BY PETER LAVIN
Copyright is held by the author.
MOST PEOPLE would say that Tom was a pessimist, but a physicist might describe him as the embodiment of entropy, which, simply put, is the tendency of any system to degenerate into chaos. His friends called him Eeyore. He didn’t simply think that the glass was always half empty, he was wholehearted about it — that is, insofar as anyone can be both wholehearted and a pessimist. Doesn’t pessimism undermine wholeheartedness? Isn’t an enthusiastic pessimist a contradiction in terms? Perhaps. But on the other hand doesn’t everybody love a good Götterdämmerung? Even when they’re part of it? Misery loves company. That was Tom’s view. In any case, he believed that the entire universe was caught in an interminable downward spiral. Whatever goes up must come down. It’s fate and you can’t do anything about fate. You can’t fight it — by definition it’s predetermined. Perhaps then, it would be more accurate to say that he was a resigned pessimist. The best that you can do is accept what you can’t change and take whatever pleasure you can along the way. Philosophically he was a stoic — for better or for worse, for richer and for poorer, but mostly for poorer
What do you do when you live in chaos? Make harmony, or at least try to. Tom was a musician, and played a variety of instruments in a variety of styles and genres, from Andalusian classical through zydeco. His tastes were eclectic, and although he was no ethnomusicologist, he thought that he could hear the rhythms of the Iberian peninsula in the music of Louisiana. And why not? Undoubtedly, zydeco incorporates an African beat and Andalusian music was strongly influenced by the Moors and they came from North Africa, didn’t they? At his gigs he liked to tell his audience that he played an ancient Arabic instrument called the qithara adding, “You probably know it as the guitar.” Most people assumed he was joking. How could the quintessential instrument of rock and roll be Arabic? He didn’t mind if his audience laughed when he described the guitar in this way, but a nervous laugh was more satisfying — it showed that he had unsettled them, got them thinking — “Is that true? Could he possibly be right?”.
He enjoyed challenging fixed ideas. After all, with the universe in a downward spiral, shouldn’t people at least be a bit unsettled? This thought also determined his choice of music. Complacency was the enemy. He mostly played his own compositions, with the occasional strategic cover of a popular tune. But there was always someone in the audience who would request an old chestnut from some superannuated band of thirty years ago or more, and you knew they wouldn’t be satisfied unless it was reproduced exactly as it had been recorded. If they persisted, he would reply, “When you were in Vegas at Caesars Palace for that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to hear Celine Dion, you didn’t ask her to sing ‘Mississippi Goddam’ did you? Well, for similar reasons, I couldn’t possibly play ‘Hotel California’.” This comment amused most people and they understood his point, but he once got the incredulous response, “How did you know I was there? I would never do that. I would never ask Celine to swear.”
He usually played in cafes and bars for a pittance sometimes supplemented by a stipend provided by the local business association. Between sets he passed a tip jar and on good days his meagre fees were matched by equally meagre tips. Who has cash these days? And how many admit to having cash when a tip jar circulates? And who says we don’t live in an entropic universe?
The guitar was not his favourite instrument, in fact it was well down the list. He actually preferred the pan pipes to the guitar and he was a proficient though not an inspired player. But you can’t play the pan pipes, not for a contemporary audience — they’d be out the door quicker than water through a colander. Only bagpipes could empty a room more quickly. A fine instrument, perhaps, on a rainy, grey morning in a boggy mountain glen or when trying to coerce reluctant troops into battle but dangerous when used in a confined space with a low, cracked ceiling. When music is played in a cafe or bar, people expect that there will be at least one guitar and you can’t upend expectations at every turn. You have to compromise somewhere. He’d much rather play Mendelssohn’s ‘Song without Words’ on the cello — he loved that piece — but you don’t take a cheese knife to an abattoir. You take an axe.
He couldn’t live on the money he made playing music. A pittance supplemented by a stipend and meagre tips is still a pittance, so between gigs he did odd jobs. Occasional set dressing — film companies always seemed to need people desperately and then not need them at all — but mostly he was a casual labourer doing landscaping, painting, that kind of thing, working for people he’d met in the local bar.
