“So who needs to be there,” he said. His finger poised on the switch that would fire it all up.
Here goes nothin’, he thought. It’ll work, or it’ll blow every circuit in the building. What’s life without risk?
Cody took one last hit. James Bond blew the missile base.
And Cody pushed the button.
Inside the house, Rachel and Natalie were strolling through the Twilight Zone, a dining hall that had been converted into a sort of community fun house for the group. It was an airy, spacious room with large windows, Ping-Pong and pool tables, and a central seating area dominated by a Toshiba rear-projection TV with matching bootleg videotape library. Rachel had just breezed through with her squirming armload and a bowl of dip when the set fired up and a voice boomed out, “This is COH-DEE TEE VEE . . .”
Rachel looked up in shock.
“. . . bringing you the finest in on-the-spot coverage of the Rock Aid concert broadcasting and other choice bits of video wizardry.”
The face on the screen donned shades and turned grim, forty inches of flat, deadpan delivery. “I know what you’re thinking,” it hissed. “You’re thinking, ‘Do I feel lucky?’” Then he smiled.
Rachel stared, agog.
“Well, you should. Because even though you can’t be there, even though you’re feeling like the chains of motherhood are keeping you from the event of the decade, there’s no need to be sad and blue.
“Because you, Sister dear, are in for the media blitz of a lifetime. You will soon take your rightful place in the global village, thanks to none other than that Modern Day Pirate of the Air Waves, Commander Cody Adams!”
Rachel giggled and sat down on the one of the leather sofa modules that ringed the tube. Natalie turned in her arms, bracing herself delicately with one hand on Rachel’s cheek, and gazed at the screen. “Dahh,” she chimed. “Dahh-bah-dah-bah-PFHHHT!” Rachel smiled and kissed her.
“Well, boobie,” she said, “this might not be such a bad day, after all.”
“You’re darned tootin’, it won’t!”
Rachel was startled. “You . . . you can hear me?”
“Yup.” Cody beamed. “See you, too. Look on the mantel.” He pointed offscreen. Rachel looked: a handicam stood perched above the fireplace, red eye winking dutifully. “When did you do all this?” she asked incredulously.
“In the dead of the night, my dear. I told you, I’m a genius.”
“I guess . . .”
“I’m also starving. Could you make me a sandwich?”
Rachel laughed. “What? You didn’t wire the kitchen, too?”
“Only for reception. Bring me something yummy, okay?”
“You got it. Watch the midget, okay?” Rachel got up and deposited Natalie into the playpen at the corner of the sofa. Natalie looked momentarily as though she were contemplating turning on the waterworks, when Cody came to the rescue.
“Hey, Swee’pea! Yo!” Natalie looked up at the screen, confused. “Hey, don’t cry! It’s Pee-wee time!”
Back in the shed, Cody flipped over to CBS. A full-color, forty-inch Jhombi was busy granting Pee-wee his wish for the week. He looked on Monitor Four: Natalie stared in wobbly awe at the image.
Then she smiled.
Yup, he thought. This is gonna be great.
10:50 A.M.
Click
Black-and-white clip of a young Mickey Rooney as Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, hopping about to the sound of the pipes as a Burgess Meredith-like voice-over solemnly intoned:
“Music censorship is nothing new. Aristotle said that ‘the flute is not an instrument that has a good moral effect; it is too exciting.’”
Cut to silent film footage of stiffly swirling men and women in black tie and ball gowns.
“And the waltz, in its time, was loudly pronounced to be ‘disgustingly immodest,’ and ‘will-corrupting.’”
Cut to herky-jerky film clips of happy Negros in straw hats and summer dresses, dancing the cakewalk.
“Ragtime was rife with lewd gestures and obscene posturings,”
Cut to “Elvis the Pelvis” on the Ed Sullivan Show:
“and Elvis Presley’s first television appearance could only be broadcast from the waist up . . .”
Fade to black. ROCK AID logo bleeds up in bright white letters, along with the toll-free number.
“Rock Aid.
“Because some people never give up . . .”
Click
Medium shot of Bernard Javits, in sweltering suit and tie, sweaty CNN microphone in hand.
