Outside the Gates of Eden

by Lewis Shiner

  Under other circumstances, Cole thought, this might have been fun. Checking out the other bands’ equipment, talking shop, ogling their girlfriends in their miniskirts and tight blouses and eyeliner. If Alex had been healthy.

  When Gary was done, they retreated to the locker room with the song list and talked their way through the set, moving a couple of songs around so that Mike only had to change from guitar to organ once, and then back to guitar for the last two songs. They tried “Look Through Any Window” with only two-part harmony and agreed they could live with it. They’d already had to scratch so many of their best songs—“You Were on My Mind” and “Liar Liar” because of the complex harmonies, “What’d I Say” because nobody but Alex could do the lead vocal. Cole burned with frustration.

  Mike, who was a two-time veteran, hammered home the things he’d already warned them about. Keeping an eye on the time, better to go short than long. Keeping the volume down because the acoustics were muddy and the judges mostly old. Acting like they were having the time of their lives, no matter what.

  A roar of noise from the gym floor. Cole’s watch said 7:20. Johnny Hornet’s voice boomed out in his radio persona, working up the crowd, plugging the sponsors, rehashing the rules. At 7:30 sharp he intro’d the Luaus, who should have blown in right on top of his voice, and instead let an awkward silence fall before they counted off a tired cover of “Walk, Don’t Run.”

  “The order is rigged,” Gary said. “They’re throwing these guys to the wolves. We’re fucked.”

  “We were fucked anyway,” Mike said.

  “Fourth or fifth band wins,” Gary said. “Wait and see.”

  Cole took his guitar and walked out, afraid he would go berserk if he heard another word out of Gary’s mouth. On the gym floor, the Luaus played to a nearly empty house, and lights flickered on and off around the room as the crew struggled to figure out what they were doing.

  My father was right, Cole thought. This is no way to live.

  The thought left him even more depressed. He put his guitar in its case, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked over to the main doors to look at the rain.

  Already kids were pouring in, wet but energized, and he was unable to hang on to his bad mood. Then he saw Janet come up the steps and forgot to breathe. A minute later she had him wrapped up in a huge hug and was kissing him all over his face. “I’m so excited for you!” she whispered in his ear. “You’re going to be so great tonight!”

  When he didn’t say anything, she pulled away. “What’s wrong?”

  He told her.

  “Aw, honey. You’ll be great anyway.”

  The words rang hollow despite her best intentions. He could only nod feebly.

  “This is Holly,” Janet said, grabbing an immensely tall girl with bad skin and pulling her toward Cole. She must have been five-eleven in stocking feet, Cole thought, at least an inch taller than Alex after his growth spurt. Cole forced a smile and stuck out his hand.

  “Hi,” Holly said. She had orange hair that had frizzed in the humidity and she looked miserably uncomfortable.

  Cole bought them all Cokes and they listened to the Luaus butcher “Wipe Out.” This was one drummer, Cole noted, who would not be auditioning for Gary’s slot. If only the other four bands were equally bad.

  At 7:59 the Luaus were gathering themselves to start another song. Johnny Hornet moved quickly to the mike and said, “Let’s hear it for the Luaus! Kowabunga! I can almost hear that mighty surf crashing when those guys play. And speaking of mighty, don’t forget to tune in the Mighty Eleven Ninety, K-L-I-F, Monday afternoon and every weekday afternoon as the Blue Hornet spins the latest tracks, and that’s the facts, Jack. And maybe one of these days we’ll be hearing this next band on the Hornet show—please welcome… The Reverberations!”

  The lights went up at the other end of the hall and a long, thunderous C chord crashed through the room. A guy in a frilled shirt and leather pants grabbed a mike off the stand and started to sing.

  “Got to split,” Cole said. “We’re next.”

  Janet grabbed him by the ears and gave him a kiss that dislocated his brain. “For luck,” she whispered.

  He joined the others to watch the Luaus wrestle their equipment down the stairs behind the stage.

  “I talked to the sound guy,” Mike said. “He’s going to push Alex’s mike as high as he can.”

  Cole looked at Alex, who was shivering and drinking something out of a thermos. Mike said, “Hot tea and lemon juice.”

