Every night, after finishing her job cleaning offices in the towers of the financial district, Erica would walk all the way up University Avenue to the twenty-four hour Tims by St. Patrick station. Along the way, she would pass the courthouse at 361 University. Outside the courthouse there is a monument titled \u2018Pillars of Justice\u2019. Eleven paper cutout-shaped male and figures stand facing each other, six on the north side, and five on the south side. The plaque in front says that the twelfth empty place among them is reserved for Erica, to symbolize her participation in the legal system as a person of the community. Though her body would be sweaty and grimy from cleaning so many offices and her stomach hungry for her Tims breakfast of double sugar steeped tea and apple fritter, Erica would always stop at this monument and climb the three steps to stand for a few moments in her reserved place. If she timed it right, she could catch what few rays of sunrise filtered to her through the gaps between City Hall and the Eaton Centre and the Marriott and Ryerson University to the east. She would stand there for a few minutes, before the hunger became too much, ruminating on an imagined case and the imagined guilt or innocence of the accused.<\/p>\n
But she had a problem. The role of juror never felt right to her. Erica (see, such a good Western name that your eyes are already sliding right over it) had always assumed that if she were to end up in a courtroom one day \u2013 at an actual trial, that is; she doesn\u2019t count her Immigration Canada asylum hearing\u2013 she would be in there either as the accused or as a witness for the defense, in that order. Never as the jury and never, not in her wildest dreams, as the judge or justice of the peace; never as the Madam clerk or court officer; never as court artist or bailiff or reporter or family or member of the public, and definitely not as Crown or defense counsel. She\u2019d known this about herself ever since she was a little girl in Ethiopia.<\/p>\n
Erica wished there was someone to take a picture of her standing in for her community as the twelfth juror in the Pillars of Justice. Her brothers and cousins, all of them still back home, would roll on the floor laughing if she sent them such a photo. In the early 90s, when the communist dictatorship in Ethiopia fell, suddenly it was all trials and mass-grave exhumations. At that time, Erica and her two brothers Brad and James (not their real names) and eight cousins (oh just choose eight white boy and girl names yourself why don\u2019t you, it\u2019ll make no difference, she will never reveal any of their real names) had gotten into a long phase of playing courtroom. The housemaids were very glad about this, since otherwise the kids would have occupied themselves with their other favorite game: prank-the-maids.<\/p>\n
The kids could have played dig-up-the bodies, also as seen on television, but that scenario didn\u2019t offer as many characters. You had one of three options: the anonymous dead and massly buried, the alive and digging, or the alive and finally mourning, whereas the courtroom allowed them to make better use of the garden and the house. There were so many locations and parts. The dog\u2019s house was the prison, their parents\u2019 cars were the prisoner transport and police escort vehicles, the porch was the witness stand and the ledge of the window that opened onto it was the judge\u2019s perch. Two enormous hibiscus bushes at the corners the lawn were the prosecution and defense tables, and all that expanse of grass behind them was the public seating area. The jury sat in one row on the low wall adjacent to the lawn. Clearly, there were plenty of parts to go around, but from the start Erica had laid claim to accused or witness for the defense and never let go, only alternating between the two depending on how much she was in the mood for play-acting that day.<\/p>\n
From the kitchen window, Mams and Erica\u2019s Aunties would catch sight of the kids sooner or later, and come out and break up their game. With a few harsh words for the girls, and shoves and slaps to the back of the head for the boys, they would put an end to all the calling to order and shuffling and striding and pointing and declaiming and testifying and rising and falling. The adults could not see what fun there was to be had in mocking the nation\u2019s healing process in this time of transition from dictatorship to democracy. In their turn, the kids, especially Brad, did not see the fun in the adults\u2019 contempt of the court<\/i> \u2013 a favorite phrase of his that he took every opportunity to use, even when it rained so hard that everyone had no choice but to break up the game and go inside. However, all the kids understood that it was just paranoia making the adults act this way; old habits die hard.<\/p>\n
