yeah? To do what? What the fuck do you think he’s any good at?”

“I need someone to look after my kids,” Andrew knew it would invite more ridicule, but— “I can’t take them to work with me, and—”

The man broke into laughter. “Oh, that’s perfect. That’s a perfect job for a little sissy boy.”

James got to his feet as quickly as he could, wincing.

“When would you like me to start, Mr.—”

“Fraser. And you’re …”

“James. Abbot.”

“Hi, James,” Andrew reached out to shake James’ hand. “Would you like to start now? You can come over and meet them, I’ve got—”

“Sure!” James said all too eagerly. “That’s okay?” He turned to his dad.

“Yeah, go, what the hell do I care,” the man opened the door to his apartment and went inside.

So James followed Andrew back to his apartment to meet the boys. When he found out how much Andrew was going to pay him, he said he’d do the cooking and cleaning as well. He said he’d do anything, everything, whatever Andrew needed him to do.

“Okay, that’s great,” Andrew said, trying not to show how overjoyed he was. The boy was in pain. “But first, I think we should get those ribs checked out. I’ll drive you to Emerg, okay? An x-ray should tell us whether there’s anything broken …”

(free download of complete novella at pegtittle.com)

One day he was living his life. He was a bright, young thing, one of many, with a condo in the city.

And the next day, he woke up—in a bed that wasn’t his own. Feeling…heavy. As if gravity had not just doubled, but tripled. And groggy. Not hung over exactly. It was more like a drugged fog. But that didn’t make sense….

When he came to the second time, he was conscious just long enough to realize his mouth was dry and the room was white. Very white…

The third time, consciousness wavered, flickered precariously, just out of reach. He struggled to hold onto it, and reviewed his past, thinking he could figure out where he was from where he had been. Which assumed, of course, logic and linearity, reasonable cause and effect.

He and the guys had gone to Mister’s, a popular after-work place for the upscale young professionals crowd. He’d finally paid off the last of his student loans. It had taken him five years, on a junior architect’s salary, but from now on, he was free and clear. Still had the car to pay off, but the snappy Corvette was worth it. Even if it was used. So they’d gone to the bar to celebrate.

“Hey, did you guys hear about Cheryl?” Kevin had asked Tom and Steve. They’d gotten their drinks and were lingering at the polished bar, ostensibly waiting for a free table. They place was, as always, busy.

“No, what about Cheryl?” Tom dutifully replied, loosening his tie. Kevin was okay, but, truthfully, he was a little boring. Unimaginative.

“She’s pregnant.”

Tom continued to scan the room. Not that he was a hound dog, but it wasn’t really news, was it. Women got pregnant. Big deal.

“Did you see the game last night?” Steve asked, also scanning the room. Now, he was a hound dog.

“You call that a game?” Tom laughed.

“Hey, that’s my team you’re disrespecting,” Steve protested, but laughed as well. It had been a dismal game. “Check out the blonde,” he added, nodding to the corner then making his way over.

But no, this wasn’t someone’s bedroom, Tom realized as things started coming into focus. It was too…stark. Almost institutional. It looked like a hospital room, he realized.

It was an accident, he thought then, his being in this situation. An accident…

But no, it wasn’t quite a hospital room, he realized the next time he awoke. There was a beige wrap-around curtain on his left. And a tv mounted on the wall near the ceiling. But the room didn’t have that over-the-top chrome and sterile ambience. And yet, the bed was definitely a hospital bed. The sheets were stiff and white, and the blanket, thin and pale blue.

He continued to claw his way to lucidity. He was cold. Very cold. He felt like he’d just come out of surgery. He remembered feeling this way when he’d had his appendix taken out.

“Hello—” he said feebly. Thickly. And yet he couldn’t remember drinking that much. Sure one or two beer, there was a woman—had she put something in his drink? No, that wouldn’t’ve been necessary, he thought. She was sort of hot. Hot enough, anyway. Besides, Misters’ wasn’t that kind of place.

He began to get alarmed then, because he couldn’t remember past that. He moved his head slowly toward the door to call out again, and saw the bank of medical equipment just behind his right shoulder. He jerked slightly as if to sit up and take a better look, but the reflex travelled no further than his chest.

“Hello—” He tried to make it louder this time. “Nurse—”

A stocky woman in her mid-forties entered the room. “Good morning, Tom,” she said cheerfully.

“What—” his mouth was so dry.

“I’m Carla,” she said, pouring a glass of ice chips from the pitcher on the bedside table. She held it to his lips. “One of the day nurses.”

“What happened?” he managed to say, after he’d swallowed a thin sliver of ice.

“You're doing just fine. No need for concern,” she put the glass back onto the table, then patted at the bedcovers a bit. “The call button’s right here by your hand,” she said, heading for the door. “The doctor will be in to see you soon,” she called back.

“Wait…” Tom slid into sleep again.

The morning after had found Steve in bed with a woman. A cell phone rang. He groaned, reached over to the night table, and answered it. “Hello?”

“Steve?” The young woman on the other end was surprised to hear his voice.

“Beth?” Steve was equally surprised to hear her voice.

“What are you doing with Tom's phone?” she asked.

Steve groaned. He hadn’t realized it was Tom's phone he'd answered. He hadn’t realized he’d had Tom’s phone. Must’ve picked it up by mistake at some point.

“Oh my god, is he okay? What hospital is he in?”

“Slow down. Wait a minute.” Steve sat up and tried to think. The woman beside him roused and looked at him with mild concern. “He's okay. He just—” he thought quickly. “He forgot his phone at the bar last night, that's all.”

“He was at the bar last night? But he said he'd— Then where—”

Steve backpedalled, trying to correct his mistake. “He's okay. I'm sure he'll be in touch soon.”

Beth figured it out. “So there's no need for me to start calling hospitals,” she said coldly.

“No.” What more could he say? Tom, you little devil, was what he thought.

Beth hung up. Steve shrugged, set the phone back on the table, then turned his attention to the woman in bed with him.

When Tom next woke, he tried to reach for the glass of ice chips, but it was, apparently, an impossible task. When he tried to lift his arm, it felt like dead weight. He couldn’t believe how weak, how lethargic, he was.

A few minutes later, or maybe it was hours, Dr. Anders entered briskly. She wore a clean and freshly pressed white lab coat. Her movements were efficient. She was cool, competent, and dispassionate. In other words, words the common man might use, she was a bitch.

She glanced at Tom’s sleeping body, checked the bag of clear fluid hanging on an IV stand, then began to read the various monitors, making notes on the clipboard she was carrying. Tom woke.

“Where am I?” he asked then, his voice scratchy. “Who are you?”

“You’re in a—health clinic. I’m Dr. Anders. You—”

“What happ—” he broke off as he finally managed to focus on her. He recognized her. “I remember you! Last night…”

He had watched her approach from across the room. She was trim, pretty, confident.

“Hi,” she had said to him. “Mind if I join you?”

“No, not at all,” he replied, charmed. And charming.

She sat on the empty stool beside him at the bar.

“What’ll you have?” Tom signaled to Ty, the bartender. He was a neat man, a clean towel always over his shoulder.

“A cosmopolitan, please.”

Ty nodded, and a moment later put the rubied concoction in front of her.

“So,” Tom started the old dance, “you work around here?”

“Wait a minute,” he said, continuing to struggle as his memory returned in bits and pieces. “You said you were a nurse—”

“No,” she spoke carefully, “I said I worked at a clinic. You assumed I was a nurse. Do you know why?” she added, an edge in her voice.

But he didn’t really hear the question.

“Did we—?” He frowned. No, that wouldn’t explain why he was there.

“We had a drink,” he tried again, grappling with his inability to remember, and then with the implications of his inability to remember. To remember even a thought he’d had a few hours, or was it days, ago.

“Did you put—” He tried, again, to wrap his head around the possibility of having been slipped the so-called date rape drug and—

“Did you—”

“No,” she said. Then added, “Not exactly.”

Her amendment didn’t register.

“How did I get here?” he asked. Then corrected, “How did you get me here?”

“Oh, don’t sound so surprised,” she said, with a little disdain. “Do you think it’s so impossible?”

He had a confused flash then, of leaning heavily on her and being helped into a car.

“You drugged me!”

Again, such surprise. She didn’t respond.

His realized then that his side hurt. “What did you—”

But he couldn’t even raise his hand to lift the covers and look. Had they taken a kidney? Was she part of some illegal organ transplant operation? He looked in vain at his body, completely covered by the bedding, then tried to take an internal inventory. “What did you take from me?” he asked, his anxiety turning to panic.

“Calm down,” she said. “We didn’t take anything. On the contrary, we gave you—”

He struggled to raise himself from the bed, and only then realized that his wrists were cuffed to the bedrails. He freaked. As anyone would upon discovering they’re a prisoner, held hostage. He had no idea.

“What the hell—why am I— What the hell are you doing to me?” he screamed.

“Just relax, Tom,” Dr. Anders calmly injected a sedative into his IV line. He slumped into unconsciousness once again. “It’ll be okay,” she added, the barest suggestion of sarcasm in her voice.

When Tom woke again, he was more quickly aware of his situation.

“NURSE!! SOMEONE!! HELP!!” He struggled against the cuffs. He could see they were just Velcro straps, but he pulled in vain. He leaned forward then, thinking maybe he could grab one of the ends with his teeth. Oh, shit, big mistake. Hurt like hell. He fell back against the pillows. What in god’s name had they done to him?

Dr. Anders walked in. “Good morning, Tom,” she said.

“I demand that you undo these restraints!” he glared at her.

“Are you in a position to make demands?” she asked him mildly. She put her fingers on his wrist and looked at her watch, taking his pulse.

He was seething as he considered and conceded. “I—I’d like to see a lawyer.”

“But you don’t even know yet what—”

“I know I’m here—in this—this situation, against my will. I didn’t agree to—” he gestured vaguely with his head and shoulders, “whatever—”

“You were agreeable enough Friday night.”

That caught him by surprise. “Not to this,” he said through clenched teeth.

She shrugged. Minor distinction.

He tried again. “I do not consent to this.”

She nodded, in agreement. As if she’d won the point.

