#is this the first time he’s /ever/ called empanada sweetie??

[kadextra]

I had a realization

To q!Bad, Pomme is still at roommate status, Dapper is his father and Richas is his mom, Sunny is the queen he respects, Tallulah is referring to him only as Mr. Bad, Leo & Ramon haven’t interacted much at all. the majority of eggs are at a distance to some degree, his kids are choosing to do this so they don’t overwhelm him with being a parent

Then there’s Empanada & Pepito. I’d say they are the only two eggs rn he’s forming a parental-figure-uncle relationship with that’s so familiar to pre-reset. like Pepito calling him tio and hugging him during all the times they meet lately 🤏

but it’s especially apparent with Empanada. she’s come to spend time with her uncle every day for long periods of time, and has been constantly calling him uncle. earlier, we got to see what effects that’s been having

He called her sweetie. it’s the first time he’s called an egg that since resetting!!!! of course he did. there is no other egg that’s coming close to “a child I personally need to care for” right now except her- that’s his niece.

I like that q!Bad is being eased into the idea of family relationships thanks to the silly bit with Richas/Dapper & now he’s getting to practice himself by being an uncle. when he eventually finds out he’s a father I think it’ll be an easy adjustment <3

[artemismoon12writes]

Title: Five Meetings

Daltonfic Big Bang; Week 2, Day 6- Met as Kids  The First Time the Serendipity Hill Hunters met Dwight, and the first time he met one of them. 

March 3rd, 1995

Dwight was the first person Lucas ever met. Well, the only one that mattered. Great Aunt Ingrid doesn’t count as someone worth meeting. Lucas knew he met Dwight before he could even remember what remembering was. He was smaller, fluffy haired, and was fussy. Lucas’s mother told him he had never been a fussy baby; he even shared his toys! Dwight shared as well, but he made sure his stuff didn’t get broken- keeping a sharp look on it, fascinated with every bright colour and shiny edge, wailing when it was out of sight. Lucas simply marvelled when it was reintroduced. The difference in philosophy made games more, creative.

Picture two babies, too early to even speak, simply throwing rocks at each other until they realized maybe that might hurt. That was Dwight and Lucas.

The two of them seemed to take great pleasure each time they drove an adult up the wall. Agatha and her cousin drove themselves to distraction trying to keep their sons entertained and alive. Mostly, they succeed. Each time the boys found a new hiding spot, the nannies and their mothers searched frantically for the babies. Often times, Lucas led Dwight into fruit baskets, cupboards, and a notable incident where they hid in the washing machine for two hours- giggling and passing a bowl of cheerios.

Their mothers couldn’t help but love them. Their nannies asked for a raise.

September 1st, 2001

Sadie knew lots of people. There was Steven from the grocery store; Yolanda delivered the paper; and Carlson Mackenzie was the security guard at the edge of Serendipity Hill who let them in and out to go to school. Knowing lots of people didn’t mean she could not be fascinated by the boy next to her in St. Ignatius. Mrs. MacPherson sorted boy-girl-boy-girl seating; which got her next to the boy with the pencil case covered in lightning bolt stickers. He looked like the type of boy her mama would pinch sharply, and order to eat three extra empanadas before he fell over in a stiff breeze. What a stiff breeze was, Sadie’s mama would not say.

“I like your stickers Tommy.” Sadie said, treating the boy with a curious look.

“My name’s Dwight.” He said, huffing.

“You’re lying.” She said, pointing. “The name tag on your desk says Thomas.”

“Only my mom is allowed to call me Thomas. I like Dwight better.”

“You can’t just rename yourself!” Sadie said, leaning back scandalised.

“Can too! See?” He said, proudly flipping the pencil case around to show his name in (presumably) his own shaky handwriting. “Besides, it’s my middle name anyways. When we get confirmed I’ll choose an even better third name so no one will ever remember I was a Thomas.”

“Okay then.” She said, contemplating. “I guess that makes sense.”

“What’s your name?” He asked.

“Sadie.” She said, sticking out her hand. “You’re going to tell me where you got those stickers, and then I’m going to find you an even better-even better third name.”

He shook it. They hadn’t learnt about cooties yet, and by the time they did they’d already be friends.

 September 4th, 2004

New neighbourhood, new school, new day. Morgan ran his hand over his freshly shaved hair, no more letters home about ‘inappropriate’ school attire. He didn’t want trouble. If everyone would just leave him alone and let him read he’d be fine, but it was always them who seemed to find things wrong. He didn’t want to play soccer, or football, or four square; he didn’t want to learn about histories of evil people; he didn’t want to sit through liars in front of the chapel, when his grandmother had told him the only reason he was here with the nuns was the other private school was a ‘bad school’- public was even worse. He had to believe they were worse.

Every new grade was more of the same mean kids forcing their mean opinions onto him. Taking his glasses, stealing his books, calling him a nerd. It was tiring. He lost half a binder of rare Digimon cards to that stupidity (if his mom could read his mind….) 

Well, luck would happen that he found someone even more troublesome than him. 

“We’re friends! I was helping her with her sweater!”

“Sister Cathy, he’s telling the truth!”

“Missy, you’ll be thanking me when you’re older. Boys only one thing, and before you know it they’ll have you ruined!” One of the staff had a white- and god was he white- boy by the ear, intent on dragging him away. A darker girl with brown hair stood next to the row of lockers, her school sweater rumpled and backwards. “You’re coming with me to the Chaplin’s office to reflect upon your behaviour!”

The girl looked around, frustrated and angry as the plain-clothesed nun dragged her friend away. Her eyes met Morgan’s; she was asking for help. He sighed. Hopefully this wouldn’t backfire.

“Um, Sister? I saw the whole thing. They’re telling the truth.” Morgan spoke up, raising his hand like he was still in class.

She whirled about. “What?”