  The Luaus’ drummer nodded to Cole. “Okay, we’re off.”

  “Thanks,” Cole said. “Good luck.”

  “Yeah,” the drummer said. “Right.”

  The stage was bigger than they were used to, with a two-foot riser for the drums and two pa monitor columns that faced the band. They had to feel their way around in the near-darkness. When everything was in place, they tuned up to the organ, huddled by their amps to keep the noise down. Gary fluttered his sticks over the drums, never quite touching the heads.

  The Reverberations, at the far end, were tight. The singer had a good voice and worked the crowd hard, though they didn’t give him much in return. The songs were complicated and went off in weird directions.

  “Who are those guys?” Cole asked.

  Mike dismissed them with a flip of the head. “They do all originals. They’re good, but the songs are nothing special. They come to all these things and never win.”

  It was 8:22 and they were as ready as they were going to get. Their amps were turned up and buzzing, set lists taped to the floor. The sweat poured off Alex’s face as he gave Cole an unconvincing smile and mouthed, “Time of our lives!”

  Cole had a brief and unaccustomed spasm of nerves, then remembered that they didn’t have a chance. A great calm descended on him. He looked at the set list and pictured in his head the way the first three songs fit together. “Look Through Any Window” first, no need to count it, Cole would start it with a long, chiming arpeggio. After that, straight into “You Really Got Me,” no countoff, Mike doing the opening riff on rhythm guitar and taking the lead vocal. After that Mike would say thank you and hi to the audience and Cole would come in on top of him with the opening to “The Last Time.”

  Eight twenty-five. Cole tapped his microphone to make sure it was live, and a blue spark popped as the shock stung his hand. He switched the ground on his amp and tested the mike again. He adjusted the stand a couple of times and looked over to make sure everybody else was ready. Eight twenty-seven. Alex sat on the edge of his Bassman cabinet, head in hands. Gary rocked back and forth on his stool. Mike, his guitar strapped on, played something on the organ with the volume off. The Reverberations lead singer said, “We’re going to close out with a song we wrote a couple of years ago…”

  Cole didn’t know how he was going to wait the length of another song. He turned the volume off on his guitar and played all the way through “Look Through Any Window,” and when he finished, the Reverberations still soldiered on. It was 8:31. Come on, he thought. Come on, come on.

  Johnny Hornet got up on stage with the Reverberations and they worked around him. They built to a slow-motion climax, every note taking forever, then finally ended it, the drummer rolling the toms and then the cymbals and then the toms again as the singer said, “Thank you!” over and over again.

  They’re stealing our time, Cole thought.

  Then he remembered that the volume was still off on his guitar, and the thought was like falling into a snowbank, snapping him to attention. He turned his guitar up and looked around to see if he’d forgotten anything else.

  Johnny Hornet finally grabbed one of the mikes and said, curtly, “The Reverberations! And now a brand-new band with some seasoned players on board, please welcome—”

  Before he could finish, Cole tore into the opening of the song. The notes rang like crystal as Hornet said, “The Chevelles!” and then Gary hit his stuttering lead-in and they were off. Cole was well into the ch
orus before he realized that the harmony was there, all three dovetailing parts, and he glanced over to see Alex looking back and grinning.

  The crowd, who looked like they’d slept through the second half of the Reverberations’ set, charged across the gym and packed the floor in front of the stage. Cole winked at Janet and sang his heart out. He dragged out the last minor chord at the end, and before the applause could top it, Mike was pounding out “You Really Got Me,” and the kids were dancing and clapping wildly.

  Holy shit, Cole thought. We’re still in this.

  Despite Alex going to his lemon tea after every song, his voice was fading by the end of “The Last Time.” By then the crowd was already theirs. “This is a song,” Mike said, out of breath, “by our lead guitar player, Jeff Cole. We’re hoping it’ll be our first single.” Cheers came on top of the applause. Cole turned to Gary and they counted off “Laura Lee” together, nodding their heads in tempo, urging each other on all the way through the song. The time of our lives, Cole thought.