“I’m standing in front of JFK Stadium in Philadelphia,” he began, “where an estimated ninety-six thousand people are gathered for today’s Rock Aid festival. Despite a storm of controversy and protests from various factions of the radical right, both the concert’s promoters and the crowd seem confident that this will be a great day in the history of rock ’n’ roll.”
Cut to a pair of too-cute teenyboppers, Carol and Cheryl, with matching streaked-and-moussed explosions of hair.
“I think it’s disgusting, what these people say about rock music,” said the one on the right. “Rock is the greatest! If they think they can take it away from us, they’re crazy . . .”
Click
Cut to a throng of sign-waving protesters some fifty strong marching around and around. Note the 700 Club logo in the lower right-hand corner of the screen. Focus on the stationary form electronically identified as REV. WALTER PAISELY, his big sweaty frame dominating the screen as the marchers maintained their spiraling orbit.
“They say that they aren’t anti-Christian. They say that they’re just standing up for their civil rights. Well, if you believe that, I got this nice bridge in Brooklyn that I’d just love to sell ya.
“The fact of the matter is: No matter what they say, this concert is a slap in the face of God Almighty; and in all honesty, it wouldn’t surprise me too much if the Lord took a mind to smite everyone involved . . .”
Click
Cut to electric-blue Independent Network news background hosting a litany of statistics that jibed with the words being quoted by the anonymous voice-over.
“Though a number of sponsors have backed out on Rock Aid, the list remains impressive. It includes Pepsi-Cola, Lee Jeans, Miller Beer, Swatch, Vidal Sassoon, Clearasil, Nissan, Toshiba, JBL, Panasonic, TWA, and Frito-Lay. All of them can safely be said to hold a vested interest in the youth culture: a culture that clearly feels threatened by attacks from . . .”
Click
Cut to lunatic clay-mation MTV logo, then to the smiling face of VeeJay Alan Belsen.
“Hello again. We’re backstage here at JFK, talking to some of the stars that have made Rock Aid possible . . .”
10:55 A.M.
This was Al’s lucky day. He had dragged his intrepid roving crew through media hell to get this close, but it was worth it. It was a bitch getting out of ‘the corral,’ as the journalists had nicknamed the holding area behind the eastern sprawl of the stage, and over toward the snow-white dome of the practice field that had become the inner sanctum of the stars. Live Aid was twice as big, he mused, and half as complex. But, that was then; a lot of things were different. Backstage had been a jumbled cluster of trailers, a crazed promenade, and access had been much easier.
Earlier today, the bulbous monstrosity that divided and conquered the lion’s share of the already limited space had thrown a very real barrier between Al Belsen and the people he needed desperately to talk to. The place was a zoo. All of the floor teams of the networks were jostling for the best angle. Twenty-minute clips of scrambling ambience would simply never do. He needed in, and fast.
So he greased the burly security personnel (decked out in their bright orange RockAid Staff T-shirts like refugees from the Anita Bryant Memorial Crisco Bar), and he got in ahead of everyone. It was worth the Andrew Jacksons folded in each hearty handshake. It was worth almost anything.
Because now Al had his cross hairs lined up on the pe
rfect pair for his kickoff newsblast. The honchos in the press box had made it very clear that they were tired of being tagged as the bubble-babble network and wanted their big-time coverage of today’s festivities to be filled with content, dammit. Content.
Well, Big Al Belsen would give ‘em content, all right. Big Al Belsen had a plan. He turned back to the cyclopean eye that focused at him shiny and black as Carrara marble and got the okeydoke from his cameraman. He was going to capture all sides of this little war.
And he had just the right people to fire the first shot.
“Jake, Jerry, you’re certainly two of the main men of today’s big event.” Al smiled his best preppie surf-bum smile. “How does it look to be shaping up out here?”
Jacob Hamer looked tired and distracted; he took a deep breath as if about to say something of earth-shaking significance. But before he could speak, Jerry jumped in.