Morgan stepped back, looking back to the girl. Her eyes were wide and expectant.

“Um, he was just helping her with her sweater. It’s not anything bad.” He paused. “And I’m not lying about it, because if I was then I’d go to hell right? I don’t want that.”

She paused, releasing her grip on the boy’s ear. She looked between the three of them. “I’ll be keeping my eye on you Thomas Perry.”

The nun stalked off, leaving the girl to sigh in relief. The boy only rubbed his abused ear and mutter, “Dwight! My name is Dwight.”

“Thank you!” The girl said, turning to Morgan. “It means a lot! His mom would kill him if he got sent to the Chaplin on the first day of school.”

“Um no problem.” Morgan said awkwardly, unsure of how to respond as the two of them went right back to pulling at the girl’s sweater. “Uh, was I really lying then?”

The two flushed. “NO!”

She dug up under the sweater, seemingly finding what she was looking for and just tearing the fabric. Her hand reappeared with a safety pin which let the slack back into the sweater. “I put it on wrong when I got it out of my locker and it snagged on the pin. Dwight was helping me without ripping it.”

“But you just ripped it, the ribbon charm only works if it stays pinned.” Dwight complained, leaning back against the lockers.

“We’ll redo it.” She assured him, patting his shoulder. “Hey, new kid what’s your name?”

“Morgan Powell.” He found himself saying. “I just moved into Serendipity Hill this year.”

“Oh no way!” She said excited. “I’m Sadie Moore, this is Dwight Perry. We live in Serendipity Hill as well. You must be the new kid in the old Richards house! I knew I read the cards right last week!”

“Cards?” Morgan asked.

“I’m learning Tarot. I’ll teach you!” She said excitedly. “Do you want to sit at our table at Lunch? We’re planning how to get Dwight’s cousin Lucas to tell us all about if the Grade 6 Class really is haunted by Father Rodriguez’ ghost.”  

Morgan smiled. “I’d like that.” He meant it.

 February 14th, 2011

Laura Bancroft didn’t have time to glare at Dwight Houston; she was worrying about bigger things than a boy who couldn’t even apologize when he ran into her.

“Did you see that?” She hissed, nodding to the pair she’d been following around. Justin said he was one of their new Hanovers. She didn’t trust him. She’d heard rumours about Houston, he had to sense something wrong with the kid.

“Yeah.” Dwight sounded unsure. Not helpful. “Do you know him?”

“Julian Larson, if the talking fangirls are to be trusted.” She zeroed in on her target, hiding behind the table to avoid detection. “That boy over there, he’s Adam. My brother says he’s a Hanover like him.”

“Well don’t you think he’s a little strange, that Adam guy…” Dwight started.

Laura could have cheered. Yes! Excellent! He got it. Dwight glanced back to her, “And I don’t expect you’d understand, coming from Windsor we-”

She cut him off. “You don’t know many Hanovers do you?”

This just might work.

 July 23rd, 2001

“Tommy, sweetie, do you want to hold him?” His mother whispered, holding the bundle in her arms.

Dwight looked at the baby, then back to his mother. “Can I?”

He didn’t know if he could. He was so small. What if he broke him?

“Go on kiddo,” his dad said, patting him on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Just support his head…”

Dwight felt nervous. This was his baby brother. Brothers were special, babies were special- especially little ones. They would look up to you, and love you, and everything you did was supposed to make sure they didn’t have a bad life ever.

His father helped his mom reach out, placing the bulky blankets into his arms. She was tired, but Dwight wasn’t. Maybe he could help by holding the baby?

His brother was tiny. He didn’t know anything could be this tiny. He had wide eyes the same colour as Dwight’s. Other than that, he couldn’t see much of the baby, making gurgling noises up at him.

“Hi Alan.” Dwight said solemnly, remembering his dad was there and he expected him to be a big boy. “I’m your brother Thomas. It’s good to meet you.”

“You don’t have to be so serious sweetie.” His mom said, hair stuck to her forehead even as she laughed softly.

“He’s being responsible Agatha, I think it’s precious.” His dad said, sitting on the end of the bed; a fond expression at the group of them.

Dwight held on, not allowing his arms to tire even though Alan was heavier than he looked. “I’ll teach you all the best games, and Luke and I will show you all the best hiding spots, and oh! I’ll never let anyone hurt you ‘cause that’s what big brothers do. They protect their little brothers.”

He pressed a kiss to Alan’s forehead, “I promise.”

[verai-marcel]

Before This Dance Is Through (RDR2 Fanfic, Chapter 2 of 3, Arthur x Fem!Reader, 18+ ONLY)

Tags & Summary are over here in Chapter 1.

Smut is inbound in Chapter 3.

AO3 link is here, sweetie.

-------------------------

Chapter 2 - Dance the Night Away

The two of you worked out a place to meet up that night; his workday ended after yours, so you had a chance to shower and change. He said not to worry about ‘dollin’ yerself up’, as he said, but you wanted to impress.

Oh hell, who were you kidding. You wanted him to take you home tonight.

Wearing a little black dress that had a stripe of red cutting diagonally across your body, you put on some sexy chunky heels and did your hair. Putting on just a little bit of makeup to complete your look, you grabbed your purse and headed out the door, excited to finally have a date with Arthur. 

***

The place you two had agreed to meet was a cute little Spanish restaurant that served really good tapas. Much to your delight, there was also a dance floor, and when you entered, you could see people already dancing. Good, at least it was a group and you could hide yourself a bit. 

"You look stunnin'." 

You turned around and had to restart your heart. Arthur looked delectable; he was wearing a white button up shirt and black pants, with a pinstripe dark blue vest. Simple, yet it looked amazing on him, especially with his sleeves rolled up to show his forearms. The shirt had the first two buttons unbuttoned, showing off just a bit of chest hair. 

All you could do was stare. 

