John Aarons was a mooch and a liar. He paid his first month's rent and then proceeded to sponge off me.

He moved in with nothing but an air mattress, a laptop, some camera equipment and his clothes. Oh, and a single kitchen item: a French press coffee maker. That was it. No furniture. No stereo. No books. He showed up like a homeless person with his entire life heaped in a shopping cart, one that he claimed to have found on the street, but I'm sure he stole from the Sobeys parking lot. He also pretended to return it, but I saw it a few days later, parked next to the Dumpsters beside the high-rises on Lascelles Boulevard-it was missing a couple of wheels at that point, but I'm willing to bet it was the same one. He didn't even bring any bathroom products except for a stone-aged toothbrush and a jumbo bar of Irish Spring, the latter of which was placed on the upper built-in soap dish in the shower but never used. That bar never got any smaller, never even lost its Irish Spring logo imprint, although it grew less distinct over time because of the humidity. Obviously, he was using my pricey oatmeal soap from the health food store. He also helped himself to my very expensive b.u.mble and b.u.mble seaweed shampoo. I could smell it halfway across the apartment when he came out of the shower-strutting, of course, in the tiniest of towels-but he denied it. Not that I ever confronted him directly, mind you. I was too smitten. I think I said something lame like "I can get a bigger shower caddy if you want to put some shampoo and stuff in there."

He gave me his wise-a.s.s smirk, knowing exactly what I was getting at. "That's really nice of you," he said. "But don't worry about it. I'm just going to use bar soap on my hair until I start making some cash."

Yeah right. Bar soap. What a joke. His big credo at the time was that as long as he was subsisting on a grant from the Arts Council, he felt a duty to the hard-working taxpayers of the land to live as frugally as possible. Very admirable, I thought. So n.o.ble. But considering he was eating my food, drinking my beer, watching my cable, calling Brooklyn and Los Angeles from my phone, and slathering his curls with my premium hair products, who should the hard-working taxpayers of the land have been thanking?

Of course, it was because of John Aarons that I became rich enough to fill a swimming pool with b.u.mble and b.u.mble seaweed shampoo, but that's beside the point.

John

In the beginning, Amy turned out to be an even better roommate than I expected. She was neat and clean and pleasant to be around. And she wasn't around that much. She spent a good deal of time outside the apartment, and a respectable number of hours in her room with the door closed. When she watched TV it was good TV-Curb Your Enthusiasm; Louie; The Daily Show. Except for her abominable Property Brothers or Love It or List It lapses, she was reasonably discerning. She cooked delicious food and often shared it with me. Her braised short ribs were divine. Her tortilla soup, superb. She understood that I was an impecunious artist and didn't seem to mind if I used a squirt of her dishwashing liquid or a capful of her laundry detergent. In the early days, anyway, when our love was, ahem, new.

The building, on the other hand, didn't measure up to my expectations. The elevators were maddeningly sluggish, and one or the other seemed to be always out of service. And every few days some s.a.d.i.s.tic p.r.i.c.k would set off the fire alarm in the middle of the night. I do not like to be roused from slumber. It makes me cranky. The only upside was getting to see Amy charge from her bedroom in her typical sleeping attire: tank top and a pair of men's-style cotton briefs. It was pretty. It was very pretty.

The first time we slept together was during one of those fire alarms. It was the third or fourth we'd had since I'd moved in. I was starting to get used to it. The noise would pierce my head like a knitting needle hammered in the ear. I'd lurch into a pair of gotchies and stumble hazy and adrenalized into the living room, at which point Amy, cursing like a knife-stuck sailor, would storm semi-clad from her bedroom. She'd hurtle out the front door, sniff the hallways and stairwells for smoke, then return, muttering and ranting. I'd follow her out onto the living-room balcony (where the cacophony was marginally less of an a.s.sault), and we'd look down upon the other balcony people, and the sprinkling of residents in their pyjamas and robes who had actually left the building-generally those with children-and they'd look up at us while we all waited for the fire trucks to arrive and make the horrible noise stop.

On that particular night, I told Amy, "I know why this keeps happening and who's responsible."

"Oh really," she said, giving me a wry but flirty smile. There was a rising tide of flirtation in those early days. The levees were getting ready to burst.

"It's a man who lives in that building across the way. He sneaks over here, pulls the alarm, then runs home and waits for you to come out in your skivvies."

Amy laughed.

"He's watching you right now."

"Yeah, right. So in this day of Internet p.o.r.n, where you can not only get wide-open beavs at the click of a mouse but virtually any s.m.u.tty fantasy on earth, including plushy mascots doing it with dwarves-"

"Really? That's out there?"

