American Boy

Author's notes: Someone once complained I write "Marxist erotica" which made me laugh so hard I had to write the most leftist story I could come up with.

But at the end of the day, it's my typical brand of saccharine romance that's designed to give the reader diabetes, and our main characters wouldn't get together if not for all the political upheaval earlier on.

"Ten minutes to show time," Phin Delgado heard his boss tap his cubicle wall a couple of times as he whizzed past on his way to the conference room. For his part, Phin was typing so furiously on his laptop he was sure it would soon begin to smoke.

Fuuuuuckkkk,

he fumed, livid with himself for forgetting an integral part of his presentation. It was already submitted and shared among his team but at least he could write up the remainder now and slip it in. There were going to be assistant VPs at this meeting so this was

not

the one to fuck up.

Sure, no kid sits in the eighth grade thinking he wants to be in marketing when he grows up but there came a time when Phin had been wise enough to admit he wasn't going to love any job no matter what it was, so he might as well get one that paid. All work nowadays felt like it was designed to exploit anyone who made less than $200K.

Especially corporate work, considering the hoops he was expected to jump through for this godforsaken presentation.

He grabbed the sheets he'd just finished typing up hot out of the printer, and fast-walked toward the conference room, convinced everyone there would see him sweating through his suit. A bleak, dilapidated skyline greeted him out the fifteenth-floor picture window, like it'd been born in the 1930s and was on its last legs.

No kid stares out the window in eighth grade, dreaming of living in Cleveland, Ohio when they grow up either, but here he was, landing on this job before he jumped to the next, higher-paying one. No babies, no girlfriend, a month-to-month rent, and no attachments.

Well, one small attachment, but that was during his nights, transferable, and only as needed.

"Hope I'm not late," he fake-smiled at the assembly of three-thousand-dollar suits in the largest conference room the company had.

"Nope, you're right on time, Phin," his boss told him. "Brett's just about to start." Phin missed a step but recovered just as quickly. He leaned in close while placing his folders on the table.

"Harold, I thought we agreed I'd lead on this," he whispered. Luckily, there was still a low murmur in the room as others trickled in, and his voice went unnoticed.

"Brett was in here early setting up, he asked me, and I said sure," Harold responded. "You're all part of the same team." At seeing his star report's face look less than impressed as he sat down, Harold put his hand on Phin's shoulder. "You're already a leader," he consoled him. "Let him have this."

Speaking of eighth grade, this was another part of it that stayed maddeningly consistent into adulthood—being the one kid who did the work in the group project, only for everyone to get credit.

Still, Harold had always been good to him and he liked it that he was a laid-back manager who let him produce without breathing down his neck. Which was why he needed to let him know there was a major flaw with the presentation. But Brett had already started talking, and there hadn't been a chance to alert him.

Yes, he disliked Brett, but this wasn't about him, Phin tried to remind himself. He attempted to inconspicuously slide the supplementary sheets over, then subtly raised his forefinger—not the finger he'd wanted to raise—and pointed to his work. Brett looked over at him, his face dripping with condescension, and proceeded to shoot himself in the foot.

"Hold tight, you'll get your turn, muchacho."

Ohhhhh, fuck you, frat boy. Gloves are fucking off now.

This wasn't the first time Brett had smugly dismissed Phin, nor was it the first time he'd weaponised his Mexican (or Jewish) heritage to do so. But it was going to be the last.

Phin leaned back in his seat, as relaxed as he'd be while watching a movie, and stuffed his papers back into their folder. When Brett finally wrapped it up, there were a few perfunctory questions, then the most convenient pause.

"Any ideas on what the blended CPA would be?" one of the AVPs asked. Brett stared back at her and Phin swore he heard him shit himself in the ensuing silence.

"Well, I did go over the costs on the third or fourth slide—"

"That's fine, but it's not what I'm asking," the AVP interrupted. "I need the direct

and

indirect costs for acquiring clients. You haven't mentioned overhead, salaries...?" She shrugged as if she were a professor lecturing a student in a first-year university commerce class.

Brett looked at Phin again, who was putting on an Oscar-worthy performance at fake-studying the contents of his folders.

