Rock On

by Howard Waldrop

  “Peabody’s is a local institution,” Kaplan said. “In the twentieth century it was a speakeasy. H.L. Mencken himself used to drink here.” Wolf nodded, though the name meant nothing to him. “The bookstore was a front, and the drinking went on here in the back.”

  The place was charged with a feeling of the past. It invoked America’s bygone days as a world power. Wolf half-expected to see Theodore Roosevelt or Henry Kissinger come striding in. He said something to this effect, and Kaplan smiled complacently.

  “You’ll like the show, then,” he said.

  A waiter took their orders. There was barely time to begin on the drinks when a pair of spotlights came on, and the stage curtain parted.

  A woman stood alone in the center of the stage. Bracelets and bangles hung from her wrists, gaudy necklaces from her throat. She wore large tinted glasses and a flowered granny gown. Her nipples pushed against the thin dress. Wolf stared at them in horrified fascination. She had an extra set, immediately below the first pair.

  The woman stood perfectly motionless. Wolf couldn’t stop staring at her nipples; it wasn’t just the number, it was the fact of their being visible at all. So quickly had he taken on this land’s taboos.

  The woman threw her head back and laughed. She put one hand on her hip, thrust the hip out at an angle, and lifted the microphone to her lips. She spoke, and her voice was harsh and raspy.

  “About a year ago I lived in a row house in Newark, right? Lived on the third floor, and I thought I had my act together. But nothing was going right, I wasn’t getting any . . . action. Know what I mean? No talent comin’ around. And there was this chick down the street, didn’t have much and she was doing okay, so I say to myself: What’s wrong, Janis? How come she’s doing so good and you ain’t gettin’ any? So I decided to check it out, see what she had and I didn’t. And one day I get up early, look out the window, and I see this chick out there hustling! I mean, she was doing the streets at noon! So I said to myself, Janis, honey, you ain’t even trying. And when ya want action, ya gotta try. Yeah. Try just a little bit harder.”

  The music swept up out of nowhere, and she was singing: “Try-iii, Try-iii, Just a little bit harder . . . ”

  And unexpectedly, it was good. It was like nothing he had ever heard, but he understood it, almost on an instinctual level. It was world-culture music. It was universal.

  Kaplan dug fingers into Wolf’s arm, brought his mouth up to Wolf’s ear. “You see? You see?” he demanded. Wolf shook him off impatiently. He wanted to hear the music.

  The concert lasted forever, and it was done in no time at all. It left Wolf sweaty and emotionally spent. Onstage, the woman was energy personified. She danced, she strutted, she wailed more power into her songs than seemed humanly possible. Not knowing the original, Wolf was sure it was a perfect re-creation. It had that feel.

  The audience loved her. They called her back for three encores, and then a fourth. Finally, she came out, gasped into the mike, “I love ya, honeys, I truly do. But please—no more. I just couldn’t do it.” She blew a kiss, and was gone from the stage.

  The entire audience was standing, Wolf among them, applauding furiously. A hand fell on Wolf’s shoulder, and he glanced to his side, annoyed. It was Kaplan. His face was flushed and he said, “Come on.” He pulled Wolf free of the crowd and backstage to a small dressing room. Its door was ajar and people were crowded into it.

  One of them was the singer, hair stringy and out-of-place, laughing and gesturing widely with a Southern Comfort bottle. It was an antique, its label lacquered to the glass, and three-quarters filled with something amber-colored.

  “Janis, this is—” Kaplan began.

  “The name is Maggie,” she sang gleefully. “Maggie Horowitz. I ain’t no dead blues singer. And don’t you forget it.”

  “This is a fan of yours, Maggie. From Africa.” He gave Wolf a small shove. Wolf hesitantly stumbled forward, grimacing apologetically at the people he displaced.

  “Whee—howdy!” Maggie whooped. She downed a slug from her bottle. “Pleased ta meecha, Ace. Kinda light for an African, aintcha?”

  “My mother’s people were descended from German settlers.” And it was felt that a light-skinned representative could handle the touchy Americans better, but he didn’t say that.

  “Whatcher name, Ace?”

  “Wolf.”

  “Wolf.” Maggie crowed. “Yeah, you look like a real heartbreaker, honey. Guess I’d better be careful around you, huh? Likely to sweep me off my feet and deflower me.” She nudged him with an elbow. “That’s a joke, Ace.”