"Cat got yer tongue, sweetheart?" he said with a smirk. Oh, he knew what he was doing to you, and it wasn't fair at all. You quickly recovered from your stupor and sashayed up to him, your hips moving to the music that leaked into the lobby from the dining area.

Now it was his turn to stare, as you hypnotized him with your movements. He reached out for you as you got close, his hand sliding from your shoulders to the small of your back. Leaning in close enough to graze his lips against your earlobe, he whispered in your ear, his breath tickling your skin. 

"You tryin' to drive me crazy?" 

You gave him a sultry smile. "Maybe. Is it working?"

"It is."

Arthur held out his arm to you, and you blinked, confused for a moment. 

"Ain't no one ever been a gentleman to ya?" 

Oh. You slipped your hand onto his arm, feeling his muscles and sighing inwards happily. He got the table and led you into the dining room when his name was called, pulling out your chair for you. Your heart could not stop pounding as you watched him take a seat across from you and gaze straight into your eyes. 

"You been here before? Because I have no idea what to order," he said with a shy grin. 

"Don't worry, I'll steer you right." 

"I trust you."

You had to swallow hard; the way his voice dipped as he spoke those words gave you goosebumps, the low timbre resonating deep in your soul. 

You perused the menu and picked a few things that you thought he would enjoy. Being an adventurous eater, you selected a couple of items for yourself that sounded interesting.

"So when did you start dancin'?" Arthur asked after you had given the order to the waiter. 

Shrugging, you debated how much to tell him. You opted for a summary. If this date turned out well, you could open up to him more. "A few years ago. A friend took me to his street dance class and been hooked ever since."

He nodded, his attention hyper-focused on your every word. He asked you a few more questions, being very polite about it, but it was clear to you he was interested in the full story. 

And much to your surprise, he got you to tell him everything. About your shitty break up, about how dance gave you release, about how you danced because you found it hard to speak up for yourself. Now you understood how he got his customers to speak. He was a very attentive listener, with his ocean colored eyes drawing you in, his thoughtfully crafted questions drawing out your deepest secrets.

He was dangerous. It was no wonder that women swarmed to him like bees to honey. To be under his care as he slowly drew beautiful patterns on your skin, his hands gently using you as his canvas. You understood it fully now, even though you had no interest in getting a tattoo. Not that you could afford one anyway. 

Food came and went, and you had chosen correctly. He loved everything that you ordered, including the zanahorias aliñadas that you thought he wouldn't touch. 

"Everythin' was delicious," he said as he took the last marinated carrot and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly to savor the sourness. 

You nodded as you picked up the last empanada and nibbled on it. You didn't want to think about how much this was going to cost, but you had some money squared away for special food nights like this. You sure as hell weren't going to let him pay for everything; you were a modern woman, dammit! 

"Excuse me, I'm gonna use the restroom," he said as he got up. You just nodded as he left, your eyes on his rear as he walked. It was a bad habit of yours, ever since he had started visiting the cafe. But you never got tired of watching him walk away. 

When he was out of sight, you turned your attention to the dance floor, watching people groove to the upbeat salsa music. You didn't know how to dance that specific style, but most of the people on the floor were just moving to the rhythm freely, so you thought maybe you'd get a chance to as well. Maybe give Arthur a little show and convince him to take you home. 

You don't know how much time passed, as engrossed as you were with people-watching. 

"You wanna dance?" 

You looked up as Arthur sat back down, giving you a knowing look.

"I do. Are you coming with me?" 

Arthur laughed and shook his head. "I got as much coordination as a drunk duck. But I'll gladly watch."

You smiled and started to get up. "Wait, let me give you money for the bill before I forget."

"Don't worry about it."

You stared at him for a few moments, then immediately flagged down the waiter. 

"Could you bring the check, please?"

"This gentleman has already taken care of it," the waiter said, gesturing at Arthur before scurrying away, clearly not wanting to get in the middle of an impending debate. 

You whipped back to look at Arthur, gaping like a fool. 

"I told ya not to worry about it," he mumbled, shrugging nonchalantly. 

A million thoughts ran through your head, about expectations, about how you didn't want to feel obligated to put out, just because he bought you dinner, even though you absolutely wanted to sleep with him, but now there was a layer of complication that he probably didn't even think about. 

He must have seen the anxiety flashing in your eyes. Reaching out for your hand, he held it firmly until he had your full attention. 

"Darlin', I bought you dinner because I wanted to. Ain't expectin’ anythin’. Just wanted to treat a fine lady. That's all."

Blowing out a breath, you felt an immense weight lift off your shoulders. Squeezing his hand back, you smiled and headed for the dance floor. When you got there, you kept your eyes on his as your rocked to the melody, seducing him with each sway of your hips. 

You sensed other people moving around you, and one came closer. You glanced over to see a man dancing very fluidly, almost as if he were trained. His eyes caught yours and he smiled. 

"You move great," he half-yelled over the music. "You trained too?" 

"Just a few classes."

"You have a lot of potential." He moved closer, steadily working his way into your space. You shimmied backwards to maintain your personal bubble. 

He just smiled and kept dancing with you, showing off some more complex footwork. 

So you did too, just to show off. You had a competitive streak in you, sometimes to your detriment. 

The man only got more attracted and moved closer again. You took a step back and ran into someone. 

"Sorry—" 

You turned around to see Arthur, who immediately wrapped an arm protectively around your waist. "Havin' fun, darlin'?" 

"More fun now that you're here," you replied smoothly as you leaned into his body. There was an electric current running through the two of you as you held onto his arms and swayed with the music as he awkwardly shuffled with you. 

"I, uh, ain't so good with dancin'." 

"Not a problem." You took his hands and placed them on your hips. "Just move with me."

