Nebula Nights: Love Among The Stars

by Melisse Aires

  My gaze holds onto his, unrelenting, and through the sound-filled silence, a connection binds us. Firm and tight. He experienced the same thing I did—through this entire journey, we’ve shared everything. We are the strangers united through music, preserved in time. “That was … so … I can’t even explain.”

  A full grin pulls the corners of his lips up now. “You don’t have to, Butterman. I was there. Should’ve known Janis Joplin would rock your world. Makes sense, now that I think of it.”

  I’m about to ask what that’s supposed to mean when Nancy appears, slips her arms around Tristan’s waist. “Come on, baby. Only got a few minutes then we miss our window.”

  Her words send a shiver down my spine. How’s that for a slice of reality pie? We will miss our window. I check my watch. We have all of fifteen minutes to see Hendrix if we’re to keep my hour buffer to reach Essence.

  “Tristan,” I say, “we have to move fast. I don’t see how we can get into see this guy and get back in time.”

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Nancy says, turns with Tristan’s hand in hers. “Follow me.”

  Tristan hangs back to face me, though his body is moving forward. “We can do this. You can’t expect me to be this close and give it up now.”

  “I gave up meeting Dirk.”

  Tristan grabs my arm, forcing me to move faster, with Nancy still fixed to his other side. “You gotta know how epic this is for me. What if we go back to the time-craft—can you move us forward so we can be here already? I mean, like your slogan, right? Time is in our hands.”

  I groan. “Nice try, but if we keep messing around with this time string we’re gonna shake ourselves up. And I’m not playing anymore games. You can come back here during another time trip.”

  If we’re still in the time travel business, that is.

  “We’ve got fifteen minutes, and I intend to use it.” He lets my arm go and quickens his pace.

  Forced to keep up, I follow them, ignoring the spurt of jealousy rising in my chest. I want to scratch it away with my fingernails, along with Nancy’s arm at Tristan’s back. Over the course of our steps, it’s falling lower and lower down his waist til almost in slo-mo, her hand cups his ass, then falls away, right as we approach the trailer door.

  Nancy knocks, and some guy in a white tee shirt steps aside for her to enter. Tristan glances at me, waits in a too-late, half-ass act of chivalry for me to enter before him. Inside the narrow quarters, my eyes find a feast of colored lights streaming off purple interior walls. Three guys and two girls lounge on a makeshift sofa, legs propped, arms dangling; a smoky haze rising into a cloudy pinnacle above them. No doubt who Hendrix is. A presence so impeccable he could be made out of wax: thick afro mashed in at the sides by a red bandana; two small round earrings and a gold chain accenting smooth mocha flesh. His chest peeks out from a white fringed shirt opened down to his abs.

  He nods up at us, now leaning over his ivory retro-electric guitar. A joint passes to his ready fingers and he inhales deeply, smoke swirling up from his thin-mustached lip. Every breath I take in is now laced with the heady aroma of secondhand reefer. Full and robust. In this very surreal moment, I don’t fight against it. Instead, I welcome the weedy perfume into my lungs til my head expands like a balloon and calms my flaring nerves.

  I set the timer on my watch for the final countdown: Thirteen minutes, fifty-six seconds.

  Nancy draws my attention back to the group, her arms embracing each of them one by one, with such a natural, easy grace that I could never come close to imitating.

  Next thing I know, Tristan’s taking a seat on a folding chair, two bodies down from his rock hero. “Great to meet you, Jimi. Really great. I mean it, this is like, wow.”

  Tristan looks so vulnerable that I have to giggle, and it’s louder than I expected. Who knew superstar golden boy could get gushy over someone?

  All of them notice me now, Hendrix included, and they smirk through glassy-eyed stares.

  “Sorry,” I say. “My friend’s eloquent outburst struck me as funny.”

  Tristan doesn’t give me a second look. But Nancy flicks a brow my way, and for a minute, I want to ask her if there’s no such thing as snark in the twentieth century. Then Hendrix steals my attention with his mellow-melodic voice.

  “Right on. Tristan, you say. Yeah, I can dig it.” He chuckles and tokes from the joint again, long and deep, exhaling after a long pause. “Enjoying our little show here?”

