Hopeless Romantic

by Francis Gideon

  “Sociology. Basically it’s my seventh year at this point, but I only have a handful more courses before I get my degree. And from there, I probably will go to grad school. I told my boss here I was going to go in order to get a job at this little club. But now I’ve kind of grown fond of the idea.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Katie said. “I mean, it’s not exactly what I pictured myself doing when I first left on the Warped bus, and some older part of me wants to call me a sellout, but hey, if selling out means I still get hormones and I can make fliers, then what am I complaining about?”

  “You’re really good, though.”

  “Oh, you’re too kind. I’m not trying to be the next Sybil Lamb, but it could be nice to have a show one day. Anyway . . . I’m still in my work clothing.” She gestured to the black T-shirt that said Staff on the back. “Do you mind if I change before we go?”

  “Oh. We’re not hanging out here?”

  Katie laughed. “I’ve been here for eight hours. I could use a break. And I’m sure you’re just dying to know what your job is tonight.”

  “Right. Of course.” Nick felt foolish that it had almost slipped his mind entirely. From the way Katie had been talking, it sounded as if she were going to encourage him to apply here. As Katie disappeared into the basement of the café to change, Nick wandered around and looked at the paintings, the fliers for upcoming events, and tried to remember if he’d read about Sybil Lamb today. Already, he was weighed down by all the new items to remember.

  “All right,” Katie said, reappearing minutes later. “I feel like a human again.”

  She was wearing a plain T-shirt that still somehow managed to look feminine over her jeans, with her hair tied behind her shoulders in a loose ponytail. She’d applied gloss to her lips, something that Nick hadn’t seen—or maybe hadn’t noticed—before.

  “You look . . . good.” Nick smiled when he realized how much he meant it.

  “Thank you. Let’s talk about the job.” Katie slipped into a seat across from him at a table. “It’s with my friend Dunja. She works at a tattoo shop downtown—she’s an electrolysis whiz, and a visual artist. Which means she’s also incredibly busy. So we’re writing up some fliers for her, drawing them, photocopying them, and then stuffing a bunch of envelops for her other businesses.”

  “Oh, okay,” Nick said. “That doesn’t sound too hard. Just one question.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Electrolysis?”

  Katie laughed and touched her chin self-consciously. “You don’t know what that is?”

  Nick shook his head.

  “So, here comes a mini-biology lesson. Testosterone is what makes you grow facial hair. Even when someone—like me—stops producing testosterone because I take testosterone blockers, the hair will still grow. It gets softer because of estrogen, but the hair follicle is always there. So usually lots of trans women need to get their hair removed, and well, welcome electrolysis. Some women will use laser hair removal, but that doesn’t work on a long-term basis. Electrolysis is a way to remove hair more permanently, because it completely gets rid of the follicle.”

  “That sounds . . . painful.”

  “No different than tattoos, honestly. Hence why Dunja does them both. She’s not squeamish. That’s how I met her, actually.” Katie rolled up the sleeve of her shirt, displaying an octopus on her arm surrounded by a school of tropical fish. The image was drawn like a comic book, not realistically. The tattoo seemed to start on her back, over her shoulder blades, and extend over the top of her arm. The T-shirt mostly covered it, unless she wanted it to be seen.

  “Wow,” Nick said. “Dunja did this?”

  “Yeah, but it’s based off a web comic I love a lot. I had the artist commission it for me, and then, tattoo.”

  “Nice. Do you have anymore?”

  Katie dropped her sleeve over her arm and narrowed her eyes. “Yes, I do, but they involve taking off my pants. And I like you, Nick, but now is not the time.”

  “Yeah, of course. Sorry. Shouldn’t have asked.”

  “Nick. I’m teasing. Don’t worry. Unless . . . there is a reason to worry?”

  The tension in her voice was evident, and the worried connotations hung at the end of her question. There is no reason to worry, right, because you’re still into me?

  Nick wanted to shout, Yes, no worry at all, but he was still awkward. He didn’t know how to answer her honestly—especially with so many people around at other tables or working the bar—so instead he tried to play it cool.

