Lewis stood up and then sat back down on the bench. Quickly, without giving himself time to lose his nerve, he stood up again and walked across the street. He took his hands out of his pockets, opened the door of Ear Candy Records and stepped inside. The brown carpet needed vacuuming. A thin man wearing a green T-shirt and black jeans stood behind the counter, reading a magazine. He had the same hairstyle Lewis had had before his haircut in Winnipeg.
Lewis stood in front of the New Releases section, searching for a CD. It wasn’t there. He walked to the bins and flipped through the I’s from first to last. It wasn’t there, either. Putting his hands back in his pockets, Lewis reluctantly walked to the front counter, where the clerk continued reading.
“Um,” Lewis said. “There’s a record I can’t seem to find.”
“Yeah?” the clerk said. He put his index finger on the place where he’d been reading and scratched his scruffy beard.
“The Impostors?”
The clerk looked at Lewis. Lewis watched for signs of recognition, but none appeared: a haircut and a change of clothes had been all he’d needed as a disguise. This made Lewis feel both very safe and very sad.
The clerk gave a tiny, dismissive laugh, then lifted his finger and returned to his magazine. “Try the mall,” he said, flipping the page.
“Excuse me?”
“We don’t have it.”
“You sound proud.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
The clerk looked up, closed his magazine and folded his hands on top of it. He leaned slightly forward. “Because it’s not really music,” he said. “It’s product.”
“It’s in the top five!”
“Exactly.”
“All over the world.”
“Hey, listen. I don’t want to come off as a snob,” the clerk said, raising his hands open-palmed in the air. “You can listen to whatever you want. But I mean, that band’s a one-hit wonder, and it’s already over. If you want some pop music, that’s fine, that’s great, but why don’t you try some Abba? Or the Beach Boys? Maybe the Cars? Greatest hits, anyway. Really, I can show you some great stuff.”
“Can you show a little more respect?”
“Hey, wait, I mean—”
“You know she’s dead?”
“Yeah, I heard that. Weird, eh?”
“You should be sorry,” Lewis yelled. “You should be very, very sorry!”
Lewis was suddenly unable to stop yelling. Every part of his body seemed to be yelling. His fists were yelling, his ears were yelling. His feet yelled at the floor as he walked across it, pushed the door open and left.
Lewis would never have met his wife if he hadn’t let his sister cut his hair during Christmas break of grade twelve. As with most siblings, Lewis’s relationship with his sister had involved a strange mixture of envy, hostility and loyalty. But when Joanne moved to Vancouver to take a job cutting hair at a friend’s salon, Lewis was surprised to discover that he missed her. He was even more surprised to learn that Joanne missed him too. When she came home for the holidays, they stayed up together, drinking rum and eggnog and watching the Christmas specials they’d formerly squabbled in front of. Nostalgia seeped into everything, and on Christmas Eve, after their parents had gone to bed, Joanne asked if she could cut his hair.
Lewis didn’t see how he could say no. Joanne tied a towel around his neck as he sat on a chair in the kitchen. She did not ask how he wanted his hair to be cut, she simply started. Bits of hair fell between the towel and his skin, and because of this Lewis would associate an itchy neck with transformation for the rest of his life.
She would not let him see the work in progress. Finally, with a great flourish, she removed the towel. Lewis ran upstairs. He locked the bathroom door. He closed his eyes. He moved in front of the mirror, took a very deep breath and, very slowly, opened his eyes. Joanne had cut his hair in a style Lewis would never have selected for himself. It was fashionable and hip. It was everything he wasn’t and everything he wanted to be. He ran downstairs and told her, without the irony that seasoned so many of their conversations, that it was the best Christmas present he’d ever had. Which was good, as it was the only one Joanne had for him.
The following Monday, the hostility Lewis received from the boys at school was more than compensated for by the attention he got from the girls. Donna Walter, who had previously ignored him completely even though her locker was right next to his, spent the time between third and fourth period talking to him. When the bell rang, she didn’t move, so Lewis didn’t either. The hallway filled with students. Donna continued to look at him. He continued to lean against his locker. The hallway emptied, and the bell for fourth period rang.
“Don’t you have class?” she asked.
“Sheet-Metal Welding.”