“Wait a minute!” he said as she started to leave. “You really aren’t going to undo these?” He couldn’t believe it.

“Not yet. We’re concerned you might—hurt yourself.”

“Why would I—”

He saw then that a tube, suggestive of an umbilical cord, led from under the covers at his midsection to—he looked closely, for the first time, at the curtain running alongside his bed. And saw that the tube went through it to—to something.

“Oh my god,” he said. “What have you done? What have you done to me??” he shouted.

Dr. Anders administered the sedative she took from her pocket and he fell back against the pillows again, helpless.

Each time Tom woke, it took him a little less time to get up to speed.

“SOMEONE!! HELP!!”

Dr. Anders came through the door.

“I order you to take off these cuffs!” He was furious.

She looked at him, unimpressed. He's giving her an order?

“Look,” she said, “there’s really no need to be upset. The procedure went very well.” She checked the tube in his side. “I’d say congratulations are in—”

“What procedure?” he cut to the chase. “What have you done to me?”

She stopped her examination and faced him, giving him her full attention. “Something wonderful,” she said. “Tom,” she paused dramatically, “you’re giving someone life.” She pulled back the dividing curtain to reveal someone lying unconscious in a bed, flanked by medical equipment, all indicating life. “Without you, Simon would die.” She nodded at Simon. “This is Simon. Simon Arture. Have you heard of him?”

Tom was stunned, speechless with confusion and frustration.

“No? He’s a world‑famous violinist. And he has—he had a fatal kidney disease. But now, thanks to you, he’ll be completely cured.”

“What are you talking about?” he sputtered.

“It’s a simple procedure really, I won’t bother you with the details. Basically, if the connection is maintained for nine months, not only will the effects of the disease be reversed, the disease itself will have disappeared. He’ll live!”

“What connec—” He saw then that the tube from his midsection disappeared under the covers at Simon’s midsection. “What— What kind of joke—”

“Oh I wouldn’t kid around about something like this.”

“I’m—” he suddenly backtracked to something she had said. “You expect me to stay like this for nine months?” He was livid. “No fucking way!” He wrestled with the restraints with every ounce of his post-surgery strength. In vain.

“TAKE OFF THESE CUFFS!” he screamed. Bellowed.

She stood there, arms folded, as he raged. Eventually, he was spent.

“Tom, you should be happy. What can be more important than this?”

“Please,” he said. Then, “Look, I understand you’re trying to do something good here, saving this guy’s life and all, but this is simply not something I’m prepared to do.”

She didn’t respond. It was obviously not a compelling argument.

He tried again. “I did not give my consent to this.”

Apparently also not a compelling argument.

“You have no right to—to invade my body like this!”

When that too met no response, he suddenly turned off the calm and rational approach. He spoke in a steel hard voice with a barely concealed threat. “Take off these cuffs!”

Totally not responding to his tone of voice or his threat, which was, of course, completely empty, Dr. Anders said, “I’m sorry, Tom, I can’t do that. It’s for your own good, really. We’re afraid you’ll get hysterical—”

“Hysterical?” he said, his voice pitched hysterically high.

“—and disconnect.”

“You’re damn right I will!”

She waited for a moment.

“Didn’t you hear what I said? If you disconnect, Simon will die. You’ll be killing him. Are you a murderer? Tom? Do you want to kill him?”

He seethed. Of course he wasn’t a murderer. He was an architect. And the worst he’d ever done was get a few speeding tickets. Still. It was his life, damn it. And he didn’t like nine months of it being hijacked.

“Tom, it’s only for nine months.”

“I can’t take off work for nine months. I’ll lose my job.”

She shrugged. Not her problem.

Tom was silent. Then he broke into a rage again, screaming.

She administered a sedative, and he fell back into unconsciousness.

When he woke again, he roared.

Dr. Anders entered the room.

“Undo these cuffs!” he commanded.

“Sorry, no, not just yet. We thought the news might be a little disturbing. It’s for your own good really, to give you time to think about this.”

“But I don’t want—this! How can I put it any more plainly?” His rage was palpable.

“Once your MTS subsides a bit—”

He caught that. “MTS? I have MTS?”

“Male Testosterone Syndrome.”

“You— You bitch! I’ll show you male testosterone—” he started flinging his body from side to side against the rails. She had the sedative ready.

On Monday morning, Steve was walking jauntily down a corridor in the offices of Smith, Watts, and Barrow. He popped his head into Tom's office. It was empty. He grinned, shook his head, and kept walking.

Tom next woke to find Dr. Anders checking his monitoring equipment.

“Get away from me!” he screamed. “If you ever touch me again without my permission, I’ll kill you!”

Dr. Anders proceeded to touch him, to check his pulse and blood pressure.

“You have no right to—this is my body!”

Dr. Anders ignored his fury and continued to make notes on her clipboard.

“You've turned me into a fucking human dialysis machine!”

“You say that as if it's a bad thing,” she said. Then added, “And it’s a dialysator, actually.”

God but she was cold. “You won't get away with this! I didn't consent. I didn't sign anything.”

“No, you didn’t,” she easily agreed. But it didn’t seem to matter.

“You can't do this!”

She said nothing. She was doing this. She left the room, and Tom lay there, fuming.

“Good morning, Tom,” Dr. Anders strode into his room. “How are you feeling?”

He glowered at her.

“I know this has been quite an emotional shock, Tom, but I’m hoping you’re past your rage. I really don’t want to end up sedating you every time we have a conversation,” she almost smiled.

His first words were, again, a roar. “THEN YOU SHOULDN’T’VE—”

“Tom, enough with the tantrums,” she sounded so patronizing.

“Tantrums?” He was flabbergasted.

“Yes. This is getting old, Tom. The sooner you accept the situation, the better. Grow up. Face reality.”

“Grow up?” he said with disbelief. “Face reality?”

“If you can do that,” she said in a tone one uses for a child, “I’d like to undo the restraints. But I need your word that you won’t do anything—ill‑considered. We’re trusting you not to do anything rash. You obviously have a choice to make. I just hope you’ll give it some thought. You do understand that if you disconnect, Simon will die, yes?”

“Yes, I get that,” he said tightly. “And it’s a helluva choice,” he added, spitting the words out. “How dare you put me in this position!”

“I recognize it can be difficult for some.”

“Difficult?” What an understatement.

“Suppose I do decide to—” he asked then. “What will happen to me? If that thing gets disconnected.”

“Well, the shunt goes directly into your kidney. And it’s sutured in there pretty good. Certainly you’d cause some damage.”

“But would I die? If it gets yanked out, what, I bleed to death?”

She shrugged. Didn’t care, or didn’t know, or wouldn’t say. The cold professional was back.

“I asked you a question!” he yelled at her as she walked away.

The next time Tom woke, he realized the restraints were off. He sat up, looked around guiltily for some reason, then lifted the covers away from his midsection. His side was bandaged where the tube was inserted. He peeled back the bandage, a little too roughly, and winced. He saw that a tube was indeed stitched into his side. The stitching looked a little gruesome, but he figured that was probably normal. He fingered the bruised, reddened, and puffy area, then tentatively tugged on the tube. He cried out and stopped immediately.

The point of insertion started bleeding, but not profusely. But the tube was now a little crooked. He put the bandage back over the wound and pressed on it to stop the bleeding. He was sweating. What had he done? Was he bleeding internally? After a few seconds, he lifted the bandage again—the bleeding had slowed a little. He continued to apply pressure, as he leaned carefully back against the pillows. Should he call for help? No, they’d just put the restraints on again. But was he bleeding to death? Before he could make up his mind, he fell asleep. Or passed out.

When he awoke again, the restraints were still off. That was the first thing he noticed. The second was the phone sitting on the bed stand. Had it been there all along? Probably. He glanced over at Simon, since the curtain had been left open, and saw that he was still unconscious. So he reached out for the phone, but then suddenly reached instead for a plastic-lined bag conveniently hanging on his IV stand. When he finished throwing up, he sealed the bag, tossed it into the trash can he found conveniently beside his bed, and reached again for the phone. He set it on the bed beside him and made a call.

“9-1-1. What is the nature—”

“Hello,” Tom interrupted, “could you please send an officer to the Anders Clinic?”

“What is the nature of your emergency?” She had a script to follow.

“It’s not exactly an emergency,” Tom said. “But it is urgent.”

“What is the nature of the problem, sir?”

“I’d like to lay charges. Kidnapping.” He looked down at this side. “And assault.”

“You are being held against your will at—” she tapped a few keys, “the Anders clinic?”

“Yes.” He glanced nervously at the door.

“And you have been assaulted?”

“Yes. Sort of. Yes.”

There was a moment’s pause at the other end of the line. “Are you in immediate danger?” the woman asked.

“Well, no, not exactly.”

There was another pause. “Is there someone monitoring your conversation?”

“No.” Geez, he hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

“But you are in no immediate danger.”

“Well, no, I don’t think so, but—”

“What is your name, sir?”

“Tom Wagner. W‑A‑G‑N‑E‑R.” He glanced at the door again. But heard no footsteps.

“Can you confirm the address of 73 Seventh Avenue?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know the address. I’m in one of the rooms.”

“Do you know which room you’re in?” she asked.

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t, but—”

“An officer will be by tomorrow to take your statement.”

Tomorrow? TOMORROW? “But—”

“I’m sorry, sir, but all our available personnel are on emergency calls at the moment. If your life is in danger—”

“It is—”

“Immediate danger?”

“No—but— Tomorrow will be fine,” he sighed. And hung up. Our tax money at work, he thought bitterly. Then, exhausted by the effort, and the defeat, fell asleep.

The next call he made was to his place of employment.

“Smith, Watts, and Barrow.”

“Hi—” Tom couldn’t remember their receptionist’s name. Hadn’t actually ever spoken to her. “Mr. Watts, please.”

“One moment please.”

He hadn’t yet decided quite how— “Hello, sir. This is Tom—”

“Tom! Are you all right?” He swiveled his chair away from the work spread out on his desk, and looked out the large window to the street below. If he had a favorite among the young architects at the firm, it was Tom. He had seen good things in Tom’s future.

