Nick Wong strutted through his downtown Ottawa neighbourhood, grinning as he basked in the success of his performance last night: The jaw drops when he passed a saltshaker through the table. The screams-turned-belly laughter when he sneezed and his head appeared to fall off his neck. Most of all, Nick relished the memory of the long-faced, scrunched up woman in the wheelchair, the dying embers in her eyes lighting up as he transported her to a world where limitations were illusions and troubles could be forgotten.
Before long, the grin on Nick’s face vanished.
It happened when several women in navy blue pants and crisp gold shirts strode past him, their gazes flitting. Their refusal to make eye contact made him feel like a discarded pop can—empty and crushed.
Reality had set in. It always did.
He sighed and turned into Amazon Mall.
The line in front of Simple Wear snaked down the main aisle of the shopping centre. A procession of mankeys like himself, in old sweatshirts and shapeless pants, shuffled into the store. Joining the queue, Nick focused on the monitor hanging from the ceiling.
“Despite a heavy police presence,” the anchorwoman’s voice blared, “the Hardinians on Parliament Hill broke through the crowd-control barriers, allowing other insurgents to pour through…”
More violence.
He wished he were still in bed. But today was Saturday, and Age of Oppression Memorial Day was in three days. All males sixteen and over had to wear pink slippers or risk a hefty fine. His old pair had ripped.
Nick studied the line, only marginally shorter now. His feet sweltered in his sneakers, and his lower back ached. The smell of freshly baked dough, garlic and cheese wafting from the food court made his stomach grumble.
Ape-brain. Should have eaten more before leaving my apartment.
He looked again at the monitor, hoping to get his mind off the hunger. “...latest statistics from the World Federation indicate the male population has declined 14.8 percent in the last twelve months, slightly slower than planned…”
Nick yawned. He arched his back and was stretching and twisting to loosen it after standing for so long when something caught his eye: Beatrice, sitting on a bench about thirty feet away, bulky shopping bags on either side.
Strange—her usually neatly groomed, shoulder-length hair hung disheveled.
They’d met last summer at her boss’s backyard birthday party. Nick had been hired to do magic tricks.
“You were awesome,” Beatrice had said after his performance, warmth radiating from her round, dimpled face. Her own birthday was approaching, she’d added, and Nick’s show had helped lift her spirits.
They had begun a long conversation, the subject of which he no longer recalled. He only remembered laughing and nodding and watching Beatrice listen to his every word.
Since that first encounter, he’d enjoyed all their conversations and secretly considered her his best friend. She was different from every other woman: she respected his ideas. But today, Nick didn’t want to lose his position in the queue and hoped she wouldn’t notice him.
As he contemplated how he could make himself invisible, Beatrice looked up and their eyes met. She waved.
Dang.
Nick waved back, frowning while pointing to the long line of people that had formed behind him. She tilted her head, as though confused.
Hmm…can’t expect her to saunter over with those heavy bags. After shifting his weight from one foot to the other a few times, he sighed and walked toward her.
He stopped midstride. Her face was streaked with tears.
“W-what happened?” Nick glanced around, assuring himself no one else was within earshot. It would be awkward for a mankey to be seen trying to console a woman.
“Earlier…in the washroom…I was grabbed from behind.”
“What?”
“It was awful. I was so scared I couldn’t scream. She pulled my hair and dug her fingernails into my scalp. Felt like she was pushing razor blades under my skin.” Beatrice’s chin trembled. “She called me a ‘pervert’ and a ‘mankey lover.’”
Nick flinched.
“I turned and there were two more of them. They told me they recognized me from last night’s Women’s Meeting, saying my behaviour was deplorable and they’d file a complaint with the Ministry.”
“A complaint?” Nick swallowed and stepped closer. “What’d you do?
“I spoke my mind.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“There’s freedom of speech—”
Beatrice snorted. “Not for promoting sanity.” She grabbed a grocery bag and was about to move it off the bench.