  “Better believe it, man. You have no idea what it took for us to get here.” Tristan leans back in his chair, amused with himself, flipping his bangs aside with a jerk of his head.

  “No? Where you from then?” Hendrix asks. His voice has a way of drifting outward, as if lifted on a breeze.

  Tristan glances up at me. “If I told you, you’d never believe it. But originally, I’m from L.A.”

  “Far out, man,” the guy to Hendrix’s left says, now receiving the communal joint.

  “California,” Hendrix says, and draws it out syllable by syllable. “A west-coaster. I’m from Seattle, you know. You came a long way, my man.”

  “You only know the half of it,” Tristan says, hands behind his head now.

  Nancy’s coaxed away by the two girls in short shorts and they disappear behind a tie-dyed drape at the far side of the trailer. I’m the only one left standing and it occurs to me I’m a grungy mess. Not a thing I can do about it either.

  The trailer door opens and a guy calls in, “On in five, Jimi.”

  Whoever’s onstage right now has been talking, not playing music. Been like that for the last half hour. People flapping their gums about what a great bunch of kids this group is, and if everyone picks up around them there won’t be such a mess. Some guy even announces the bad acid is all gone and people should feel comfortable to drop freely. So much gabbing that this crowd should be ravenous for music by the time Hendrix gets out there.

  The two stoners next to Hendrix rise, move toward the front of the trailer in a lackadaisical bustle, toward what looks like an oversized amplifier. Dinosaur equipment. Boxy and behemoth.

  My lungs seem to be squeezing into each other and I hack, which attracts Hendrix’s attention. He motions me with the joint between his fingers, his voice decadently soft. “And who’s this now?”

  Making eye contact with Tristan’s guitar god gives me an odd little buzz that sprouts down to my toes. Enough to propel me forward and take a seat beside him so we’re shoulder to shoulder. He’s smaller than he looks, but put together like a fine portrait, with long molten strokes and warm gentle blends that make up his image.

  I’m relaxed by his easy company. “I’m Bianca. Tristan’s guide.”

  Hendrix nods, exhales smoke. “Right on. Good stuff?”

  I smile, glance at Tristan.

  “That’s not what she means,” Tristan says, then fixes his gaze on me. “He thinks you’re an LSD guide.”

  “Ohhhh ….,” I say.

  Hendrix offers me the joint, but I shake my head. People in this decade sure are generous with their drugs. Makes me feel impolite refusing it, and I wonder if I’ve committed some kind of hippie faux pas.

  Hendrix doesn’t seem to mind, though.

  “Trust me, I’m feeling fine right now,” I say, which is true. Just breathing inside this haze is enough to contaminate my lungs, send my brain soaring.

  I’m caught off my horse, though, when Tristan not only accepts the joint from Hendrix, but sucks it in with a long, even toke. I watch the ash elongate at its tip like time is standing still. Tristan peers at me through a thin wisp of smoke as he exhales, his expression placid and pointed, as if to say this is his moment and nothing is going to ruin it—not me, not our time window, or even his rehabilitation.

  I understand how huge this encounter is for him. And truth is, I’m completely ignorant when it comes to which drugs do what. If I don’t hear about it in the Web chat rooms, I don’t know about it. All I know is that, instinctually, it fee
ls wrong. I’m sure it shows on my face just now. Tristan must think I’m the most sheltered and inexperienced time traveler in existence.

  And I’m anxious to show him how wrong he is. Something new inside me is hatching. I felt the first crackles of its emergence only a little while ago, watching Janis perform. More lies beneath my surface, and I don’t know if it’s good or bad. My head buzzes with a newfound insecurity.

  “Jimi,” I say with steady self-assuredness, “you wanna know where we’re really from? Or should I say when we’re from?”

  He squints at me through heavy lids. “Yeah, baby. Tell me everything.”

  Glancing at Tristan, then back at Hendrix, I grin. “2069.”

  Hendrix erupts in laughter. “Solid. Really solid, man.”

  “No, really. We’re time travelers from the future.”

  Once Hendrix stops chuckling, he notices the dead seriousness on my face, looks from me to Tristan.

  Tristan nods.