“Yes, thank you—”

“We were concerned when you didn’t show up for work Monday.” In point of fact, he was also disappointed. “It’s not like you. But Steve assured us—”

“That’s why I’m calling, sir. Something’s come up and I’m afraid—well, I’ll need to take a few more days—”

“Tom, you should have given notice—” Very disappointed.

“Well it was very—unexpected—”

“We’re swamped at the moment,” Watts said. “I don’t know—”

“I appreciate that, but—”

“Tom, you’re putting me in a very awkward position, here.” He couldn’t be seen to play favorites, let alone to endorse this sort of irresponsibility.

“I apologize, sir.”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Just a few more days,” Tom said. “I promise.”

“Well, I’ll have to dock your pay, of course.”

“Of course. That’s only fair.” Shit.

“And we expect you back on Monday, Tom.”

“I understand.”

“Fine, then,” he swiveled his chair back to his desk.

“Thank you, sir.”

He didn’t wake again until much later when Dr. Anders walked in. He watched her in silence as she checked Simon’s monitors, his pulse, and his blood pressure, then turned back the covers to check the connection. He tensed just a bit as she turned to his bed and proceeded to do the same.

“Hm,” she said, pulling back the bloodied bandage. “A couple stitches seem to have come out,” she looked at him accusingly.

“I must’ve rolled over in my sleep,” Tom said. It was unconvincing, but he really didn’t give a damn.

“You have to be more careful now. Get used to sleeping on your back.”

“For nine months?”

She shrugged, then headed out of the room.

“You won’t get away with this!” he called out after her. “This is coercion pure and simple.”

She stopped and turned back to him. “Call the police if you like.”

He turned away, and she realized then that he already had. Not a problem. She had expected that. “It’s your word against mine, Tom.”

“You can’t make me do this!”

She said nothing. She was making him do this.

After she left, Tom lay there, fuming. Suddenly, he reached for a vomit bag and threw up again. As he sealed it and rehung it on the IV stand, he realized Carla must’ve come in while he was asleep and exchanged the one he’d already used for a new one. For several new ones, in fact.

Dr. Anders returned with a suture kit.

“Why am I throwing up all the time?” he asked her. “Is something wrong?”

“No, that’s just one of the side effects. It’s nothing to worry about.” She began to repair the stitches.

“One of the side effects?” he repeated her words. “There are others?”

“Well, fatigue, of course. Heartburn and indigestion. Constipation. Weight gain. Though you might be able to lose the extra pounds afterwards. And incontinence. We can get you a diaper for that,” she continued her repair, seemingly oblivious to Tom’s horrified reaction. “Backaches, headaches. Skin rash. Changes in sense of smell and taste, chemical imbalances. Dizziness and light-headedness.”

He just stared at her, stunned.

For several days, Carla had been helping Tom get accustomed to negotiating his way to and from the adjoining bathroom without incident. She also insisted that he walk around the room several times a day.

“The sooner patients get back on their feet, the better their recovery,” Carla said. “Plus, the exercise will make you feel better.”

He was glad to be up and about, but found that getting around was ridiculously exhausting and stressful. Plus, he felt like he was in some stupid maypole dance.

He was asleep when two uniformed police officers knocked on the door, then entered the room. The older one, Tanner, sported a grey crew cut. Pelletier, the younger one, was a solid six foot plus still trying to overcome a habitual stoop. Tanner glanced quickly around the room, then decided that this would be a good one for Pelletier to take the lead. He went back to stand at the door and nodded to Pelletier.

“Mr. Wagner?” The young officer stepped up to the foot of Tom’s bed and waited a moment. “Tom Wagner?” he glanced uncertainly at the curtain running alongside the bed, resisting the urge to look over to his training officer for direction.

Tom moaned, moved, then woke.

“Oh—hello,” he said when he saw him standing there. “Come in.” The officers were already in. “I mean—” Tom carefully pushed himself into a sitting position and ran a hand through his dark hair in a feeble attempt to appear presentable.

“Sorry to have wakened you,” Pelletier said. “Would you like us to come back later?” Tanner scowled with disapproval. Pelletier was too damned polite.

“No, I’m fine,” Tom struggled to get up to speed. “Now is good. Please.” He gestured to the chair in the corner, and only then saw that there was a second officer standing at the door.

“I’m Officer Pelletier,” he man showed Tom his badge, “and that’s Officer Tanner.” Tanner gave a curt nod. Pelletier pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat in it, a bit intimidated by bank of medical machinery humming away.

Tom poured a glass of water to buy some time to get his thoughts in order. This was important. Very important.

“I understand you’d like to press charges,” Pelletier took out a small notebook. “You reported a kidnapping?” He looked around then and let his confusion surface.

“Yes, uh—” Tom set the glass back on the bedside table.

Pelletier had his pen poised. “If you’d just tell me what happened,” he prompted. “And who—

“Me.” Tom pressed his fingers to his temple.

“But—”

“I was at the bar Friday night,” Tom looked evenly at Pelletier, “and the next thing I know I wake up here. Like this.”

Pelletier didn’t understand. “But it seems to me you’re free to—”

Tom pulled back the bedcovers.

Pelletier’s eyes widened when he saw the tube bandaged in place. He followed it to where it disappeared through a break in the curtain.

“Go ahead.”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s in a coma or something.” Tom waved his hand toward Simon.

Pelletier stood then, walked around the bed to the curtain, and gently moved it aside. He saw Simon, unconscious, as Tom had indicated, and noted that the tube disappeared under Simon’s bedcovers, again at his side.

“Go ahead,” Tom urged again. “You need to know.”

He stepped forward to Simon, then lifted enough of the covers to see the tube bandaged into his side. “What the—” He looked back at Tom, then again at Simon.

“Yeah,” Tom said.

Pelletier gestured to Tanner, who stepped forward to take a look. He frowned. “Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning,” he suggested, then resumed his position at the door. Pelletier sat back down in the chair, ready with his notebook.

“Friday night. I was at a bar.”

“That’d be last Friday,” Pelletier confirmed.

“Yeah. I think so. What is today, Tuesday?”

“Thursday.”

“Oh. I’ve been out a fair bit.” He slumped back against the pillows.

“Do you remember the name of the bar? Was there anyone with you?”

“Yeah,” he rallied, “we went to Misters. Me, Steve—Steve Lambiel, and Kevin Ortiz. We all work at Smith, Watts, and Barrow. It’s a small architectural firm here in town. We’re architects.”

“Okay. Good,” he was making notes. “And what happened, exactly.”

“This woman came over to us—Dr. Anders. Well, I didn’t know her name then. I didn’t know her. She just came over. You know, being friendly, I guess. We chatted a bit. Then Steve and Kevin joined another table. Cruising, you know. She and I stayed at the bar.”

“Dr. Anders and you.”

“Yeah. Next thing I know I’m waking up here, cuffed to the bed, with this tube in me, connected to him.” He’d been calmly presenting the facts until then, but now his anger returned.

“You were restrained?” Pelletier jumped on that. “They put restraints on you?”

“Yeah. They took them off after a few days. Once they were convinced I wouldn’t yank the tube out.”

“So that was for your own safety then.” He seemed a bit disappointed.

“They explained that he’d die if I did,” Tom jerked his head slightly toward Simon. “If we stay connected for nine months, kidney to kidney, he’ll live.”

Pelletier struggled to take it all in. “You’re, like, a human kidney dialysis machine?”

“A dialysator. Apparently.”

“Why don’t they just use a machine?”

“I don’t know. But that’s not really relevant, is it.” Tom glared at the man.

“No, of course not,” Pelletier said. “Sorry. It’s just— Do you have any recollection of force being used? I mean apart from keeping you from pulling out the tube. Any witnesses?” Pelletier glanced at his notes. “Steve or Kevin—did they see you leave?”

“I don’t remember—I’m thinking she must have drugged me. But they must’ve seen me leave. They must’ve seen her dragging me—”

“But that could’ve looked like you were just a little drunk.”

“Yeah. Shit.”

“Do you remember who was tending bar that night? Perhaps the bartender saw her put something into your drink?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tom rallied at this possibility. “It was Ty. Don’t know his last name. He’s their regular bartender.”

Pelletier added his name to his notes. “Anyone else?”

“We’ll look into it,” Tanner spoke up. Otherwise they’d be here all day. “We’ll ask around at the bar,” he said to Tom, “and we’ll contact your friends, but unless we find someone to back up your story, something to prove you didn’t consent to this—”

“But she doesn’t have proof that I did consent.” The thought suddenly occurred to him that he might have signed something. “Does she?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Tanner replied. “We assume you consented unless there’s evidence to the contrary.” He said it as if it were a rule of thumb.

“What?” Tom stared at him in disbelief. “Why would you assume I consented?” He gave a little laugh bordering on hysteria. “I mean what makes you think anyone would agree to—this?”

“Well, not anyone.”

“What makes you think I would agree to this?” He was starting to feel like he had awakened into some alternate reality.

Tanner ignored the question. “Do you have evidence to the contrary? Evidence that you were coerced?”

“Well, no but—”

“So at this point, all we’ve got is your word, son.” He indicated to Pelletier that it was time to go. Pelletier stood, nodded to Tom, and the two of turned toward the door. Tom realized then that nothing would come of this.

“Since when is that not good enough?” he called out angrily after them.

Once they’d left, he lay there, frustrated again. Angry again. He stared at the tube. He tugged on it again; it hurt. If he tugged it from Simon’s end, instead of his, it wouldn’t hurt, he realized. He’s in a coma, he wouldn’t feel a thing. But— But.

First thing next morning—well, first thing after the time it took to manage the whole bed-to-bathroom thing, which included throwing up, and then to deal with breakfast and Carla’s insistence on a little walk-around, and then to endure Anders’ check-up—Tom called Steve.

“Hey, Steve!” his enthusiastic greeting was totally not how he felt. But he was trying to hang on to—

“Tom! Been busy, yeah?” he heckled him.

“Don’t I wish,” he knew what Steve was thinking, and tried to go along with the razz. “But no—what happened is—look, it’s a long story—”

I’m listening,” he laughed. “But hey, you better get your ass in here, Watts is having a bird.”