As he looked into your eyes and followed your lead, you stepped back and forth to the rhythm, pulling Arthur into your vortex of dance. You completely forgot about that other guy, the whole world melting away until it was just you and Arthur, moving together as one. Orbiting each other, getting closer with each pass until your bodies were melding, your breaths mingling, the tension was being pulled so taut that if he leaned in just a little bit closer, you might snap and kiss him right here, right now.

“I think I should take you home,” he murmured.

“I think you’re right,” you breathed.

---------------------------

Chapter 3 is smut, so 18+ only!

[my-emotional-self]

The Accident Chapter 27

Pairings: Chris Evans x OFC

Warnings:  Angst, Swearing

Trigger Warnings: Mentions of attempted suicide, self-harm,

Summary: After yet another fight with your boyfriend Chris, you go for a drive and get into a terrible accident.  Upon waking up in the hospital, you find both Sebastian and Chris sitting there.  The only problem?  You have no recent memories and you think you are still dating Sebastian.

Days.  That was how long it felt like to make the trek back to Sebastian’s apartment.  But in reality it must have only been a fifteen minute walk.  The longest fifteen minutes of your life.  The tension was thick between the four of you as you walked behind Sebastian and Margarita; Chris glued to your side albeit not touching you in any way.  He wanted to comfort you, but not coddle you.  He had been through this before; this much you knew.  

“I’m going to go and lie down,” you mumbled as your feet managed to walk you through the door of the apartment.  

“Do you want me….,” Chris started to say but you cut him off.  

“I just want to be alone right now.”

You felt three pairs of eyes on you, and you didn’t want them to feel sorry for you; you didn’t want their damn sympathy.  You just wanted to lay down in bed and forget this day ever happened.  

“We’ll be right here for you if you need anything sweetie,” Margarita spoke softly as you managed to nod your head.  

~~~

As your head hit the pillow you couldn’t hold back the tears as they rolled down your cheek and you relived more memories that appeared while you were at the bar earlier.  It was the first memory you recalled after losing your memories; the memory where you and Sebastian were fighting and he refused he tell you what had happened.  

You were at a Mexican restaurant, one that you and Sebastian frequented in NYC.  He ordered the burrito empanada, yet you were barely there in your mindset.  Instead you were reeling from what he had said earlier to you.  

“What did you mean earlier?” you snapped after the waitress had left.  Sebastian sighed, lowering his gaze from yours.  “Don’t look away from me Seb!”

His eyes snapped up to meet yours, they were soft, sorrowful even. “You know what I meant Erica,” he admitted, giving you a pointed look.  

You rolled your eyes, chugging your drink, just wanting to forget this night.  “What, you think I’m fucked up don’t you?  Ever since that night you think I need to be locked up in an institution? Well guess what Seb, maybe you’re right! Maybe I do need to be locked away forever!”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” he growled angrily, his eyes narrowing.  

“Yeah, well it sure seemed like it,” you scowled.  “I mean, how the fuck am I supposed to interpret what you said huh?  I fucking tried to KILL myself and then you go and tell me that you want to send me to a goddamn psychiatric ward!”  

“Erica, calm down, please.  People are starting to look at us.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes and took another sip of your drink. “Let them fucking look Sebastian. I don’t give a fuck.”  Closing your eyes, you concentrated on your racing heart and thoughts as your nails pinched the soft tender skin of your wrists.

Using your hand to wipe the snot from your nose, you couldn’t help but notice the small circular scars that were scattered along both of your wrists.  You hadn’t noticed them before, but now, as your memories became clear, you knew exactly how they got there.

Without another thought, you pinched your left wrist with your nails, reveling in the calm the pain brought you as it made you think of nothing but the pain; not the memories.  Blood began to seep from the wound as you pulled your hand away, finding fresh skin to sink your nails into yet again.  

As your wrist began to throb with pain and the dark memories soon fading from your mind, you shut your eyes, utterly exhausted and slipped into a deep slumber.  

~~~

You were unsure of the time when you woke up, but the sky was still dark and your neck ached from the position you had fallen asleep it.  Sluggishly, you got yourself up into a sitting position before all the memories came flooding back to you again, making you want to scream in agony, but you held back.  

It felt as though you hadn’t had any water in months, your throat hoarse and raw as you made your way to the kitchen for a glass of water.  Upon opening the door, you peeked your head out, but heard nothing but quiet.

Not wanting to wake anyone up and have them badgering you with questions, you silently crept to the kitchen only to be caught off guard with three pairs of eyes trained on you from the couch.  

“You’re up,” Chris spoke with such eagerness as his eyes landed on you.  

Without so much as a glance, you turned and grabbed a glass from the cabinet before filling it with the water from the faucet.   Placing the glass to your lips, you leaned your head back and took a big gulp, relishing in the feel of the cool liquid on your parched throat.  

Setting the cup back down, you didn’t dare turn your back to look at them; deciding to head back to the bedroom instead and shutting the door.  

You sat down on the edge of the bed as you felt the soreness of your wrist.  Placing your left wrist palm up, you had to fight back the tears as you realized what you had done to yourself.  It was a step backwards, that much you knew.  

There was a knock on the door and before you could pull the sleeve of your shirt down, Chris walked in. His eyes immediately went to your wrist, which was cradled in your other hand.  

“Erica, what did you do?” he asked with such worry in his voice as he rushed to your side.  

Guilt immediately fluttered throughout your body as Chris took your wrist in his hands carefully, inspecting the damage.  He tore his gaze from your red swollen wrist and up to your eyes.  

After the guilt began to fade, you started feeling anger; and lots of it.  Pulling your wrist out of his grasp, you go to your feet.  “I was dealing with it,” you snapped.  

“Dealing with it?  Are you kidding me Erica?  THAT,” he said pointing to your wrist, “is NOT dealing with it.  It’s taking a selfish road instead of the right road.”

