Chapter 14 Looking for Trouble

Going with men for money got easier after the first time. And easier still after the second and third time. I put some weight back on. I made sure John ate and I got him some cough syrup. I was surviving. But not really living. I can honestly say my life changed . . . it began even . . . in yet another man’s car on yet another night.

I got into a car and earned my fifty dollars. But this guy was different from most of the men who picked me up. He was nervous, and asked me a few times if I was a cop. He kept telling me he had never done anything like this before. He assured me that he wasn’t gay, just curious. I tried to calm him down but it just made him edgier. I tried to get out of the car, but he locked the doors. I turned to find a gun pointed at my face. I had grown up around guns, but no one back home was stupid enough to point one at someone’s face. I felt my blood run cold and put my hands up.

“Whoa,” I said. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I’m not gay,” he insisted.

“Okay. That’s alright. I’ll just leave then.”

“Why did you go and convince me to pick you up?” he moaned.

“What? I didn’t . . . you stopped and asked me to get in . . .” I blustered. Then I realized I was just making things worse and shut my mouth with a snap.

“This is your fault!” he screamed at me. “I have a family! I’m not gay!”

“I know. It’s okay. It’s my fault completely. Just open the door and I’ll leave.”

“No! You’ll tell my wife!” he said. The gun was waving unsteadily at me.

“I won’t. I promise. Just unlock the door and you’ll never see me again.”

He seemed to think about this. I thought I’d be able to get out without any problems. But then he hauled off and pistol-whipped me so hard on the side of the head that I saw stars dancing around in my line of vision. I felt a trickle of blood make its way down my temple as he unlocked the door. I reached for the handle. But just as I opened the door, he leaned over and hit me again. I fell out onto the sidewalk and the car sped off, tires screaming against the asphalt of the alleyway where we had parked.

I shook my head, trying to clear my vision. But the pain was unbearably bad and I felt like throwing up. He had hit me hard, right in the temple. I dragged myself against a dumpster and closed my eyes.

“Are you okay?” A kind-sounding voice broke through the fog.

I looked up at a beautiful girl standing over me. I remember thinking that her skin was the colour of the coffee I drank with my mom on Saturday mornings.

“Yeah,” I groaned. “I think so.” I tried to stand up but fell back against the dumpster, clutching my head.

“You might have a concussion,” the girl said. “Do you have somewhere to go?”

“I sleep in the park,” I admitted to her.

She nodded. “I have a place you can stay tonight,” she told me.

“Why are you helping me?” I asked her. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll rob you or something?”

She laughed. “What would you take? Anyway, it doesn’t look like you can do much harm to anyone right now.”

She helped me up. “It’s just around the corner. Can you make it?” she said.

I nodded, wincing at the pain that shot through my head as I moved it. I was leaning on her more than I cared to admit. But she was strong and managed to hold me up without too much trouble.

“What’s your name?” I asked her.

“Obsidian,” she replied.

“I’ve never heard that name before,” I told her.

“I made it up,” she smiled. She led me past Ryerson University and down an alley to a boarded-up building. “It’s right here.” She ducked under some construction horses and unlocked a huge padlock with a key she was wearing on a chain around her neck.

“What is this place?” I asked.

“It’s an old theatre. They were going to tear it down to make condos but they ran out of money. So I put a lock on it that looks like the kind the construction company would use and no one bothers me. So far, anyway.”

She led me into what looked like an office that still had a sofa and movie posters on the walls. She set me down on the couch and turned a camping lantern on.

“So you made up your own name?” I asked.

“Sure. It’s better than the name I was born with. Obsidian suits me. It’s dark and mysterious. Just like me.”

I laughed and then groaned. Obsidian wet a napkin with a bottle of water she took out of a cooler and wiped the blood off my face. I leaned back and closed my eyes. I hadn’t slept on a bed — or sofa — in ages.

“Don’t fall asleep!” Obsidian called out sharply.

I dragged my eyes open with difficulty. “Why?” I asked, yawning.

“You could have a concussion. You have to stay awake.”

She sat down beside me, nudging me upright and handing me a bottle of water.

“You haven’t told me your name,” she smiled gently at me.

“Joe,” I told her, drinking deeply. “My name is Joe Littlechief.”

* * *

Obsidian — Sid, as she told me to call her — asked me questions to keep me awake. She was really easy to talk to. Maybe it was the head injury, but I found myself telling her things that I hadn’t told anyone else. I told her about my crush on Benjy. I told her how my friends had turned on me when they found out I was gay. I talked about my aunt and how she accepted me, no matter what. I told her that my mother called me a disgusting abomination and threw me out of my home.

I even told her that I was suicidal before I left and had taken whole bottle of painkillers. I explained how I had made myself throw them up before they were digested. She listened and didn’t interrupt. She just nodded or murmured a response.

I told her that I felt so alone and so angry that I wasn’t like everyone else that sometimes I punched the wall until my hands bled. Sid reached over and took my hands in hers, running her fingers over the scars on my knuckles.

“You can’t hurt yourself like that, Joe,” she said kindly. “There are people out there who are more than happy to do that for you.”

I nodded. She was right.

Talking to Sid, I realized I was slowly starting to accept who I was. I wasn’t okay with it yet but I would be.

“So . . . you’re a religious, Indigenous gay boy?” she asked with a wink.

I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“I’ve got you beat, Joe. I’m an African-Canadian transgender girl.”

I looked at her, completely shocked.

“You didn’t guess?” she asked, smiling.

“No. Not at all. I thought you were . . . a girl.”

“I am a girl. I was just born in the wrong body.” She shrugged as if it was no big deal.

“Did you always know?” I asked carefully. “I mean . . . if you were born a boy, how did you know you weren’t supposed to be one?”

“I always knew,” she told me. “As soon as I was old enough to talk, I told my parents I was a girl and I wanted to wear girls’ clothes. There was never a time where I thought I was a boy.” She shrugged again. “I just knew. It was some genetic accident or something. Like being colour blind, which I also am. Now that’s a tragedy because I love fashion but I can never tell for sure if my clothes match.”

I laughed, feeling comfortable for the first time since I left home.

“Can I ask you something?” I yawned.

“Sure,” Sid smiled.

“If you’re transgender . . . do you still have . . . I mean . . . do you have . . . you know?” I looked over at her, gesturing downwards and then quickly continued. “Is that offensive? I’m sorry.”

“No, no. It’s fine. I’d rather people asked questions than just go ahead and make assumptions about me. So to answer your question, no. I haven’t had gender confirmation surgery.”

“Will you?” I asked. “Get the surgery?”

“I don’t know. Maybe when I’m older. I don’t really feel like I need to have surgery. I’m okay the way I am. I know I’m a girl,” she smiled.

This girl was amazing. Not only had she rescued me when she could have easily ignored me, but she was so confident! She was totally comfortable in her own skin. I wished desperately that I could be like her.