1982 (42 page)

I was ready to take the initiative. This was the guy that Wendy had been waiting to see. I had become the stronger version of me that she had desired. The new confidence I felt inspired physical action. I pulled Wendy closer to me and looked straight down into her eyes. The look on Wendy’s face was curious. It seemed to suggest some confusion or hesitance or excitement. I couldn’t tell which, but I sensed it was excitement. It must have been excitement. I pushed my lips into Wendy’s and gave her a long kiss. I could feel her kissing me back. Phil Collins was providing the soundtrack.

The kiss felt perfect. It was as if it lasted an hour. “In the Air Tonight” had segued into the big section after the famous drum break, but I held Wendy close the whole time. The song was coming to an end, and I had my New Wave dream girl in my arms. My Bowie girl. For all the times that I was the outcast, this was the payback. For all my insecurities through the year, I was finally at peace with who I could really be.

The song was over. Wendy pulled away a little and pretended to fan herself with her right hand. “Well, I didn’t really expect that!” she said with a laugh. She had a strange sparkle in her eye.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Wendy. I’ve been wanting this for a long time.”

Wendy giggled and bowed her head. For a moment, she looked like a little girl. I’d never seen her quite so shy.

The dance was officially over. Wendy shifted away from me slightly, but I kept my arm around her. She didn’t move it.

The gymnasium lights were being turned on. We had gone
slightly over curfew, and now the staff and student council members were encouraging everyone to leave.

I looked at Wendy. “So, what now?” I smiled.

She was nodding slowly as if she agreed with the question. She smiled back at me, cocked her head, and looked into my eyes.

“Well, listen, for starters, I just have to get my coat. I’ll be back in a minute, okay?”

She was holding my hand, and she softly squeezed it as she said this.

“Of course!” I replied. “I’m going to say goodbye to the guys and grab my stuff. See you in a sec.”

She let go of my hand. I gave her another smile as we slowly parted. Wendy walked towards the back of the gym and into the hallway beyond, where everyone had left their coats. I turned and spotted Janelle by the exit. I looked directly at her. She had her coat and scarf on. I wasn’t entirely sure what to do. I gave a little wave of my hand but got no response. She had an expression on her face that I’d never seen. It was devoid of emotion. No familiarity, no engagement, but no sadness, either. Nothing. The characteristic warmth I’d grown to depend on in Janelle was absent. There was no acknowledgment. I’m quite sure she saw me, but she hurried towards the doors.

I turned away. I thought about my kiss with Wendy. I could still taste her lips. I grabbed my briefcase and my long black coat from behind the DJ booth. I returned to the place where Wendy and I had been dancing. I waited for her there. I thought about where I might take her for a late-night snack. The gym was now almost entirely empty except for the cleanup
staff. Daniel Steinberg was still playing music, but at a lower volume. He’d seen me dancing with Wendy. He was a New Wave comrade and had given me a knowing glance when I had her in my arms. I looked in his direction. He gave me a thumbs-up.

The coat check was probably backed up. It had been more than ten minutes. I looked back over at Daniel. He was putting on one last song for the staff and TSA members before packing up his stuff. He pointed at his turntables and winked. I heard the opening strains of a guitar line I knew well. It was “Wild Is the Wind” by Bowie. It is the most beautiful song Bowie has ever recorded. It’s a cover tune. A slow song once performed by Nina Simone. It was the final track on the mix tape I had made for Janelle. It is exactly six minutes long. I stood without moving. “Wild Is the Wind” came to its soaring climax. I saw the students in charge of the coat check putting away the tables in the hallway. The doors were now closed. The song was over.

I waited.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Dear reader,

This book is classified as creative non-fiction. Please take note of the “creative” part. It doesn’t mean that this stuff didn’t happen. It did. But it means, for example, that I cannot exactly remember all of the conversations that happened when I was in my early teens. Can you? I didn’t think so. So, this is the story as best as I remember it. I don’t claim it to be any more accurate than that. This is not an official history text.

The events you’re reading about all occurred in 1982 or are based on events that occurred in the years immediately before or after 1982. All the characters in this book are real people or are based on real people. In any scenes with my parents and sister, it will be obvious to you that they are real people. In some other cases, the names have been changed to protect the non-innocent or because I couldn’t get in touch with certain folks to make sure I could talk about them in this book. And finally—importantly—some of the characters are composites of a couple of people I knew.

Fuzzy memories come with three decades of distance, but I’ve done my best to recount accurately the details of what occurred or the spirit of those details. My mother can confirm some specifics, such as the sheer amount of hair products involved in being me at the time.

Jian Ghomeshi

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my dear mom and dad, who had to sit through the arguments and endure the growing pains and who always ultimately supported my ambitions and left turns. You are my true role models.

To my sister, Jila, who is forever the sage guide and smarter Ghomeshi sibling.

To my long-time agent and dear friend Jack Ross at the Agency Group, for continuing to be a co-conspirator and partner.

To Celeste Parr, who read all of this book before anyone else and let me know that I was on track and also let me know when I was not. You are a star.

To my trusted assistant, Ashley Poitevin—my rock—for her enthusiasm and commitment in helping make
1982
a reality.

To Lindsey Love and Stefanie Purificati, for being a support team that would be the envy of any boy. And to my best friends Andy Stochansky and Lisa Whynot, for believing and laughing
at my stories so I could fool myself into thinking they were funny.

To my American agent, Marc Gerald, who inspired me to have the confidence to think I could do this and who helped me get the ball rolling on this idea.

To my fabulous editor, Diane Turbide, to my copyeditor, Alex Schultz, and to Nicole, Ashley, Beth, Scott, Justin, Lindsey, David, and all the amazing folks at Penguin Canada. From the beginning, you got it. I am forever thankful.

To Joe Goodman, for pushing me to remember that I like to push myself.

To the cast of
1982
—Wendy, Murray Foster, Mike Ford, Ron Baker, Valerie Tiberius, John Ruttle, and all the friends named in this book—as well as the students and staff of Thornlea Secondary School.

To my dear old schoolmate Sue Fraser, for finding my Bowie mix tape notes and clearing up some foggy recollections.

To Dan Hill and the members of Rush, for very kindly granting me permission to reprint their fine lyrics in these pages.

To the staff and crew of the Sunset Marquis in LA, for hosting me and letting my creativity run in a rock ’n’ roll setting. And to all my bosses and peers at CBC and
Q
, for letting me escape in various increments to scribble my stories.

To my fluffy, dutiful travelling companion, Big Ears.

And finally, my unending gratitude to David Bowie, for providing a lifetime of inspiration and impossible standards.