"Don't pretend you don't know," said Amy.

"OK. Busted. It's my homepage."

"Uh-huh. Right. So highly unlikely that buddy over there is going to leave his home and go to all that trouble just to see a skinny chick in her underwear."

"Not just any skinny chick," I said, inching closer.

Sirens could be heard in the distance as Amy and I, still looking down upon the scene, slid toward each other along the balcony railing, pressing first our arms together, then our heads and finally-as the fire trucks screamed into view-our lips. Very rom-com except for the nauseating racket.

It was a strange sensation having s.e.x with Amy. She was so much bonier than any woman I'd ever been with. Usually I am aware only of the pressure of flesh. Now there seemed to be rib cage and elbow and kneecap involved. It was different. But I liked it. I liked it a lot, not least because of Amy's incredible responsiveness-a rousing thing to behold.

The alarm ended almost immediately after we did, which, in our giddy state, caused much hilarity. We got up, ate cold chicken and Fudgeos, and then f.u.c.ked again. After, she tickled my back. I remember that very clearly. It was the first time she did it-trailing her long cold fingers up and around my spine. It felt sublime and struck me as more intimate than anything Julianne had done in the three years we had been together. I conked while she was at it, just before dawn. I woke up at noon, alone under Amy's floral duvet, which smelled faintly and pleasantly of lemons.

It was three weeks to the day after I'd moved in.

Eldrich

There are only two mistakes you can make on the road to Truth. Not going all the way, and not starting.

John Aarons was my friend. Together we embarked upon the road to Truth, but John did not go all the way. His pa.s.sion became misdirected. He let Shakespeare's green-eyed monster into his heart, and in this darkness he lost his way.

John Aarons left the Inst.i.tute in January 2013.

John Aarons is not to blame.

Amy

I think he got the idea early on.

In the first weeks that we lived together, and even after we slept together, I guess a couple of months after he moved in, John was hanging out more with Eldrich than he was with me. I thought it was bizarre. I mean, back then I had pegged Eldrich as some pot-addled mental deficient who happened to live across the hall. I would see him all the time around the building and also in the park, where he played his weirdo instruments, but we weren't friendly. In fact, the only time I ever spoke to him was when I was kicking him off my private rooftop terrace, accessible, unfortunately, from the stairwell beside my apartment and not directly from inside my apartment. I would ask him to leave and please never return. He would grin and agree, and then two days later I'd find him out there again. I didn't even get angry because I thought he was r.e.t.a.r.ded. I really did. I figured head injury or something. He had that slow, ponderous way of speaking, and that perpetual almost-smile that made him look like a tipsy golden retriever. The way he dressed was ridiculous, everything mismatched and tattered, and his mother-I a.s.sumed it was his mother-came around every few days with CorningWare ca.s.seroles or plates of food covered in foil. I figured he was a simp, beating his congas for spare change in the park and surviving on some kind of government disability fund while Mommy kept him fed and very occasionally bathed.

I couldn't have been more wrong. And the fact that he continued to appear on my terrace, even though I'd had the locks changed on the giant steel entrance door, should have been my first clue.

John

It didn't take long to insinuate myself into the ambit of Eldrich. I expected to encounter him mainly in the building, but our first real exchange occurred out of doors about a week and a half after I'd moved in. To get from our apartment to the better stores and subway you had to first pa.s.s through a park. A winding concrete walkway bisected it. On one side was a playground bubbling with toddlers and their Filipino nannies, a non-functioning splash pad and two weedy tennis courts. The other side was just gra.s.s and trees and benches on which lovers lolled and derelicts loafed. This is where Eldrich set up shop, so to speak, on a bench beside a prodigious willow in the crook of the path.

Eldrich, I discovered, was a busker. He played (I use the term casually, as none of his musical meanderings were evidently melodious) a variety of instruments, all of them unusual. He slapped happy on a Peruvian box drum, hammered a Chinese dulcimer with bamboo sticks, and bowed something called a nyckelharpa that looked like a violin with a set of wooden keys grafted onto it. But the strangest contraption, and the one I liked best, was a tripod with a chunk of wood at the top, and a thin, flat wooden tongue clamped horizontally atop that. There was a long overhang (think of a ruler held over the edge of a desk), and the tongue was made to vibrate by striking or bowing it. A wedge of fretted wood pressed against it controlled the pitch. The wooden tongue was interchangeable for different sounds, and these objects were very beautiful-smoothed into curvy shapes that reminded me of faux-African sculptures from a 1950s rec room. The thing sounded like nothing I'd heard before. It was unearthly, kooky, like the background music to a crazed parade of Dr. Seuss characters, and it provided the perfect opening to conversation in the park on a sunny day.