“Oh, I’m fine.” Nick held up his hand. While he appreciated her intention, it wasn’t proper for a mankey to sit too close to a woman.
He remained standing, attentive to Beatrice’s every word, facial expression and gesture as she related the previous evening’s disturbing events.
+++
How Beatrice hated these local Women’s Meetings. As soon as she arrived at the old school gymnasium, she glanced at her watch: 8:44 p.m. Fourteen minutes late, perfect. She had timed her arrival well. Fifteen minutes late would have resulted in a reprimand.
Although these monthly gatherings always started a half hour late, people were expected to arrive on time. Unfortunately, the only access was from the front, so everyone who walked in faced those already seated. Beatrice scanned the gymnasium, which was almost filled to capacity. Taking a deep breath, she marched down the aisle toward an empty chair near the back, below a corroded, upturned basketball hoop. She took her seat, hoping no one would try to strike up a conversation or offer her a joint while waiting for the meeting to start. The scent of weed was stronger than usual that evening.
Despite the hard plastic chair, Beatrice refrained from fidgeting. She looked alternately at the floor, the dusty bare walls, the grinding ceiling fan, and the two front loudspeakers—anything to avoid seeing the imposing glass-framed portrait of the Advisor, the head of the World Federation.
Beatrice shuddered every time she saw the Advisor’s image: the wispy strands of cotton-white hair; the thousand wrinkles that went every which way and even crisscrossed each other; the deep, dark eye sockets. The Advisor looked as if she were resurrected from a bygone era, yet the fierce ambition in her eyes and smile suggested a creature who belonged to the present and, even more, to the future.
The air remained stale despite the ceiling fan. No one else seemed bothered. People looked ahead placidly, some occasionally taking a puff or leaning to one side and exchanging a few words with their neighbours.
Beatrice slid a sandaled foot back and forth along the smooth vinyl flooring, and soon her breathing slowed. Decades ago, a teenager probably dribbled a basketball on the same spot where Beatrice placed her foot. And some young child surely landed a sneaker there while jumping or sprinting in a relay race.
Alas, that was before her time. Before they sent the children to live in Children’s Centres.
It’s not right. This gymnasium was built for kids to play in, not for these asinine Women’s Meetings.
Drumbeats rolled through the room. Two women wearing navy blue suits and gold headbands strode in. One, with cropped hair, turned and pointed a finger at the wall behind her. A familiar image appeared: a solid orange circle partially eclipsing a solid black circle and the words Our Future Is Near.
The drumming ceased.
Everyone rose. The two women chanted, “Our future is near.” The audience, including Beatrice, joined in. This went on for thirty agonizing seconds.
The crop-haired woman signaled everyone to sit.
“Friends,” she cried, “our future is near! We will recite the Five Principles. I would like a volunteer.” Many hands shot up. She flashed a cold smile. “How about the person in the back with the blond hair who arrived late?” She locked eyes with Beatrice. “Would you please stand?”
Beatrice’s heart raced. Heads turned, and she felt the crushing gaze of a hundred sets of eyes. She rose from her chair.
“Your name, please.”
“B-Beatrice Tender.”
“Well, B-Beatrice Tender.” A sprinkling of laughter rose from the audience. “You have the honour of reciting the defining principles of our Movement.”
Beatrice clenched her jaw. To decline would mean a lengthy interrogation. She kept her voice low. “The first principle of the Movement is, The nature of mankeys is to control and abuse women.” She swallowed. “The second principle of the Movement is, Our higher status is our due for centuries of selflessness and sacrifice. The third—”
“Beatrice, please recite each principle without prefacing it.”
Beatrice paused. She had hoped she could get away with saying them in an impersonal manner. She tightened her fists until her nails bit into her palms.
“We shall never give power back to mankeys.” Her voice quivered. “Family threatens social harmony and productivity. We shall not be intimate with mankeys but only with other women.”
Beatrice sat, blood pounding in her ears.
The second chant leader stepped up to the lectern. She removed the joint dangling from her mouth and cleared her throat.
