I grunted in frustration as I looked out my apartment window. The sky was overcast, and it looked like it was drizzling a fine cold mist, laced with a bit of wind to get that mid fall chill. The trees had long since turned colors – now their branches looked like skeletal fingers reaching upwards towards the sky.
The view was unimpressive – much like the tiny one bedroom apartment I lived in. It had a small kitchen, small bathroom, small bedroom, and small living area. Cramped was one word that came to mind. I sighed. A bachelor apartment in the Christie Pits is the best I can afford, I thought. At least the area is nice during the day. I wouldn’t want to be out too late after dark, though, I thought. Even the cops don’t like coming here after dark.
I took a look at the clock, and growled. “Dammit! Dork! You’re running late. If I don’t get moving I’m going to miss the damn trolley.” I grabbed my duffel bag and a raincoat, and headed out the door, making sure to lock all three locks behind me. I frowned as I entered the elevator – it still smelled of weed. I mean, I’m not against people smoking up, he thought, but they need to get higher grade stuff – this crap smells like burnt rope mixed with skunk. Maybe it’s hashish? Either way, I hate being late, especially on Mondays.
My thoughts quieted as a pair of young men entered the elevator. Both wore jeans and hoodies, and carried laptop bags. Probably students at the College, I thought, with more than a hint of jealousy. I would have liked another chance to go to college. I couldn’t understand the language they were speaking, – but their very dark skin seemed to indicate to him that they might be foreign students. That’s cool, I thought.
I smiled to myself as the elevator doors opened on the ground floor lobby. Back in my sleepy small town that I grew up in, I hadn’t been exposed to people of other ethnicities often – the population was over 90% white Caucasians. The few times I had seen an Asian or African American was so rare it was an oddity. I laughed at the memory – coming to Toronto six months ago had really opened my eyes. Toronto had people from all over the world – a truly cosmopolitan city in every sense of the word. I thought I knew everything, I thought to myself. Man was I wrong. I love this city. Now, I wouldn’t live anywhere else.
I was about a quarter block away when the streetcar – locally known as the red rocket – got to my stop. Increasing my pace, I rushed as fast as my bulk would let me – and missed the streetcar by just a few moments. As it rolled off, I watched it go, and the frustration that was within me rose up and wouldn’t be ignored. “Fuck!” I swore, and sighed in anger. Let it go, I thought. Let it go. It’s just one more piece of shit in your shit life. One more crap cheerio. No big deal. You should be used to it by now. This is your fault.
Sighing again, I grabbed my cell phone and called work. I’m going to get written up for this, god dammit, I thought. Just what I don’t need. I need this job. This would be the third time I’d shown up late in the last 3 months, and the people at Precision Telecom were kind of assholes about a lot of things. Especially Sharon. Oh god, especially Sharon.
“Hello?” The voice on the other end of the phone was Scott – one of his supervisors. Scott was pretty cool about things – he sometimes cut me some slack.
“Hey Scott? It’s Kevin Castle. I missed the damn streetcar – I’ll be about 15 minutes late. Sorry.”
“Yeah, okay.” Scott replied. “You should know Sharon’s in a pissy mood today. I’m going to have to tell her.”
Kevin closed his eyes, and signed in defeat. “Yeah, I gotcha. Thanks Scott.”
“No worries, Kevin. See you soon.”
I hung up, and sat in the little plastic and steel bus stop, putting my phone away. Hanging my head, I stared at the ground and sighed. How had it come to this? I wondered.
I had grown up in a series of small towns – first Port Hope, then Oshawa, and then I’d tried going to college – and failed miserably – not because I wasn’t smart, but because I was emotionally burnt out and traumatized by a parental divorce, a miserable time in highschool, and no real friends to vent with or to talk too. Most of the time, I tried to simply survive, and thinking about the future was too much to deal with. And then when the future was now, it basically kicked me in the ass repeatedly.
Dead end job, after dead end job. Student loans from a failed pair of years at college. A neverending stress and anxiety that followed him wherever I went, making dealing with people and social situations both hard and miserable when it was outside the confines of his comfort zone.