Donna took two steps backwards, turned and walked away. Lewis waited and was rewarded when Donna looked over her shoulder four steps later, smiling. Lewis returned her smile, briefly, then began walking to Sheet-Metal Welding. Compared with his first successful flirtation, being five minutes late for shop class didn’t seem like a big deal. The only downside was that, by the time he arrived, everyone already had a partner and the only empty seat was next to Lisa Reynolds.
Lisa Reynolds was unpopular. Her hair was black, shoulder-length and lank at a time when everyone else’s was short, shiny and blond. She wore T-shirts for bands that only fathers had heard of. She seemed to smile all the time, and her teeth had gaps and were crooked. She didn’t carry books, binders or a pencil case, but any time a teacher asked her a question she knew the answer, and this, above all else, made her uncool. But even worse than any of those transgressions was that Lisa Reynolds took shop. In a school of close to a thousand students, she was the only girl who did so.
Lewis sat down beside her. Lisa waited for him to introduce himself. She waited in vain. No words passed between them. The end of the period was nearing when Lisa said the only thing that could possibly have made Lewis give her his full attention. She was not flattering him. She was not being manipulative. She simply said exactly what was on her mind, as was her habit.
“We should start a band,” she said. “You could be the lead singer.”
Throughout the rest of the semester, very little sheet-metal welding got done. Lewis and Lisa used fourth period to fabricate their band instead. They didn’t buy instruments or take music lessons. Instead, they concentrated on what the band’s name would be and what they would look like onstage. From January 7 to January 10 they both liked the name The Stranger Things. The Stranger Things was envisioned as a large band, with an all-male horn section wearing identical brown tuxedos with baby blue ruffled shirts. There would be female backup singers dressed in tight knee-length skirts and white silk blouses. They’d play soul music, but there would also be two synthesizer players with new-wave haircuts to give the band a contemporary edge.
Then Lisa spent a Sunday afternoon skimming her sister Rebecca’s Greek Mythology textbook, and the band’s name was changed to Myth of Sisyphus. In this band, Lisa would stand mid-stage in a blue spotlight, singing nonsensical lyrics. Three cello players dressed in formal wear would play to her right. Lewis would wander across the stage, playing different musical instruments, such as guitar, banjo, xylophone and toy piano.
The following week they became Unwashed Teen Punk Band, soon shortened to Teen Punk Band. This marked a significant and irreversible evolution. As a punk band, they would not require musical talent—they had invented a band they could actually form. Although the name changed daily, the band remained a punk band for the next seven weeks. By the middle of February, they were on the verge of buying guitars when Lisa admitted that she didn’t really want to be in a punk band. Lewis conceded that he had no desire to be in one either. Neither really felt that angry.
For seventeen days their band had no name. The dream began to fade, and Lisa and Lewis felt themselves drifting apart. Forming a band was downgraded from goal to aspiration to idea. Then Lisa purchased a Casio keyboard from a second-hand shop for seventeen dollars. By repeatedly complimenting him on his voice, she persuaded Lewis that this was all they needed.
They rehearsed in Lisa’s basement for three weeks. Since they couldn’t read music or play by ear, Lewis and Lisa decided to write a song instead of learning someone else’s. They called it “Sounds Like Something Forever.” It featured a very simple keyboard melody, and the lyrics, written by Lisa, told the story of best friends who discover true love in each other. On the last day of school before March break, at the final assembly Battle of the Bands, Lewis and Lisa performed their first gig.
They waited stage left as Threats of Youth, which Lisa and Lewis agreed was a fantastic name, finished to wild applause. Lewis and Lisa walked onstage. Lisa carried her Casio under her arm. Lewis had only his voice and his haircut. Lisa plugged in. Lewis looked at his feet, and they began to play.
Lewis was never able to remember details about the performance. He couldn’t remember how he sang, although he assumed poorly. He couldn’t remember how well Lisa played, although he believed badly, considering her instrument was a Casio keyboard. But what was clear in his mind was how, just after the second chorus and as the bridge began, he’d dared to look up, out into the audience, and was instantly transformed. All his life Lewis had felt alienated, separated and removed. During the performance, these feelings remained, but onstage the usual dynamic was inverted. He wasn’t being cast out but elevated. He didn’t feel rejected but acclaimed. He never wanted it to end.
There was little applause. They did not win the competition. But two days later they decided to move to Halifax and study at the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design. It was a decision that seemed to arrive premade with the course calendar and application forms. Neither Lisa nor Lewis had been to the east coast of Canada. They’d never lived away from their parents. They still hadn’t kissed. But they both applied and were accepted, and neither questioned this.