Today is a special day for Erica. Sitting in a room in the Superior Court of Justice at 361 University, being actually inside the building for the first time, means that she has finally arrived at the real thing, even if it is only a preliminary hearing. She wears her one good outfit \u2013 a blue Calvin Klein dress bought for twenty dollars at Winnerz at the end of the summer season, so many sizes too big that it could be a maternity dress. But she does not sit among the twelve today, and she is not at either of the hibiscus bushes either. Today, she is on the grass, alone. She is playing victim. In Canada, victims sit behind everyone, on the grass, along with the general public and media, who may or may not drop in.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Victim, of all options. Erica finds herself in court because someone did something to her against her will, and Erica told on that someone, and the police chose to press charges, and the Crown decided that it was worth a battle.<\/p>\n
What a world<\/i>, Mams would say, as she used to do while sitting huddled with her sisters \u2013 Erica\u2019s Aunties \u2013 in front of the television set during the broadcasts of post-coup trials. In the living room was where the real trials unfolded, hence the very good reason why the kids couldn\u2019t even think about having their courtroom games in there. Broadcasts of what went on in the trials were intercut with footage of mass graves being unearthed. Mams put her hand over her mouth as she watched. Even then, the adults didn\u2019t trust themselves to share the witnessing with the neighbours. It was early days yet. Mams and her sisters would draw the blinds and curtains, tell the children to stay hushed up, and keep the television on low volume. The trials were being broadcast on national television and there was only the one channel, so clearly people were watching this or nothing at all; they must have been suspicious of those people were choosing to watch nothing at all.<\/p>\n
What a world indeed, Mams<\/i>, Erica said under her breath to her absent mother.<\/p>\n
From where Erica sits in the first row behind the Crown\u2019s desk, she can see only the back of the head and a quarter profile of that<\/i> woman, the \u201cfemale companion\u201d type of woman. She is sitting right up there, on the defense\u2019s table, next to her lawyer. Her right ankle is over her left ankle, her left hand rests on top of her right hand, as if she planned it all. Well groomed and fit. Smooth, neat ponytail. Not a hair out of place. You would think she has been cut out of a paper sketch with a brand new pair of scissors. Contained, but not small because another human has been growing inside her for the last seven months (six when Erica met her). One of those women who looks at her man at least several times a day with that Oh honey, there you go again<\/i> expression on her face. Then she will turn to Erica, who stands behind the counter, and give her that See how there he goes again? Don\u2019t mind him, he does this all the time <\/i>expression. The way dog owners tell people Oh he doesn\u2019t bite, he\u2019s just being friendly. <\/i>These women never just come out and say it, and it is so faint, that expression, that it is never any help to Erica even as a symbolic invitation to step back and let the man\u2019s obnoxiousness air itself out. So Erica ends up being the one who has to say I\u2019m sorry<\/i>, apologizing for everyone present.<\/p>\n
One such time, though, while working at her Starcups job near Osgoode station, Erica could barely force those words out of her mouth. At least it is dead<\/i>, she was thinking, and her mouth almost ran away from her and she almost said so. At least it is dead, which is unfortunate for the cockroach, yes, but more unfortunate for this asshole who found it wrapped inside his Starcups Spicy Tuna Wrap. Prepackaged<\/i>. Number One: it\u2019s not Erica\u2019s fault if a dead cockroach shows up in a prepackaged Spicy Tuna Wrap that she played no part in the prepackaging of. Shit like that happens. There are more of them than there are of us \u2013 assholes, yes, but also cockroaches. Number Two: this sucker of cock was being extremely obnoxious about it, especially considering Number One. He had yelled, \u201cMiss!\u201d across the store at Erica. When she looked his way, he beckoned her over with a come-hither curl of his index finger. He could tell Erica wasn\u2019t feeling sorry from the way she walked over to their table, her hips swaying lazily, taking her time like an aloof African waitress. Worse, he could tell she would have been sorry, genuinely sorry<\/i>, if he weren\u2019t being unnecessarily obnoxious about the dead insect in his wrap. That only made him even more obnoxious. Meanwhile, his \u201cfemale companion\u201d sat beside him, saying nothing, only letting that<\/i> expression slip on the half of her face that he couldn\u2019t see. This made Erica almost giggle so she quickly dispensed with one I\u2019m sorry <\/i>and hurried back behind the cash register. Then, on second thought and also to make it not seem as if she had ran away from a \u201ccustomer situation\u201d, she reached under the counter of the espresso drink delivery counter for the stack of free-drink coupons. She peeled out two coupons for the man and his woman, and three coupons for herself.<\/p>\n