Too bad I couldn’t run D&D games for a living, I thought. That’s at least something I’m good at. I sighed again, knowing I was putting myself down. I wasn’t just good at RPGs – I was incredibly smart, and even if I’d let my body go to pudge and fat because of stress eating, I knew I had a broad base of experiences that few could match. I wonder if I could run D&D for a living? There’s no way, really, he thought. The rents in Toronto are sky high, plus all the other expenses. I’d have to pull in about two thousand a month running D&D games. Maybe Matt Mercer could do it, I thought. I’m not sure I could.
I sat there, stewing in my thoughts for a while, as the bus shelter filled up – and gave my seat to a young lady. I’d like to say my parents raised me to be a gentleman, but really, my parents couldn’t give a fuck. I raised myself, mostly, so that I would be the person I wanted to be. I appreciated it when she called out “Thanks” - a lot of time people don’t. Big cities are like that, I guess. Eventually the streetcar came, and the mass of people boarded – and I finally headed off to work.
* * *
“Mister Castle! My office, please!”
I sighed. It had been less than 10 seconds since I walked in and Sharon was jumping down my throat. Today was going to be a winner, I could tell. “Right away, Miss Nordstrom.” Sharon Nordstrom was a middle manager in Precision Telecom – in her mid forties, with platinum blond hair and a bit too much makeup. She tended to be officious and obnoxious – but always followed the letter of the rules. Most of the CSR’s – that’s Customer Service Representatives – disliked her or worse.
“You’re late… again.” Sharon began as I sat down, as if she was waiting for an apology.
“Yes, ma’am. I was. I overslept and didn’t get to the streetcar in time.”
“This makes the third time this quarter, Mr. Castle.” She looked at some notes and papers officiously. “I’m going to have to write you up.”
I nodded. “I understand.” Is she smiling? I wondered. She’s seemed to have it out for me for months. “I’ll do better.”
“You had better – the shift you’re on is a premium shift. If you don’t perform better, we’ll have to move you to regular shifts.” Sharon looked like that would suit her just fine.
“I understand, Miss Nordstrom. Sorry again.” I know I looked cowed, but felt annoyed, and to be honest a little bit angry.
Sharon scowled – perhaps she detected a bit of his anger? She scooped up her papers, and tapped them to organize the files, officiously signifying the meeting was over. “See that it doesn’t happen again, or you’ll be back to regular shifts.”
God damn it, I thought as I left Sharon’s office. I wish life would throw me a bone once in a while. I know it’s my fault for being late, but I’m more than willing to work late to make it up and they fucking know that. Sighing again in frustration, I thought again about all the ways my life sucked.
And it’s all my fault too, I thought. I failed college. I couldn’t keep a decent job. I spent years trying to simply survive instead of getting ahead. I could change my life anytime I wanted. I could work out. I could try to go to night school. I could try to get a better apartment, or make some friends. And all I want to do is have it all end. I wish I was dead. Then it wouldn’t hurt anymore.
Even as I headed over to an empty desk, I knew I was engaging in self-pity. I knew in my heart that life was better than death, and that I had things to live for – but when everything in my life seemed against me, it was almost a comfort to know that with a simple bottle of pills or a few cuts you could make all the stress and shit and depression go away for a while. To get peace.
Except death wasn’t for a little while. It was forever. It was the lie at the bottom of the bottle that promised peace but brought oblivion instead. Suicide wasn’t an answer – it was a chickenshit way out. I honestly believed that – but the seductive lure of peace got harder to resist every year. It wasn’t always this way, I thought. It hadn’t been when he was younger. Not since I was a child.
I sat down at my desk, and put my lunch in the drawer. The chair was comfortable at least. I logged on to the system, and grabbed his headset. Another glorious day of technical support was upon me.