“Ladies, we are at a time in history where we have advanced ahead of mankeys. They have become evolutionary failures.” She raised a fist, and the crowd cheered. “But we have much work still to do if we want world peace. We must continue to accumulate power.” She looked over the audience with hungry eyes. “We must win over countries stuck in the past, where Hardinians have a foothold…”
Ten minutes later, she concluded. “Fellow fighters, the insurgency is gaining momentum, even here in Canada. We must remain vigilant. The enemy is everywhere. They could be your friends, your next-door neighbours…even someone in this room.” Her voice shook with fierce determination. “We must continue our struggle for a peaceful world, a world where our bright orange sun eclipses the blackness of mankeys’ ignorance and brutality. I now turn the floor over to Karla Rook, Senior Project Officer at the Ministry of Tomorrow.”
A broad-shouldered woman sporting jet-black hair and a fleshy nose with an upturned tip advanced to the lectern. She adjusted her navy blue suit and straightened her blood-red tie.
Beatrice slid her sweaty palms back and forth along the sides of her seat and braced herself for another verbal onslaught.
“Our future is near,” Karla bellowed.
“Our future is near,” the auditorium reverberated.
“Our future is near!” she shouted louder, a clenched fist in front of her face.
“Our future is near,” the audience screamed.
Beatrice had seen Karla at previous meetings. She was always pumped up.
“As you know, this Tuesday is Age of Oppression Memorial Day, and we expect no less than full participation. You all have your assigned tasks. I shouldn’t have to remind you that if you see a mankey on the street not wearing pink slippers, you must notify the police. Issuing a warning is not enough anymore.”
Beatrice gritted her teeth.
Someone’s hand went up in the audience. Karla pivoted. “Yes…Charlene?”
A small, white-haired woman rose. “It’s Charlotte. I was just thinking. It doesn’t seem right that in a free country some people are forced to wear a certain type of footwear. It didn’t use to be that way.”
Karla scanned the audience, undoubtedly seeing many annoyed faces, before returning her steady eyes to the elderly woman.
“Thank you, Charlotte, for sharing your perspective. But it’s the law. We might as well also ask why these monthly meetings are obligatory. Or why, in a court of law, everyone must stand when the judge enters. Or why we allow peaceful demonstrations against the government but not ones that incite violence. Sometimes freedoms need to be curtailed for the greater good.”
“Ahh. Makes sense.” The old woman sat.
Karla stared at her for several seconds before turning her attention to the rest of the audience. “As I was saying, you all have your assigned tasks for this Tuesday. As for next year’s Memorial Day, we will build on lessons learned. But the Ministry of Tomorrow has added a new theme: mankeys’ brutality against children. We’ll be looking to you for ideas.”
Children? Fury ignited in Beatrice’s gut. Society has gone mad. She sprang up. “I—”
Heads turned. She froze. Her impulsiveness had shot out of her legs and mouth. Her knees weakened.
“Yes, Beatrice?” Karla said.
It was too late to back down. Everyone stared, waiting. She needed to say something. She rocked from side to side. “I would like to be the first to share my ideas.”
“Yes, Beatrice?”
Beatrice felt light-headed. She wanted to sit but couldn’t. It was as if everyone’s eyes were propping her up, preventing her from resuming her seat.
“This…I think this…crusade against men—mankeys—is going too far.” Beatrice imagined the audience filled with vultures and snakes, waiting to pounce on her as soon as she stumbled. “It may not be…necessary. Mankeys have no real contact with children.”
Murmurs swept across the room. Karla strutted down the aisle, over the faded black and red lines on the gymnasium floor, cementing an icy stare on Beatrice. Her shoulders were pressed back, her stride long and commanding.
When she reached Beatrice’s row, she stopped and faced her. “And do you not know, Beatrice, that the reason we forbid nonwomen to be alone with children is precisely because of their proclivity to control and abuse them?”
