DAY 1
The secret police appear at my door and drag me from my apartment. “What about my desert island discs?” I shout, thinking this will get a laugh. A rag soaked in ether is stuffed in my mouth, and a baton hits me in the back of the head, hard.
DAY 1 (CONT.)
I am forced to get on a stationary bicycle—one in a row of thousands—and pedal to generate electricity for the Loyalist States. The power plant guard does not chuckle or show any recognition when I ask, “Is it a fixed gear, at least?” He just stares for a moment and then hits me in the temple with his baton.
DAY 1 (CONT. CONT.)
At lunch, I try to cheer everyone up with a lighthearted discussion of ways the gruel could be improved.
“Ehremgee! What if it had bacon?!” I joke.
My fellow detainees stare forward into their bowls, not even meeting my eyes.
The second time I say, “Oh my god, how can I make my budget work with all this avocado toast?” the mess hall guard clubs me with his baton.
DAY 4
I have been sent to the fields to help manage the soybean fires. We are given no personal protective equipment. I momentarily pantomime being the dog-drinking-coffee-in-a-fire-meme, popping a squat and shouting, “THIS IS FINE!” None of the others assigned to soybean fire detail laugh. They all just keep their heads down, stoking the fires.
“Did I meet you in line for Death Cab?” I ask one of the field guards, thinking we can find common ground.
He breaks my nose with his baton.
DAY 5
Recreation day. Some of the other guys are playing basketball.
“What is the score of your sportsball game?” I ask jovially.
No one responds.
“Would anyone like to play Quidditch?” I ask.
One of the other prisoners nods toward a recreation yard guard, who approaches me from behind and hits me with a baton.
DAY 7
I have been unconscious for two days. I awake in my cell, confused. I sit bolt upright and try to catch my roommates’ eye.
“THIS WOULD SOUND BETTER ON VINYL!” I yell.
I hold up my forearms, showing the robins I have tattooed there. “PUT A BIRD ON IT!” I scream. I feel the air moving in front of the baton before the baton itself crunches into my skull.
My brain sinks deep into its fifth concussion of my first week at the labor camp. I feel myself going back, back, backward, into the long-gone world that made me. I see myself in horned-rimmed glasses, a beautiful full beard hanging low over my chest, my favorite decorative pashmina under it. My thrifted IMMACULATA PREP T-shirt is too tight and my belly hangs below the shirt tail, which is stretched and bisecting my naval. I check my Casio calculator watch, noting it’s a half an hour before I need to be at my screen printing class. I duck into my favorite bar-cum-coffeeshop. My barista of choice, Molly, grins. “My favorite chubby hipster,” she deadpans.
I smile back and order an “Ian Curtis”—a Boddington’s and a shot of espresso.
I bring the espresso to my lips, and just as I do, I am gruffly brought back to my feet and to reality. I feel my face, bare from the compulsory shaving. My neck is cold and pashmina-less. The guard behind me barks:
“We’re sending you to support the liberation of Quebec, you insolent toad!”
“Stop trying to make fetch happen,” I mumble at him.
“What did you say?” the guard screams.
“Jesus is my homeboy,” I say, my voice still low, but filling with defiance.
“NO MORE!” the guard screams, shoving me away.
I turn to face him. Slowly, I bring my hand to my upper lip. The guard stares at me, head cocked, an unspoken dare.
I close all my fingers but the index, and then quickly flip my whole hand ninety degrees, revealing the tiny tattoo of a mustache.
“Finger ‘stache,” I manage to say before his baton meets my jaw.