“Yeah, well, no can do,” he sighed. “Look, why I’m calling—can you get my laptop and bring it to me? If I don’t get some work done, Watts is not only going to have a bird, he’s going to fire my ass. And—oh, shit, my car!”

“What about your car?” Steve loved Tom’s ’Vette.

“It’s still at the bar.”

“You took her car?”

“No, I’m not—I’m at some place called the Anders Clinic,” he sighed again.

“But—a clinic?” Steve didn’t understand. He couldn’t. “You okay?”

“Yeah, well, sort of.”

“What are you doing there? I mean, what’s the Anders Clinic? I’ve never heard of it.”

“I’d never heard of it either. Look, we’ll talk when you come, okay? I’m really tired—”

“Okay, sure,” Steve readily agreed, finally grasping that something was off. This was very unlike Tom. “What’s the address?”

“Seventh Avenue somewhere.”

“Spare key in your apartment?”

“Yeah, um, it’s in my desk drawer. Top right. Oh, and could you bring my shaving kit. And stuff, clothes…” he trailed off vaguely.

“Okay, look, I’ll come after—oh shit, no, I’m gone from right after work today until Monday. Late. Tuesday after work good?”

“Yeah,” Tom said, sighing once more. “And hey, Steve? Force your way in if you have to, okay?”

Steve laughed.

“I’m serious,” Tom said.

“Dude, you’re freakin’ me out,” Steve said then.

“Tell me about it,” Tom said, then hung up and fell asleep.

The dividing curtain was pulled back much of the time now. And if it wasn’t, Tom could, if he really wanted to, get up and pull it back. Which he often did, since the only window in the room was on the wall past Simon. Which meant, however, that Tom couldn’t look out at the world now without seeing him.

But look out he did. Their room was on the ground floor, so he might have been able to see people walking by on the sidewalk and cars driving by on the road, but that side of the building was flanked by a large open field. So he saw those other lives being lived only in the distance. Which might be just as well, he thought, if only because it meant he didn’t have to hear the annoying noises of traffic all day.

And the silence let him think. Made him think. It’s only nine months, he told himself, and though it’s not something I would have chosen to do, now that I’m in this position, can I really justify saying no?

And yet, and yet, damn it, I didn’t choose it. What right does she, or he, or anyone have to force me to do this?

But then, hey, he told himself, at least you’re not dying. And Simon is. Was. Would be. Shit.

Tom was sleeping lightly, as he did now. The anaesthesia drugs he had been given for the procedure, and whatever he had been given post-surgery, had finally run their course. And although normally he was a heavy sleeper, he assumed the stress of the situation was what had changed that. And the fact that he couldn’t lay on his side. In any case, he roused quickly when he heard a knock at the door.

He sat up eagerly. “Steve?” Was it Tuesday already?

A small, balding man in clerical garb poked his head around the door.

“Who are you?” Tom asked, disappointed and wary.

“I’m—I do the pastoral care for several clinics—”

“A priest?” Tom responded. “They’ve sent me a fucking priest?”

The man winced. “A minister, actually. Reverend Peters. May I come in?”

“Sure, what the hell.”

Rev. Peters entered the room, searched for a chair, spotted it in the corner. “May I?”

Tom nodded. Barely.

Rev. Peters carried the chair over to Tom’s bed, then sat at his elbow.

“So,” Rev. Peters cleared his throat, “how can I help you through this difficult time?”

Tom burst out in laughter. It bordered on hysteria. “See, that's just the thing. I don't want to go ‘through’ this difficult time. I don't want to be in this ‘difficult time’ at all. I don't want to have to make this decision.”

“Well…”

“Well what? That’s life? Que sera sera?” He snorted. Then realized he had nothing else to do. “Okay, so how can you help me through this difficult time?”

“Well,” Rev. Peters was cheered by his interest and leaned back in his chair. “I think you’ll find it’s quite simple really. Thou shalt not kill.”

“That’s it?” Tom said.

“That’s it.” He smiled.

He thinks it’s that simple, Tom thought. Pitiful, really. “And why is that?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why shall I not kill?” Had the man never been asked for rationales?

“Oh, well, because life is—all life is—”

“Every sperm is sacred?”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Tom turned away in disgust. And boredom.

“Surely you believe in the sanctity of life?” Rev. Peters tried again.

“Okay, what about the sanctity of my life?”

“But your life isn’t at stake here.”

“The hell it isn't!” Tom shouted.

“But surely they explained. If you disconnect, Simon will die. That's certain. It's not at all certain that you'll die.”

The man had a point. Still.

“Surely you see that this is the right thing to do.”

He did. And yet.

“You have a chance here—it’s an honor, a privilege, to be in this position. To be the one who saves someone’s life, to be the one who gives someone his life—”

Tom skipped over that shit. He had an idea. “And it's wrong not to save someone's life.”

“Surely.”

“And if I refuse to give my body, I'm killing Simon.”

Rev. Peters nodded.

“So why are you still here?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve got a couple kidneys, yeah? Two lungs, a heart, a liver. And a whole bunch of other stuff. Bet you could give life to a dozen people waiting for transplants.”

Rev. Peters stumbled for a response.

“What’s the matter?” Tom asked. “Walk, don’t run, to the nearest clinic. Every second you delay, you’re killing someone. Reverend.”

“If the Lord wanted—I have to believe it’s not my calling—”

“Well, isn’t that convenient.”

Rev. Peters got up to leave.

“I’ll pray for you, Tom.”

Tom ignored him, pointedly looking the other way—which happened to be at Simon.

Rev. Peters walked out.

A little while later, Tom experimentally bent the tube, stopping the flow. He thought for a bit, then gathered the slack and looped it to see whether it could be knotted; it could be, he thought. He looked around the room, opened the drawer of the little table, rummaged through it, looked around again—not a sharp object in sight.

Didn’t matter. He realized, while the loop lay loosely in his hand, that it would never hold a knot. If he squeezed his end real tight, he might make it to Emerg, somehow, without spurting all over the place, but Simon would surely bleed out. Plus, he realized, no knife or scissors could ever cut through whatever the hell the tube was made of.

As he stared again at the corded tube lying limp in his hand, he realized that there were actually two smaller tubes inside the larger one. Which made sense, now that he thought of it. The flow had to be two-way. How much of his body was Simon and how much was still him, he wondered. He still felt like himself. Well, mostly. Of course, it was only blood, nutrients, and whatever. It wasn’t his identity leaking out.

At least, not yet.

Next morning, as soon as he awoke, he’d intended to call a lawyer. Instead, the first thing he did was throw up. He tied off the plastic bag, dropped it in the trash can, then drank a glass of water to get the taste out of his mouth.

Then he reached over and pulled open the drawer on the bedside table. He was in luck. He pulled out the phone book, and flipped through. A few minutes later, he reached for the phone and dialed a number.

“Tawson, Schuler, Neder, and Burman.”

“Hello, I’d like to speak with a lawyer,” Tom said.

“Certainly,” the woman replied pleasantly, “civil or criminal?”

“I don’t know—”

“What is the matter concerning?”

“Personal injury, I guess. Contracts maybe.”

“I’ll transfer you to Mr. Dupond. One moment, please.”

“Thank you.”

Tom waited a few moments, during which he was forced to listen to some overly sweet jazz. Oh well, at least he hadn’t had to deal with one of those annoying automated answering systems.

“Gregory Dupond speaking.” The voice was quick and strong.

“Hello, my name is Tom Wagner, and I’m wondering if you’re available to take on a new case.”

“That depends. What’s the case about?”

“Well, it’s a bit complicated. I’d rather talk about it in person. And unfortunately you’d have to come here. I’m, um, unable to travel.”

There was a slight pause.

“I’d have to charge for my time in transit,” Dupond said, almost apologetically.

“Of course. And what’s your fee?”

“Three hundred an hour, plus disbursements.”

“Three hundred? I see,” Tom thought for just a second. “Okay, no, by phone is fine then. What happened is—”

“I’m sorry to cut you off,” Dupond said, “but I don’t have any time right at the moment. Could you call back…” he checked his daybook, “next Wednesday at two?”

“Next week?”

“I’m sorry, that’s the best I can do. If you’d like to call around—”

“No, that’s fine,” Tom was too exhausted to call around. “Thanks.” He hung up and fell asleep.

“Is he okay?” Tom asked Carla next time she came into his room, nodding at Simon who continued to lay unconscious.

“He is,” she replied, as she bustled around, making sure there were enough vomit bags, and emptying the small waste can beside his bed. “It’s just taking him longer—the procedure was harder on him, you understand. He was weak to begin with, because of the disease and all,” she said, refilling the glass on the little table from the pitcher beside it. “You, however, were in great shape. We’re all very pleased. You’re actually very well-suited for this. A natural, you could say.”

Tom smiled at the praise before he realized what he was doing.

Back at Misters, a taxi pulled into the bar’s parking lot. Steve got out, paid the driver, and headed over to Tom's gleaming silver Corvette which was, miraculously, still there. He cleared a bunch of parking tickets off the windshield, then opened the door with Tom’s spare key, which he’d gotten from his apartment. He got in, set Tom’s laptop on the seat beside him, turned the ignition, and smiled.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of the Anders Clinic. It was a small building just outside the downtown core, and in truth, he’d never noticed it before although he must’ve driven past it hundreds of times on his way to work.

He walked in the front door, Tom’s laptop in one hand, a small travel bag in the other, and stopped at the small reception desk. The place was clean and had an antiseptic smell to it. What was Tom doing here? Had he had work done? Something he was too embarrassed to tell anyone about?

“Hi, I’m here to see Tom Wagner.”

The red-haired woman behind the desk nodded to the short hallway that extended off to the right. “Around the corner at the end, last door on your left.”

“Thank you,” Steve said.

He walked down the hall, turned the corner, then pushed open the last door on the left, which had been slightly ajar.

“What the hell—” He took in the bank of medical equipment bedside Tom’s bed and then Tom himself, who was sleeping and not looking too well. Quickly setting the laptop and bag on the chair, he stepped up to the bed.

“Tom, hey, Tom,” he gently shook his shoulder. “Wake up, man. Tom!”

Tom woke up.

“Hey, dude, are you okay?” Steve asked. “What the hell happened?”