"Wow. That's nutty. What is that thing?"

"It's a daxophone."

"Daxophone?"

"Yup. Wanna try it?"

As I was coaxing out a few galunks and gazoings, two extraordinarily braless hippie chicks bounced over and presented Eldrich with a Tim Hortons iced cappuccino, an apparently homemade sandwich wrapped in paper towel, and an envelope, which he quickly stuffed into the side pocket of his cargo shorts.

"Mindy, Alexa, this is my neighbour from across the hall ...?"

"John," I said, a little surprised that Eldrich knew I had moved in, given that I had pa.s.sed him only once in the lobby since I'd lived there, and he hadn't acknowledged me at all.

"Hi," said Mindy and Alexa, glancing quickly at me and then turning their eyes and nipples back toward Eldrich, who was transferring busker coins from his daxophone case into a leather pouch.

"Anyone want to smoke a joint?" he said.

Ten minutes later I was seated on an orange vinyl sofa (very mod except for the duct-taped cracks), gobbling half an avocado, red pepper and alfalfa sprout sandwich on pumpernickel. Delicious. Healthy too. Eldrich was busy rolling up the contents of the mystery envelope, while Mindy and Alexa a.s.saulted us with an insipid story about being on all-night bear patrol during a tree-planting excursion in the wilds of British Columbia. I smiled at the ostensibly amusing parts, and kept myself awake by sneaking peeks at their chests and other overexposed, predictably tattooed parts. Alexa had the superior rack, but she also had white-girl dreadlocks-inexcusable, if you ask me. Mindy had regular, conceivably shampooed hair but sported a dirty nose ring, which I had to not look at or think about while I was eating. I decided that I wouldn't sleep with either of them and turned my attention to a hangnail that required a delicate chewing away.

"The bear was p.i.s.sed off 'cause Roman and Daryl had laughed at him earlier in the day," said Mindy, explaining why a feral animal in the middle of the wilderness had bitten through a tree planter's presumably food-containing tent.

Her idiot confederate nodded vigorously. "It's true!" she said, giggling.

I remained unconvinced but smiled mildly as Mindy launched into another tedious tale, this one about her travels in Thailand. As she jawed, I noted that Eldrich's apartment was the mirror opposite of Amy's minus my bedroom. He had the same parquet flooring (vestibule four squares by six squares), the same galley kitchen with shrimp-o appliances, the same pink toilet, sink and tub dating from 1950-something in the bathroom. Things were set up differently, though. Instead of having a dining table in the small nook outside the kitchen, he had placed his table and chairs by the living-room window, the natural place for a sofa. His dining-room nook was filled with musical instruments, and his couch had been plonked nonsensically in the middle of the living room on a diagonal. There was no coffee table, and only one chair-a wicker thing, circa 1972, with a giant rounded back that had a peac.o.c.k-tail design woven through it. Between the couch and chair was an ottoman strewn with ugly-covered small-press poetry books and a m.u.f.fin tin that served as an ashtray (or twelve little Siamese ashtrays). There was a milk-carton shelving unit against one wall, holding books, a stereo and CDs. The world's largest didgeridoo leaned against the opposite wall. There were a lot of outrageously healthy-looking house plants and many candles in all shapes and sizes. No TV though. No TV in the bedroom either-I peeked on my way back from taking a p.i.s.s.

"Should we smoke these on the roof?" Eldrich held up two skilfully prepared spliffs.

"Sure," said Mindy.

"Cool," said Alexa.

Amy hadn't yet made me my own key for the patio, and I told Eldrich as much.

"No problem," he said, grinning and straightening. "C'mon." He grabbed an empty milk crate from the side of the Sealtest bookcase and we followed him into the stairwell leading to the outdoor s.p.a.ce. Eldrich slid open the tiny window next to the locked steel door, placed the milk carton on the floor and stood on it. He poked one arm and his head through the opening and then, with a sharp shrug, proceeded to dislocate his left shoulder before slithering through like a snake.

"Ew," squealed Mindy. "Freaky."

"Awesome," breathed Alexa.

Eldrich let us onto the patio, retrieved the milk carton, closed and relocked the door.

"Doesn't that hurt?" I asked as I stretched out on one of Amy's two padded lounge chairs. Oddly, no one chose to make use of the other. Eldrich parked himself on the overturned milk carton. Alexa and Mindy sat cross-legged on the ground beside him.