Never interrupt your enemy when he's making a mistake,

he thought, his face expressionless.

"Harold?" the AVP questioned his boss, who looked to Phin, his face the picture of agitation. "Has

anyone

on this team thought about blended CPA? If not, I'm stunned you overlooked such an important metric."

Phin stared back at Harold, a shadow of a smirk threatening to cross his face. He raised his eyebrows as if to say, "See?" and held the moment for as long as he could before putting his boss out of his misery.

"I think I have your answer if I can have the floor," he smoothly stood up, locking eyes with Brett. This was all just a poor imitation of the animal kingdom, and he was establishing dominance. The difference was, animals were just animals while he was being an asshole combatting another worse, more pompous and less competent asshole.

Phin deftly answered the AVP's question and then hit several more questions out of the park, hoping Harold got the message that Brett wouldn't have survived even one deeply analytical query about the presentation he had begged to take the lead on.

"Was that really necessary?" Harold caught up to him when he was halfway to his desk after the meeting had finished.

"I did exactly what you told me to," Phin replied, nonplussed. "I let him have it."

"But did you have to do it like... well, like

that

?"

"Harold, what I did was the best possible outcome you could have hoped for, considering you allowed a total shithead to be lead presenter. I could have stayed quiet, let it all burn, then went to HR for that 'muchacho' crack."

Harold knew when to leave well enough alone, and he knew Phin had only made his entire department look good with the way he'd unassumingly dominated that meeting. He also knew a talent like Phin wasn't going to be working for him for long.

Phin had all but forgotten that kerfuffle when he came in the following Monday, and he was glad Brett hadn't yet worked up the nerve to wish him a good morning. Still, it was curious Harold had texted that he wanted to see him first thing.

"What's up?" he asked, closing the door upon Harold's motioning.

"How was your weekend?" Harold tried, knowing deep down there was no point easing into anything with Phin.

"Well, you know what they say," the younger man replied, plopping himself into the armchair facing his boss. "No face, no case."

"Right. My fault for asking." Harold cleared his throat and decided to dive right in. "I have good news and bad news," he started. "Two things happened over the weekend for me. Brett... had some words about you, and so did a few others."

"What did Marky Mark and The Funky Bunch have to say this time?" Phin smirked.

"That part's not important," Harold skirted. "What also happened is that the AVPs were very impressed with your performance Friday. This isn't public knowledge yet, but there will be a new office opening up and they want you to help get it off the ground."

Phin straightened up like a meerkat. This might be the shot he'd been chasing.

"It's only for a week," Harold stopped him when he saw his eyes brighten. "But who knows, it could lead to more. It's just a business trip but please take this, Phin. God knows everyone around here would do well with the cooling off period." He was relieved to see his protégé's grin.

"I'm never going to say no to a free vacation," he nodded. "As long as it's not in like, Buttfuck, Iowa."

"I am unfamiliar with such a town in the state of Iowa," Harold deadpanned, making Phin burst out laughing. "No one else will be told you're on this trip because you know there will be people cranky they weren't offered the chance." He ruffled through a folder with several vouchers and itineraries in it.

"It's in Toronto. Your flight leaves Thursday. You find the office space and settle in Friday. The weekend is yours, but I suggest you spend some of it reviewing these resumés for interviews starting Monday." He pushed another stack of papers toward Phin. "They've hired a security guard but it'll just be you and him there. Signage is going up as we speak."

"So I'm just doing round one, and then I hand off the callbacks to some corporate jackass?"

"That's the gist," Harold nodded. He loved Phin, but he couldn't get him to Toronto fast enough.

***********

As the dusk darkened over the downtown Toronto skyline, Phin hurriedly stuffed his backpack with two water bottles, goggles, and extra bandanas. His hotel room gave him an amazing view of Lake Ontario in the distance, and the CN Tower off to one side. He figured that was the direction he'd be headed to get to the rally tonight.

No face, no case,

he thought. Getting arrested in the States was no problem since he'd always had someone to call and knew the laws of every state he'd every protested in. He layered his Not In Our Name t-shirt over a long-sleeved shirt that covered his forearm tattoos, while contemplating whether a hoodie would be safer or just impede his peripheral vision.