Beatrice trembled, yet she was determined to stand her ground. “I’m sure not all men are like that. If I ever have a child—uh, I mean, if that were legal—I would want a man to help me raise it. A man who cared about children and wouldn’t harm them.”
Many in the room gaped, others winced.
“I mean”—she swallowed hard—“there’s got to be a few mankeys like that in the world.”
Dead silence prickled her nerves. The only sound was the rhythmic grinding of the overhead fan. Beatrice sat and waited, her stomach a jumble of knots.
The universe had paused, needing to figure out its next move.
After a long moment, a tall, husky woman in a middle row got up and made her way ostentatiously to the lectern. Turning to the audience, she looked straight at Beatrice. She positioned her mouth very close to the microphone, almost tasting it. “You are a wife,” she hissed and then returned to her seat.
+++
Nick stared, mouth agape, as Beatrice finished her story.
“I was shocked. I’ve never been called a wife before.” Tears welled in Beatrice’s eyes. “She said it to a room full of people! I felt worse than dirt.”
Nick’s pulse thrummed in his temples. At least it had been a member of the audience, and not Karla, who’d called Beatrice a wife. No—Karla would never do such a thing. Nick had known Karla since childhood; she was always respectful to everyone. A passionate defender of freedom of speech, she was one of the few women Nick dared engage with on contentious topics.
“Why did you speak out in the first place?”
“I couldn’t contain myself.”
Nick’s throat constricted. “Then what happened?”
“Nothing. I could hardly breathe. I don’t remember anything more except, vaguely, being on my feet during the final chanting. I stared at the back of the chair in front of me until I felt a squeeze on my arm and someone said it was time to go home.”
Nick remained standing in front of Beatrice as if his sneakers were glued to the tiles. Don’t cry, he wanted to tell her. He searched his pockets for a tissue but couldn’t find any. He felt useless.
“It was that old lady, Charlotte,” Beatrice said flatly. “She told me she was once an oddball and that I, too, will see the light.”
Beatrice stared at the floor, sniffling. “Why can’t a woman have a baby of her own?” She wiped her cheeks with her hands. “Why must it be a crime? Weren’t women given wombs?”
Nick straightened. He glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention to them. His eyes settled on Beatrice’s quivering lower lip. Although Nick knew there were women who wanted to be mothers, they were rare. Yes, he’d heard some women say it, but it was always said in jest. Beatrice was serious.
His chest tightened and his stomach churned. Nick had been raised to believe a person should put society’s needs first.
Is Beatrice selfish? In the months that he’d known her, her kindness had impressed him. Like the time she’d accompanied him home after one of his performances, when a headache skewed his vision and nauseated him. Can it be that she is ignorant? Doesn’t she understand the social harm of motherhood?
Nick’s stomach felt hollow. It grumbled and made him light-headed. He took a step back. “I-I need to go home and eat. It’s pretty late.”
Beatrice scrutinized his face with her puffy eyes. “Nick, I’ll be thirty in August. Do you know how I’m going to celebrate my birthday?” Her expression dimmed.
Nick shrugged. Two years ago he’d announced to his buddies at the Mankey Bar that it was his thirtieth birthday. They had treated him to a Coke and a donut.
“I’m going to set myself on fire—in front of the Ministry building. You’re invited to attend and bring all your friends. I no longer want to live in a world like this.”
Nick stared at her, his neck muscles tensing. Why is she telling me this? What am I supposed to do? He wanted to yell at her, beg her to reconsider, but his mouth wouldn’t cooperate. His thoughts froze and his body overheated. He craved fresh air.
He pretended he hadn’t heard clearly.
“Anyway, it was nice seeing you,” he stammered, taking a shaky step backward.
He continued to back up a few feet, avoiding eye contact, then turned and shambled toward the end of the snake line, a deserter trying to hide in a searchlight. Once out of Beatrice’s line of sight, he stood still for a long time, every inch of his skin tingling. Then, he punched his fists against his thighs and headed straight for the exit.
