Swimming Through the Dawn

by R. P. Rioux

  Her jaw dropped. "Where would you get that idea?"

  "You'd be surprised."

  "Try me."

  "This industry is smaller than you think."

  She folded her arms across her chest, debating how far she wanted to pursue this line of inquiry.

  * * *

  "I didn't know the festival would be this far," she said. Heather wanted an early start so the girls would have adequate time to settle their nerves upon arrival. They had encountered heavy traffic through the Cajon Pass and were only now entering Victorville, with another forty minutes to go before reaching their destination. Steve was tagging along to show his support. The music festival represented the group's most significant booking thus far, and he didn't want to miss it.

  This show worried Heather. For the first time, both the band and the dance units would perform one after the other. June and Vanessa were to sing backup during the band portion while joining the full dance unit later. Heather was particularly concerned over the switch from wired mics to a wireless set. The group lacked the proper equipment to practice transitions. The sound crew would not be familiar with their act. Plenty could go wrong.

  As the van approached the festival grounds, traffic slowed to crawl. Pedestrians alongside the road carried backpacks, portable chairs, and coolers while shepherding their children towards the entrance. Vehicles were being herded onto vast expanses of grass rising from the parched desert soil as if by a miracle.

  "There's thousands of people here," said Erin.

  "It's exciting," said June.

  "Yeah," said Heather unenthusiastically, knowing they wouldn't be ignored if they sucked this time.

  The van reached the parking lot entrance, where Arnie asked for directions. As they made their way to the designated artists' area, Steve, too, appeared increasingly anxious.

  "What's the matter?" asked Heather.

  "What type of music festival did you say this was, Arnie?" he asked.

  "Who cares? It pays."

  They passed by a large sign which Heather read aloud, "High Desert Lighthouse Festival."

  Steve groaned. "Arnie, when's the last time you saw a lighthouse in the desert?"

  "I dunno. It's sort of poetic, doncha think?" He looked at them in the rearview mirror. "Right?"

  "Are you thinking what I am, Steve?" asked Erin.

  "Let's wait 'til we get inside."

  After parking and unloading, they were met by a coordinator who directed them to the staging area. A large tent had been erected as a makeshift ready room. Inside, musicians were engaged in activities ranging from rehearsals to napping. Group interaction was limited. Large floor fans were blowing at both ends of the tent to improve air circulation, but it remained uncomfortable. They were met with curious stares as they occupied a group of available chairs close to the porta-potty entrance.

  "Diverse group, I see," said Mindy.

  Heather analyzed the room, noting a sea of white faces. "We're not in L.A. anymore."

  Steve left to scout the scene. Heather, in the meantime, reviewed the setlist and monitored the wellbeing of her bandmates. They engaged in breathing exercises to calm themselves. When Steve returned, he motioned for the group to gather in a circle. In hushed tones to deter eavesdroppers, he said, "Um, Houston, we have a problem."

  "This is Made in Heaven; you were expecting anything less?" said Mindy.

  "I got a funny feeling when we arrived," Steve continued. "This is a contemporary Christian music festival run by a televangelist megachurch as a so-called fundraiser. The couple running this operation has been sued for fraud in the past. Apart from normal stuff like placing a high premium on praying and family friendliness —" He paused to let a group of festival officials pass. "They also profess the prosperity gospel, claim to perform faith healing miracles, and would gladly usher in the end times to prove their point."

  Grace and Mindy sighed.

  "I was right," said Erin.

  "Arnie, what are you doing to us?" asked Heather.

  "Whattaya worried about? Ya don't have any offensive material," said Arnie.

  "You're missing the point, genius," said Grace. "Let me spell it out for you. We're not a Christian music band. Not to mention the Jesus we grew up with didn't need grandma's social security check to buy a yacht. Understand?"

  "Can't we simply leave before anyone notices we're missing?" suggested Mindy, nervously.

  "No way," said Arnie. "And forfeit the money? You're in no spot to chuck a payday, let me tell you."

  "That's easy for you to say. You're not embarrassing yourself before hundreds of people who wonder why you're even here in the first place," said Grace.

  "More like thousands, from the looks of it," said Steve.

  "Gee, thanks for the reassurance."

  "You're making a mountain out of a molehill," said Arnie. "Here's what ya do. You have love songs, right?"

  "Yes," said Heather.

  "You're called Made in Heaven, right?"

  "Um, yeah," said Grace, suspiciously.

  "Okay, you're halfway there. Each time ya sing 'baby' or 'sweetheart,' just replace it with 'Jesus' or 'Lord.' Voila, instant Christian song."

  More groans. "Arnie, we can't do that," protested Erin.

  "Why not? I bet ya half the hacks here do the same thing already. They know a meal ticket when they see one. Besides, how many Korean speakers do ya see?"

  "Five," said Vanessa looking around at her bandmates. When Erin scoffed, she added, "Okay, five and a half, tops."