He was on his way home from one of these jobs when his attention was drawn to a woman walking her dog. Her back was to him and she was bending over to clean up after the dog. As she stood up, she noticed him looking in her direction. He managed to utter, “Er. I was admiring your dogs.”
“There’s only one of them,” she responded, with a smile, and hesitated for a moment before continuing on her way.
He kicked himself for being so tongue-tied and not pursuing the conversation. Admiring her dogs? Really? Betrayed by the plural. Even so, the smile and hesitation were clearly an invitation. Why hadn’t he followed up? An uncharacteristic self-consciousness had overcome him, perhaps because of the way he was dressed. His everyday clothes weren’t exactly the height of fashion — Value Village haute couture at best — but his work clothes were decidedly shabby. He thought no more of it. It was the way of the world, certainly of his world. Failure was inevitable and you can’t stave off the inevitable — at least not for long.
A few days later he was walking up Donlands Avenue to the subway. It’s a stretch of road, formerly known as North Leslie Street. It’s unclear why it was renamed though it does reach up as far as the Don River and so warrants its new name. In any case, it’s disconnected from the southern portion of Leslie Street by railway tracks and a creek that was long ago enclosed by a culvert. In the opposite direction, the river cuts it off from the continuation of Leslie Street in the north. Perhaps this interruption accounts for the change — a different name for an orphaned, misfit street. It’s a minor subway stop and not much happens there. Sometimes the litter bin overflows, but don’t they all? Today, uncharacteristically, a musician occupied the sidewalk out front. He was wearing a fedora, and looked like a down-at-heel private detective — one who’d just stepped out of a dog-eared, hard-boiled dime novel. He was a throwback, real L.A. noire — not that there ever was any such thing, outside of pulp fiction. And when did a book ever cost a dime? He had a microphone, amplifier and guitar, and beside him an A-frame sign that read, “Jesus’ Blood Never Failed Me Yet,” carefully written on a clean white background like a newspaper headline.
His clearly enunciated words could readily be heard. “The good book says, ‘Yea, if you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, fear no evil.’ But folks, I will warn you, if you’re driving and you’re on the Don Valley Parkway, it’s an entirely different matter. Take care out there. The devil drives on that road — in a Mercedes. And she wears Prada too.” He paused briefly for comic effect and as an indication to his congregation — that’s how he thought of them — that now was the time to drop spare change into his guitar case. He continued, “But I’m preachin’ to the choir aren’t I? You guys aren’t driving, you’re getting on the subway and you’re wearing sensible footwear, so let me just play you another tune. It’s about a sweet ride — one that the devil will never take. It’s called ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’. What do you think? Was it written about the subway, that underground chariot? Probably not, eh?” He laughed and started into the song.
Not a bad rendition thought Tom. Underground chariot? That’s good. Doesn’t that song reference the underground railroad? He entered the station and went down the escalator. Rush hour, if it can ever be said to end, was over. The trains were less frequent now but there were still many people about. Tom started walking towards the other end of the platform so that he would be close to the stairs when he exited. At first he didn’t recognize her. She was dressed differently and didn’t have her dog. But it was unmistakably her, standing by the fourth pillar from the end, exactly where he was headed. Was he getting a chance to make up for his previous hesitation? Was redemption possible? It was contrary to everything he believed but when she turned, faced him and smiled, he decided to act. He knew that he would have to be quick. The scrolling overhead sign showed that the next train was expected in two minutes. Those predictions are always optimistic — except when you don’t want them to be. As he approached, she said “Ah, my dog watcher,” in an encouraging rather than sarcastic way.
“I hope you don’t think I’m dogging you. Sorry. I couldn’t resist saying that. I love dogs. Especially terriers and that’s a terrier you have isn’t it? I’m Tom by the way and I’d love to know your name.”