“Selfish? SELFISH?  Are you sure you want to be calling ME selfish at this point Chris? YOU are the one that decided to withhold all this important information from me knowing FULL well that I DESERVED to know!”

“I WAS JUST DOING WHAT THE DOCTOR ASKED ME TO DO!”  

Chris wasn’t the one to normally yell, especially at you and you were taken aback at his harsh tone. Shaking your head, you grabbed your purse off the bed and walked out of the bedroom; Chris quickly following your footsteps.  

“Erica where are you going?”

Halting your steps, you turned to face him as tears streaked your face.  “You want selfish Chris? Fine.  You and I, we are OVER!  I’m going to the hotel, packing my shit, and taking the next flight back to L.A.”

Chris didn’t even say anything as he stared at you, stunned while you slammed the door closed.  It took him a minute to realize what just happened before he began to march towards the front door.  

“Chris don’t,” Sebastian said, having heard everything.  Chris turned to see him and Margarita standing in the hallway.  

“I can’t leave her alone right now.  You both know that.”

“I’ll go to her,” Margarita spoke up, walking towards Chris.  

Chris let out a deep sigh, letting his head bow down at everything that had transpired in the last 24 hours.  He reached into back pocket, taking out his wallet and producing the hotel room card. “Room 713,” was all he said before Margarita grabbed her purse and headed out the door.  

~~~

Her steps were quick, knowing she didn’t want to leave Erica alone for long at all as she made her way into the hotel lobby.  “Come on, come on,” she whispered as she waited for the elevator doors to open. Her hands fidgeted together and she let out a sigh once the doors slid open.  She tapped on the 7th floor button as she paced back and forth in the elevator.  

She knew the entire story of what happened to Erica after she lost her mother, and her baby.  She knew the lengths Erica would, and could go to. As the doors slid open, she raced along the hallway until she stopped in front of room 713.  

Knocking quickly, she looked around and noticed she was alone in the hallway.  “Erica open up sweetie.  It’s just me, Margie.”  The door didn’t open as she began to knock insistently again.  “Erica please open the door.”  Her heart began to race and just as she reached for her cell to call Sebastian, the door opened up.  

There stood Erica, eyes red as tears streaked her face.  “What have I done Margie?”

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[middlecountries]

Monserrate

‘My dad’s a doctor and my mom a lawyer - where could I go from there?’

I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. I was having dinner with another dry-waller, Chris Penner, a guy I’d up until this moment respected and considered a friend. We were at Angela’s on a Wednesday evening in early May and I guess the two beers he’d had after work had loosened his tongue.  

What an idiot-fuck. I felt embarrassed for him he was so stupid. In parts of Bogota you’d get beaten within an inch of your life for saying something so dumb. Is this what wealth and prosperity amounted to, the right to be an over-privileged asshole? I wanted to tell him how my father had died or that my mother had worked sixteen hours a day scrubbing toilets to get us out of Colombia. Fucking idiot. He even knew my dad was dead, although not how he died. 

Penner seemed to remember my dad was dead because his expression slackened and his eyes started shifting nervously. I decided to absolve him and met his embarrassed gaze. He was just a sheltered white-boy like most of my Canadian friends. To guys like him, renovating rich assholes’ houses for a living was a choice, not a foregone conclusion.  

We paid our bill and left the restaurant. I got on the 165 and took it up Cote des Neiges towards Jean-Talon where I lived with my mom and brother. The bus passed the outer edge of the Mount Royal cemetery and I thought some more about Chris and his Canadian privilege. In this country the dead owned more than the living in Colombia, and yet somehow people still found things to complain about.  Fucking whiners.    

Maybe it was just Montreal. My cousin Manny lived in Ottawa and loved it there. He made fifty bucks an hour in construction and barely broke a sweat. Maybe I should move there? Maybe it was a more sober, inland city like Bogota. Maybe it wasn’t subject to passing currents like Montreal and other port cities.

The bus pulled up to my stop and I got off. We lived in a ten-story high-rise on Jean-Talon. I walked inside, unlocked the lobby door and checked our mailbox. It was only flyers and bills so I left them and took the elevator upstairs. I walked inside and yelled hello to Mom and Luis. Mom was in the kitchen and Luis was as usual, lying on the couch watching some American sit-com. Fucking dreamer. 

I went to mine and Luis’s room and sat down at my desk. I turned on my computer and logged into chat hoping my cousin would be online so I could talk to him about moving to Ottawa. Luckily he was. ‘Hey,’ I wrote, no-doubt interrupting multiple conversations he was having on g-chat with girls. ‘How goes the battle?’  

‘No battle here, brother,’ he replied, followed by: ‘Living is easy.’ 

‘Really?’

‘Fuck yeah.’

I couldn’t think how to say what I wanted to so I just said it: ‘I think I need to get out of Montreal. Could you get me a job in Ottawa if I come there?’

‘For real? Yeah, brother. I can get you a job no problem. You’re going to love it here. The chicks love Latin guys!’

‘Cool. And you think I could crash on your couch for a while before I find a place?’

‘Definitely!’

‘Great. I haven’t decided for sure but I think I’ll do it. ‘

‘Do it brother. We’ll live it up. Ottawa’s a great town.’

‘For sure. I’ll call you soon to tell you I’m for sure coming. Thanks again.’ I signed out of chat and leaned back in my chair. Ottawa: I didn’t know much about it except that it was the seat of the federal government and it had once been a fur-trading post. This last point sparked my imagination. In my mind’s eye I saw myself paddling up a river wearing a fur-pelt hat, exploring uncharted land, trading furs with Natives, using nothing but my wits to guide me.  

Suddenly Mom came barging in the room carrying a plate of empanadas. ‘Hi sweetie,’ she said. ‘I brought you some food.  Did you eat already?’

‘Mom – Can’t you ever knock?’

‘Knock? It’s my own house? Why would I have to knock in my own house?’

I stood up and walked out of the room. ‘I’m going to take a shower,’ I said, grabbing a towel and slinging it over my shoulder. ‘I’m not hungry.’