  Steve jumped into the conversation. "I hate to admit this, but Arnie's right with the money thing. Sure, it's cynical and obviously not ideal, but his plan could work in a pinch, and this is looking like a tight one. Another consideration is the more money we take from their pockets, the less they'll have available to expand their timeshare scheme in Boca."

  Grace said, "We'll have to scrap the dance portion, though. I'm not sure how we'd change that in time."

  "What? No way," protested Vanessa, "I didn't come all this way for nothing."

  "Sorry, Nessa, but she's right," said Heather. "You and June will still be backup singers."

  "And the outfits?" asked Mindy.

  "Uh, I didn't consider that," said Grace.

  "You should tone it down a bit," said Steve. "The miniskirt look will label you as prostitutes with this crowd."

  Heather took offense. "Now you sound like one of our trolls."

  "I'm not saying I agree; I'm simply telling it like it is. Remember, I was raised in an environment like this. I tell you what," said Steve. "I spotted a thrift store on the way into town. You have 90 minutes until showtime. Let me get your sizes, and I'll hop over there to see what I can find." Lacking a better plan, the girls agreed to his suggestion.

  "How come I have a feeling we'll burn in hell after this?" said Heather.

  * * *

  She rechecked the time. Only 24 seconds had passed since her last check. They were less than a quarter-hour away from showtime, and Steve hadn't returned yet. The festival implemented a backline set up, which meant the band would simply have to plug in instruments and run a mic check. Unfortunately, the festival operators were competent, which meant the performances were running on schedule. They enjoyed no slack.

  As they stood shoulder to shoulder in a line near the stage waiting for their turn, a blonde, muscular, middle-aged male with a trim beard approached looking irate. His monogrammed yellow dress shirt and black slacks identified him as a member of a large choir from Huntington Beach. He addressed Erin, who stood nearest but spoke loud enough for the rest to hear. "Someone spilled a tub of ketchup over by the generator. Instead of standing there, why don't you do your job? Pronto! People are tracking it everywhere."

  Erin stared at him with her mouth open, pointing to her chest as if to make sure he was talking to her. Vanessa was having none of it. She shot back from the other end of the line, "Hey, Chuck Norris, I have a better idea. How 'bout you go lick it up yourself?"
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  The man looked horrified. He gestured with his arms as if pushing them away in disgust, then walked away. June looked perplexed. "I'll give you one guess," said Mindy. Before anyone could say more, a harried stage manager implored them to stay in place. They were due to start soon.

  "It's sweltering. I'm glad we don't have to dance after all," said Mindy.

  To get her mind off the waiting, Heather lost herself in thought. The setlist was radically different, and shorter, than the one they had practiced. She reviewed the improvised lyric changes she'd have to make. Her concentration was interrupted when Steve arrived carrying two bags of clothing.

  "I bought jeans. You can wear them with your current tops, and they'll match. Let's get to the dressing room." He continued his explanation on the way. "Some sizes are bigger than you'd prefer, but I bought safety pins. You can use our belts too. Arnie, give them your belt." Their manager complied without protest.

  "Where are you going?" the stage manager asked when he saw them walking away.

  "We'll be right back," said Grace.

  "You better be, or there'll be hell to pay."

  "Too late for that," chimed Vanessa.

  Minutes later, the girls emerged from the dressing room wearing their improvised outfits. Mindy and Sun-hee looked distraught. "Must we do this? I look awful," said Mindy.

  "Me too," said Sun-hee.

  "Don't sweat it. Nobody'll notice. You'll both be in the back, anyway." Steve helped pin the loose material as best as he could. "How 'bout the rest of you?" There were no further complaints.

  "Okay, let's go," said Grace.

  When they returned to the stairs, the stage manager glared at them. "You're cutting it close, don't you think?"

  "Sorry," said Heather, using her aegyo skills to extract a smile from him. She had already assumed her onstage persona and was raring to go.

  The MC finished his stage announcements. "Let's hear it for our next group. Coming all the way from Japan, here's Heaven Sent."

  Heather looked at Grace and shook her head in resignation. They didn't have time to protest.

  "Okay, you're on," said the stage manager.

  "Rock the house!" shouted Steve.

  The girls emerged to a smattering of applause. The stage was stifling. Despite the metal roof offering protection from direct sun, both sides of the stage were enclosed, a design flaw that cut potential cross breezes to a minimum. A massive, metal-bladed ceiling fan turned furiously above them, but it was woefully insufficient for the task at hand. The band members took their places, plugged in their gear, and plunked a few chords. Mic checks followed. Heather assessed her group. Their smiling faces told her what she needed to know. Grace gave a perfunctory greeting, and they began.

  The first number was "From That Day On." Heather chose it because the song's mellow vibe allowed the band time to ease into the venue. It also didn't hurt that the singing burden fell entirely on her and Sun-hee. The song could pass as a Christian song to anyone who wasn’t fluent in Korean, even without a change of lyrics. Grace's guitar solo sounded better than ever. When it ended, the applause was polite, if not enthusiastic. The audience looked confused by the foreign lyrics.