  Wolf was fascinated. Maggie was alive, a dozen times more so than her countrymen. She made them look like zombies. Wolf was also a little afraid of her.

  “Hey. Whatcha think of my singing, hah?”

  “It was excellent,” Wolf said. “It was”—he groped for words—“in my land the music is quieter, there is not so much emotion.”

  “Yeah, well I think it was fucking good, Ace. Voice’s never been in better shape. Go tell ’em that at Hopkins, Kaplan. Tell ’em I’m giving them their money’s worth.”

  “Of course you are,” Kaplan said.

  “Well, I am, goddammit. Hey, this place is like a morgue! Let’s ditch this matchbox dressing room and hit the bars. Hey? Let’s party.”

  She swept them all out of the dressing room, out of the building, and onto the street. They formed a small boisterous group, noisily wandering the city, looking for bars.

  “There’s one a block thataway,” Maggie said. “Let’s hit it. Hey, Ace, I’d likeya ta meet Cynthia. Sin, this is Wolf. Sin and I are like one person inside two skins. Many’s the time we’ve shared a piece of talent in the same bed. Hey?” She cackled, and grabbed at Cynthia’s ass.

  “Cut it out, Maggie.” Cynthia smiled when she said it. She was a tall, slim, striking woman.

  “Hey, this town is dead!” Maggie screamed the last word, then gestured them all to silence so they could listen for the echo. “There it is.” She pointed, and they swooped down on the first bar.

  After the third, Wolf lost track. At some point he gave up on the party and somehow made his way back to his hostel. The last he remembered of Maggie she was calling after him, “Hey, Ace, don’t be a party poop.” Then: “At least be sure to come back tomorrow, goddammit.”

  Wolf spent most of the day in his room, drinking water and napping. His hangover was all but gone by the time evening took the edge off the day’s heat. He thought of Maggie’s half-serious invitation, dismissed it and decided to go to the Club.

  The Uhuru Club was ablaze with light by the time he wandered in, a beacon in a dark city. Its frequenters, after all, were all African foreign service, with a few commercial reps such as himself forced in by the insular nature of American society and the need for polite conversation. It was de facto exempt from the power-use laws that governed the natives.

  “Mbikana! Over here, lad, let me set you up with a drink.” Nnamdi of the consulate waved him over to the bar. Wolf complied, feeling conspicuous as he always did in the Club. His skin stood out here. Even the American servants were dark, though whether this was a gesture of deference or arrogance on the part of the local authorities, he could not guess.

  “Word is that you spent the day closeted with the comptroller.” Nnamdi had a gin-and-tonic set up. Wolf loathed the drink, but it was universal among the service people. “Share the dirt with us.” Other faces gathered around; the service ran on gossip.

  Wolf gave an abridged version of the encounter, and Nnamdi applauded. “A full day with the Spider King, and you escaped with your balls intact. An auspicious beginning for you, lad.”

  “Spider King?”

  “Surely you were briefed on regional autonomy—how the country was broken up when it could no longer be managed by a central directorate? There is no higher authority than DiStephano in this part of the world, boy.”

  “Boston,” Ajuji sniffed. Like most of the expatriates, she was a failu
re; unlike many, she couldn’t hide the fact from herself. “That’s exactly the sort of treatment one comes to expect from these savages.”

  “Now, Ajuji,” Nnamdi said mildly. “These people are hardly savages. Why, before the Collapse they put men on the moon.”

  “Technology! Hard-core technology, that’s all it was, of a piece with the kind that almost destroyed us all. If you want a measure of a people, you look at how they live. These—Yanks,” she hissed the word to emphasize its filthiness, “live in squalor. Their streets are filthy, their cities are filthy, and even the ones who aren’t rotten with genetic disease are filthy. A child can be taught to clean up after itself. What does that make them?”

  “Human beings, Ajuji.”

  “Hogwash, Nnamdi.”

  Wolf followed the argument with acute embarrassment. He had been brought up to expect well from people with social standing. To hear gutter language and low prejudice from them was almost beyond bearing.