  “Shit, man,” Hendrix says. “You can’t trip my mind all up before I go on …”

  Tristan and I exchange glances. In his eyes the question burns—he wants to know why I’d tell Jimi Hendrix of all people, risk some kind of PF or parallel shift. Part of me wants to answer outright—tell him he doesn’t have me pegged, that I can be spontaneous and fun. But what am I trying to prove now that our time is almost up?

  “The future,” Hendrix says, straight-faced now, soaking it all in like he’s slowly accepting the truth. “That’s a head trip, man. Total mind fuck.” He speaks to Tristan. “You came back from the future to see the show?”

  “To see you,” Tristan says. “Your performance today’ll go down in history. You’ll become an icon of your generation. Fans’ll never forget you long after you’re gone.”

  Hendrix lets that thought marinate a moment, smoke still winding upward from the joint in his fingers.

  “I’m not kidding, man,” Tristan says. “I’m a musician myself, and even for me a hundred years from now, you’re a legend. Seeing you here right now, before you go on, you’ve no idea what it means to me. And knowing I’ll see you perform live … man, it just rocks my world.”

  A fluttering tickle in my chest reminds me how much this really is Tristan’s moment. I’m captivated by the intense satisfaction on his face, the passion in his words. They can’t be ignored, or the sentiment discounted. And that’s what proves our truth. Not even a primitive icon like Jimi Hendrix can disregard that. Will I be that convincing on my Induction Day, when it’s my turn to spill the truth?

  I could show Hendrix my watch and prove technology has surpassed anything he’s ever been introduced to, but in this case, there’s no reason to prove anything. He can believe whatever he wants.

  “Listen, Jimi, I’ve gotta tell you something …” Tristan’s forehead is creased with lines. “Stay off the drugs. It doesn’t go well for you.”

  I find this particularly odd—a recovering addict giving advice to his rock hero. Must be something catastrophic in Hendrix’s future. I make a mental note to ask Tristan later.

  Hendrix half smiles, shakes his head. “You’re shittin’ me. From the future. And you’ve seen me perform this same show I haven’t even done yet?”

  “A million times. Got it right on my handheld.”

  “Your what?” Hendrix says.

  “It’s this device in the future—everybody uses them, like digital notebooks you can stream media to.” Tristan stands now, his hands raised in full animation. “You play Voodoo Chile, and Purple Haze …”

  “How the hell did you know …” Hendrix trails off, rubs his forehead.

  “And your rendition of the National Anthem is epic,” Tristan adds.

  “National Anthem?” Hendrix asks, then snickers. “What, here? Now? You think I’m playing the National Anthem?”

  “You are.” Tristan nods. “You have to. It’s a historical rock moment. Everything you do today becomes classic.”

  Hendrix stands now, his guitar draped over his shoulder, hanging at his waist. “Classic? My music’s in the right now. I don’t do classics.”

  “But one day, in the future, your music will become classic. A century from now people still listen to it. Classic rock still has a huge following.”

  “Classic rock? What the …?” Hendrix stops, turns.

  One of the girls in short shorts saunters up to him, hands him a decanter and slips something into his palm. He swigs from the flask, hands it back to her, then glances from Tristan to me again, laughs with childlike amusement. “You had me, you know. Just what kinda stuff you on, anyway?”

  Tristan lets out a long sigh.

  The door opens and the same guy as before points at Hendrix. “Your guys are waiting onstage.”

  I check my watch. Nine minutes, thirty-seven seconds.

  Hendrix pats me on the shoulder, puts a hand out for Tristan, the long white fringe from his sleeve swaying in the draft he created.

  In a swift lunge, Tristan embraces him for all of three seconds. “Stay off the drugs, Jimi.” He pulls back, says to his face, “Your life depends on it.”

  Hendrix shakes his head, grinning, then exits, mumbling something about the National Anthem and what a joke playing it would be.

  Chapter

  16

  “That’s it,” I say, outside the trailer now. “Let’s bolt.”

  Tristan lays a hand on my shoulder. “Seriously, Butterman? Hendrix is about to perform. We can’t miss it now, after just talking to the man himself. That’s like … sacrilege.”