“Al, I think it’s gonna be just great. It’s a beautiful day, everybody’s psyched, we’ve got so many great acts lined up—Iron Maiden, U2, Genesis, Mr. Mister, Joni Mitchell, Amy Grant, Frank Zappa, Jackson Browne, Pat Benatar, David Bowie, Peter Gabriel, Ozzy Osbourne, Suburbicide, The Slabs, The Scream, even this dude here”—he nudged Jake, who smiled as Jerry proceeded to throw a brotherly arm around his shoulders—“but most importantly, we’re doing something for a good cause.
“All these people here today are here because they believe in something.” Al nodded sagely. Jake smiled and shook his head as Jerry puffed up for his “America” rap. Al was hoping this would happen.
“They believe in America, Al, American freedom and American diversity and the American right to rock and roll. And we’re standing up for that right.”
Al smiled and nodded some more. Good, good, good, he thought, turning a brief glance toward the press box and watching the imaginary ratings needle in his head start to bounce off the dial. “And how ‘bout you, Jake? How do you feel? Are you ready to rock?”
Again, that strange, tired smile.
“Al,” he said, “I’m just ready to kick some ass.”
10:59 A.M.
The tent door flapped open as Jake edged in. Jesse continued sipping Veryfine apple juice out of a bottle and staring at the nine-inch monitor perched on a folding table. “You were just on. Very diplomatic.”
He shrugged and picked up his guitar. “Hey, call me Mr. Charm.”
Jesse continued staring at the TV. A commercial for Pepsi came and went, as did another squiggly MTV logo, and Al Belsen was back, cornering Sting and David Bowie. “Hey,” Jake said, “you okay?”
Jesse nodded, just a little too quickly.
“Yeah, well, you look like hell.”
“Thanks, boss. You look pretty spiff yourself.”
“Get much sleep?”
Shrug. “You?”
Shrug.
Silence: awkward, halting. Finally:
“Have you seen Pete?”
“Not since last night. We sort of had it out.”
“Anything you want to tell me about?”
“Just . . . personal,” she said. “But it’s weird. I felt had afterwards about some of the things I said, and I paged his room about midnight.”
“And?”
“He wasn’t in. I tried again at one and at two and”—her voice cracked the tiniest bit—“shit. He was gone all night.”
Jake said nothing; it was hard to avoid the obvious. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he found somebody else. He shrugged. “You try this morning?”
“Nothing. Zip. Nada,” she said haltingly. “It’s like he just disappeared.”
Jake didn’t like the sound of this. Not at all. “We can’t very well go on without him.”
“I know.”
They looked at each other then, the same thoughts etched across their features in mirror-imaged relief. So where in the hell is Pete?
And the same answer.
Good question.
11:25 A.M.
They were pouring through the gates now, slowly at first, then faster and faster as security found itself overwhelmed by hordes beyond number and coolers beyond counting. Can five dozen people thoroughly search ninety-six thousand? Past a certain point, it made more sense to just pack ‘em in and then contain ‘em from there. A riot in the parking lot did no good for anyone.
And a riot there could easily be. Disregarding the protesters entirely, there was ample potential for havoc from the crowd itself. It was Whitman’s multitude made flesh, culled from every conceivable rock ’n’ roll stripe: metal heads, Dead heads, punk and folk and heads à la moderne. That some of them loved Judas Priest and hated Jackson Browne was clear. Ditto with the inverse. Ditto for the ones who hated both, but couldn’t wait for Madonna or Zappa or Wang Chung to hit the stage.
And then there were the anomalies: the ones who bore MO icons on their T-shirts, no small round totems pinned to their denim lapels. The ones who looked more like someone’s mom or someone’s mutant cousin than a bona fide lover of rock ’n’ roll.
Like the rather severe-looking woman from the Susquehanna Women’s Clinic, with her informational pamphlets on teenage pregnancy and the little red Igloo chest that she claimed to be her “survival kit” . . .
11:30 A.M.
“EEYOW!” Chris Konopliski hollered, fists waggling triumphant in the air. “This is too cool, man! I can’t believe it!”
“Shhh,” Ted cautioned. “Keep it down, okay? Relax.”