“Hey. Steve,” he said blearily. “Thanks for coming.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he brushed away the thanks, “you get mugged or something? This all from last Friday? Why didn’t you call me?!”

Tom struggled to become alert, then convulsed a bit as if he was going to throw up, but managed not to. He reached to the bedside table for the ever-present glass of water, drained it to get rid of the taste in his mouth, then slumped back against the pillow. Steve pulled up the chair, sat, and waited.

“Oh man, is it good to see you,” Tom said.

“Yeah, cool, but—”

“Okay. You remember that woman who came over to us at the bar Friday night?”

“Yeah. Not my type. But you left with her—”

“Not exactly. I mean, I don’t remember that. I think she put something in my drink.”

Steve reacted with surprise, then disbelief.

“I remember you and Kev trotting over to that threesome, and I remember I tried to call Beth—shit, Beth!” He reached to the phone.

“It’s okay. I called her already.”

Tom didn't know how to respond to that, so he just continued with his story.

“Next thing I know I wake up here. Like this.” He lifted the bedcovers at his side. “Check it out.”

Steve got half out of the chair to look, but didn't understand what he saw.

“They said this guy, Simon Artura, or Arture, I think—anyway, he’s dying. That’s him,” he nodded at the drawn curtain. “Some rare kidney disease or something. They’ve connected my kidneys to his. That’s what that is,” he pointed. “We stay connected for nine months, and he’ll live. I disconnect, and he dies.”

Steve was quiet for several long moments. “Shit. For real?” He got up and peeked around the curtain.

“Looks like.”

Steve saw Simon lying, still unconscious, in his bed. And he saw the cord-like tube leading from one bed to the other.

“’Course, how the hell would I know?!” Tom continued, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “I know I’m throwing up, I know I’m tired all the time, I know my side hurts like hell—”

“Why?”

“Because of the damn—”

“No, I mean why did she—what’s her name?”

“Anders.”

“Why is she doing this? Does she have a thing for this Simon guy?”

“I don’t think so,” Tom said. “She barely looks at him. Well, she checks his monitors and that, but she doesn’t look overly concerned or anything.”

“Then what? Is she on a mission to save the world or something?”

“I don’t get that impression.”

“I know! She’s doing it—because she can!” Steve laughed, but Tom just wasn’t up for it.

Steve quickly sobered. “So, what, if you, like, break the thing or something, he dies?”

Tom was silent.

“Well, not that I’m heartless or anything, but so what. I mean, it’s your decision, but if it were me?” Steve shrugged. “Why should you suddenly be the one responsible for this guy’s life? No one asked you, right? And if they had, you’d’ve said no, right?”

“Right,” Tom said. “And yet,” he added a long moment later.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Steve was amazed at the whole thing, including Tom's acquiescence. Tom was just tired.

“They sent in a minister to talk to me,” Tom offered.

“Geez. What’d he have to say? The meek shall inherit the earth?”

“Thou shalt not kill.”

“Christ, we fucking kill all the time!” Steve practically spat. “War! The death penalty! Self‑defence! ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Asshole.”

They fell quiet again. Steve got up, paced the room a bit, then turned back to Tom. “Isn't there some way to undo this? I mean, I can get Kev and we can—no, that’s not gonna…,” he trailed off, then tried again. “It's just surgery, right? If they did it, they can undo it. Or someone can, right? How hard can it be?”

Tom sat up a bit, energized by what Steve had said. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Because he'd been so damned tired all the time! In fact, even as he tried to hang on to Steve’s idea, he started to nod off.

Steve saw that, so he got up to leave, pausing at the door. “I'm, ah, going to—oh, here.” He took Tom’s car keys out of his pocket and started to put them on the bed beside Tom. Then he hesitated, thinking about asking whether he could have his car in the interim, since he clearly wouldn’t be using it, but changed his mind. “I'm gonna go,” he set the keys down.

Tom waved at him weakly. See ya? No, stay?

Steve was suddenly overcome with dismay. Tom was—well, this wasn’t the Tom he knew. He paused at the door. “I'll call. But hey—dude—you don't owe this guy anything.”

Toward evening, Carla brought in his dinner tray. It always had smaller portions than he was used to, but since he didn’t have much of an appetite and wasn’t really doing anything, that was fine. What bothered him was that apparently he wasn’t going to be eating burgers and fries for quite a while. Rice, vegetables, yogurt — what the hell was up with that?

He finished eating, and when she returned to take his tray away, she reminded him that it would be good to get up and walk around a bit. So he began the complicated process of getting out of bed without killing himself, or Simon, and walked the semi-circle from corner to corner. Then walked it back. Then walked it again. He opened the window, breathed in the fresh air, watched someone cut across the field to the intersection of streets in the distance. Tom was desperate to disconnect from Simon. If he could get even an hour’s respite, an hour’s freedom of movement — but there was just no getting away from him.

Next morning, Dr. Anders walked in, clipboard in hand, checked Simon’s monitors and pulse, then checked Tom’s monitors. She made some notes.

“You’re a real bitch, you know that?” Tom said, watching her. “You have no right to—to—”

“Invade your body like this? Maybe not.” She didn’t seem too concerned.

This, of course, increased his anger.

She took his blood pressure. “You need to calm down, Tom.”

“Calm down?” he echoed, sarcastically.

“If you’d just trust me—”

“And why should I do that?”

“Well—I am a doctor, Tom. I know what I’m doing, believe me. And while an increase in blood pressure is expected, you don’t want to—”

“Expected? You mean because of—this? What else is ‘expected’?” he asked. “I thought you told me all the side‑effects last week.”

“Well, yes, the minor side‑effects. But there are others.”

He waited, but she didn’t volunteer the additional information. “Such as?” he prompted.

“Well, infection. That can be serious. But this looks okay,” she said, as she changed the bandage at the insertion point.

“And?” Again, he had to ask. It was like pulling teeth.

“Diabetes, anemia, embolism—”

“Wait a minute—embolism? Isn’t that pretty serious?”

“Yes.” As if to say ‘What’s your point?’

She put her fingers on his wrist to take his pulse.

“Stroke,” she continued then, almost as a careless afterthought. “Circulatory collapse, and cardiopulmonary arrest—”

Tom was stunned. “I could die because of this?”

“The chances are something like 1 in a 100,” she said casually.

“Isn’t that a little high?”

She didn’t respond. She had finished her check-up and left.

Meanwhile, or thereabouts, Steve was playing golf with Kyle, one of his friends. It was an unseasonally warm and sunny day. And not even a hint of breeze.

“So where’s Tom?” Kyle asked him, as they stood on the putting green at the second hole. They usually had a threesome.

“Off the radar, looks like,” was all he said. And sunk his putt with a perfect pendulum stroke.

They started walking to the next hole.

“So you finally sold the Jones property?” Steve asked.

“Yup.” He grinned at Steve. “And the commission, well, let's just say it’ll go a good way toward that little dream of mine...”

“Is that the one with the lake out front and the mountains out back?” Steve asked, playfully.

“Tennis court on one side,” Kyle was still grinning, “golf course on the other—”

“I don't think that's physically possible, is it? Not a lot of flat green near mountains.”

“Hey,” Kyle was undisturbed, “this is my dream. I can have whatever I want.”

Steve laughed. “Okay, that's cool. But when you find and buy that dream lot, you know who to call to design your dream house.’

“Of course,” he bent to pick up a stray twig, then looked sideways at Steve, grinning, “Especially if I want mirrors on the ceiling in the bedroom.”

Next day, Tom woke up, threw up, then looked over at Simon, who was still unconscious. He suddenly remembered he hadn’t yet called Beth. He looked at his watch. She’d be on her way to work, quite possibly stuck in traffic. So he reached for the phone and dialed a number.

“Beth! Hey!”

“Tom.” Icy.

“I know, and I tried to call—”

“You said you were going to come over Friday night.”

“And I was,” he insisted.

“When?”

“After I had a drink with the guys.”

“That’s a long drink.”

“Well, something happened—”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Right. Steve told you—”

“Why didn’t I hear it from you?”

“I’ve had other things on my mind!” he said with exasperation.

“More important things than calling me?”

“Yes, more important things. This is a nightmare. I’m throwing up all the time, I’m too tired to get any work done, my eyes are all blurry, this thing in my side hurts—”

“Right.” She crawled forward a car length. “Tom, it’s the same old story. Everything in your life is more important than me.”

“Look, I should’ve called sooner,” he said. “And I would’ve called sooner, but I’m just so fucking tired all the time. I sleep most of the time and when I’m not sleeping,” he trailed off, “I’m just so tired.”

“So you’re okay,” she said after a moment, seeming to have come to a decision. “There’s nothing you need?”

“Actually, there is one thing,” he said. “Could you swing by my place and get my mail?”

There was another pause.

“So what, you expect me to be your office assistant for nine months?”

“No! Because I’m not really planning to be here for nine months.”

“How long are you expecting to be there?”

“I don’t know!” he said with frustration.

“Look, I gotta go,” she said, as the cars ahead of her starting moving freely.

“Yeah. Later.” He hung up. That did not go well.

A while later, he opened his laptop, intending to finally get some work done. What he’d do for a strong cup of coffee, he thought. Apparently that was also not on the menu.

“Shit!”

He reached for the phone and dialed a number.

“Steve Lambiel, please.”

“Lambiel.”

“Hey, Steve!”

“Tom, what’s up, you okay?” He turned away from the blueprint displayed on his over-sized monitor.

“Yeah, listen, could you go into my office—I need my IP files. I’ve got nothin’ here on my laptop, everything’s on my desktop.”

“Sure, but—all of them?” he asked.

“Right. Okay, how about just Everstein and Duchesnay. That should do me for a few days.”

“No problem. I’ve got a meeting in half an hour—I can take care of it after that.”

“Cool, thanks man.”

Next day, or maybe it was the day after the next day, he was quickly losing all sense of time passing—that’s why meals are so important to prisoners, he realized, they’re scratches on the wall marking time. Well, one reason they’re so important, he thought. The other, that they were the most exciting thing to happen during the day, didn’t bear thinking.

He opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out the phone book again. It took just a moment to find the number of the local hospital. On the first ring, he hung up immediately, got out of bed, laboriously, closed the door, returned to bed, as laboriously, then dialed again.

“Mercy General. How may I direct your call?”

“Ah—I’m not—what department handles kidney dialysis?”

“Nephrology. One moment please.”

He reached into his laptop case, which he’d set on the chair he’d pulled close to his bed, and took out a pen and pad of paper.

“Nephrology.”

“Hello, I’m—ah,” he glanced nervously at the door, “are you familiar with the procedure that makes someone a dialysator?” He grimaced at his awkward phrasing.

“You mean a dialysis machine.”

“Not exactly. I mean a person who’s serving as a dialysis machine.”

“Ah, you're talking about a nephrodesis.”

“A nephrodesis, right, thanks.” He made a note. “How would I, how would someone go about undoing a nephrodesis?”

There was a slight pause. “That’d be a surgical procedure.”

“I see. Could you—” He looked into the receiver—the person on the other end had hung up.

He dialed again.

“Mercy General. How may I direct your call.”

“Chief of Surgery, please.” Tom tried to sound strong and authoritative.

“Surgery.”

“Hello, may I speak to the Chief of Surgery, please.”

“I'm sorry, the Chief is not available at the moment. Would you care to leave a message?”

“Is there someone else I can speak to, in Surgery?”

“One moment please.”

“Dr. O’Donnell speaking.”

“Hello, Dr. O’Donnell. Um, my name is Tom Wagner and—I'm wondering—can you undo a nephrodesis?”

“I'm afraid we have no one here trained to do a nephrodesis reversal,” the response was clipped.

“I see. Can you tell me which hospitals have surgeons trained to do a—nephrodesis reversal?”

“I'm afraid I can't, no,” Dr. O’Donnell said.

“I see. Thank you.” But Dr. O’Donnell had already hung up.

Tom also hung up, a little puzzled, but pressed on. He dialed another number from the short list in the yellow pages.

“Hello, could I please speak to the Chief of Surgery?”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Tom Wagner.”

“And you are…?”

“Anyone in Surgery will do,” Tom realized his mistake.

There was a short silence, then a new voice spoke. “Dr. Verin’s office.”

“Hello, do you have anyone on staff trained to do a nephrodesis reversal?”

“No, of course not.”

That stopped him for a moment. “Um, well, do you know which hospitals do?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

He dialed the last number. “Surgery please,” he said, trying for enthusiasm.

“Surgery.”

“Hello, could you please—how does one go about arranging to undo a nephrodesis?”

“I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have anyone on staff here trained to do a nephrodesis.”

“Oh. I see,” he said with disappointment. “Thank you.” He hung up. That was it. There were only three hospitals in the city.

It took a couple days to recover. He wasn’t used to being defeated at every turn. And it seemed to get harder and harder to pick himself up, so to speak, and resume the fight. Fight? Maybe resistance was accurate.

After lunch, a walkaround, and a nap, he closed the door again and opened his laptop. A few minutes later, he had a list of regional hospitals. He started dialing.

“Surgery please.”

“Surgery.”

“Hello, do you have anyone on staff trained to do a nephrodesis reversal?”

“No, sorry.”

“Okay, thank you.” He hung up and dialed the next number.

“Surgery, please.”

“Hello, is anyone in your department trained to do a nephrodesis reversal?”

“A what?”

“A nephrodesis reversal.”

“Oh, no, sorry.”

“I see. Do you know which hospitals do have—”

“I’m sorry, we don’t give out that information.”

“I see. Thanks anyway.”

Several calls later, he thought for a bit, then decided to take a different approach. He set his laptop aside and went back to the yellow pages.

“Haverton.”

“Oh—sorry—I thought this was the number for Total Health Clinic.”

“Yes, it is. Or rather, was. We are now The Haverton Center.”

“But you’re still a health clinic?”

“Yes, we are.”

“Okay, do you have anyone on staff trained to do a nephrodesis reversal?”

“You’ll need to call a hospital for that, sir.”

“But I’ve called all the hospitals in the area, and no one’s—”

“Oh, you’re not likely to find anyone in this state, sir.”

“Oh. Any idea which state—”

“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t help you.”

Wednesday came, the day of his telephone appointment with the lawyer he’d called.

“Tawson, Schuler, Neder, and Burman.”

“Hello, this is Tom Wagner. Gregory Dupond is expecting my call?”

“Yes, one moment, please.”

The muzak came on. Oddly enough, he didn’t mind this time. He wondered if the television in his room—their room—he corrected himself, had music channels of any kind. He had yet to turn it on.

“Gregory Dupond speaking.”

“Hi, this is Tom Wagner. We spoke last week? Or the week before?” He couldn’t remember, exactly.

“Right. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I was wondering—I’m in a situation—” Start at the beginning, he told himself. “I was at a bar last Fri—no, a week ago last—no—” He came to a full stop. Had it been a month already?

“Let’s say the exact timeline doesn’t matter for now,” Dupond said helpfully.

“Okay, good, I was in a bar and …” What followed was pretty much a repetition of his explanation to the police. Except that the last part was more tell than show.

“Let me get this straight,” Dupond said, intrigued. “You’re connected to some guy—you’re like his surrogate kidney?”

“Yeah.” That’s exactly what he was. A surrogate kidney.

“And you didn’t consent.”

“No. I did not consent.”

“And you have proof of that?”

Tom sighed. “What proof would I have? How can I prove that something did not occur?”

“Right,” Dupond agreed, “that’s tricky.”

“So?” Tom said after a moment.

“Well, it’s a bit of a—I’m not exactly sure how we could proceed,” Dupond replied. “Let me give it some thought, though. I’ll get back to you.”

“Okay, great!” Tom was—not overjoyed, but, truthfully, he’d expected Dupond to say he was too busy to take on a new case or something. He’d imagined having to spend weeks calling every lawyer in the country.

Inspired by that success, or, at least, that absence of failure, he resumed calls on the medical front the next day. He reached for the phone, then the phone book. Then put the phone book back into the drawer and reached for his laptop instead. He winced. Damn it! He gingerly opened his laptop and set it carefully on his chest.

After half an hour of googling, he had a list of out-of-state numbers. Halfway through dialing the first one, he stopped and hung up. Anders will know, he thought. Damn it, she’ll know even about the local calls he’d made. Probably. He rummaged in his laptop case and pulled out his cellphone. He redialed the first number in the list.

After half a dozen dead end calls, he finally made some headway.

“Metro Hospital.”

“Hello, could you please tell me, are there any surgeons at your hospital trained to do a nephrodesis reversal.”

There is a prolonged silence at the other end.

“You do realize that's an illegal procedure in this state?”

Tom was taken aback. “Um, no, sorry, I didn't. Sorry.” He hung up. That it would be illegal hadn’t occurred to him. Now he understood the awkward silences, the total lack of trained—okay, so he had to figure out in which states, if any, it was legal. Tomorrow. Shit. How can making a few fucking phone calls make me so fucking exhausted. He shut down and dozed off.

By the end of the week, he had made close to fifty calls. He dialed yet again, this number by heart.

“Smith, Watts, and Barrow.”

“Mr. Watts, please.”

“One moment.”

“Thanks.”

Tom broke into a sweat. He had a feeling this wouldn’t go well.

“Watts.”

“Mr. Watts, Tom here,” he said with energy he didn’t feel.

“Hello, Tom.” Definitely cool.

“I’m afraid my situation is turning out not to be as easy to resolve as I had anticipated and I was wondering—”

“Tom, you’ve been—”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I had Steve bring my laptop to me last week, and I assure you—”

“This is highly irregular.” Watts was on his feet.

“Yes, I understand, sir, and I’m sorry—”

“Sorry? You’ve been awol for three weeks, Tom.”

“Yes, but—”

“You have responsibilities, Tom. We have clients to answer to.”

“If I could just work from home for a little bit longer—”

Watts ran his hand through his hair. “I’ll have to—make adjustments.”

“Of course—”

“How much longer, Tom?”

“A week? Tops.”

“Fine. One week.”

“Thank you. Thank you, sir.” He hung up.

Meanwhile, Steve had played another game of golf. He switched to squash on the cold or rainy days. He tried rock climbing for the first time in his life. He went to Misters a few times, and picked up a few women. He also went to Dooleys and The Roar. He went out to lunch. And dinner. He took a drive up the coast.

Tom got over the indignity of having Carla have to cut his toenails—for some reason, he couldn’t scrunch up to reach his toes anymore—and continued trying to find a way out of his situation.

“Hello, I’m doing research for a course I’m taking—could you tell me—in which states is a nephrodesis reversal legal?”

“I’m sure you can find that information on the internet, sir. Access is available—”

“I have access, thanks.” He sighed, opened his laptop, and started googling. Odd, how difficult it was to find what he was looking for. It took over an hour.

“Surgery, please.”

“Dr. Gillers.” The man sat down as he picked up his phone, and started working his way through the many reports on his desk.

“Hello, my name is Tom Wagner. Could you please tell me if any surgeons on your staff are trained to do a nephrodesis reversal.

“Yes,” Dr. Gillers drew out the word.

“That's great—”

“But such a procedure would never pass Ethics Review. We could never actually perform a nephrodesis reversal.”

“Ethics review? But it is legal in your state, is it not?”

“Well, yes, but surely you're aware of the implications of such a procedure. Consequently, as I said, it would have to pass Ethics Review. And it is my belief that it would not.”

“I see. Thanks.” Tom hung up, and stared rather blankly at the connecting tube.

He was told essentially the same thing with his next three calls.

1

LJ hurdled over the turnstile, clearing it easily, and ran laughing after K and Dub. The subway was crowded, and the three of them made little effort to avoid knocking into people. In fact, they went out of their way to do just that. If the people they hit fell over, all the better. K grabbed someone's knapsack, Dub snagged someone's bag of groceries, and LJ snatched someone’s laptop. They ignored the shouts of protest, revelled in them actually, and squeezed through the closing doors of one of the cars just as the train started to move.

The three of them claimed half a dozen empty seats. A man in his thirties tensed a little and moved closer to his nine-year-old son. He carefully faced forward, minding his own business.