Three were NOT for myself. Three were for my three favorite sisters in sweat, horseshit and grease at Medieval ShowTimes. The day before, on what would have been my thirty-sixth month of being a wench, I had served my last shift. I had not yet announced to management that I was quitting. From disowned daughter to asylum case to office cleaner to wench and now \u2013 look at me \u2013 Barista! After months of hard training while keeping my dinner shifts at Medieval ShowTimes. Who knows, one day you might even see me on television!<\/span><\/p>\n I carried the three Starcups free drink coupons in my woven backpack to the wenches\u2019 locker room at Medieval ShowTimes Exhibition Place. I, the star of Starcups. One cannot be a Barista and continue doing night wench shifts for long. Why would one? Medieval ShowTimes has nine castles across North America, but Starcups has twenty thousand eight hundred and ninety-one stores on the whole of Earth. With this, I can go anywhere in the world, as soon as my passport comes.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I wouldn\u2019t be missed at Medieval ShowTimes. I knew that. Still, it was wrong to not leave behind a symbol of goodwill for my three sisters, a sign of all the miraculous things that were possible in life. I also carried a roll of sticky tape in my bag (this I was going to return to the back room at the store the next day). I had arrived mid-afternoon, in the window of time between the one thirty shift going home and the four thirty shift being already out preparing the arena. That way, I could stick the cards to the outsides of the girls\u2019 lockers and be gone before they started arriving for the seven thirty shift. This way, I save them from having to thank me.<\/p>\n I had to pass by the stables to get to the locker room, past a corridor of horseshit stink, which I secretly thank for having kept my heart safe from being dashed and trampled by the long-haired knights. Not that they ever noticed my willingness to surrender, I who am twice invisible as a black wench; I didn\u2019t exist in their country even in the real Medieval ShowTimes.<\/p>\n I opened the door to the locker room and found all three of my soon-to-be former co-wenches in different stages of undress. Redhead Sara had the long wench skirt on but only a bra up top. Brunette Josie was the opposite, in the wench blouse but just underwear down there. Chemical Blond Mandy was straddling the middle bench in her bra and panties. She liked to stay as nearly naked as possible until the last moment when she absolutely had to put on the costume.<\/p>\n The other lockers were partly closed and padlockless, with bits of the bags and whatnots of the wenches who were doing the four thirty shift peeking out. Their street shoes were under the middle bench.<\/p>\n \u201cHey,\u201d the girls all said to me when I came in, one over the other, each sounding more bummed than the last.<\/p>\n \u201cHi!\u201d I said back cheerfully, happy for the reminders of hope and freedom that I had in secret store for them.<\/p>\n \u201cYou guys are so early,\u201d I said, walking to my locker.<\/p>\n \u201cWe did the lunch show. Didn\u2019t they call you?\u201d Mandy asked.<\/p>\n \u201cNo they didn\u2019t.\u201d I said, knowing well that it was the other way around. They probably asked for the extra shifts. (At Starcups I can get health coverage, sick pay and paid vacations.)<\/p>\n Mandy took a cigarette out of the open knapsack in her locker, stuck it between her teeth, and began rooting around in the knapsack for a lighter. When she bent over, her flat stomach stayed folded just like paper; the same with the other girls\u2019. I tried to not feel the three rolls of fat that were happy to form in the place under my breasts and above my hips, even when I stood perfectly erect. Too many free apple fritters. You would think I had birthed many. I pinched the bottom of my sweater and tugged it away from my front in a single fluid motion that had become for me as automatic as blinking.<\/p>\n I had expected to drop this shirt-flicking habit from lack of need when I began walking the Medieval ShowTimes ringside three years ago, walking from the kitchen to the ringside, walking down and up the ringside seats, first with hundreds of garlic bread slices to put on each empty bowl before spectators came in from the Great Hall and sat down to enjoy the show, second with a gallon bucket of tomato soup to ladle into each empty bowl before spectators came in and sat down, third carrying a tray as long as my arm packed full with thirty-two roasted half chickens, and finally carrying pitchers of drinks. Then the cleanup of all that followed by dessert. By the end of the shift, we would have walked the length and depth of the ringside at least twelve times. All new girls abs\u2019 would become hard as rocks without fail after their first month of wench work. They would chirp excitedly, as this look was exactly what they needed to get called for get\u2019er (getting better) auditions. But my abs, though they hurt, stayed as soft as those bread chunks that I would find soggy as old dish sponges at the bottom of the soup bowls when I collected them before the chicken service.