"Pain is inevitable; suffering's optional," said Eldrich on the inhale, smiling through smoke as he sparked both joints and handed one to each bobble-headed maiden at his feet.

Is that so? I had the urge to pop him one hard in the nose, knock him off his perch. But I had a presentiment that he'd merely right himself, wipe away the blood and cartilage and keep smiling his maddeningly vague, I-know-something-you-don't-know smile.

Eldrich

Conquer the angry man by love. Conquer the ill-natured man by goodness. Conquer the miser with generosity. Conquer the liar with truth.

People say things. They say a lot of things. Mouths open and close. Things dribble and fly out. But this is the truth. What I was doing before John and Amy came along was exactly what I was doing after John and Amy, and the same thing I've been doing my whole life: making music (or more accurately finding and channelling music), thinking about the best way to live every moment I've been granted here on earth, connecting with G.o.d in as many ways as possible, sharing what I've learned with my friends and allowing my friends to share with me.

I never tried to organize anything. Ever. John and Amy did all that.

Friends And family Sometimes Let you down Sometimes Sadness eclipses all You need Something You need Relief Peace Forgiveness Comfort You need To find me Now theanswertoeverything.org

John

After many barren moons, I finally sprouted an idea for my next art project. MAMA. I would construct a humongous mother with a walk-in womb. She would be giant and reclining, big enough to make a large man feel like an infant. She would be built out of lightweight materials, perhaps papier-mche. Or maybe wire and a not-quite-opaque skin, illuminated from within to give her a slight glow. Her hair would flow out across the floor. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s would swell and hang, and the nipples would protrude rudely. In her pelvis would be an opening, a secret door to a cozy cavity. The viewer would enter and tuck themselves inside. A fetal shape to ensure the correct cashew curl of body. Total darkness with the door shut. And softness all around. Sponge? Chinchilla? Warmth, of course. And a speaker with the gurgle and rush of fluids. A sloshy heartbeat. Also, the suggestion of voice through liquid. I would find an audio whiz to get it right. MAMA's murmurs would be unrecognizable through the murk, but she'd be saying: I love you, baby ... Mama loves you sooo much. There'd be a timer to secretly record and chart how long each individual stayed inside.

I was excited by the idea. And also daunted. I would have to rent a huge studio s.p.a.ce in which to build and display my creation. She would be tricky to a.s.semble. A technician would have to design a proper ventilation system for the womb.

It was going to take a lot of moolah to make MAMA.

Amy

So, of course, I started hearing about Eldrich from John, who seemed to be growing increasingly fascinated with what I thought was our brain-dead neighbour. He's not as daft as he looks, you know was the line I heard in the early days. Then: I think he's actually got it figured out more than most people. And regularly: I mean, the guy has never had a job in his life. That was the part John was most impressed with, the fact that Eldrich had made it well into adulthood and continued to get along quite nicely, thank you, without ever being employed. Not even a paper route, he'd say with a mouth full of marvel. No real jobs ever! Even John, King Mooch, had a smattering of T4s in his past.

The groupies were what really floored him. John told me that busker Eldrich had people who regularly journeyed to the park to shower him with offerings-food, marijuana, money. One woman would even show up with housewares she'd purchased from garage sales: a never used, still-in-the-box humidifier; an almost complete set of Ikea winegla.s.ses; even one of those ber-expensive cast-iron jobbies from Le Creuset that she'd miraculously scooped for ten bucks at a rummage sale. I coveted that thing even though it was stained and the handle was cracked in half. John couldn't believe that anyone would go out of their way to ferry gifts to Eldrich, a man who didn't seem to possess more than an ounce of tuneful talent. But then John realized that the groupies were more interested in Eldrich's musings than in his music. He would busk for a bit during the morning and afternoon rush hours-the park was a conduit from our residential hub to the subway, so lots of people pa.s.sed through it each day-but mostly he'd just hang out on his bench beside his instrument of choice, blabbing on subjects philosophical or spiritual, and the groupies would gather to listen. Not just raptly, John would tell me, devotedly. I remember he initially referred to them as "groupies" but soon came to see Eldrich's supporters as something other. There was this one night-it must have been near the beginning of September because I had just started back at school-it was stupidly hot and humid, but we'd had s.e.x anyway. John had barely slid his sweaty self off me when I saw the gears in his brain lurch into action and start whirring. His toes were all tap and twitch at the end of the bed, and he couldn't even wait a respectful twenty seconds before he was on about his favourite subject.