Chapter One, Final Part

The subway ride was the usual for Toronto. I'm sitting on my seat, tunelessly humming the viola part for Pachelbel's Canon, and I'm accosted by the strangest characters. There are, of course, the obligatory religious salespeople. Always young, well dressed, and in pairs. Usually, they don't bother me because I'm as well dressed as they are, but today, I was in those darned sweat pants, and therefore fair game.

The male of the pair, soberly dressed in a grey pinstripe suit, looked at me with fear in his eyes. "Is that a viola case?" he asked. He started to back away, and I relaxed a little. I shouldn't have. His partner, a brightly dressed female who reminds me of nothing more than a male peacock with his tail feathers spread, complete with feathers, pulled at the man's jacket sleeve. "Paul, I'm more than a little scared by myself, but if that lady's carrying a viola, she really needs to hear what we have to say."

Oh, great. Not only is this pair afraid of violas, for some reason, but they're going to use that against me in the coming tirade. I brace myself to say as little as possible.

"Do you believe in God?" they ask. I nod. "Do you think you're going to Heaven?" I shrug. How should I know? Do I look like I can read God's mind? I don't have the answers to the daily crossword puzzle, let alone their stupid questions. "Here," the woman with the feathers said, thrusting a couple of pamphlets into my hand, "take this free literature. It will tell you the path to Heaven. See you there, if you follow the instructions." She smiled a little too brightly, and the pair wandered off in search of another victim. I shoved the pamphlet in my music bag and sipped at my cappuccino, now cold.

Another young man, obviously more than a little drunk, sat down next to me as soon as they left. "Do you believe in Heaven?" he asks.

Here we go again, I thought. At least he didn't ask me if I was carrying a viola case.

"Yes," I say. "If you don't, perhaps you should talk to the lady with the feathers up there. She'll tell you how to get there, too."

"I'm not going there," he says seriously.

"Of course not," I reply. "This train goes to Finch station, if you stay on it. Doesn't go anywhere near Heaven."

He sighed. "Not today," he said. "At least I think not today. But I'm dying. So I'm going to be going somewhere soon. Probably Hell."

"Is that further away than Kennedy station?" I asked. No, for the record, I'm not a complete idiot. I'm a violist. There is a difference, though cellists don't have enough words to articulate it properly. Besides, I like stringing people on, especially people who accost me randomly on the subway.

"I've got AIDS," the young man said.

I looked at him then—really looked at him. He wasn't bad looking—long, black hair pulled back into a pony tail, clear olive skin, dark eyes. Native Canadian, most likely. Young, not much more than twenty-five or so. And he was dying, of a terrible illness that had killed more than a few of my fellow musicians. "I'm sorry," I said.

I mean, what else can you say to someone who's just dumped shit like that on you, when you don't even know them? Serves you right, idiot! You shouldn't have got high with someone else's needle, had sex with another man, or whatever it is to get yourself infected? So I said I was sorry without really meaning it, and edged away from him as best I could without being too obvious about it.

His eyes narrowed. "Is that a viola case you're carrying?" he asked.

"Yeah," I admitted. Perhaps, given his revelation, I shouldn't have been so snarky, but I was tired of the question. So I hit back, verbally of course. "Why should you care? You've just told me you're going to Hell yourself, so why should it matter if I have a viola case?"

He smiled brightly. "See you there, then. It'll be good to have a friend."