Lori Fox - This Has Always Been a War: The Radicalization of a Working Class Queer

THIS HAS ALWAYS BEEN A WAR

Copyright 2022 by Lori Fox

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any part by any meansgraphic, electronic, or mechanicalwithout the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may use brief excerpts in a review, or in the case of photocopying in Canada, a licence from Access Copyright.

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The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the British Columbia Arts Council for its publishing program, and the Government of Canada, and the Government of British Columbia (through the Book Publishing Tax Credit Program), for its publishing activities.

Arsenal Pulp Press acknowledges the xmkym (Musqueam), Swxw7mesh (Squamish), and slilwta (Tsleil-Waututh) Nations, custodians of the traditional, ancestral, and unceded territories where our office is located. We pay respect to their histories, traditions, and continuous living cultures and commit to accountability, respectful relations, and friendship.

Cover and text design by Jazmin Welch

Edited by Catharine Chen

Proofread by Alison Strobel

Printed and bound in Canada

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication:

Title: This has always been a war : the radicalization of a working-class queer / Lori Fox.

Names: Fox, Lori, author.

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20210390212 | Canadiana (ebook) 20210390387 | ISBN 9781551528779 (softcover) | ISBN 9781551528786 (HTML)

Subjects: LCSH: Working class. | LCSH: Capitalism. | LCSH: Minorities. | LCSH: Patriarchy. | LCSH: Working classSocial conditions. | LCSH: CapitalismSocial aspects. | LCSH: MinoritiesSocial conditions. | LCSH: PatriarchySocial aspects. | LCSH: MinoritiesEmploymentSocial aspects. | LCSH: Queer theory.

Classification: LCC HD4904 .F69 2022 | DDC 305.5/62dc23

For my people, the working classes, who cook the meals and pick the fruit, who serve the tables and stock the shelves, who work the gigs and deliver the orders.

We are the makers and builders and doers of this world, and all that is in it belongs to us.

A bank isnt like a man. Or an owner with fifty thousand acres, he isnt like a man either. Thats the monster.

JOHN STEINBECK, The Grapes of Wrath, 1939

SO, HE SAID, Are you a real Scottish lass? His cigarette, still lit, burned in the red plastic ashtray.

I paused. The man had paid in cash; Id been looking down while I made change from my billfold. Id made him pay up front because he was sketching me out, and I didnt want to be stuck with the bill if he pulled a dine and dash. When I glanced up at him, he was straight-faced, casual-like, as if he were merely remarking on the weather, not asking me if I was wearing panties.

This wasnt the first time Id heard this question, nor the first time Id heard it phrased this way. I worked at a pub which billed itself as authentically Scottish, so wearing a kilt was part of my uniform. There seemed to be a bevy of men in Ottawa who believed real Scottish women did not wear underwear. The question was always posed by a man just like this onewhite, middle-aged, professionally dressedand always in a light, playful voice, as if they were being boyish and charming and not piggy little fucks at all.

It was very late, creeping up on closing time. It had rained hard a few hours before, all the patios had cleared out, and Id been wiping down the salt and pepper shakers, toying with the idea of closing up when hed strolled in. Hed ignored the Please Wait sign at the front gate and seated himself in the back corner, against the wall. The street was empty and very dark. I was working alone. Its a universal truth that any timein any city in any part of the worldif a server so much as contemplates the idea of closing the bar twenty minutes early, someone will wander in looking for service and be an absolute douche about it, so I suppose it was really my fault he was there, bridging the gap between probable scuzzbag and pervert in under five minutes flat.

He was still looking at me, staring with that familiar, cockeyed expression middle-aged men seem to think makes them look intense and smouldering but really only makes them look like what they are, which is half-cut pathetic horndogs. Its hard to tell a customeron whose tips and goodwill a server relies for their daily breadthat youd rather eat a pound of broken glass than fuck them, so I batted my eyes and giggled, trying to make myself appear as small and stupid as possible.

In my very best server voicea grating falsetto several notes higher than my natural near-contraltoI said, Thats for me and my boyfriend to know. I didnt have a boyfriend, but at twenty-four I had been a queer long enough to know simply saying Im gay is not enough to deter straight men from continuing to hit on me, especially not the kind of man who would ask you whats under your kilt in the first place.

I pocketed my billfold and slipped away before he could reply. Hed already been a total creep, reaching out unbidden to stroke the edges of my bright half-sleeve of tattoos and becoming indignant when I wouldnt tell him what they meant or bend to his request to pull down the collar of my shirt to show him more of the indigo-blue swallow on my breastbone, and I honestly just wanted to bring him the pitcher hed ordered so I could slink off to marry the ketchups, strategically ignoring him until last call forced him to leave.

I went inside. The bartender, a hulking ex-football player type who could hoist a beer keg over each shoulder like he was carrying a couple bags of garden soil to his car in the Canadian Tire parking lot, was pouring the beer. He asked me why I looked so nervous, and I told him the guy on the patio was a red flag parade. He nodded. Holler if you need a hand, he said.

I took the pitcher and glass and went back out to the table. I made sure to smile, but to keep my eyes fixed on the far middle distance. As with any predator, you need to make sure you dont look a guy like that in the eyes. I could see him looking at the top of my breasts where my shirt was unbuttoned as I bent forward to deliver his drink. The pitcher, sweating beads of moisture, touched the metal surface of the tabletop.

Without changing his expression, without so much as blinking, the man shot his hand out and up under my kilt, reached between my legs, and grabbed my cunt.

He squeezed. I remember that squeeze very distinctly: dispassionate, commercial, as if he were considering the ripeness of a piece of fruit he was thinking about buying a basket of at the farmers market.

I squealed and, in a motion made smooth by thoughtless fury, upended the pitcher over his head. Sixty ounces of cold, frothy Molson Canadian poured down over him, dousing his expensive shirt, his garish designer sunglasses, his pack of Du Mauriers.