<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019re going for a bite before the dinner shift,\u201d Sara said, \u201cYou coming?\u201d She was back in her street clothes, retying her hair in a ponytail (not pigtail, as I used to call them.)<\/p>\n I sat down on the edge of the bench and put my woven backpack on my lap. My abs hurt differently now, from lifting milk crates. \u201cYou guys go ahead,\u201d I said, thinking up a good excuse, \u201cI need to clean my shoes.\u201d<\/p>\n Wenches were allowed to have one free meal per shift, the same meal as the spectators. But the girls said mass produced food was revolting. They pretended to gag when they poured their tray of half gnawed chicken and pig bones into the garbage barrels in the kitchen and averted their eyes from the overflowing bones for the rest of their shift. They called the soup \u201cmop water\u201d, since they ladled it out of what looked like a mop bucket. But I ate, sitting in a corner of the kitchen while the male Sri Lankan cooks flicked their tongues at me and called the chicken bones I nibbled at \u201cluck lucky bones\u201d.<\/p>\n The girls all got dressed and ready to go. Mandy had managed to do it all without once moving the unlit cigarette from between her teeth, very movie-like.<\/p>\n \u201cOk, later,\u201d Josie murmured. That was a speech for her.<\/p>\n \u201cText you?\u201d Sara said, giving me the benefit of the doubt that I\u2019d change my mind about dinner. I nodded. I felt a cramping snag in my throat and a stinging at the back of my eyes. I still hate goodbyes.<\/p>\n Then they were gone and it was just the horseshit smell and I again. I was horrified that it had been on me all along. I must have stepped in it somewhere, unless it was coming from the shoes in my locker. I consoled myself with the thought that either way, the girls would have gone on their break.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I opened my locker and picked out my work shoes by the inside ankles, using just my thumb and forefinger. They were black and sturdy, what you would call old-lady shoes. They were caked in old horseshit and sand. In every shift there is one moment when the wenches become a part of the show. Before the jousting tournament, we get to carry long heavy staffs bearing the flags of the different knights into the performance ring. We march in horse-wench-horse formation, behind the ass of one horse and in front of the mouth of another horse. Keeping pace is important, you ruin the rhythm of the show if you fall in the sand and get trampled underfoot by the horses. In that rush of noise and heat and light, I forget horseshit. Whether it is the soft give of it under my feet or the invasion of its smell in my nose, it is the last thing on my mind because, historically accurate or not, it is the few minutes during which I am allowed to exist.<\/p>\n The shoes were my own, but I dropped them in a trash bin. That left the costume: a long burgundy skirt, brown vest, and frilly-necked blouse with elastic. The idea of the elastic is for the wench to slide the blouse as low off her shoulders as she felt comfortable exposing her neck, chest, shoulders and bosom. I knew I should leave the costume there. I rolled it up and put it in my woven backpack. I left the hanger. One day, I too might decide that I want to be called for auditions, then good auditions, then get\u2019er auditions. Or one day, I too might get invited to a Halloween party or throw my own.<\/p>\n I took the free drink coupons out of my woven backpack and lined them up on the bench. I picked each one up and taped it the outsides of the girls\u2019 lockers. I cut the sticky tape with my teeth despite how much I hate the feel and smell of plastic so near to my nose and mouth.<\/p>\n As I finished, my phone bleeped, making me jump with fright as if our manager had barged in. I flipped it open. Sara\u2019s text said they had decided on Our Country Style. That\u2019s worse than Tims, I thought, after Second Brew. I shut the phone. There was a better idea.<\/p>\n I left the locker room by an opposite one-way door that led to the arena. The crowd was coming in from the Great Hall, where they are kept after showing their tickets, before they are ushered into the arena. In the Great Hall, they would have gotten in the mood for the upcoming show by buying drinks and Medieval ShowTimes themed souvenirs and chosen which color knight they would cheer for that night. I melded into the moving crowd and began walking to the arena with them. The people smelled nice, like the Bodycare Shop, so that I could believe that the horseshit smell had left me.