* * *
An hour later, I saw Edward Hunt, one the coworkers I really got along with (and actually called a good friend), sit down next to me and log in. Edward was tall and thin, not quite like a basketball player, but definitely like a runner or a swimmer in build. He was in his early twenties, and was one of three people at work I definitely liked. We had gone out for a few drinks after work a couple of times. He liked jazz, which was not my favorite – and thought it was funny I loved the 80’s and 90’s music instead. He said I was showing my age.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“Hey, Eddie.”
“Hey, Kev. How you doing?”
“I could be better. I got written up for being late again.” I didn’t know what else to say.
Eddie – he liked being called Eddie instead of Edward – looked sympathetic, and just nodded. “We still on for gaming Saturday?”
I smiled. “Yeah, Duh!” Gaming was the one thing that gave me peace. Freedom. There was no frickking way I was going to skip it. “You and Shelly have to deal with the Troll King and his minions. I’m not going to go easy on you.”
Eddie snorted in laughter. “Bring it on, old man.”
“Old man? I’m in my mid forties, you shit! I’m not old!” Kevin smiled. He liked their banter.
“Compared to who?” Eddie joked. “Our whole group is 25 or under.”
I try to smile. “I’ve always felt young, you know that. People my age have families and kids, and are worried about saving for retirement. We don’t have anything in common.”
Eddie nodded. He knew I had tried to have a family – a wife, a house, pets – the whole nine yards. It had ended badly, and Eddie knew that too. We didn’t talk about it much – he knew it was a very sore spot with me.
“Maybe. Still good to see you. Want to get together for drinks and talk? You look like you could use it.” Eddie asked.
I thought about it, and decided I could use some venting. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Cool.” Eddie didn’t really need to say any more. We both knew where we would be going – a little café with great food called “7 West,” with good eats and good – cheap – drinks. It was open late – which was nice, since neither of us would be off shift until after 7pm – 8pm for Eddie. We worked four 10 hour shifts a week rather than five 8 hour shifts – which made every week an awesome three day weekend, which Eddie, myself, and some of our other friends and acquaintances would put to good use.
* * *
Later, at 7 West, I waited for Eddie, nursing what remained of a trio of tasty spring rolls and a diet coke. The spring rolls were nice and crispy, with two kinds of dipping sauce – one with a bit of heat, and one with a nice cooling effect. 7 West was on the edge of the Village – a predominantly gay neighborhood of Toronto, filled with exotic nightlife. A lot of folks were here tonight – mostly it looked like friends hanging out, rather than party goers or clubbers – but hey, on a Monday evening, what did you expect?
I smiled as he saw Eddie walk in, and he waved his friend over. “Hey! Eddie!” he called, and received a friendly wave in return.
“How’s it going, Kevin?” Eddie asked, tossing his coat on the seat of his side of the booth.
“Better, now.” I replied, pleased to see him. “I’ve been holding a table, or we might not have had one.”
“Yeah. It does seem a bit busy tonight.” He took a look at the menu and snapped it shut. “Did you order?”
“Nah – just a snack till you got here.” I picked at the spring rolls, and took a bite. Delicious.
A waitress wandered over – her name tag said Byung Soon, and she definitely looked Asian, although I couldn’t place the region. Korean, I think. She was pretty – I liked how her hair was styled. Eddie got the poutine; I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich with bacon, and a side salad. Our drink orders soon followed, and we sat down to chat. Eddie ordered a beer – I kept going with my diet coke. I didn’t drink much. Hell, I didn’t drink hardly ever.
“Is it the depression that’s got you down?” Eddie asked, breaking the silence. “The dysphoria again.”
I laughed bitterly. The Dysphoria. What a bland term for a feeling that sucked all the joy out of life. For the feeling that ruined a 15 year marriage, and made me want to curl up into a ball and cry ever damn time I saw myself in the mirror. “Yeah, you could say that.” I replied. “It’s just getting harder to get up and come to work every day. I just don’t care.”
Eddie nodded. “You could try transitioning…” he began.
“Right – and that harpy, Sharon, would probably have me fired within a week. I can’t – I need this job. I need to be able to pay my bills, or I’m out on the street and then I’m dead.”
“You know, HR would step in and try to stop it.” He continued. “Isn’t maybe losing your job better than the alternative? I hate seeing you this way. I’ve heard it can help.”