  Suddenly it was beyond bearing. He turned his back on them all, and left. “Mbikana! You mustn’t—” Nnamdi called after him. “Oh, let him go,” Ajuji cut in, with a satisfied tone, “you mustn’t expect better. After all, he’s practically one of them.” Well maybe he was.

  Wolf wasn’t fully aware of where he was going until he found himself at Peabody’s. He circled the building, and found a rear door. He tried the knob: it turned loosely in his hand. Then the door swung open and a heavy, bearded man in coveralls leaned out. “Yes?” he said in an unfriendly tone.

  “Uh,” Wolf said. “Maggie Horowitz told me I could drop by.”

  “Look, pilgrim, there are a lot of people trying to get backstage. My job is to keep them out unless I know them. I don’t know you.”

  Wolf tried to think of some response to this, and failed. He was about to turn away when somebody unseen said, “Oh, let him in, Deke.”

  It was Cynthia. “Come on,” she said in a bored voice. “Don’t clog up the doorway.” The guard moved aside, and he entered.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Nada,” she replied. “As Maggie would say. The dressing room is that way, pilgrim.”

  “Wolf, honey!” Maggie shrieked. “How’s it going, Ace? Ya catch the show?”

  “No, I—”

  “You shoulda. I was good. Really good. Janis herself was never better. Hey, gang! Let’s split, hah? Let’s go somewhere and get down and boogie.”

  A group of twenty ended up taking over a methane-lit bar outside the zoned-for-electricity sector. Three of the band had brought along their instruments, and they talked the owner into letting them play. The music was droning and monotonous. Maggie listened appreciatively, grinning and moving her head to the music.

  “Whatcha think of that, Ace? Pretty good, hey? That’s what we call Dead music.”

  Wolf shook his head. “I think it’s well named.”

  “Hey, guys, you hear that? Wolf here just made a funny. There’s hope for you yet, honey.” Then she sighed. “Can’t get behind it, huh? That’s really sad, man. I mean they played good music back then; it was real. We’re just echoes, man. Just playing away at them old songs. Got none of our own worth singing.”

  “Is that why you’re doing the show, then?” Wolf asked, curious.

  Maggie laughed. “Hell, no. I do it because I got the chance. DiStephano got in touch with me—”

  “DiStephano? The comptroller?”

  “One of his guys, anyway. They had this gig all set up, and they needed someone to play Janis. So they ran a computer search and came up with my name. And they offered me money, and I spent a month or two in Hopkins being worked over, and here I am. On the road to fame and glory.” Her voice rose and warbled and mocked itself on the last phrase.

  “Why did you have to go to Hopkins?”

  “You don’t think I was born looking like this? They had to change my face around. Changed my voice too, for which God bless. They brought it down lower, widened out my range, gave it the strength to hold on to them high notes and push ’em around.”

  “Not to mention the mental implants,” Cynthia said.

  “Oh, yeah, and the ’plants so I could talk in a bluesy sorta way without falling out of character,” Maggie said. “But that was minor.”

  Wolf was impressed. He had known that Hopkins was good, but this—! “What possible benefit is there for them?”

  “Beats the living hell out of me, lover-boy. Don’t know, don’t care, and don’t ask. That’s my motto.”

  A long-haired pale young man sitting nearby said, “The government is all hacked up on social engineering. They do a lot of weird things, and you never find out why. You learn not to ask questions.”

  “Hey, listen, Hawk, bringing Janis back to life isn’t weird. It’s a beautiful thing to do,” Maggie objected. “Yeah. I only wish they could really bring her back. Sit her down next to me. Love to talk with that lady.”

  “You two would tear each other’s eyes out,” Cynthia said.

  “What? Why?”

  “Neither one of you’d be willing to give up the spotlight to the other.”

  Maggie cackled. “Ain’t it the truth? Still, she’s one broad I’d love to have met. A real star, see? Not a goddamned echo like me.”

  Hawk broke in, said, “You, Wolf. Where does your pilgrimage take you now? The group goes on tour the day after tomorrow; what are your plans?”

  “I don’t really have any,” Wolf said. He explained his situation. “I’ll probably stay in Baltimore until it’s time to go up north. Maybe I’ll take a side trip or two.”

  “Why don’t you join the group, then?” Hawk asked. “We’re planning to make the trip one long party. And we’ll slam into Boston in just less than a month. The tour ends there.”