<\/p>\n The arena is as big as any stadium you ever saw, and almost never full on a weekday. I took a seat in the front row nearest to the performance ring, so that I would get the first of the food. My place was pre-set, as it should be: clean plate, goblet and soup pot all with the mark of Medieval ShowTimes, all unbreakable. Soon, wenches would come with hot garlic bread and buckets of soup and start ladling it into the pots, starting from the bottom and working their way up. I couldn\u2019t wait to lay my hand over the bread like a bible, curl my fingers around it, and press it against my mouth as if I would kiss it before parting my lips and sinking my teeth in. I vowed to make my place a filthy mess in less than an hour, swilling soda from my goblet, cheering for the Red & Yellow knight, throwing abuse at all the other color knights, commanding the serfs, picking up the pig and chicken with my bare hands and tearing into their flesh, coating my cheeks, nose, chin with the Medieval juice.<\/p>\n Wench? I\u2019d show them.<\/p>\n Starcups partners were working down the line with markers and cups in hand, taking advance orders from customers on the other side of the food display case, hollering back and forth like neighbours saying good morning over a fence. In Erica\u2019s branch at Osgoode, it was always rush hour; the only time the staff caught a break was on the weekends, and even then only very early in the opening shift, before the weekend shopping masses got going.<\/p>\n \u201cVenti decaf half sweet light foam extra hot soy vanilla latte!\u201d Erica yelled. She was at work behind the Barista! station, creating perfect drinks and delivering them with a loud, clear voice and a smile. Inside, though, she was feeling sick to her stomach from all the fatty chicken and gallons of soda that she had consumed the night before as an audience member at Medieval ShowTimes. But that did not mean she was not as alert as ever. Even with the constant noise \u2013 brewer timers, coffee grinder, registers slamming shut, the safe door, people talking on their phones, children asking their parents for treats in a demanding voice \u2013 Erica looked up each time the store doors facing Simcoe Street opened. She couldn\u2019t help it, just like she always checks the exits of any space as soon as she enters it. Her store has two exits, one facing Queen, another facing Simcoe, which is an unassuming little street that leads to the coveted land of the visa office of the Consulate of the United States of America.<\/p>\n So Erica had seen the woman come in, and briefly thought that she looked familiar, but not in that long-suffering \u201cfemale companion\u201d way. Yesterday, that\u2019s when she had seen her. She had come in and ordered a complicated drink, but nicely. And here she was back today, a new regular. A partner greeted her with, \u201cHi, what can I get started for you today?\u201d but she walked straight to Erica and directed her question at her.<\/p>\n \u201cDo you know that I haven\u2019t slept all night?\u201d<\/p>\n The espresso shots that Erica had just poured for a Double long Venti mocha with extra whip would spoil unless she put the milk in soon, so she got started on steaming the milk before answering the woman, even though the training book said to give each customer an undivided attention. In reality, that was impossible, so nobody made a fuss about workers keeping both their hands and mouths busy.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cRed Eye, then?\u201d Erica started, gently pumping the milk up and down the steam spout. This way of a customer ordering a Red Eye, or Double Espresso, was new to Erica. She decided to roll with it. Plus it would give her an opportunity to offer a pairing suggestion. Before she could add that it went exceptionally well with an Espresso Brownie, the woman seemed to inflate with fury. She threw back one arm, placed it on her hip, and with her other arm braced herself against the counter. She looked like a lawyer honing in on a hostile witness. Her stance revealed a six-month pregnant belly. Erica pushed the tin of milk too deep into the spout. Immediately, the steam shrieked against the bottom of the tin. She pulled it out quickly and grabbed a wet hand towel and wrapped the steam spout to prevent the burned milk from drying out on it. She kept her hand there, feeling the heat faintly through the layers of moist fabric.<\/p>\n She could be a lawyer, Erica thought, the store is under multiple levels of lawyers here at Osgoode and University Court Of Appeals. She felt thankful for the shield of the barista station and the number of items within reach that could be self-defense weapons: steam spout, thermometer spike, even the coffee grinder \u2013 if Erica could fit her in.<\/p>\n \u201cYou don\u2019t remember me, do you?\u201d The woman hissed, as the espresso drink line snaked out longer with each new person that shuffled over from the cash register. Erica dumped the burned milk \u2013 still good by her personal standards \u2013 into a sink and ran the tap over it to soak.