In the shower my mind drifted back to my fantasy. I was back in my canoe surrounded by trees as tall as buildings.

Yes, I thought, I’m going to move to Ottawa as soon as I’m finish this last reno.  Life there would be purer: hard work and simple fun. I won’t have to stomach anymore angst-y Montreal artistic-types. Go to work and go home; save money and live simply. I’d call Manny in the morning and tell him I was in for sure.   When I got back to my room, Mom was sitting on the bed with her arms folded. I knew the best way to hurt her was to turn down food and as usual it was having the desired effect. ‘How can you ask me to knock like a stranger after everything I’ve done for you and your brother?’ she said. ‘If we still lived in Colombia, we’d all be dead.’

I ignored her and pulled my boxers on beneath my towel.  

She continued: ‘Oh, I know what you think. You think this place is wrong. Spoiled, rich Canadians with no sense of struggle and hardship. Well maybe you should forget hardship? Ever think of that? Your father thought he should do things the hardest way and look what happened to him, God rest his soul.’ She crossed herself.  

I don’t know why but I blurted out I hated Montreal and was moving to Ottawa.

Immediately, her eyes began to water. ‘Yeah,’ I continued. ‘I’m going to get a job in construction with Manny and find people who think like I do.’

‘In Ottawa?’ Her voice was cracking.  

‘Yes.’ I watched her head lower and a few tears roll down her cheeks.  ‘But Esteban,’ she said, raising her head.  “Ottawa is so—so protestant!’

‘That’s exactly what I want. Cold and unemotional living. I’m leaving after I’m done this last reno. Goodnight, Mom. ‘ 

I walked to the doorway and stood there waiting for her to leave. She got up and walked past me. On her way out, she took out her rosary beads and started rubbing them. I think she even muttered some dumb prayer.  

If I felt any remorse for hurting my mom, it was overshadowed by excitement. I was starting out on a mission to test my mettle in the friendless wild. I was going to become truly hard boiled, not the fake, rich white-kid kind like Chris Penner’s. No. I’d grow thick-skinned and self-reliant. I’d show these soft, spoiled Canadians how men were meant to live.    

On the following Sunday I packed up and started out for Ottawa. I caught the bus from Berri-UQAM and we left downtown on the 20 West. The traffic crawled along the Decarie and so did my thoughts. I thought about leaving Mom and Luis and even started thinking about my dad. Luckily I drifted off to sleep before anything got too dark.   

I woke up half-an-hour later and we’d cleared the suburbs and were almost at the Ontario-Quebec border. Ontario – Canada’s most populous province – sounded like a barrio to me. The Laurentian foothills disappeared and evergreens sprung up on each side of the highway. But they weren’t lush and dense like I’d imagined. Instead, they grew in small patches between knolls and crevices stretching out in all directions. It looked more like a desolate moonscape than anything from National Geographic.  

I glanced around the bus for alternative fuel for my fantasies. Nearly everyone else on the bus was dark-skinned with children in tow. I shut my eyes trying to picture them as my fellow explorers and fur-traders but it didn’t work. Clearly we were all modern day economic migrants bound for low-level, unromantic jobs.  

I gazed out the window for the next hour or so and eventually the bus began a slight turn and descent. We were entering the Ottawa Valley and like the first time our plane touched down in Canada fifteen years earlier, my stomach sunk.   Several turnoff signs appeared – the first signs of human life for miles. We rounded another bend and a few houses and commercial buildings came into view. After another turn – this time over an interchange – I saw a mall. It was like any of the malls you’d find in Quebec except for one difference: on one of the large, grey concrete walls there was a sign with goldenrod, high-cursive lettering. ‘The Hudson’s Bay Company’, it read, and beneath it was a coat of arms with a deer and a bear on it. I took it as a clear sign of adventure ahead.  I must be practically at James Bay, I thought.  I sat up in my seat, eager to begin my transformation.   Manny lived in a big, two-story, redbrick house divided into four apartments. He greeted me in the foyer, hugged me and slapped the back of my neck. ‘Brother, you’re here!’ he said.

‘I am,’ I replied.

‘Give me your bag.  We’ll have a beer then I want to show you the Market.’

‘’The Market?’ We’re going shopping?’’

‘No-no.  It’s the bar district that everyone goes to. You’re going to love it.’

‘And they call it a market?’

‘Esteban–‘ he grabbed my shoulder and looked me in the eye. ‘Always questioning. I love you, man.’  

He slapped me on the neck again and we went inside. His living room consisted of a matching couch and armchair and a plywood-and-milk-crate-coffee table. He threw my bag down beside the couch and went to the fridge and got two beers. I heard him twist the caps off the beers and he came back to the living room.  ‘Cheers,’ he said.  He handed me a beer and made sure I looked him in the eye before taking a sip.  

Manny was halfway done his beer a few seconds later. ‘I tell you, brother.

Chicks here can’t get enough of us. We’re like royalty. You’re going to need a stick to keep them off.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah, brother.’ He took a long swig of his beer. ‘This chick I took home the other night? She was a ten. All I did was look at her across the bar for a minute then walk up to her and say, ‘in my country, men start wars over women like you.’’ He laughed at his own joke and I chuckled politely. He told me about a few more of his sexual conquests on his way to and from the fridge for more beer. After we’d drunk a couple more beers each, he said we were leaving.   We went to a pub in the Market that played loud dance music. Manny went straight to the bar and ordered us two shots of tequilas. There was a group of girls standing down the bar and Manny ordered shots for them too. We started talking to the girls and before I knew it, I was dancing with one of them. (‘Stacey’, was her name, I think.) Manny kept handing me beers as we danced. I could feel myself getting pretty drunk so Stacey and I sat down at a booth to talk. We shouted a few things about ourselves over the loud music then Manny staggered over and said something in my ear:

‘What?!’  

‘Better close the deal! We’ve got to work in the morning!’

‘What?! What time?!’

‘Six.’

‘That’s in four hours!!’

‘Relax, brother! It’s just laying rebar! It’s the simplest job ever!’

I looked away in anger. I didn’t want to show up to my first day of work hung-over. I told Stacey I had to work in the morning but it was nice meeting her. Then I forced Manny to leave and we got a cab back to his place. I passed out on his couch still wearing the same clothes I’d left Montreal in.  

Laying rebar was not as easy as Manny’d said. You had to know all the different sizes and strengths; there was bending and cutting, and different tools for doing those things. Plus, I had to learn to read pattern diagrams that were sometimes as big as several folding tables pushed together.  

The morning after my first night in Ottawa, I only managed to lay and fasten about a tenth of what the other guys did. By 9AM, I was dying for lunch. Somehow I pushed through until noon when we put down our tools and went to buy from a chrome-paneled food truck. Manny was lively despite having had only three hours of sleep. ‘I see you rebar about as fast as you pick-up chicks,’ he joked as we sat down on a stack of two-by-fours to eat. 

I chewed my food-truck hamburger and half-smiled in response.  

‘Ah, Little Este. Are you mad, brother?’

‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner we had to work today? I look like an idiot trying to keep up with these guys.’

Manny raised his thick eyebrows. ‘I’m sorry, brother. I just thought you’d like to go out and make some friends since you’re new in town.’

I didn’t respond and ate the rest of my hamburger in silence. ‘I’m going to go lay down for a few minutes,’ I said when I was done eating. ‘See you after work.’  

I went and stretched out on a patch of grass and closed my eyes for a moment.  Someone shouted ‘Back to work’ and I was back on my feet again.   I laboured to learn the tricks of laying rebar for another six hours that day. Around four, the foreman called ‘quiting time’ and Manny and I drove back to Manny’s in his red Civic hatchback. When we got home, I flopped down on the couch and Manny went to the fridge for a beer. He came back to the living room and sat down in the armchair and started texting. Twenty minutes and two beers later he spoke: ‘Some chicks want to meet you. Want to hit the Market?’ I rolled away from him and faced the inside of the couch.  ‘Absolutely not.’ ‘Ok, brother. You need to sleep. It’s been a long day. I’ll see you in the morning.’ He got up, changed his shirt and left the apartment. I dragged myself to the bathroom to shower and brush my teeth. When I got back to the couch I passed out the second my head hit the pillow.  

That’s more or less how the next four months went.  I picked up the tricks to rebar-ing in the first month and was able to join Manny for nights out in the Market and still function at work the next morning.  I slept with a few girls but no one I was very into or who seemed into in me apart from my being Latino. It was just as well. I was making great money and able to start paying off my student debt. (Philosophy degree – oh, how valuable you’ve proved to be for increasing concrete’s tensile strength.)  I didn’t need a girlfriend changing my focus.  

Then the fall arrived and things changed despite my plans. Work slowed, the temperature dropped, and everyone at work and the bars became more irritable.  One cold, mid-October morning, a foreman made a racist comment and I couldn’t let it slide. I was installing a floor mesh and called Manny to give me a hand shifting it. Manny was forty feet from me so I had to yell for him to hear. I shouted to him in Spanish like we always spoke to each other. All of a sudden the foreman, Mike – ‘Beason’, I think – was standing in front of me.   ‘Hey Steve,’ he said, ‘I don’t mind you speaking Spanish on my site, but keep it down, okay? You’re not out at the bar trying to impress some chicks…’

‘Uh, I was just asking Manny to come help–’

‘I don’t give a shit. I said no screaming no Mexican on my site. Comprende?’

Blood rushed to my face. Who the fuck was this drop-out-asshole talking to?  I dropped my hickey and took a step towards him. Luckily Manny ran up held me back. 

‘Were you going to hit me, Steve?’ the foreman said. ‘Are you fucking crazy?’ 

By now I was in a full rage and swinging my arms around Manny trying to get a-hold of the racist fuck. ‘Fuck you, you stupid hoser. I’m Colombian. I’m a real worker not some union-protected-fuck like you!’  

Manny walked me to the parking lot as I continued spitting insults at the foreman. ‘What the fuck, brother?’ Manny said when we got to his car. 

‘What do you mean, ‘what the fuck’? Did you hear that shit he said?’

‘He’s the foreman. He can say whatever he wants.’

‘So I’m supposed to just let him be a racist?’

Manny frowned. ‘Yeah. You are.’ 

I was still incensed. ‘You know, you’re worse than he is. You’re ashamed of your country. You wish you were fucking white!’ 

Manny’s face reddened and I thought he was going to hit me. But he just turned and walked away. My mind was still drugged with anger so I didn’t recognize what I’d just said to my best friend. I grabbed my bag from Manny’s car and went to go find a bus back to Manny’s apartment. Fucking idiot, Este. Fortunately, when Manny came home from work that night, I had enough sense to apologize to him for what I’d said. 

‘It’s nothing brother. Forget about it,’ he said.

Of course, I wasn’t asked back to work the day after my run-in with the foreman and I was rarely called to work the rest of the fall. I wasn’t all-to bothered by it. With my newly-freed time and passable financial situation, I could see some of Ottawa’s tourist attractions. In my first week off work, I went to the National Gallery, The Museum of Civilization, and Parliament Hill. Parliament was my favourite. I took a guided tour of it and the guide described how our system of government could be traced back to England’s ruler-subject agreement of 1215 AD, the Magna Carta.  I asked the guide whether she thought that a thousand-year-old system from a foreign country was still the most appropriate system for ruling our own. A friendly debate ensued between us and we bantered playfully throughout the remainder of the tour. Then, after the tour had finished, I told her I’d enjoyed talking to her and asked whether she’d like to get a coffee or a beer some time.  