K rummaged through the knapsack he’d grabbed. Nothing but books in it, which he tossed aside in disgust.

“What you got?” he said to Dub and LJ.

Dub upended the bag of groceries. Apples, oranges, an onion, and several peppers roll onto the seat and then off, onto the floor.

“Nothin', man!”

LJ had opened the laptop, turned it on, and seemed to be pressing keys at random.

K moved to sit closer to the man. “Goin' to the game?” he asked. He used a fake-nice voice, but everything K said sounded like a challenge. Because it was.

“Yes, my son and I, we have tickets,” the man replied, pleasantly enough though he was clearly nervous.

“Oh, yeah? Can I see 'em?”

The man pulled out two tickets and naïvely handed them to K, who promptly pocketed them.

“Thanks, man!” K snickered and moved back to Dub and LJ.

The man blanched with anger. And humiliation. But he said nothing. Did nothing.

“Dad!”

“Shh.”

“But he—”

“Doesn’t matter,” he looked at his son, pleading, begging him to understand the warning in his eyes. The boy closed his mouth, then looked straight ahead, following his dad's lead. The man put his arm around his son's shoulders and squeezed.

“Bunch of files…I dunno… Nothin', man,” LJ muttered to himself.

“Delete 'em,” K said. Then laughed.

The man looked over quickly with alarm, a reflex. K stared him down. The man said nothing, and pointedly resumed minding his own business.

The train stopped. The man and his son got off, quickly. LJ pressed the ‘Delete’ button, tossed the laptop aside, then joined K and Dub, who had also gotten off.

“Later, men,” K said to Dub and LJ, then sauntered off. Dub looked around a little, lost and helpless, then tagged along behind K. LJ turned and headed up the stairs, out into the streets.

Five minutes later, LJ passed a high school. The track team was having a practice. He paused and watched through the chain link fence, a bit wistful, a bit angry.

As he continued to walk along the broken sidewalk, passing an odd mix of scrappy houses and run-down apartment buildings, Mr. Morgan and Mr. Rodriguez continued to work the street, walking behind a slow‑moving garbage truck, picking up the garbage cans and emptying them into the truck. Mr. Morgan stared intently at LJ. LJ happened to glance in Mr. Morgan's direction, but looked right through him.

2

The courtroom looked a little like one of the rooms for rent at the local legion or rotary club, but was, in fact, one of about ten such rooms in the city courthouse. All the pomp and circumstance was expensive and had been dispensed with long ago. It was unnecessary.

There were very few people in the room. Judge Wellington was seated behind a large table at the far end, across from the main entrance. Her assistant, the JA, sat beside her. They each had a laptop on front of them containing the docket and the relevant files. The proceedings were recorded by the room system. Two guards stood at the main entrance, and another pair stood at a side entrance which connected to a hallway leading to an outside door. Just outside that door, a van was parked, its door open and connected to the building with one of those portable accordion tunnels one sees at airports.

Benches filled the main space. On the Judge’s left, several men sat in them as if they were bleachers. Rather than pews. On the right, the benches contained small clusters of people, women and children mostly, family and friends of those waiting to appear before the Judge. Family and friends at a picnic or a park outing gone horribly wrong.

“Andrew William Smith?” the JA called out.

A heavy young man in a crew cut rose and approached the table. He stood before the Judge, his folded hands hanging loosely over his crotch. It was a common posture among a certain kind of man. When he found himself standing in front of a woman.

“Are you Andrew William Kessel?” Judge Wellington asked.

“Yes, m’am.”

“How do you plead,” she glanced at her screen, “to the counts of battery and aggravated assault occurring during the evening of Monday, April 20, 2027 at 17 Young Street?”

“Guilty.”

“This is your first offence, is that correct?” She glanced again at his file.

“Yes, ma’m.”

“What were you thinking?” She looked straight at him.

“Excuse me?”

“What were you thinking? Why did you assault—” she checked the record before her, “James Everett?”

“He pushed me.”

“But you beat him so badly, he is now in the hospital.”

“Yes.” He didn’t seem ashamed. It was as if that fact had nothing to do with him.

She turned back to the file, and the court waited while she read the detailed description of the battery and assault.

“You had a knife?” Why was she surprised?

He nodded, a single, quick nod, then remembered that he had to speak for the record. “Yes, ma’m.”

She turned from his file, then sighed. “Do you know what a colostomy bag is?” she asked him.

“No, m’am.”

She sighed again. “I’d like you to meet with James, and I want you to listen to what he has to say to you. You will spend three hours, handcuffed, in his presence. You can just stare at each other for the three hours, but I hope you will talk.”

He nodded again.

“Then I’d like—have you heard of the four-step program?”

“No m’am. I’ve heard of the twelve-step program,” he added.

“Yes, well,” she said, with a slight grimace, “we don’t believe in a higher power here. The first step is knowledge. I’d like—and these are court orders—you are to spend one month in an ER learning human anatomy and physiology, specifically what happens to various parts of the body when they are subjected to fists, baseball bats, knives, and bullets.

“Then you are to take a course that will develop your imagination. So even when you don’t see the blood, and torn organs, and shattered bones, you will be able to imagine it.”

Another quick nod.

“Step three is control. You are to work with a therapist to develop self-control. If you can stop yourself long enough to foresee, to imagine, what will happen as a result of what you do, perhaps you’ll choose more wisely what to do and what not to do.

“Lastly, the court orders you to take a course in conflict resolution, so the next time someone pushes you, you might say ‘Excuse me, sir, but I believe I was here first’—”

The man started to protest, but she cut him off.

“—or, better yet, just walk away.” She looked at him, challenging him to come right out and say—something. He was silent. Hopefully mute with the struggle to imagine—just walking away.

“Dismissed.” She banged her gavel—they had kept that accessory—and one of the guards led Andrew William Kessel from the court.

The JA made an entry into the record, closed the file, and opened the next.

“Leroy James Wagner?” he called out.

LJ got up, then shuffled forward to slouch before Judge Wellington.

“Are you Leroy James Wagner?” she asked.

“Yeah. Yes.”

“How do you plead,” she opened the file, “to the counts of illegal entry, property damage, theft, and assault, occurring during the afternoon of Tuesday, April 21, 2027 at the South and Main Subway Station?

“Guilty, I guess.”

She looked up at him.

“Guilty,” he amended.

“As this is your third conviction, you are hereby exiled.”

As the JA made an entry into the record, the Judge motioned to one of the guards, who led LJ out the side door.

An hour later, Judge Wellington sat at a table in the lunchroom having her lunch. Half a tuna sandwich and a nectarine. Judge Rose joined her, holding his tray in one hand, laden with French fries, a burger, and a salad, and a newsletter in the other.

“Have you seen the stats? Down 300!”

“Nation-wide?” she asked, quickly wiping her hands on a napkin, then taking the newsletter he held out to her.

He nodded, settling into the chair opposite.

“New intakes? Per week?” She found it hard to believe and was impressed. She scanned the rest of the front-page article, a report on the success of the new three-strike law. It had been put into effect a year ago, after much debate, in which much mention was made of Australia’s history and the relatively harsh Canadian winters. A surprisingly high number of people supported the new law, the model of inalienable human rights apparently having given way to one in which all rights had to be earned and could be forfeited.

Once a person was sixteen. That had been one of the many issues of debate. Many people thought the age of personal responsibility should have been set at eighteen, but, when presented with the crime statistics for men between sixteen and eighteen, they quickly changed their minds. As early as 2008, research had revealed that over 30% of all men had been arrested for something or other by the time they turned eighteen. It was like there was something fundamentally wrong with men. Perhaps the Y chromosome had mutated so much, the males were no longer homo sapiens. Add testosterone and little or no compensatory upbringing—‘Listen, next year or the year after, something’s gonna hit you like, not like a ton of bricks, no, more like a forced overdose of an incredibly strong constant-release character-changing drug, and you have to be ready to resist, it’ll take everything you have—’ Whoever said civilization was in greatest danger from its fourteen-to-twenty-four-year-old males was right.

True, many men had made huge contributions, to society, to civilization. But no doubt women could have too, given the same sorts of chances. Maybe, with so many men out of the way, that would happen…

“Still thinking of resigning?” Judge Rose asked, taking a forkful of the salad. He’d made a deal with himself that he couldn’t start on the fries and burger until he’d finished the salad.

“I am,” Judge Wellington replied.

He chewed, thinking of arguments that could change her mind.

“How’s your docket?” he asked.

“My docket’s fine,” she smiled. “I’m getting a full forty-five for lunch.”

He raised a forkful of salad in salute.

“And the wheels of justice are turning faster, I’ll grant you that. No one spends two years in prison anymore just waiting for their day in court.”

“But then—”

“And there aren’t any more frequent flyers. I’m not convinced it’s working as a deterrent, but if they’re not here, they can’t—”

“So…” he looked at her questioningly.

“It’s too simple,” she said.

“Occam’s Razor,” he returned.

“He was referring to explanations, not solutions,” she said. “Even so, this is not what he meant by ‘simple’ and you know it.”

“True enough,” he conceded, taking the first bite of his burger.

“Three thefts-under will never equal three rapes,” she stood up and began to pack away her reusable lunch things, “Of your ten-year-old daughter.”

He chewed as quickly as he could, swallowed, then belatedly called out after her. “It just needs to be tweaked a bit.”

That was certainly true, she thought. And possible. Even likely as time went by. But in the meantime…

What about wrongful conviction? It happened. Maybe not three times to the same person, but if it happened just once, out of three times, the person would have been exiled for two, not three, strikes. And though she hated to admit it, race and class had to do with that likelihood.

And where was motive? That was another one of her concerns. What about all those people who, in one way or another, had no choice but to do the things they did?

Over two thousand years, and they had yet to figure out what to do with bullies. Despite the innocuous label, they remained perhaps their greatest problem. On every street. In every neighbourhood. In every country. Men bullied others to do their dirty work, with threats they would be all too happy to follow up on. Sell these drugs, beat up this person, forge these documents, get your testimony wrong—or you’ll have an accident. Or maybe your kid will disappear one day on the way home from school. Exile was a perfect solution, she thought, but at the moment it cast too wide a net.

