All day Solomon sat in the Carleton University library, wondering how in hell he was going to extricate himself from the mess his life had become. He owed the school over two grand, and even though he qualified for a reduction of twelve hundred bucks, due to an international scholarship, they just told him he missed the deadline. It was too late for him to file for the reduction in fees. Mid-August and he still wasn't registered for September classes. And he only needed four more classes to graduate from the criminology program. Damn.
When night came, he went home, took a brief shower and put on his black and blue security uniform. Then he endured the hour-long bus ride to the west end of Ottawa, where a certain supermarket hired him as overnight security. The big and tall young black man was intensely aware of the stares he got as he neared the mostly white suburban area. You don't belong here, the sea of white faces around him seemed to say silently. Sighing, he grabbed his backpack and made his way through the parking lot. Once inside the store, he looked for a clerk or cashier. A short white gal with mousy brown hair told him the manager had already left. Awesome, he told himself.
He went to the washroom and took a leak, then washed his hands. When he came out, he was greeted by the same short chick from before. The assistant manager will see you now, she said evenly. Nodding, he followed her to the office upstairs. Hello I'm Bill, said a chubby white guy in his mid-fifties. Hello Bill I'm Solomon, he said as he shook the older man's clammy hand. The assistant manager told him that the store closed at eleven and from eleven to seven he'd be on deck, patrolling the floors and aisles while the cleaners did their work and then left. We just want you around just in case something happens, Bill said. Your workplace is in safe hands, Solomon told them with a wry grin.
He went to wait on a bench by the washrooms as the minutes ticked by. At ten fifty three all the shoppers were gone, leaving behind only the cashiers. The last one left at eleven ten. Solomon breathed a sigh of relief once he realized he was alone. He liked it better this way. He'd been working as a security guard ever since 2010, when his parents sent him to study at a university in Ottawa, Ontario. Why they made him leave his beloved Boston, Massachusetts, for the most boring town in Canada, he'd never know. One bar fight with some bigoted white dude who called him by a slur and his conservative Haitian parents got scared. He wasn't even charged. The case was dropped once the cops reviewed a tape of the bar owner's racist son calling him the N-word in front of his friends. Boston, the town where Barack Obama studied law, and where Deval Patrick got elected Governor of New England's flagship state, didn't tolerate blatant racism. They preferred it covert like the polite New Englanders they were. All this fuss that night at the bar because he was a young black man dating a white lady. Racism is everywhere, he told his parents. Yet his folks still felt Boston wasn't the right place for him. You need to get a grip on your temper and some fresh air, they told him. Apparently, fresh air and anger management meant Canada.
Solomon sighed, and thought of all the odd turns his life had taken. When he went out with Deborah that night he never imagined it would change his life forever. He'd known her since his days at Hyde Park Academy. The tall, red-haired and green-eyed white chick who was "down with the brothers". When he ran into her at the University of Massachusetts in Boston, he was thrilled. They renewed their friendship, and lo and behold, it turned into a mutual attraction. They began dating, and they were actually volunteering in the early efforts for Barack Obama's re-election campaign when he took her to that bar near campus. When it rains it frigging pours, Solomon thought sourly. Walking through the empty supermarket in Ottawa's west end, he wondered what Deborah was up to this very moment. They hadn't kept in touch since he left Boston. Sometimes they emailed each other on Facebook, that was it.
Solomon shook his head, and was snapped out of his reverie by his phone buzzing. It was Yasmina Ibrahim, the tall, pretty and curvaceous Somali-Canadian gal he met at the bus stop near his on-campus apartment at the other end of Ottawa. Hello big daddy, she texted him. In spite of his troubles, Solomon couldn't help but smile. How he met Yasmina was a funny story. When he first came to Ottawa, he missed Boston sorely. This place is a prison, he told himself as he gazed at the environs of the Canadian capital. He missed his vibrant and racially diverse New England town, where black men could be elected Governors of the State and university presidents. A place where the American Dream was alive and well.
To him, Ottawa seemed like pure hell with its politely xenophobic people, its decidedly weird socio-religious politics, and the tension with which white Canadians and non-European immigrants dealt with one another. At least in the States people were more honest about their feelings concerning race and religion. The average American thought of Islam as a religion by, for and about terrorism. They also thought of Hispanics as an invading force trying to change America from within. Yeah, American bigotry was open and honest. In Canada, it was hidden but ever-present. Yeah, he hated the place. And then along came Yasmina.
The first time he decided to walk all over Ottawa on his own, far away from the university campus residence he'd grown familiar with, he got hopelessly lost. He quickly learned that white Canadians weren't eager to give directions to a six-foot-six African-American male with a thick New England accent. Growing frustrated, he clicked on the GPS on his phone, and was faring slightly better...until his battery ran low. Shit. That's when he saw...her. A tall, curvy young black woman clad in a long-sleeved blue T-shirt, long black skirt and some type of dark blue scarf wrapped around her head. Hello brother you look lost, she said with a smile. He looked her up and down. I guess I am, he said hesitantly. He wanted to know where the Rideau Shopping Center was, and nobody on Bronson Avenue seemed to know. He figured the bigoted bozos wouldn't lift a finger to help him. Canadian politeness my ass, he thought.