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d Erica said, over the hiss of new milk in a new tin frothing to exactly 110 degrees Fahrenheit.<\/p>\n \u201cTell that to my baby. I specifically asked for decaf<\/i> yesterday,\u201d the woman snapped, cupping her hand over her taut belly. She was smooth and sharp and clean, like an expensive glossy black and white photo. Her hair was a creamy blond, professionally blown out, with the edges as straight as razors. Not a speck of lint in sight. \u201cDo you have any idea the kind of world of pain, the shit, you are in if anything happens to \u2013\u201d her voice sagged, \u201cmy baby?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d she said again, then remembered a good line, \u201cBut I have no recollection.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI do. Give me the manager.\u201d<\/p>\n The counter space beside the Barista! station was getting cluttered with all the empty cups that the runners had been coding and labeling with customers\u2019 names. The other Barista! Mark\u2019s face was like that of a demon \u2013 one half murder for Erica and one half sweetness for the customers for whom he\u2019d soon have to read and re-read and re-call out whatever would already be getting cold by the time it was claimed.<\/p>\n Erica stepped back from the counter to head to the back of the store. The woman mirrored her action on the other side, crossing her arms above her belly as a signal that Erica ain\u2019t seen nothing yet<\/i>. The rigidity of body, which Erica the wench had taught herself to protect her body while carrying trays of food and pitchers at Medieval ShowTimes, came in handy. Stiff as a statue, Erica marched to the back and disappeared behind the swinging doors.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat the fuck is her problem, a pregnant woman can have little coffee is no problem. What exactly did she order yesterday?\u201d Cheung, the store manager, said. It was the worst time of day to come to him with stuff. He was leaning back in his chair with his feet up on the desk, in the middle of his lunch and status updates. He gnawed messily at the last bites of a Spicy Tuna Wrap.<\/p>\n \u201cI can\u2019t recollect,\u201d Erica said. She felt half hot and half cold from the sanitizer on her right and the fridge on her left. The brushed steel fridge door reminded her of a grimy mirror in a certain rest stop toilet.<\/p>\n I hadn\u2019t planned on relieving myself. I was never even going to get off the bus. I was going to hold it in, just hold it in, until I reached the clinic. But the bus made a rest stop, and the other passengers got out, some of them to just walk circles in the equatorial red dust as if they were obligated, and others to buy snacks, and others to relieve themselves. I joined the last group, thinking that perhaps I could use the time to throw up since I hadn\u2019t thrown up since that morning, which was a small mercy.<\/i><\/p>\n People never trust the rest stop toilets, so I had found it empty as expected, after the few who did dare venture in had finished and left. When I left the stall, having failed to vomit, a teenage girl walked in. She was doubly alive for the baby she straddled on her hip. She said she really needed to go, bad bad, even though she knew better than to use a rest stop toilet. And since she saw me come in she thought I would help her by holding the baby for a minute. She didn\u2019t wait for my answer, she shoved the baby into my arms, facing it toward her, and backed into a stained stall, never breaking eye contact with the baby, chorusing, \u201cMummy\u2019s here, mummy\u2019s right here baby.\u201d She half-closed the door for my benefit. <\/i><\/p>\n The baby became intensely focused on listening to the sounds of its mother coming through the half-closed door. It was poised to plunge into a tantrum at any break in her singsong trickle, so I didn\u2019t move a centimeter. I stood facing the stall door, listening to her sing and pee nonstop.<\/i><\/p>\n The baby was slipping, so I shifted it higher up on my chest. In the cloudy full-length mirror beside us, I saw the two of us in profile. Black Madonna and Unwanted Child: halfway away from home, to an end unknown. The baby sensed my reflected gaze. Keeping its ears focused on the mother\u2019s song, it sent its eyes roving in search of the power that held it afloat. Eventually, it found me in the mirror. I tried to hold its gaze, but lost. I turned my head and stared forward at the stall door, and then stole another sideways glance at the mirror. The child was still giving me its reassurance. I smiled at it, but it wasn\u2019t fooled, continuing to look right into me, at its unborn playmate inside of me. I dropped the smile and turned my attention back to the stall door and the two kinds of music coming from behind it. We stayed like that, chest to back, breathing in sync, until the mother flushed and swung the door open and thanked me and took her baby back and dashed out \u2013 still singing, all in one fluid sequence of movement.