I sigh. I guess its intervention night. Again. I should be glad I have a friend who worries enough about me to try and do this sort of thing, so I do my best to engage him. I wanted to transition – at least, I think I did – but I was scared. It would be very tough to find work if I couldn’t pass – and at over 40 years old with a rather chunky masculine build, it would be damn hard to pass, even with a few years of hormones.
“Yeah, losing my job is better. I’m scared.”
“Well, then.” Eddie began. “At least hear me out. You’ve been to a few support groups, right? You’ve been seeing a counselor?”
“Yeah – you know I have. You even set me up with Sandy, the nice woman who lasered my face to get rid of my disgusting beard. You’ve been a big support.”
“Well, thanks, Kevin. I tried to be. But you need to be honest with yourself. Can you live another forty years like this? As you are now? Can you honestly say that?” Eddie looked deadly serious, and I knew I couldn’t.
Tears began pouring down my face, and I choked out “No. I can’t.” I figured if I kept going the way I was going, I’d probably be dead within two years – maybe three, tops.
“Then what do we do? I mean to help you make it better?” He asked.
“I don’t know.” I replied
“Don’t know?” Eddie asked, “Or don’t want to admit it?”
I groan. He always keeps pushing. “Don’t want to admit it. I’m scared, Eddie.”
He nods and looks serious. “Change is hard, Kev. What you need to figure out is if you’re brave enough to live. Brave enough to be your real self. I believe in you. You can do this. You’re the smartest person I know. You can find a way to make it work.”
It was at that moment, with me crying into my grilled cheese sandwich and garden salad, my friend Eddie sitting across from me, that I knew I’d reached a decision point – one of those few moments in a person’s life when one simple decision can send their life haring in a radical new direction. Nothing would ever be the same – but hey, so far the same kinda sucked. I realized if I didn’t do this – I didn’t transition, then in a few years I would be dead – probably by my own hand. I didn’t want that. I didn’t. I wanted to live. Living was hard. Scary. Could I do it? I wondered. I had to.
“Alright, dorkus.” I said, trying to control my tears. “I’ll call HR in the morning.”
Eddie smiled. “Actually, that’s Dorkus Maximus, and I’ll be there with you for support if you want me to be.”
I snorted and smiled back. Eddie was a damn good friend. “Yeah, if you want to be. Thanks.”
We smiled, and I dried my tears, and we went back to eating our dinner and talking about the Troll Lord’s dungeon this coming Saturday. I told him about the Church group putting on a turkey dinner this Sunday, and how I was helping out serving and cleaning. Eddie laughed, and hoped I had a good time. I sang in the choir on Sundays, during church. It made me feel good, the singing, and helping others made me feel good too. It was the only time I usually felt good unless I was gaming.
“You think your Church is going to be accepting of you transitioning?” Eddie asked.
“I don’t know.” I replied. “I guess if they aren’t I’ll need to find a new church – but they’re pretty good people so hopefully I won’t have to switch.”
“Good luck, Kev. I know you really like that stuff, so I hope you don’t have to quit it.”
“Thanks Eddie.”
We shot the breeze for a while longer, and refreshed our drinks, played a little pub trivia for an hour or two, and eventually parted ways. Before he left, Eddie was more than a bit surprised when I grabbed him, a wrapped him in a hug. It was brief – and it ended quickly, but I had to explain. “Eddie. I just wanted you to know that I think you might have just saved my life, tonight. Thank you.”
He didn’t know what to say. He smiled, and knuckle-bumped me. “It’s all good, man. I just want to see what happens at the end of the campaign. Can’t have you dying on us, right?”
I smiled. I knew what he meant. “Yeah, Deff. See you tomorrow?”
“Deff!”
He headed southeast – his apartment was in the village – while I headed west to the subway station at Church and Wellesley. Soon, I was descending into the undercity beneath Toronto – one of the marvels of the city, I had heard – and boarded a subway home. I was exhausted – both physically and emotionally. I needed a shower, and some sleep.