Stuffing his ID and hotel key card in his cargo jeans—in case he was separated from his backpack—he smiled at how colourful Canadian money was while counting out a few of the polymer bills to keep in his other pocket.

If he

did

get arrested, this would probably be his 20

th

, Phin guessed while packing a saline solution he'd mixed earlier. He knew most women would probably look at his yen to be a part of any resistance march and think he was bonkers, starting with his mother who'd begged him to stay home from his first march as a teenager.

"You're Jewish, you raised me Jewish, and you're saying I

shouldn't

stand up for people who are being targeted by the state?" he'd pointedly questioned her. He smiled at the memory of her putting her phone in his pocket as a backup and making him promise to call his dad's phone at least once that night.

He wore his face mask right out of the hotel as he headed to the meeting spot, not knowing if and where this city's streets had CCTV cameras set up. It was a pleasant Spring night, which meant more turnout, which could mean an incident, which would probably mean a weekend march specifically against the police.

"You know, maybe some of them are just bad at their jobs," Phin heard a voice behind him about an hour in, as the crowd headed across Lake Shore Boulevard. After the initial rally and march had started off, he'd begun thinking he'd overprepared—Canadian marches were a lot more subdued than anything he'd seen back home.

"Do you ever think maybe they just need better training?" That phrase got Phin's hackles up and he turned around instinctively to see who just wouldn't shut up behind him.

"Dude, I don't even know you," the young man walking beside the first guy replied. His hair was in neat cornrows and he wore a red jacket. "I'd like to march in silence, thanks." But the first guy pressed on.

"The police are people too, and some of them just make mistakes. This whole 'all cops are bad' thing—"

"I'm gonna stop you right there, Officer," Phin dropped back, putting himself right between the two men. "First of all, you're doing as good a job pretending to be a civilian as Steve Buscemi did pretending to be a teenager. Second, it's 'all cops are

bastards

,' not 'bad.'" He looked him square in the eye without breaking his pace.

"I don't fucking care if you're a good guy outside your job; you chose to work for a system that started from slave-catchers and still takes orders from rich, powerful people against folks who are predominantly poor and non-white. You could have done

anything

else with your life and you chose to eat shit for a living."

"Look, keep your voice down," the undercover officer said. "There are always a few bad apples but—"

"What's the rest of that saying?" Phin queried, clearly annoyed. "A few bad apples

spoil

the barrel. Do 'bad cops' get thrown out and are never allowed to join another police force? No, they're put on paid leave, then quietly reinstated. By your own analogy, the barrel went rotten a long time ago and the farmer doesn't give a shit."

The man fell silent. When Phin looked back on that moment years later, he knew it was the exact point his life changed.

"Yeah, you know what, I'm going to have to take you in."

Holy fuck, no,

Phin thought. That was the problem when things went a little too well—he got comfortable and ran his mouth.

"On what charge?" he asked, trying to keep his breath steady.

"I'm sure I'll think of something," the cop muttered while reaching back for his cuffs. But before he could make a move, the young man in the red jacket pushed past them and jumped up on an adjacent sidewalk bench. Phin hadn't even known he was still there.

"This guy's a cop, everyone!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "He's trying to make trouble and arrest people with no grounds! COP!!"

And that's when it all went to shit.

Phin didn't know who shoved him or just how he ended up on the pavement, but he did know the warm trickle of blood on his forehead when he felt it. Decently covered in the melée by all the chaos around him, he crawled over to a dumpster and then steadied himself. His water had fallen out of his bag, but he still had everything else that could identify him.

Then he ran like fucking hell.

***********

"Hey, we're out of syrup, Imma go get some in the back." Qadira Hashem was in the middle of making a tall soy mocha latté with a laundry list of extras, so she didn't see what her co-worker was trying to escape.

"Which syrup, Jen?" she asked without looking back or up as she carefully pumped the caramel sauce. One spill and she'd have to start this monstrosity over again. Jennie's long braids flipped over her shoulder as she zipped into the back.

"Uhhh, the yellow one. Be back in five."

"The yellow one?" That's when Qadira spotted him and her soul instantly filled with both understanding and dread.

