1982 (10 page)

get nose job

Aspiring to be like Sting in Grade 9 was almost as challenging as trying to be Bowie. None of this was easy.

Many of the older New Wave kids at Thornlea SS hung out in or near the theatre room. The theatre room was a large, carpeted space that was room number 213 at our school. It had theatre-type lights on dimmers and it was very dramatic. Fluorescent school lights were rarely on in Room 213. This was because Room 213 was cool. Room 213 was referred to simply as “213” by its regular inhabitants. If anyone actually called it the theatre room, they would betray themselves as outsiders. It had become my destination between classes, and I was accepted by most of the older theatre kids there. I sensed the older students considered me a curiosity and liked the fact that I had pointy shoes and played guitar and drums. Besides, I had lineage. My sister, Jila, was a major star of the 213 scene, and she was now in Grade 12. Wendy, the female Bowie and the object of my affections, was often hanging out near 213. She was the younger sister of Jila’s friend Paul. Sometimes I would find myself in Wendy’s proximity because she was with Paul and he was talking to my sister. I began to understand where I needed to strategically locate myself. I learned that if I stood near my sister and she was near Paul, I would be near Wendy.

Over the course of Grade 9, I became a legitimate member of the 213 crowd, and I got involved in several after-school theatre groups. I saw Wendy at least once a day. Like, I witnessed her somewhere at school once a day. Wendy and I barely ever said anything to each other. I was a bit scared to look at her. I was pretty sure she never looked at me.

There was an unofficial dress code and set of practices in 213. No one talked about it, but everyone abided by the code. For one thing, the drama teachers who taught inside 213 were
only called by their first names. This was cool. Obviously. There was Sue and Jim, and also Grace. Grace wasn’t a drama teacher, but she hung out in 213, so we still called her by her first name. Grace was renegade that way. Everyone in 213 wore mostly black, including my sister, the teachers, and Paul and Wendy.

I have made a short list of (unofficial) basic items that were required in 213:

black baggy theatre pants or black tight skinny jeans

black jacket

prominently displayed New Wave band pin

black shoes, boots, or ballet-type slippers

black flowing scarf

cigarette pack

Siouxsie and the Banshees tape

black eyeliner (girls)

You will note the inclusion of cigarettes on this short list.

As I have explained to you, I didn’t smoke, and in 1982 I was terribly aware that my non-smoker status was a liability. Smelling like smoke meant you attended a lot of concerts, but smoking also looked cool and it made people in 213 more intellectual and thoughtful. The rockers who hung out downstairs at our school also smoked, but that was for different reasons—they did it because smoking made them tough and badass. In 213, smoking was a sign of depth. Sometimes, a theatre student in 213 would hold a lit cigarette in their index and middle fingers and put the bottom of their palm on their forehead. It was like their palm was holding up their head.
Then they would rest their elbow on a table or on their knee. This “palm on the forehead” smoking position was an indication that they were thinking and that the world was not an easy place.

My choice not to smoke was mainly because I was an asthmatic. Doctor Salsberg had told me when I was twelve that I would die if I smoked. I wondered if he was exaggerating, and I was often disappointed with myself for not taking up cigarettes. All the teachers who used only their first names, like Sue and Jim and Grace, smoked. They were thoughtful and introspective. My sister smoked, and so did Wendy. I wondered if Wendy would notice me more if I smoked and put my palm on my forehead.

Everyone was talking about the Police Picnic scheduled for the summer of 1982. The multi-band lineup had been announced, and it would include the Beat and Flock of Seagulls and a really artsy rock band called Talking Heads. By the time June arrived, I’d realized I needed to do something to get Wendy’s attention or she would forget about me over the summer. It might seem strange to worry about someone you’ve never really talked to forgetting about you, but I held out the hope that Wendy had noticed me hanging about—even if she never looked at me. I had been trying to build my confidence to make my big move and talk to her. Finally, I devised a cunning plan. I would tell Wendy that I had gotten Police Picnic tickets and invite her to come along with me. I didn’t actually have tickets, and I had little hope that the plan would actually work. But I was in for a surprise.

One afternoon in the second week of June, I saw Wendy standing near the lockers on the second floor at Thornlea. This
was the same location as the purple eyeliner incident a couple of months earlier, but most of the older 213 kids didn’t know about that. I was counting on Wendy not having heard about the purple eyeliner. Even in 213, I couldn’t take any chances about how people might react.

Wendy was emptying the contents of her school bag into her locker. She was alone. This was a rare chance for me. I summoned up all my confidence and adjusted my black jacket on my skinny shoulders. I was wearing my black pointy boots and I had my Adidas bag in my right hand. I acted as if I were just innocently walking down the hall. When I got near Wendy, I stopped about three feet away from her side. I tried not to appear terrified. Wendy turned and looked at me. She was shorter than me. She was cool. She was like Bowie. She flipped that bit of blond hair in the front that was longer than the rest of her hair, just like David Sylvian. Sylvian had gotten that from Bowie. Wendy stared into my eyes, waiting for me to say something. I finally did.