  “No reason. I have a tattoo too, actually. Can I show you?”

  Katie nodded, wide-eyed and curious, as he rolled up his left sleeve to reveal a heart with the Toronto skyline inside of it. Simple, yet so meaningful. “I have a few more tattoos, but they’re mostly flash pieces. And you’d have to take my pants off to in order to see them too.”

  “Then I guess we have tasks for the future.”

  Nick nodded, biting his lip. The heat seemed to rise by double in the room. A fan ran in the corner, breaking up the spring heat wave that was starting. There was no more Coke for Nick to sip, and his throat felt dry.

  “Do you want another?” Katie asked. “Or should we get to Dunja’s place? We can order pizza there if you’re hungry.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  They both gathered their bags and headed towards the door. Some of the waitstaff and the kitchen crew noticed and said good-bye to Katie.

  “Have a good night, guys,” the chef said.

  Katie balked for a moment.

  Guys? Nick wondered. Is she upset about being called a guy? He waited until they exited the Grad House and started to walk towards the other side of campus before he brought it up.

  “Are you . . . are you okay?”

  “Hmm? Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I thought . . . You know, never mind. Probably not my place to say.”

  Katie gave him a skeptical glance, before it all seemed to click. “Oh? Do you mean Andreas and the crew? They’re nice. Good workers, they get the trans thing, but sometimes they just don’t get it. You know? I’m a woman to them—everyone there calls me Katie, I use the right bathroom—but they don’t always get the finer points.”

  “So you didn’t mind being called ‘guys’?”

  “Well, I figure guys is plural. Kind of like how ils in French is used for everyone. But . . . it also doesn’t matter that much. I always want them to get the gender stuff in a way that’s different from everyone else, but I don’t see most of them outside of work, so it really doesn’t matter that much. As long as I can keep doing my job, I’m happy.”

  Nick nodded. He supposed he should feel good when he was being corrected about her gender; it meant she cared about him perceiving her correctly, which on the surface felt like too much attention to minute details of language, but in the bigger picture, was something he should take pride in, since it meant she wanted him around. Apathy, he was learning, was truly the death of a relationship.

  “What are you thinking about?” Katie asked. “You got quiet and did that think-y thing with your eye.”

  “What now?”

  “You squint sometimes when you’re thinking. It’s a good sign, I’ve come to realize. You made that face when you were listening to Starship.”

  “Shush.” Nick laughed. “I suppose I’m just . . . processing.”

  “Oh no.” Katie’s voice had that teasing tone Nick could recognize, but her jawline was stiff. Worried. “What exactly are you processing?”

  “Stuff . . . This is all very new to me. I was reading a lot online to try and understand.”

  “That’s good. And you’re not running away, so that’s a start.”

  “I suppose so. Last time, running got me into trouble.”

  Katie took a moment before she smacked her hand to her head. “Oh God. I’m never going to live that down, am I? That I pretty much broke your ribs?”

  “I do have a bruise,” Nick sai
d, keeping his tone light. “You wanna see it?”

  Katie laughed lowly—thick, almost seductive. She took Nick’s hand in her own, and he was surprised at how good it felt. “Maybe later I can check to see if you don’t have a bruise. But for now, let me make it up to you by getting you a job, okay?”

  “Sure, but I’m holding you to that promise.”

  “I expect nothing less.”

  Dunja’s small town house was around the corner from the school, across from a bus stop. Katie led Nick through a dozen pathways and shortcuts Nick didn’t know, before pausing at the busy Columbia Street. As they snaked their way through the houses, Katie kept her hand inside his. It had been such a long time since he’d held hands in public so cavalierly, he wondered if he was going to need more practice before his heart stopped racing each time someone glanced at them.

  “I like this.” Nick gestured towards their hands. “Remind me more often, okay?”

  “Will do. I figured you needed a little push.”

  “I’m also unsure what I’m allowed to do. How far—or slow to go.”

