Better Red than Dead
Kawai Shen
“SOL! SOL! SOL! SOLIDARITY!”
I was perched on a newsstand at an intersection, taking photos of demonstrators as we marched into the financial district toward the headquarters of the Regal Bank of Canada. Our ragtag coalition of grassroot groups, environmental NGOs and labour organizers had joined together to protest the bank's investment in the Trans-Provincial Pipeline project being developed on unceded Wet'suwet'en land. I snapped a photo of members from my union local, marching ahead with our flags.
“Are you a part of this group?”
I looked down at the speaker, a young white man wearing a seersucker suit. Brooks Brothers, if my eye read the pattern correctly. “Yeah,” I muttered, avoiding eye contact. The light changed, but Brooks lingered. He eyed my union jacket.
“You're a member of the Leatherworkers?”
“Local 93.” Curt and no-nonsense.
“I didn't think trade unions would be protesting projects that create well paying jobs. Genuinely asking here: isn't a union supposed to look out for workers?”
I stared at this random who felt entitled to my time and attention when I was clearly busy. Brooks was handsome in a bland, manicured way I found deeply unattractive. I leapt down to the concrete.
“Yeah, well, we're already dealing with health and safety issues for our members in the summers due to the extreme heat...” Even as I spoke, I was irritated at myself for indulging him. I began to march, scanning the crowd for anyone who might recognize me. Brooks kept apace.
“Sure, okay. But won't shutting down all high carbon projects destroy union jobs?”
“Labour is fighting for a just transition. You can look it up online.”
“It's about investing in re-training oil workers, right? But that's never going to happen – you know that, don't you? They're going to be discarded.”
“Because they won't be discarded when oil reserves become stranded assets and investors leave everyone else holding the bag? You might know a thing or two that about that. You work around here?”
“Well, you know I do.” He leaned in closer, his expensive, trendy cologne assaulting my nostrils.
“One of the Big Five banks, I take it?”
“Regal Bank.” He said it with a lopsided grin I wanted to smack off his face.
“Seems to me like the RB junior banker has already made up his mind and is just harassing me at this point.”
“Well, I thought maybe you might 're-educate' me.” I didn't take the bait. Instead I gestured to my left.
“We're about a two minute walk from the Saint Regis. How would you like to have your dick sucked in there?” Just asking the question made me wet.
Brooks laughed. “What?”
“You heard me. I'm only asking once.”
He laughed again, then seeing my unsmiling countenance, began babbling: “You're not. I mean. But we. Are you? I mean, okay! I mean, yes!”
Brooks heeled like a good boy as we entered the hotel. We walked through its tacky, faux Art Deco lobby toward the ladies room. I chose the largest stall for wheelchair users and shoved him hard against the wall. He wouldn't stop talking. “I can't believe you're actually doing this. You're fucking crazy. I always knew you Asian girls were-”
“Shut up and undo your pants.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
I got on my knees. Brooks was breathing quickly, fingers fumbling. His pecker sprang out of his Calvin Klein boxers, pink and uncut. A fresh waft of cologne hit me; did this tool spray his gonads with the stuff? I spit in my fist and began stroking him slowly, too slow. He writhed at the touch. His piss eye began weeping. He started babbling again: “Oh God. What are you doing, are you fingering yourself? God, you're touching yourself... Come on baby, put it in your mouth...”
“You close?”
“Please, suck me, baby,” he whined. “You said you'd suck me.”
I increased my grip and speed. Brooks swore in response. Such a dirty mouth for someone so clean shaven.
“I want you to cum for me,” I moaned, my other hand under my skirt. “Can't you see how hot this is making me?”
Brooks cursed again. “Fuck, I'm gonna cum.”
I stood up abruptly, Brooks' pecker still in my hand as he shot his jism against the floor, shuddering. As he grew limp, I brought my face close to his neck, lips at his ear. In a soft voice, I threatened, “It's not complicated, junior: no good jobs on a dead planet. But I guess people like you aren't bothered by little pipeline spills.” As Brooks turned his head to look at me with confused, oxytocin-flooded eyes, I took my menstrual cup, which I had wriggled out of myself, and dumped its clotted contents down the front of his pressed white oxford shirt.
Before Brooks could react, I shot out of the bathroom, my bloody hand and empty cup shoved in my CLU93 jacket pocket. Now I needed to find somewhere to clean up, stick in a tampon and get myself off. I tore out of the Saint Regis and onto the street. SOL! SOL! SOL!