Rebecca agreed to meet him the following day at a neighbourhood cafe. Once on the train, they were separated by the comings and goings of other passengers. He didn’t mind. It meant there was no stilted conversation in front of wooden-faced but eavesdropping strangers. As the train departed he thought he could hear the musician above playing, “This Train is Bound for Glory.” But no. That wasn’t possible.
The next day was sunny. The cafe windows were open and people were seated outside, some with their laptops open in front of them. As he approached the coffee shop, standing out front was the same musician he’d encountered at Donlands station. That’s odd, Tom thought. I’ve never seen him before and now he’s everywhere. He was wearing his fedora and looked much the same but the message on his sign had changed; it now read, “Jesus Gonna be Here (Soon)”. Tom didn’t believe in synchronicity or anything occult like that, but he couldn’t help feeling that the musician’s presence was a good sign, that it augured well for his meeting with Rebecca. Augury? Isn’t that divination by examining the entrails of birds? Hmm. That’s pretty occult, pretty irrational. But the feeling was undeniable.
He was early and didn’t immediately enter the cafe but stayed outside to listen. The musician played the last chords of “Down by the Riverside” and gestured towards his sign saying, “It’s true, you know. The Lord is coming, not right away, but soonish. Don’t worry though. I think you’ve got plenty of time for coffee and pastry and probably a few other things besides. And, sorry to tell you, you might even have time for that report you’ve been promising your boss. For what? Two weeks now? Yeah, Jesus is gonna be here, but that doesn’t mean you can get out of doing that report. But no need to rush things. Enjoy your coffee folks, whether you’re working remotely or only remotely working. Either way, take your time. The next song I’m going to play for you isn’t religious, but it sure is spiritual. All the good ones are, aren’t they? I’m sure you know it. It’s called ‘Shenandoah’. I love this song.”
And so did Tom. He was transfixed and barely moved until the music ended. He checked the time on his phone and realized he was now marginally late. He dropped change into the musician’s guitar case and entered the cafe. He found Rebecca sipping her coffee and he apologized, “It was one of my favourite songs and he’s an excellent musician,” he said.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she replied. “I saw you out there. You looked mesmerized. I thought you’d found that old-time religion. I’m glad you made it inside.”
The conversation went well. She was also a music lover but with different interests. They talked about music and provided a counterpoint to each other, but when he called her “Becky”, there was an abrupt silence.
“No Becky please. My last name isn’t Thatcher and you’re no Tom Sawyer,” pausing for a second and adding, in a conciliatory tone, “More Huck Finn, really.”
He was about to apologize when a dishevelled woman at the next table started yelling at someone named Oscar. She sounded like a harassed mother telling off a recalcitrant child but there was no child, no one at all in fact. When the manager came and asked if there was anything she could do to help, the woman took offence saying, “What? I’m 43. Don’t treat me like a child.” She abruptly left, yelling all the while, and on the way out smashed the door into the wall shattering the glass.
Conversation stopped and an uneasy quiet settled over the cafe. It was their cue to exit. What a disaster thought Tom. I was late, the name thing, and then this poor unfortunate woman. Busted — just like the door. On the way out, as they sidestepped stray pieces of broken glass — Hackney diamonds, thought Tom absently — Rebecca asked, “Should we call our first child Oscar?”
***
They got married at two in the morning at the 24-hour Always and Forever Yours Wedding Chapel. For any other couple this might have indicated a doomed marriage — more so than a Las Vegas wedding performed by an Elvis impersonator — but not for them. They both liked to do things on the spur of the moment and welcomed the unexpected. Plus, when you do something unplanned you subvert fate, don’t you? If you don’t know what you’re going to do until you do it, how can it be foreordained? It wasn’t exactly a fairy tale ending but it was, at the very least, a momentary pause in the downward spiral and, after all, isn’t that one definition of happiness?
***
Peter Lavin is a writer who lives in the east end of Toronto with his wife and dog. He is currently coauthoring, “The Life and Opinions of a Postmodern Terrier”.