  They sailed through “Heart Full of Soul” and “Kicks,” and Cole checked his watch as Mike started singing “Sloopy.” If they played all nine songs on the list, they would go past the top of the hour, thanks to the fucking Reverberations. Okay, he thought, time to score some brownie points. Cole walked around to each of them and yelled in their ears, “Skip ‘Money’ and go straight into ‘Shake.’”

  As the last chord faded, Gary pounded out his Sam Cooke drum part, solid, relentless, inevitable. Alex ran to the edge of the stage, hands over his head, and clapped along. Cole joined in and the crowd took it up. Some of the girls, including Janet, were dancing like they were possessed, and their sexual energy drove the boys into a frenzy. Cole himself was not immune.

  Mike, who had left the talking to Alex at all the previous shows, suddenly turned glib. “On behalf of Alex, our bass player, who came out tonight in spite of bubonic plague, and all the rest of the Chevelles, we thank you from the bottom of our hearts, and have just one last favor to ask of you… do you think maybe… perhaps… you could… just possibly…”

  “Shake!” they all yelled, the crowd yelling with them, and they ripped through the song and wrapped it up at 8:59.

  Johnny Hornet hit the stage and worked the audience into a crescendo of applause and screams, then called the band out for a second bow before he finally introduced the next act, The Other Side, who opened with another version of “You Really Got Me.”

  “Outstanding,” Hornet told them, flashing an OK sign and a smile as he rushed offstage. Cole looked around for Alex and saw him headed for the locker room at a fast shamble, right past Janet and Holly.

  Cole and Gary and Mike hustled their gear off to a deserted corner and Gary started to break down his hardware. Cole was flying high and saw that the others were too. He wiped down his guitar strings, tucked the guitar in its case, and stowed his cords and Fuzz-Tone in the back of the amp. When he straightened up, Janet was watching him with an impatient look.

  “Were we great?” he asked her. He lifted her off the ground in a hug that made her squeal and made Holly look away.

  “Yes,” Janet said, “yes, you were the best ever. What’s with Alex?”

  “He’s sick, baby, I told you.”

  “He walked by us like he didn’t see us.”

  “He probably didn’t,” Cole said.

  A hand took him by the shoulder and spun him around. Alex, wobbly, smiling. He and Cole threw a few mock punches.

  “Alex,” Cole said, “this is Holly, who I was telling you about.”

  Alex mouthed “Hi” and held up one hand in a half-hearted wave. “Had to, uh, use the facilities,” he said, sounding like one of those machines that people with throat cancer talked through. “All that tea.”

  Holly blushed.

  Alex was barely audible over The Other Side playing “Nineteenth Nervous Breakdown.” The band was competent and nothing more, with weak harmonies, though for some reason the crowd was going wild. So far, Cole thought, this is ours.

  “Cole, are you listening to me?” Janet said.

  “Sorry, baby, you know how important this is.”

  Holly said, “Janet said you guys, like, go to St. Mark’s?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Alex croaked.

  Cole to the rescue, he thought. “We are from St. Mark’s, not of St. Mark’s.”

  Janet tilted her head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Holly, at least, was amused. “So you’re not the idle rich?”

  “He’s rich,” Cole said, hooking his thumb at Alex. “We are neither of us idle.”

  Alex pantomimed tossing a ball and reaching for a serve.

  “Tennis?” Holly said.

  “He does,” Cole said, making with the thumb again. “I used to, until the accident.”

  “What accident?” Holly asked, wide-eyed.

  Cole showed her his hand. She took it in both of hers, very gently. She was actually, Cole thought, not that bad looking at all. And Alex might not be taller than her, but Cole was.

  Janet snatched Cole’s hand away. “This one’s taken,” she said, then laughed as if she hadn’t meant it.

  “Gotta go,” Alex said, holding up his hand again. “Later.”

  As he wandered off into the crowd, Janet said, “Cole, we need to talk. Please excuse us, Holly.”

  Cole led her to a comparatively quiet spot at the end of the bleachers.

  “I can’t believe Alex was so rude,” she said, arms folded to warn Cole away. “What did you say to him?”

  “I told him you were fixing him up. I’m sure if he wasn’t sick—”

  “And you! What were you doing flirting with her?”