Three weeks before classes started, they arrived in Halifax, carrying one backpack each. They stayed at the Halifax International Hostel on the south end of Barrington Street. The hostel had a strict policy: unmarried men and women had to sleep in separate rooms. So every night Lisa would make sure she got a bottom bunk, which Lewis would sneak into shortly after three. They would hold each other for the rest of the night and then, just before sunrise, Lewis would return to his room.
Nine nights later they found a two-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor of a rundown building at the corner of Creighton and Cornwallis. The building swayed when the breeze was strong, but if Lisa stood on a chair in the corner of her room she had a harbour view. Every night Lewis would go to bed on his futon, crawl into Lisa’s bed an hour later and then return to his room just before the sun rose.
When school started, Lewis and Lisa began studying how to become artists. Since they couldn’t be sure whether they were artists or not, they mimicked those who were. They drank. They smoked constantly. They hung out in dive bars. Shortly after Christmas break, they started sleeping around. Or at least, Lisa did. Lewis, despite initial opportunities and enthusiasm, tired of it quickly.
At first, Lewis tried to ignore the late-night noises coming from Lisa’s side of the wall. When that failed, he tried to make art out of it. He took photos of the different shoes he found at the back door of his apartment. He created sculptures with the different brands of cigarettes left in the ashtray. He signed out microphones and tape decks from the AV department and made field recordings in the middle of the night.
Then one night Lewis put the pillow over his head, a blanket over the pillow and his hands over the blanket, but he still heard everything. When it was over, Lewis listened to the footsteps leaving Lisa’s room. These footsteps were heavy. They were not Lisa’s. Hearing the bathroom door close, Lewis opened the door of his bedroom. In three steps he was in front of Lisa’s door. He opened it. He stood, motionless and backlit from the light in the kitchen.
“Lewis?”
He did not reply. He stepped into her bedroom and onto her futon and pulled off the comforter. He stooped and gathered her up. Lisa did not speak or resist. She remained silent even as Lewis, with a bend of his knees, swung her over his shoulder and carried her out of the room. Lewis shut the door of his bedroom with his foot. He tossed Lisa onto his bed. He held the covers over their heads as the bathroom door opened.
“Lisa?” they heard the guy with the heavy footsteps whisper. “Lisa?”
They listened to him in her bedroom. They listened to him walk through the kitchen. They listened to him check the other rooms of the apartment. They listened to him put on his shoes and leave. When he had gone, Lewis said, “I’m jealous.”
“Finally.”
“Will you marry me?”
“Absolutely.”
That night they went all the way.
They were married, albeit in a civil ceremony, nineteen months later. After the wedding, Lisa and Lewis began working collaboratively. Four years later, for their thesis project, they decided to create a band. Not just start a band but create one, fully formed, as if it had sprung from their foreheads. They decided on the name: The Impostors. They created a logo. They silk-screened it onto T-shirts, then hung them in second-hand clothing stores. Posters for gigs never played were designed, printed, aged in the oven and stapled underneath older posters around town. Using Lisa’s Casio, they recorded a secret demo, which they burned onto CDs, labelled The Impostors—Demo. The CDs were left on buses and in coffee shops. They created a web page disguised as a fan site and leaked the demo to the Internet.
They received a passing grade for blurring the line between fiction and fact. The line was blurred even further three weeks later when Steven Tassle, then head of acquisitions at Broken Records, loved the demo, simply had to have it and personally flew to Halifax to sign the band. The only stipulation was that they rerecord “Sounds Like Something Forever” to be released as the first single.
Lewis did not realize how large a scene he had made until he was safely across the street and sitting once again on the bench. The record store clerk was looking at him through the front window of the store. Scratching his scruffy beard, the clerk talked on his cellphone, no doubt describing the customer who had lost it over a has-been pop band. Lewis’s palms were still wet. His heartbeat remained quick. He twisted his legs to the left so he wouldn’t be facing the record store, and this afforded him a view of a basketball court attached to a public school. There was only one person on the court, and it was Lisa.
Her dirty, straggly hair was pulled into a ponytail that seemed to sprout from the top of her head. After she jumped but before her feet landed on the ground, the ponytail stood completely upright, making her head look like the dot of an exclamation mark. She was dressed in a ripped greyish-white T-shirt, although there was no mustard stain over her nipple today.