  Katie’s smile lingered as she squeezed his hand. They stepped into an empty driveway and towards the doorway. “I will answer that question soon enough. Right now, let’s just meet my friend.”

  Katie led Nick into Dunja’s dimly lit front hallway. Even in the low lights, Nick could see that Dunja’s hair was closely trimmed to her tanned skin, but she wasn’t quite bald. She’d dyed her hair purple, so a thin layer of violet fuzz clung to her scalp and made her turquoise and mauve eye shadow pop. She had a Monroe piercing above her red-painted lips. She wore a sequined top and the same black skinny jeans Katie often wore. When Katie and Dunja stood next to each other, Nick realized that they were the same size. Dunja and Katie were both tall for women, barely an inch under his five-ten frame.

  “Welcome, welcome.” Dunja’s voice was a strong baritone that offset her regal, professional smile. She wrapped Katie in a hug, and extended her hand to Nick. Introductions were given as they kicked off their shoes by the front door. Dunja’s house was densely packed with old boxes, magazines, and framed clippings on the wall.

  “Please excuse the mess,” Dunja said as she guided them inside, adding more light as she did. “I would say that things are normally different, but I’m not in the business of lying. This is how it always is.”

  The hum of a window air conditioner caught Nick’s attention; he went to stand next to it in the dining room as Dunja and Katie continued to talk in quick bursts. Beyond the dining room table covered in craft supplies, Nick spotted a large machine that looked like a Spartan dentist chair with a magnifying glass attached to it, along with some shiny metal bits. A tattoo station? Nick thought, then quickly realized he was wrong. An electrolysis chair. It seemed like some obscene torture device, and really, Nick figured that wasn’t far off. When you had to cook the hair in order to kill it, things could sound pretty barbaric really quickly.

  “Ah, yes,” Dunja said, catching Nick’s attention. “That’s Falkor.”

  “What?”

  “The chair.” Dunja gestured to the long arms and magnifying glass. “I’ve named the beast Falkor.”

  “That’s neat. Why Falkor, though?”

  “Because getting electrolysis is like The Neverending Story. So why not name the chair after the white luckdragon Bastian rode?”

  Katie sighed as she ran a hand over her chin.

  Dunja tapped Katie’s hand, her eyes narrowed. “You shaved, didn’t you? I can’t treat you when you shave because I can’t grab the hairs.”

  “I know!” Katie knocked Dunja’s hand away in jest. “But I thought we were just stuffing envelopes today.”

  “Yeah, but I could always give you a couple fifteen-minute treatments. Ease into it, you know.”

  “Oh, while that’s sweet, I think we’re freaking out Nick over there.”

  “Nope.” Nick shrugged. While Katie and Dunja continued to debate the merits of shorter electrolysis sessions, Nick spotted Dunja’s cat on the landing of her staircase. He walked over, rubbing a cautious hand over the grey cat’s ears. The cat had crawled into his lap by the time Katie and Dunja were done bickering.

  “Right,” Dunja said. “You two wanted jobs. So let’s get to this. I have a show coming up that I still have to finalize some things for. I have the posters for the event printed, but none are ready to go out. So you are my PR team tonight. How does that sound?”

  “Good.” Katie wandered into Dunja’s kitchen and opened the fridge. She seemed to stand there for a long time, appreciating the cold air, before taking out a lemonade pitcher. She held the jug up to Dunja, who shook her head. Katie glanced at Nick with raised eyebrows.

  “Sure. A drink would be nice.”

  “There are chips above the counter too,” Dunja added. “Have whatever you want. I’ll be in the garage, and you two can have the dining room. I have my laptop set up in there with some music, if you want that, or feel free to log on to my Netflix account. I promise you—this is really simple work. Just tedious for me, especially when I’m already running late.”

  Dunja let out another sigh as she headed towards her stairs. Her cat, which Nick thought was called Bastian given Dunja’s mumbles, ran up alongside her as she disappeared upstairs. Katie soon stood by Nick’s shoulder, nudging him with a bowl of chips.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes. Just . . . taking it all in.”