  “I wasn’t flirting, I was trying to pull the conversation out of the ditch. Single handedly, I might—”

  “I saw the way she was looking at you.”

  Cole moved in. “I can’t help it if girls like me,” he said. “You know it’s you that I love.” She was rigid in his arms. He kissed her neck, inhaling her perfume and thinking it was true, he was crazy for her. He moved up her jawline and nibbled on her ear.

  “Cole, stop that,” she said. She didn’t pull away. And then she was kissing him back. “Cole, not here,” she said in between, and then, “Oh, honey, you’ll get in trouble,” and finally, “Cole, we have to get back to Holly.” With that she pushed him away and he staggered back, out of breath and transfixed by desire. “Come on,” she said, and led him onto the gym floor.

  The Other Side wrapped up their predictable set with “Louie Louie” and then “Gloria.” Good-looking singer, promising guitarist, nothing there to justify the amount of yelling that came from the crowd.

  Holly, standing to his left while Janet nestled under his right arm, quipped, “Songs chosen by Mrs. Miller’s seventh grade class.” Cole glanced at her and smiled. “Many of whom,” she went on, still looking straight in front of her, “are attending tonight on stilts.”

  They crossed the room to hear the next band, who at least had a gimmick working for them. Baggy second-hand suits, wide ties, fedoras. They called themselves Night Train and had a sax player, and though they were all white guys, they did covers of R&B songs like Bo Diddley’s “Who Do You Love” and the original “My Girl Sloopy.” The lead singer had a strange, rough voice and the band had the kind of looseness that Gary was always on about.

  The girls went off to powder their noses. Mike found him and watched for a while, and sure enough, Gary wandered by long enough to say, “Are you paying attention? That’s what we should sound like.”

  A familiar-looking kid came up and said, “You guys were really terrific.”

  “Thanks,” Cole said. “You’re the guitar player with The Other Side, right?”

  “Yeah. Eddie Yates.” He stuck out his hand and Cole shook it.

  Cole searched for something positive to say. “You’re good, man. Some very nice solos.”

  The kid seemed genuinely embarrassed. “Thanks. We need
to get some originals. That song of yours should be on the radio.” The kid shook Mike’s hand and faded into the crowd.

  “Nice kid,” Cole said.

  “Yeah,” Mike said. “Too bad we kicked their asses.”

  Holly and Janet came back. Cole introduced Mike to Holly and shortly afterward Mike moved on. “I have this effect on men,” Holly said, as if talking to herself.

  “Not all men,” Cole said. Janet looked up to see what they were talking about and Cole shrugged.

  The final band was The Zoo. “We love The Animals,” the lead singer said. He’d cut his hair in short bangs to enhance his resemblance to Eric Burdon. “We really love The Animals.” They went on to play ten songs, six of which were by the Animals. They did a good Animals imitation without straying into originality. Cole felt his confidence rise as they stumbled on Them’s “Mystic Eyes.”

  As they wrapped it up with “Inside Looking Out,” Cole saw that the rest of the Chevelles had formed up around him. Much of the crowd had gone home, leaving big patches of open floor. Johnny Hornet tried to work up some applause for The Zoo without much luck, then promised to be back in a minute with the results.

  “We did it,” Mike said. It was the first real silence in three hours and Mike’s unamplified voice had to compete with the ringing in Cole’s ears.

  Alex stuck up his thumb and Gary said, “Much as I hate to admit it, they’re not going to give it to Night Train, so I guess that leaves us.”

  In fact it did not take the judges long, though Hornet had to introduce them and then plug klif again. Finally he said, “And now, the moment you’ve been waiting for. The winner of tonight’s contest, taking home five hundred crisp new simoleons, is… hey, c’mon, all these drummers here and I can’t get a drum roll? The winner is… The Other Side!”

  *

  Cole let go of Janet and walked away. He wound up at the end of the bleachers where he’d been with Janet earlier. He squeezed in behind them and sat with his back against the wall.

  “Cole?”

  It was Janet.

  “Cole, are you okay?”

  “Sure,” he said. Ridiculous answer for a stupid question. To his surprise, his voice sounded somewhat normal.