"Hey, gorgeous," the stocky customer before her smiled.

February,

Qadira calculated.

And now it's May. This jackass has been coming around here for three months now.

She'd tried wearing a fake engagement ring or remaining polite, but when he wasn't hitting on her, he was hitting on the other female staff. Which was likely why Jennie split.

If his entire presence wasn't a big red flag, a smaller beige flag was that he always gave her a different name to write on his order.

Imagine trying to flirt with a woman for months on end and never once giving her a normal name,

she'd thought.

Ohhhhh, Jennie, you are going to pay for this.

"Um, hello... Batman, is it?" she said out loud. At least he'd been Batman last time. Idolising a billionaire who chose to dress up as a bat instead of going to therapy was another beige flag.

"Not today, sweetheart, it's the Green Lantern," he grinned.

JFC, he's gonna go through the entire Justice League, isn't he?

"The usual?" she asked politely, trying to stay behind the tallest part of the display window as much as possible so he couldn't check her out so obviously. As she made his drink, the front door of the café swung open and a man barreled through, bleeding and out of breath. He plunked himself down into a booth to recover, which was when Qadira noticed more and more people running down the street outside.

"What's going on out there?" she asked no one in particular as she concernedly stepped out from behind the counter.

"Dammit, it's my fault," the young man huffed, as he peeled his backpack off his sweat-soaked Not In Our Name t-shirt. He took out a few napkins from the dispenser and held it to his forehead.

"Hold on, let me get you an ice pack," she offered, not knowing what he meant. His fault? There were plenty of marches in downtown Toronto throughout the year, but pretty much none that ended in violence. Putting a cold compress to his head and setting down a water bottle before him, Qadira went about pulling all the shades down.

"Are you running from the cops?" Green Lantern asked. The man in the booth threw him a wary glance.

"I'm just... I'm just running like everyone else."

He gulped down the water between gasps until his breath had slowed down to a ragged but even rhythm. Qadira brought him a second bottle and sat with him in the booth to make sure he didn't seem drowsy. When the commotion on the street slowed down, she went back behind the counter to finish making Green Lantern's coffee.

"You're sure you're not feeling sleepy?" she called out to the guy in the booth. "Um, you with the backpack?"

"Phin," he replied, raising a hand while still half-slumped.

"You have such a big heart, Qadira, caring about strangers like that," Green Lantern jumped in, trying to redirect her attention toward him. "It's really a shame." Phin cocked an eyebrow while taking another swig of water. Clearly, he'd missed something.

"A shame?" Qadira muttered while topping his drink off with extra foam.

"Yes, that it gets to pump inside you all the time and I don't."

Phin sprayed out a mouthful of water, half-laughing and half-choking, fully aware of the horrified look on the pretty barista's face. Whatever this girl was getting paid, it wasn't enough.

"You're fucking kidding me, right?" He knew this was going to be the second time in that same hour his mouth would get him in trouble, but he couldn't let that one go.

"Hey, stay out of this, buddy," Green Lantern cautioned.

"You honestly think you're going to get anything but a restraining order with that line?" Phin pressed. "First of all, she's at work. If you think she's been nice to you for however long you've been stalking her—at her job—that's literally

her job

to be nice to you."

"Look, I'm only going to tell you—"

"Furthermore, she and every other human require much, much more than the two or three pumps you've got to offer during any given session."

The barista surreptitiously tried to cover her mouth when it fell open, and Phin was glad he could provide a tiny inkling of relief to her when she'd been so kind to him. The asshole tapped his card, grabbed his drink, and left with a sneer, which is when the barista let out her breath.

"Believe me," she said, pulling free her apron, "I'd wanted to say something like that for a long time to that guy. Thank you, Phin."

"He deserved worse, Ms....?"

"Qadira."

"That's beautiful," Phin smiled. He'd never heard that name before. Then again, there weren't a lot of folks from the Middle East back in Ohio. "Maybe you should think of switching shifts."

"He's here throughout the day, unfortunately. And I'm only really here until I finish my course requirements in a few months," she smiled back as she moved his ice pack further up on his head. They both glanced behind the counter as the supply room door clicked open.

"He gone?" Jennie asked.