  Nancy appears and tugs Tristan to the left of the stage, just behind the ropes from the masses. I stride up behind them, checking my watch on the way. I’m still on the customer-is-always-right clock for a few minutes, then Tristan’s on my time.

  “Five minutes, Golden Boy,” I say. “That’s all you have left. No matter what.”

  Nancy gives me a dazed look and Tristan strains a smile. Up on stage, Hendrix and a few other musicians orient themselves while we wait in the mud. People around us shuffle about, hooting, whistling, ready for more entertainment, but bleary-eyed from the past three days of slogging through mud, scrounging for nourishment. Nancy tells us there’s been a water shortage for at least a day.

  I’m about to check my watch again when Hendrix’s guitar emits a long stream of feedback over the speakers. A collective hush silences the crowd. His velvety voice filters through the mike in a brief greeting, before he recedes to center stage, producing a series of fuzz and distortion like some secret musical language. Guitar riffs rise and fall, spinning out of control beneath his nimble fingers, plucking invisible energy from the strings. I can’t peel my eyes away from Hendrix’s face, now contorted in an ecstasy that must travel throughout his entire body. He’s on that wave, and this time it’s full of funk.

  I can’t believe I was just talking to this guy—this wizard.

  “Voodoo Chile,” Tristan says, his lips low to my ear so I can feel his hot breath.

  My insides melt. I almost forgot he was here.

  My watch alarm goes off. Not that I could hear it, but the vibration on my arm reels me back to duty. We have to go. No more mistakes.

  I’m about to pull Tristan away, when I find myself frozen with fascination. The way he’s soaking in his most epic moment, and how I’m the one sharing it with him.

  Makes me wonder who’ll be at my side when my Induction Day comes.

  As the song starts to fade, Hendrix moves away from the mike and closer to the edge of the stage, his fingers still fondling guitar strings. But then the sounds change, the song transitions, and a familiar melody parts the air.

  “He’s doin’ it!” Tristan cries. “I knew it. He had to!”

  The U.S. National Anthem pours from Hendrix’s guitar, which at this point, seems more like a magic wand—the wizard wielding its power. Everyone’s on their feet, lapping it up like thirsty, patriotic dogs. Sure, most of them are anti-war to the times, but apparently that doesn’t m
ean they can’t love their country.

  Through his electronic Americana, Hendrix’s image is engraved in my mind. Tristan was right. This moment transcends time. I’ll never forget a second of it.

  As the anthem ends and the music shifts into a new song, the hordes around us go nuts with only an appreciation their generation can offer. Hendrix and every musician here are speaking for them. I see that now—the artsy-expressive beauty of it. An iconic salute, that before I arrived, I couldn’t have cared less about.

  As much as I hate to, I have to interrupt. “Tristan, it’s time.”

  “Excuse me, while I kiss the sky,” Tristan yells over the blaring music. His face is lit up like a child waiting to unwrap their first birthday gift. He’s filthy, half-dressed, and hair askew as if playing a part of some comedy skit … but I’ve never seen a more gorgeous guy. Ever.

  “What’re you talking about?” I yell back. “We’ve gotta leave now.”

  “Best lyric from Purple Haze.” He grins back at me, his body still riding that same wave Hendrix initiated with his first song.

  I grab Tristan’s wrist. “It has to be now.”

  His eyes plead with me but eventually give up. He knows I’m right.

  Nancy’s nowhere in sight, but Tristan doesn’t seem as concerned with that as he is with missing any part of Hendrix. He watches longingly over his shoulder as we move into full hike mode, pushing and weaving our way through, til we finally reach a less crowded area of field, about the same time Hendrix begins a new song.

  After getting our bearings, we beeline for the trees near the port. Right on schedule with forty-five minutes to go. Well, I did exceed my schedule with the Hendrix performance, but it was worth it.

  Tristan’s face is still beaming with a kind of inner bliss—as if some ancient secret to happiness has just been shared with him.

  Approaching the port, the light around where Essence should be ripples and bends. Cloak still activated. I check the area for lurking eyes. All clear. Deactivating the cloaking device, I press my fingerprint to the scanner and it identifies me with a beep. The door opens. We climb inside and Tristan puts on his shirt. I’ve left my sweater and leggings in the bushes, but they’re the least of my concern.