  “That,” said Cynthia, “is a real bright idea. All we need is another nonproductive person on board the train.”

  Maggie bristled. “So what’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with it. It’s just a dumb idea.”

  “Well, I like it. How about it, Ace? You on the train or off?”

  “I—” He stopped. Well, why not? “Yes. I would be pleased to go along.”

  “Good.” She turned to Cynthia. “Your problem, sweets, is that you’re just plain jealous.”

  “Oh, Christ, here we go again.”

  “Well, don’t bother. It won’t do you any good. Hey, you see that piece of talent at the far end of the bar?”

  “Maggie, that ‘piece of talent,’ as you call him, is eighteen years old. At most.”

  “Yeah. Nice though.” Maggie stared wistfully down the bar. “He’s kinda pretty, ya know?”

  Wolf spent the next day clearing up his affairs and arranging for the letters of credit. The morning of departure day, he rose early and made his way to Baltimore Station. A brief exchange with the guards let him into the walled train yard.

  The train was an ungainly steam locomotive with a string of rehabilitated cars behind it. The last car had the word PEARL painted on it, in antique psychedelic lettering.

  “Hey, Wolf! Come lookit this mother.” A lone figure waved at him from the far end of the train. Maggie.

  Wolf joined her. “What do you think of it, hah?”

  He searched for something polite to say. “It is very impressive,” he said finally. The word that leapt to mind was grotesque.

  “Yeah, there’s a methane processing plant nearby. Hey, lookit me! Up and awake at eight in the morning. Can ya take it’? Had to get behind a little speed to do it, though.”

  The idiom was beyond him. “You mean—you were late waking up?”

  “What? Oh, hey, man, you can be—look, forget I said a thing. No.” She pondered a second. “Look, Wolf. There’s this stuff called ‘speed,’ it can wake you up in the morning, give you a little boost, get you going. Ya know?”

  Awareness dawned. “You mean amphetamines.”

  “Yeah, well this stuff ain’t exactly legal, dig? So I’d just as soon you d
idn’t spread the word around. I mean, I trust you, man, but I wanna be sure you know what’s happening before you go shooting off your mouth.”

  “I understand,” Wolf said. “I won’t say anything. But you know that amphetamines are—”

  “Gotcha, Ace. Hey, you gotta meet the piece of talent I picked up last night. Hey, Dave! Get your ass over here, lover.”

  A young sleepy-eyed blond shuffled around the edge of the train. He wore white shorts, defiantly it seemed to Wolf, and a loose blouse buttoned up to his neck. Giving Maggie a weak hug around the waist, he nodded to Wolf.

  “Davie’s got four nipples, just like me. How about that? I mean, it’s gotta be a pretty rare mutation, hah?”

  Dave hung his head, half blushing. “Aw, Janis,” he mumbled. Wolf waited for Maggie to correct the boy, but she didn’t. Instead she led them around and around the train chatting away madly, pointing out this, that, and the other thing.

  Finally, Wolf excused himself, and returned to his hostel. He left Maggie prowling about the train, dragging her pretty-boy after her. Wolf went out for a long lunch, picked up his bags, and showed up at the train earlier than most of the entourage.

  The train lurched, and pulled out of the station. Maggie was in constant motion, talking, laughing, directing the placement of luggage. She darted from car to car, never still. Wolf found a seat and stared out the window. Children dressed in rags ran alongside the tracks, holding out hands and begging for money. One or two of the party threw coins; more laughed and threw bits of garbage.

  Then the children were gone, and the train was passing through endless miles of weathered ruins. Hawk sat down beside Wolf. “It’ll be a slow trip,” he said. “The train has to go around large sections of land it’s better not to go through.” He started moodily at the broken-windowed shells that were once factories and warehouses. “Look out there, pilgrim, that’s my country,” he said in a disgusted voice. “Or the corpse of it.”

  “Hawk, you’re close to Maggie.”

  “Now if you go out to the center of the continent . . . ” Hawk’s voice grew distant. “There’s a cavern out there, where they housed radioactive waste. It was formed into slugs and covered with solid gold—anything else deteriorates too fast. The way I figure it, a man with a lead suit could go into the cavern and shave off a fortune. There’s tons of the stuff there.” He sighed. “Someday I’m going to rummage through a few archives and go.”