<\/i><\/p>\n Without washing her hands. I noted that. The thought doubled me over into a dry, empty heave. I heard the bus start outside. The driver revved the engine and honked the horn. I ran out into the night, startling the fireflies, and boarded the bus as the last and therefore universally disliked person.<\/i><\/p>\n <\/p>\n What trouble would this madwoman bring me? <\/i>Erica thought. Perhaps she would start appealing to the other customers for justice. Or follow Erica to the back and ask why she was taking so long. Erica could offer to work as a nanny for free in the future for the baby that would surely be born healthy. Would Cheung lift the madwoman and throw her out the door like they do on comedies? Cheung could fire Erica, or have the nervous breakdown he\u2019s always threatened. The woman could demand free drinks for everyone in her family and her office. The other workers could force Erica to eat every cockroach that is ever found in every Spicy Tuna Wrap for the next year. Erica could be forced to return her Barista! pin. No matter what, there was no one to whom Erica could go to for help. Who would believe her? The first rule among asylum seekers is: Never tell anyone your true story.<\/i><\/p>\n Cheung dropped his feet off the table and tossed the phone on his crotch. He balled up the Spicy Tuna Wrap wrapping. \u201cJust offer her a free drink coupon,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019s kind of mad. She wants the manager. Should I tell her you\u2019re not here?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell no, not since you already came back here to get me. I\u2019ll come out in a sec.\u201d He tossed the balled up wrapping at the trashcan. When it landed, it made the same sound as a stapler biting through paper, but softer.<\/p>\n \u201cYou left, I could say.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThrough what, the vent?\u201d<\/p>\n Erica looked up at the person-width mesh rectangle high on the wall. She had never thought of those as exits, until now.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll tell her you had left but I didn\u2019t know, and give her your card.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd the whole time you\u2019ve been back here for an eternity staring at me like a rare painting, while customers were out there waiting, what were you doing?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCalling you,\u201d Erica said, impressed by her own quick thinking. She thought she saw a glimmer of the same pleasant surprise in Cheung\u2019s small eyes. She was possible Shift Supervisor material. Erica didn\u2019t wait for his go-ahead. She turned and walked back to the front of the store.<\/p>\n The madwoman had somehow squeezed herself between the condiment stand and the espresso drink delivery counter. The backlog of drinks had cleared. Orders were running smoothly again; even with the station short one Barista!.<\/p>\n Erica reached over the flavor shot bottles by the cash register and picked up one of Cheung\u2019s business cards from where they were kept within easy reach of customers. She walked back to the Barista! station and offered the card to the madwoman, holding it out to her with both hands even though she knew that the respectful gesture was wasted on her.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ve spoken to my manager on the phone and he is happy to resolve the matter with you on the phone,\u201d she said. The first third of the statement was true, and the last two-thirds, the thought of Cheung happily resolving matters in any form, made her gleeful.<\/p>\n The woman took the card, then pulled out her cell phone from her purse and dialed the number on the card. At precisely that moment, a pocket of silence, like a lone firefly undulating through the blackness of night, threaded its way through the store. The phone at the back could clearly be heard ringing. Erica was terrified that Cheung would pick it up. She wanted to run back and warn him not to, but the madwoman\u2019s impatience saved her. After only three rings, she tapped the red button on her screen and wagged the phone at Erica, \u201cThis is the number for here.\u201d<\/p>\n Erica reached for that familiar place under the counter and pulled one, no, two Starcups free drink coupons. \u201cI can offer you a free drink coupon,\u201d she said. \u201cAny drink you like, any size, any time. Take two, you can use the second for your husband.\u201d<\/p>\n The last word seemed to have a calming effect on the madwoman. She accepted the two coupons, adding, \u201cI won\u2019t be using them here, that\u2019s for sure.\u201d She removed a business card from a side pocket of her purse and slapped it into Erica\u2019s palm. \u201cMake sure the manager calls me,\u201d the woman said, \u201cMake. Sure,\u201d she repeated, digging her index finger into Erica\u2019s palm and the card with each word, as if she wanted to impale her hand into the countertop.<\/p>\n Erica closed her fist around the card, \u201cCan I offer you a snack?