Chris stared at him, grinning but astounded. “Relax? You want me to relax? I just saw fuckin’ Madonna, man! And you want me to relax? Hah! EEYOW!” He leaped two feet in the air, did a little dance in short-lived defiance of gravity. Several passersby—roadies, security folk—sent him cautionary glances that zipped right past him.
“If you don’t chill out, they’re gonna take your goddamn backstage pass, and then you can scream and jump up and down all you want in the fucking audience with the rest of the bozos. Okay?”
Feet squarely back on terra firma, Chris turned to his friend and let an exasperated snort. “What’s with you, man? Why are you being such a drag?”
“It’s just that you don’t understand what backstage is all about.”
“Oh! Well, why don’t you just tip me off then, Mr. Big Time.”
“Hey, come on—”
“No, you come on! What, I’m not supposed to have a good time?” Chris was suddenly, clearly, pissed. “Why did you even bring me then? To sit on my goddamn thumb? Christ!”
“It’s called protocol, kid.” A new voice, deep and low, from behind him. Not kidding. Large hands, suddenly upon his shoulders. “The thing to remember is that these are famous people, and they put up with a lot of shit from total strangers, and backstage is one of the only places where the crowds can’t get to ‘em. If you’re cool, you’ll get along fine with everyone. If you act like a geek, they’ll throw you out. Simple as that. Okay?”
Ted looked up at the wild-maned rock star towering over Chris. His eyes went wide, all stoned droopiness banished. The dude was huge, maybe bigger than Hempstead. Chris turned, too, as the grip released. His lower jaw dropped, attempting to match altitudes with his cast iron belt buckle.
“You’re Jake’s kid, right?” Yke Dykeburn said, turning to Ted now.
“Um. His stepson. Yeah.”
“I thought so. Ted?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Pleased to meet you.” He extended his massive right hand. Ted met it with his own smaller version. They shook. Yke grinned and looked over at Chris. “And who are you, man?”
“Chris Konofuckingpliski.” Nothing to prompt a speedy recovery like the presence of another rock V roll hero.
“Well!” Yke laughed, reaching out with his left. “Pleased to meet you, too, Mr. Konofuckingpliski.” The three-way handshake went on for several seconds, then split. “So. Are you guys ready to rock?”
“Oh, yeah!” Chris enthused.
“You can handle bein’ cool, can’t you?” Yke’s head
cocked, mock-paternal.
“Piece of cake,” Chris asserted. Ted nodded easy agreement.
“Good. Because you know that this is it, right? This is where the path splits in two. We can either take the high road, or we go right off the cliff.
“And if we take the wrong turn, boys, the music goes with us . . .”
11:45 A.M.
Pastor Furniss paused in prayer momentarily to catch up on Reverend Jimmy’s latest installment of “America, You’ve Gone Too Far.” The Smurfs—those little blue minions of Satan—had just finished wreaking their insidious havoc on the tender flanks of yet another Saturday morning audience; Lord, how clear need it be? They have eyes, yet still they do not see. Teaching innocent kids that sorcery is an acceptable, even desirable, way of dealing with the trials and tribulations the Lord saw fit to mete out. Where would it all end?
A rhetorical question. Daniel Furniss had no doubt at all exactly where it would end. In Rapture for some, a heavenly ascent into the arms of a loving Shepherd. For others, though . . .
Daniel didn’t want to think about that. Not now. There was still time, thank God; even in the face of the assault the Enemy was fomenting this very morning, there was still hope for those lost sheep. He was already doing almost everything he could, with people in the field and tomorrow’s show setting up to be a doozy; right now what he needed was a spiritual jump-start, a little prayer pit stop as it were, to keep things on the money.
So to speak.
Which was exactly why Jimmy’s show was such a blessing, praise God. Daniel had long admired Jimmy: his passion, his vitality, his depth in the Spirit, the sheer magnitude of his ministry and how many lost sheep he was able to bring back into the fold.
This latest series was a prime example: Jimmy didn’t mince words. Nossiree; he went right out and grabbed Lucifer by the short ’n curlies and made that Serpent bend to the Will of the Lord.
The Scream Page 22