3

LJ was slumped in a chair across from a uniformed woman who was quickly tapping on her keyboard. They were in a plain, functional office. LJ looked at the nameplate on the desk, which was no more informative than the sign on the door.

“So you're an ‘Escort Officer’”? he asked, mockery mixed with mild curiosity.

“That's correct,” she said as she pressed ‘Enter’, then opened the next file, which was LJ’s, and quickly scanned its contents.

“What's that, the new word for ‘Parole Officer’?” he asked.

She looked at him then, first dully, then with some disbelief.

“You don't know?”

“Don't know what?” he asked, a little belligerently.

“This is your third offence, is that correct?” She looked again at her screen.

“Yeah, so?”

“Do you have somewhere to go?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you found a society that will accept you?” she rephrased her question.

LJ laughed. “What, I have to find my own prison?”

“You're not going to prison,” she said flatly. “This is your third time.”

“Yeah…” What was her problem?

“You really don't know, do you?” She stared out the window.

“Don't know what?” LJ asked again, annoyed.

“You haven't a clue as to the consequences of your actions,” she murmured, then turned back to face LJ. “Well, that's just one more reason.”

She could see his anger, his incomprehension, simmering on his face.

“Look,” she explained then, “the first time you break our laws, the laws of this society, we try to rehabilitate you. Make you understand, and, hopefully, change.”

“Yeah, that was a joke.”

“Obviously,” she said dryly. “Second time, you got punishment. You were sent to prison.” She looked again at LJ’s file. “Served two years. And yet here you are again.”

He opened his mouth, but she didn’t give him a chance.

“Third time, well, given your inability or unwillingness to follow the rules of this society, you should live in some other society, yeah? If you have found a society willing to take you, we will provide escort. If not, we will escort you into exile.

“What do you mean?”

“We're kicking you out.”

4

“No pack?” the escort guard asked LJ the next morning as he was brought toward the waiting van. “You’re allowed.”

“What?” He had no idea what she was yammering on about. Yesterday, that woman, the ‘escort officer,’ had gone on and on about how he was allowed twenty-four hours and access to CTs. Communication technologies. He didn’t care. She could talk at him all she wanted, he didn’t care.

“Never mind,” the guard said then. The answer to her question was obvious.

“Just the one?” she asked her partner as he secured their transport then closed the door.

“Yup.”

Hm. At this rate, she thought, she might soon be out of a job.

Her partner pulled the van out of the lot and into traffic. They were quiet as they moved through the city, following the route provided by the onboard computer. They didn’t know until they were on the road which route they’d be given. Or to which door they’d be directed. It reduced hijacks.

LJ watched the city pass by. Good riddance, he thought.

After about twenty minutes, they were on the expressway out of the city. Ten minutes after that, they were out of the city.

LJ leaned forward to look. He’d never been. Out of the city.

“So, have you been an escort guard long?” she asked her partner, settling in. It was going to be a long drive.

“Yeah, I guess,” he kept his eyes on the road. “I transferred from MaxSec shortly after the ThreeStrike.”

“Really? What was it like? I mean, do you think the ThreeStrike is better? I read that it’s unfair because—”

“Don’t believe everything you read. Yeah, all crimes count the same. And yeah, maybe that’s not fair. But from my point of view, ThreeStrike is better. Way better.”

“What makes you say that?”

“MaxSec is—was—inhumane. What it does to the prisoners. What it does to the guards.”

She waited for him to continue.

“Imagine what it would be like to be locked up in a small cage—essentially, they are,” he insisted, noticing her slight protest, “even though they can move around some. They get to do that only a few times a day, and every step they take is policed.”

He glanced in the rear view mirror to check on his transport.

“So imagine what it would be like to be locked up in a small cage—and know it’s for the rest of your life.”

The navigational system indicated a turn ahead. He looked in the side mirror before making a lane change. Guess they were taking the scenic route, he thought.

“Have you ever seen those movies,” he continued, “about what it would be like if it were the last day on earth? Some people just end it early, because they’ve got nothing to live for anymore, they’ve got no future. And the rest of them just go out and party hard, hard as they can, wrecking stuff…

“That’s what it’s like for people who are in MaxSec for life. Suddenly they’ve got no future.

“And yet, they are alive the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. They’ve got years ahead of them, but they can’t have any plans, any goals. They’ve got no hopes, no dreams. There’s no point.”

She was starting to see the problem.

“So they go crazy. Literally.”

He stared ahead at the mostly empty highway.

“And the ones that were crazy to begin with get worse.”

“Didn’t the ones with mental illness get treatment?”

“No.”

She waited for him to continue.

“I’ve seen men—eat themselves.”

She looked over quickly. He was absolutely serious.

“The mentally ill ones weren’t supposed to be there in the first place, I guess, but maybe there wasn’t room for them in the hospitals. There certainly weren’t enough psychiatrists to go around. Guys had to wait months for a half-hour session.

“And in any case, as I say, a lot of them became crazy after they arrived. No one could stay sane in a place, in a situation, like that.”

He paused, remembering. Again, she waited.

“Especially if they get Solitary. If you’re in Solitary, you get one hour of fresh air every day. You get one shower every two days. The rest of the time, twenty-three hours of twenty-four, you’re in a concrete room barely bigger than the average bathroom. One guy was in Solitary for two years. When he came out, he—he wasn’t even human.

“Eventually almost all of them want to kill themselves,” he continued. “Except for the ones having too much fun trying to kill everyone else.

“And I mean that literally. They’d kill each other, or try to, over nothing. And then laugh as the other guy lay dying.

“It was a way to break the monotony. Entertainment. Sure, they could watch TV—”

“And be entertained by more killing,” she said wryly.

He looked over and nodded.

“It was probably also a way to do something, to have some control, some power, to make some difference, in their lives.

“You understand these are people who— It’s not like they could amuse themselves inside their heads or make a difference by solving the mysteries of the universe.”

They watched the bleak landscape go by.

“No wonder so many wanted to just end it all,” she said.

“But they couldn’t,” he said angrily. “That was part of the problem. We weren’t allowed to let them to. They’d beg— And that’s just—”

“But suicide is legal,” she looked over, surprised and confused.

“I know! That’s what’s so sick about it. But our job was to ‘protect’ them. So we were supposed to stop them if they tried. We were supposed to make sure they didn’t have access to anything that they could use.”

“So you’d have hundreds of—”

“Thousands—” he corrected. “They’d pace. Back and forth, back and forth, just like animals in a zoo.”

“No wonder you transferred.”

He nodded grimly.

“It got so bad—some guys don’t take the job home with them, but how can you not take that shit home with you?” He looked over at her, as if genuinely wanting to know.

He continued. “You come to always expect the worst. In people. In life.”

“That would be a rational response. You always see the worst.”

Again, he nodded.

“And you yourself—you start becoming just like them. There was a young guy once, the boiler was acting up, there was cold air blowing into his cell, and he kept asking for an extra blanket, but none of the guards would give him one. The kid was so fucking cold he couldn’t sleep. This had gone on for three days before I got on shift. And then they all started calling me a fucking Elizabeth Fry for giving the kid an extra blanket. And I thought, what the hell is wrong with people?

“I mean, sure, the kid deserved to be in prison, they all do, no question. The shit they’ve done, most of them have no respect whatsoever, but—”

“Are you familiar with Zimbardo’s prison experiment?” she asked. “The one done back in 1971?”

He nodded. It was a standard in Psych 101.

“But it’s not just the cruelty. It’s also the…vigilance. You start watching your back, all the time, because you’re always expecting—

“Because you’re locked up too. The only difference is it’s for tenhours a day, not twenty-four,” he grimaced.

He stopped to listen to the navigational system again and turned at the next sideroad.

“So, at least with the ThreeStrike,” he nodded to the back of the van, “if LJ here ever decides he’s had enough, he can do something about it. He still has his dignity, his autonomy.”

A couple hours later, they stopped to trade places. They had passed the occasional town, several very long stretches of forest, and one or two rivers. They’d even seen a few lakes in the distance. It was pretty country.

An hour after that, following the navigational system’s directions, the escort guard slowed and drove onto the shoulder of a long stretch of highway. There was nothing but scrub on either side. She turned off the ignition and put the vehicle in park.

LJ woke up. He had no idea where he had been taken, but he wasn’t too concerned. About anything. Which was, of course, his problem.

In fact, he’d simply been taken north. When the States had annexed Canada, they’d designated chunks of northern Quebec, Ontario, Manitoba, and Saskatchewan as exile. ‘The First Nations’ll stop ‘em,’ everyone said. Forgetting how successful that had been back in 1492.

The guard got out and stood by the back door. As soon as her partner joined her, they opened the door and helped LJ manage his cuffs to exit the vehicle. He stretched then stared at the bleak landscape.

The guard got out and stood by the back door. As soon as her partner joined her, they opened the door and helped LJ manage his cuffs to exit the vehicle. He stretched then stared at the barren landscape. Then he noticed a car parked in the distance. For a second, he thought it might be K and Dub, but it looked like Mr. Morgan who was standing beside it. Which didn’t make any sense.

“This way,” the guard said, looking at the electronic device she held in her hand and leading her partner, who had a firm grip on LJ, to a spot about thirty feet off the road. She swung the device to the right and then to the left, confirming her position.

LJ looked around him, then noticed that something wasn’t quite right with the view. A long stretch to the left and to the right of where they were looked fuzzy.

“There’s an invisible wall surrounding exile,” the guard explained, when she noticed the puzzlement on his face. “It sort of reflects the view.”

LJ nodded, not really understanding. Or caring.

“This is the door,” she said, as she deactivated that portion of the wall. Her partner walked LJ toward it.

“Escort officer said this wasn't a prison,” LJ said then. Starting to put two and two together.

“Oh the wall isn't here to keep you in,” the guard handling him said. “It's here to keep you out. We don't want you.”

LJ looked at him, inexplicably a little hurt.

“Hey, only because you so clearly don't want us,” he said. “Right?”

LJ ignored the question.

“So what do I do in there?” he asked.

“Whatever you like,” the first guard answered, as her partner took off LJ’s cuffs and nudged him forward. “Isn't that what you wanted?”