  “It’s a lot at first, but Dunja is a sweetheart.” Katie guided Nick towards the living room. “Just wait until you see all the fliers. We could be here all night.”

  “You know, that doesn’t sound half bad.”

  Katie wasn’t kidding. As soon as Dunja brought down the envelopes and her remaining supplies to add to the dining room table, it seemed like they were stuck in an episode of Hoarders. There was order in all the chaos, Nick was sure, but he solely depended on Katie for her organization. She sat at one end of the table with the large brown envelopes, which were for art grants Dunja was applying to, along with Etsy product-shipment forms and museum proposals. Katie gave Nick the smaller, letter-sized envelops for the other PR material, which basically meant he was stuffing the same flier into them, licking them shut, and placing Dunja’s return address sticker in the corner. When the stuffing part was done, Katie sat down in front of a pile of scraps from magazines and began a new collage for the upcoming art show, detailing and rearrange text so it looked really good. When she was done with that, they walked into Dunja’s basement, where there was an old photocopier that took up half the hallway. When Nick asked about it, Katie started to tell a story about how Dunja had accidentally stolen it from an office job in the 1990s.

  “How do you accidentally steal a photocopier?” Nick asked. “They weigh more than her. I mean, I get walking out with staplers and white out. But a Xerox machine? Really?”

  “She was the supply person and put her address in as the delivery option by mistake,” Katie explained. “She had been using the office supplies to mail out her zines for years, so she forgot to change her address. Anyway, when it showed up on her doorstep, she had already been fired from the company. So she just kept the machine.”

  “That’s insane. She was never caught?”

  “Nah. And it’s not even that insane. Dunja is full of stories that usually involve a large cast of characters. I can hardly keep track. So I just make her collages and then praise her art so she continues to give me electrolysis.”

  Nick nodded. Later on during the night, after the chips had been substituted for pizza from the vegan place down the street, Katie explained that the electrolysis machine was technically hers.

  “I bought the machine because in the long run, it was actually less expensive than repeated treatment at a beauty place. Besides, I was always called a man each time I tried to book electrolysis, so this was better. I just needed to find someone who could train on it. And voila, Dunja walked into my life. It was like some made-for-TV moment, but
you know, for queers.”

  “That’s amazing. So she knew how to use one?”

  “No. But she’s an artist who will try anything once. She learned how to do it and now gives me free electrolysis, since I give her a lot of trans clientele. She knows the pronouns, the procedure, and she has this awesome space, so she usually has a long wait-list for appointments. We’re even now.”

  “More or less,” Dunja shouted as she came in from the garage. She wore goggles, heavy-duty gloves, and a smock covering her outfit. Nick had no idea what she was making for her art show, but each time she came back she was in a more peculiar state. Katie didn’t even blink anymore, only continued to arrange collages for her show.

  “Oh, sweetie. This looks amazing!” Dunja said as she glimpsed the art project in front of Katie. “Thank you so much. And you too, Nick. You have some serious skills with envelopes.”

  “And stamps,” Nick said. He’d been calculating postage for the last fifteen minutes. “Maybe if the doctoral for English lit. doesn’t work out, I can be in the post office.”

  “So long as you don’t become Bukowski, I encourage this.” Dunja gave Nick a quick wink before she combed her fingers through Katie’s hair playfully. Nick was impressed by the reference—Charles Bukowski was a writer who’d worked at a post office and written a scathing book about his experiences—but before he could ask Dunja more about what she liked to read, she disappeared back into the garage.

  “You are doing a really good job,” Katie said. “We’ve gone through almost half the table in one night and this usually takes an entire weekend.”

  “Oh, that’s good. I feel better about that.” Nick was no longer licking the envelopes, but using a wet sponge that Katie had insisted on. After getting through half the pile without needing to drink every three seconds, he realized what a life support it was. While he worked, the cats—the grey one named Bastian and a hairless sphinx named Uranus—twisted around both of their legs under the table. They’d been listening to Sonic Youth’s Washing Machine as they worked, but after the album petered out, they hadn’t bothered to replace it with anything.