‘Sure,’ she said, and gave me her phone number.     I felt happier and less angry with some time away from work and not going out every night. Also, the Parliament tour guide and I had coffee one day in late October and it was great. Her name was Sara Sinclair. She was finishing her masters in political theory at U of O and making some extra cash as a guide. She was very smart and agreed with many of my social criticisms, albeit less emotionally so.  

Sara and I started seeing each other regularly.  She lived in the Glebe, an old middle-class area of the city. We went to movies and talked politics over strong, local beers. She had a lot of work to do so I sometimes felt like an afterthought, but other than that, things were going well.  

At Christmas, Sara invited me to her family’s in Napanee, a small town two hours southwest. I was happy to go, but the trip ended in disaster. We rented a car and drove down on Christmas Eve’s day with the plan of spending two nights at her parents’ and driving back Boxing Day. When we got there I could feel a tension in the air. Sara and her mother spoke in monosyllables and her father hardly said a word. Her younger brother muttered ‘hello’ to me and gave me dirty look.  

Things boiled over when we were all seated at the dinner-table and Sara’s father asked me if I would ask the blessing.

I was thrown. Sara had never said anything the least bit religious. ‘Sorry, Mr. Sinclair but I’m not religious…’

He looked at his wife then at Sara. ‘Not religious? You mean you not only brought home a Mexican, but a heathen?’

Sara was on her feat. ‘Fuck you, Dad,’ she yelled. ‘You a fucking bigot!’  

‘Hey, don’t talk to your father like that, young lady!’ said her mom.

‘You’re as racist as he is!’ 

I was embarrassed by the commotion I’d caused, but strangely, not angry. I excused and went and sat in the living room while the Sinclairs swore and screamed at each other. About ten minutes later, the voices quieted Sara came into the living room. Her eyes wet from crying. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

We drove back to Ottawa in the pitch black. For about an hour Sara lambasted her family and hometown for their ignorance and prejudice. Then she lay her head on my shoulder and fell asleep.  

We pulled up to her house in the Glebe an hour later and I walked her up to her apartment. I saw her into bed and she asked me to stay the night. I wasn’t tired and knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I kissed her goodnight and went and got back in the car.  

Staring at the grey foundation of Sara’s building in the headlights, I felt a sudden urge to be in Montreal. I put the car in gear and head out on the two-hundred kilometers drive there.  We’d rented the car for another day anyway. The evergreen moonscape between Ottawa and Montreal was even lonelier at night but I made it safely to Montreal’s northwestern suburbs some time around 2AM. I continued Jean-Talon without bating an eye. I felt like being downtown, in the beating heart of the city.   

I turned onto the 20 East and the downtown skyline appeared in front of me.  I got off at Peel and drove east along St. Catherine’s. The city’s busiest commercial area was almost deserted. All the shoppers and restaurant-goes – even the strip-club patrons – were apparently at home with their loved ones. I stopped at the Nickel’s at the Eaton’s Centre for something to eat. I ordered a smoked meat sandwich and an Ex. The fatty deli meat, skunky beer and blasé server were a welcomed signs of home.  

My thoughts turned to my first home – Bogota – and my dad. I remembered it was a rare, sunny day in January, the height of the rainy season. I was in my room playing with Luis when I heard a knock at the front door. Mom went to answer it and, curious kid that I was, I peeked out of our bedroom to see who was there.  

It was my uncle and he looked unusually stern. He told Mom to sit down in the kitchen and she did. Then he walked past her to mine and Luis’s room. ‘Stay in here with your brother, Este,’ he said as he closed the door in my face. A minute later I heard a scream from the kitchen that haunts me to this day.  It was Mom yelling ‘Noooo!’ Her voice was almost unrecognizable. It sounded like something between a mule being whipped and a baby’s cry. It was sub-human. I sat down beside Luis on the bed afraid. Luis soon started to tremble, knowing even less what was going on.

When the noise finally let up my uncle came to our room and opened the door. He walked in and knelt down in front of us.  He grabbed each of our knees with his large hands. ‘Estaban, Luis – I have sad news. Your father was killed in an accident at work.  A bridge he was trying to repair collapsed on top of him…’ He looked at us and the information started to set in. Luis began to cry inconsolably and I looked back and forth between him and my uncle unsure what to say or do. Gradually, my uncle stood up. ‘This will change your world for years to come, Esteban. I am very sorry.’  A few tears ran down his face and he left.

I sat on the frozen for an hour listening to my brother and mother sob. Eventually, Luis exhausted himself and Mom gathered her herself enough to come tuck him in.  

It was hard growing up without a father, especially after moving to a new country and being a visible minority who didn’t speak either of the local languages.  I got life-hardened well ahead of my peers and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t resent it.  Mom did everything she could to support me and Luis but children need multiple parents even under the best of circumstances.  I suppose Montreal became a second parent of a kind. I certainly identified with it. It was also fractured by history and yet couldn’t speak of its deficits without being called a whiner.  

As I finished my sandwich and beer, I thought about my life’s current difficulties. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted I stay in Ottawa or working in construction. And there were sure to be difficulties ahead with Sara too. I should stay focused on making money until I got out of debt, I decided, and this plan satisfied me for the moment.    

I paid my bill, got up, and left the restaurant. I walked towards the rental car and looked up College-McGill at the eastern face of Mount Royal. It reminded me of Monserrate, the ten-thousand foot mountain just south of Bogota. Mount Royal was an ant-hill by comparison, but it was still an immovable and naturally occurring. It had always been there and always would. I could go anywhere and it would be here when I got back.

I got in the car and drove home to spend Christmas with my mom and brother.