\u201d she asked smilingly, \u201cOn me. The Spicy Tuna Wrap is fantastic.\u201d<\/p>\n The madwoman\u2019s eyes shrank to venomous slits. Erica heard a pained groan coming from Mark, who was behind her waiting to get at the tap to rinse dirty milk pails. At first, Erica thought it was one of those I\u2019m staaahrving <\/i>groans people here liked to make, and he was moaning because he wanted the last Spicy Tuna Wrap for himself. Little did people like him know that truly starving people don\u2019t groan dramatically, they become as still and silent as the stones in their bellies. A second later, Erica realized that it wasn\u2019t that kind of groan; the tone was off. This was a groan caused by a different kind of agony.<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019re always fighting over the Spicy Tuna Wraps,\u201d Erica continued.<\/p>\n \u201cAm I a joke to you?\u201d the madwoman screeched at Erica.<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHave something against pregnant women?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re bitter or something?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFeel I owe you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAn apology?\u201d<\/p>\n What was wrong with offering the madwoman free food? Are the rich insulted by free food but not by free drinks? <\/i>Erica\u2019s heart clattered like a bus barreling downhill on a bumpy trail into a darkness unveiled only as far as the reach of its lights, the kind of motion that bounced her as if she was riding a man. The woman slammed the coupons down on the low counter \u2013 like a man does with a shot glass of liquor after knocking it back \u2013 and slid them across to Erica so fast and hard that the tips of her fingers jammed into the rim of Erica\u2019s crotch. Erica leaped back, knocking Mark behind her off his feet and sending the dirty pails flying. The madwoman yelped with disgust. She grabbed a napkin and wiped her fingers furiously.<\/p>\n Erica screamed, \u201cYou fucking bitch, you touched me! You touched me you sick bitch! You touched me!\u201d Over and over and over again she screamed, \u201cOrder! Order!\u201d The robed judge thundered, hammering down with the gavel, a sound like staplers biting paper again, but bigger, sharper and faster. He was half rising from his seat. Erica found her throat hoarse. She had been shouting in court \u2013 she had no recollection what \u2013 and her body was being seized and restrained. She was being brought back down from where she had climbed halfway over the barrier between the public seating area and the place for members of the court.<\/p>\n If this were back home, she would have been clawing her way across the mud that separated the lawn from the driveway, getting scratched by the hibiscus bushes. Erica stared at the two brown-faced officers of the court who held her at bay. They seemed to her to be Brad and James, grown bigger and stronger in the years since that time of childhood, freedom and play; of secrets unearthed, punishments dealt and pardons granted.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The Twelfth Juror Every night, after finishing her job cleaning offices in the towers of the financial district, Erica would walk all the way up University Avenue to the twenty-four hour Tims by St. Patrick station. Along the way, she would pass the courthouse at 361 University. Outside the courthouse […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":2284,"parent":148,"menu_order":6,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-577","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue18\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/577","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue18\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue18\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue18\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue18\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=577"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue18\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/577\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2224,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue18\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/577\/revisions\/2224"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue18\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/148"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue18\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2284"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue18\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=577"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\n\u201cShe touched me!\u201d becoming louder each time. The whole store became dumbstruck spectators. Erica kept hollering out the crime, lunging at the woman but not reaching her because of some unseen force that held her back, feeling as if she would never stop telling the whole of God\u2019s world what was done to her.<\/p>\n