Lewis watched as she practised her jump shot. In the time he sat on the bench, Lisa made seven rushes towards the hoop, none of which succeeded. On her eighth pass, she dribbled on the toe of her left foot and ended up kicking the ball to the far end of the court. This made Lewis laugh. His laughter caught Lisa’s attention. After retrieving the ball, she stood at the far end of the court and faced him, turning the orange basketball slowly in her hands.
Lewis lifted his right hand slightly, giving a small wave.
“Wanna play?” Lisa asked.
“Sure,” Lewis said. He got off the bench. He jogged around the fence and onto the court. He held out his hands to receive the ball.
“Let’s just start with twenty-one,” Lisa said. She passed Lewis the ball, and he moved to stand at the foul line.
“Who said you could start?” she asked.
“I just assumed.”
“Well, don’t.”
“You start, then.”
“Definitely,” Lisa said. She stood at the foul line with her toes slightly over it. She dribbled the ball three times. She held it tightly with both hands. She raised it. A look of intense concentration came over her face, and then she took her shot. The ball sailed through the air and over the backboard, landing in the grass on the other side.
Lewis laughed.
“Nothing. I’ll get it.”
Jogging, Lewis retrieved the basketball. He passed it back to Lisa. Again, she dribbled the ball. She raised it high. She shot. The ball sailed over the backboard without touching it.
Lewis laughed again.
“What?”
“I just thought … you know.”
“What?”
“I thought God might be a little better at shooting hoops,” Lewis said. Lisa glared at him, but Lewis was unable to eliminate the smile from his face. “I’ll give you a ten-point lead if you answer one simple question.”
“Shoot.”
“Where do we go when we die?”
“Go get the ball,” Lisa said, setting her hands on her hips. Lewis nodded and ran to the grass, returning with the ball. He passed it to her and Lisa dribbled it three times. “I have no idea,” she said. “I haven’t died, and I never will. Mortality is your thing, not mine.” Raising the ball, Lisa shot. The ball hit the rim and bounced back onto the grass.
“I’m not fetching it this time,” Lewis said.
Without protest, Lisa retrieved the basketball. She bounce-passed it to Lewis, who stood at the edge of the foul line. He raised the ball and shot. The ball sailed through the hoop.
Lisa chased it, and passed it to Lewis, who had not moved from the foul line. Lewis aimed. He shot. The ball went through the hoop again.
Lisa retrieved it. Lewis shot again. Again he scored. His next shot was also a winner, but the one that followed circled the rim and bounced out of the hoop. Lisa was quick to the rebound, retrieving the ball directly to the left of the basket. She raised it. She aimed. She brought the ball back down and held it against her hip. “I’ll tell you what,” she said. She leaned over to tie her right shoelace. Her shirt hung open, revealing her braless breasts. “If I make this shot, I win the game.”
“Why would I agree to that?”
“Because if I lose, I’ll tell you the meaning of life.”
“Lisa, I don’t really believe that you’re God.”
“That’s okay. I don’t really believe you’re a rock star.”
“Alright, then,” Lewis said. “Shoot.”
Lisa turned the ball slightly in her fingers. She raised it. She shot. The ball sailed through the air, missing both hoop and backboard completely. Together they watched the ball land on the grass, and then Lewis looked at Lisa expectantly.
“You idiot,” she said. “There is no meaning. There’s no plan. No script. It’s not a movie. There’s no lasting significance. No great reward. No right. No wrong. No punishment. No justice. There’s no heaven or hell. Forget all that. There’s no reason for any of this. It’s all random. Everything’s fucking random!”
She stopped. She caught her breath. She continued. “You can invent something. You can make up some sort of meaning. You can make the boy get the girl. You can tie up the loose ends. You can persuade yourself that suffering brings redemption.” With these words she paused. She looked directly into Lewis’s eyes, extending her index finger. She took a step towards him, invading his personal space. “But you know what?” She touched his chest with her finger. “You know the one thing I do know? All that suffering brings is bitterness. Eventually, no matter who you are, no matter how firmly you believe in heaven, or karma, or the way, it all ends with bitterness. None of those things can protect you. Tell me that seventy years of anything, of happiness, of euphoria, is worth seven months of bowel cancer. You can’t. It isn’t.”
Lewis attempted to form a reply, but Lisa turned her back. She dropped her basketball and walked off the court, leaving Lewis alone.