  The heat was getting to her bandmates. She, too, was sweating and had to use her pants to dry her hands before continuing.

  "Celestial" was next. Heather rewrote the English lyrics enough to imply the song was about an angel instead of a physically attractive crush. The Korean parts remained unchanged. Her confidence grew when she realized their crazy plan was working. The song's harder driving pace meant more work from the band. This time, their performance was not sharp. It bugged Heather that "Celestial" often sounded better in rehearsals than it did live. She encouraged Grace to extend their next intro to buy precious time for the girls to grab some water.

  The third song was their newest one, "Back Off." It required the most extensive alteration because it was a breakup song. Heather couldn't settle on original lyrics she could live with and therefore took a straightforward approach by singing it entirely in Korean instead. The girls attacked the song with gusto. Easier to play than "Celestial," their new song rocked. It was an enjoyable experience and proving to be the best live performance they'd ever given.

  Indeed, her moment of euphoria became the ideal moment for disaster to strike.

  The drumming stopped abruptly, followed first by a loud bell-like clanging, then the clattering of wood on metal. Heather watched Mindy's drumsticks skitter right past, stopping just shy of rolling off the front edge of the stage.

  "Goddammit. Fuck this bullshit!" shouted Mindy, forgetting the mic positioned right above her drum kit was live. The multi-thousand-watt PA system ensured every man, woman, and child in the amphitheater heard the outburst clearly.

  The band's playing ground to a disheartening halt. Heather looked over her shoulder, shocked to see the ceiling fan wobbling wildly above their heads as it worked to regain equilibrium. Mindy jumped from her seat and stomped to the front of the stage to retrieve her drumsticks. Her walk of shame was compounded by the ridiculous need to prevent oversized jeans from slipping off, thereby adding insult to injury. Mindy was furious. Her heavy clomping on the metal floor was magnified as the crowd watched in silence, unsure how to respond. When passing by the mic stand, she shot Heather a sideways glance as if daring her to utter so much as a single word of admonishment.

  Heather faced the audience with a weak smile. Parents covered their children's' ears, and some even ushered them from the venue altogether. Most gave disapproving looks. A few were seen laughing.

  "Say something," urged Grace, leaning away from the mic in Heather's direction.

  "You say something."

  "You're the leader."

  "Oh, so now I'm the leader. Gee, thanks."

  Before they could settle on a plan, Mindy returned to the drum set and, without warning, resumed right where she had left off. The girls, surprised by the abruptness of her action, struggled to find their place again. After eight measures, they regained their form, but by then, it didn't matter. The PA volume was abruptly zeroed by the house engineer. Mindy's unamplified drumming continued unabated until the MC came on stage with his arms waving, and she too had to stop playing.

  "All right, ladies, pack it up. Show's over," he said, before stepping to the center mic as the engineer restored its level. "We sincerely apologize for that. We're having some…technical difficulties, but we'll be back in a few minutes. I assure you; you're going to love our next act. Please stick around."

  Heather was livid. She unplugged her guitar, threw the cable onto the stage floor, and skulked away, feeling like a pariah under the watchful eyes of the MC, the stage manager, and the crowd. Why does everything I touch turn to crap?

  "What the hell was that?" demanded Grace when they stepped off stage.

  "I was sweating. They slipped," Mindy responded.

  "She was doing her stick flipping thing again," charged Vanessa. Mindy shot her an enraged glare.

  Arnie rushed over to the group, breathing heavily. "Argue later! Let's go now before they ask for money back!"

  The band members, with Steve and Arnie's help, gathered their belongings. As they hastened from the tent, a musician from another band applauded and voiced his approval, "That was totally punk rock. I've been wanting to say that shit for years."

  Upon reaching the van, they tossed their gear inside without organizing it, remaining ever vigilant should officials try to intercept them. Within minutes, Arnie was maneuvering the vehicle off the lot. Only when the festival grounds were out of sight did they dare relax.

  Heather and Grace conspired on the return trip. Occasionally, they'd consult with other members in hushed whispers before resuming their private conversation. By the time they arrived home, their decision had been made. Grace delivered the news without remorse. "Arnie, thank you for your service, but you're fired."

  33

  Steve

  The first text came in while Stev
e was projecting Fellini's 8 1/2 for Professor Janet Grady's class on film auteurs. He didn't have time to read it right away because a reel change was imminent. The new projectionist, Marta, was in the later stages of training, and as her instructor, Steve wanted to make sure she had a firm grasp of the process. After the changeover was made, he supervised the threading of the next reel. Once matters were under control, he took a moment to find his phone at the prep table. The text was from his makeup artist.

  8:23 P.M. Alejandra: Yo Stevo. Sorry to be such a flake, but not gonna make your shoot. Summin came up. Hope u can find a replacement. CYA.

  "What?" Steve said aloud.