by Mike DiCerto
"And you are confident we'll run across more Groovy Tunes Jukeboxes just floating about the Cosmos?"
"No, I'm not. Do I need to adjust the wise-ass variable of a certain computer system?"
Angie chuckled.
"So, how do you expect to find more music discs, my wishful thinking wonder boy?"
"It's the law of crap disbursement."
"Is that the textbook name for the theory?"
"The area of disbursement of a civilization's baggage is directly proportionate to the length of time they have been under the delusion that they are, in fact, civilized. Once a species steps off their birth world the baggage grows more and more cluttered with each subsequent trip. Rock music is from the original Earth. Although it seems to have vanished from post-prime Earth worlds—"
"Understood,” Angie interrupted, acknowledging the theorem without further proof. “Can I help?"
"Of course. No one helps on collection missions like you, Angie-girl."
"Is that all I do?"
Caffrey noted the disappointment in her voice. He often had to remind himself that systems programmed for unconditional love needed a certain amount of stroking.
"I need your beautiful voice to keep the fire of purpose burning in my soul,” he said, pumping up his own tickle.
"Will you be searching any dens of iniquity for the aforementioned discs?"
"Of course not,” he swore with crossed fingers. “Will you help?"
"Absolutely, my peach puppet with a purpose!” asserted Angie with a childlike excitement that made him smile. “Just one question?"
"Yes, Angie?"
"Who is Uncle Greppledick?"
Caffrey pondered that a moment as he filled his mouth with the last slug of Bezzie, swishing it around like mouthwash before swallowing. He'd been thinking about his uncle since his meeting with Quigmo Digmo, yet he'd been unaware of the subconscious engine cranking away until the music brought it to the surface.
He sat back in the chair and clasped his hands behind his head, trying to piece together the fragments that were mysteriously filling his mind. After allowing the song to finish, he turned off the jukebox and began telling Angie the history of his peculiar and infamous Uncle Greppledick Quark. She would record the story and file it away in the growing database of the exploits, adventures and continuing education of Caffrey Trinesmart Quark II.
* * * *
Greppledick Quark was born on the dusty world of Truplimore (home of the orange-snotted Truplimouse) in the Yangling System. Born without kneecaps, he spent his childhood alone, wandering his township on his wheeled leg extensions and collecting bits of diamond that littered the glittering landscape. A voracious learner, he taught himself Bing Ding, the once-popular programming language for android lifeforms, as well as elemental reconstruction, artificial psychology and electro-mechanical extremities engineering. By the age of ten he'd built his first robot, a small doglike critter he named, enigmatically, Poe.
Within five years Greppledick had built a family of twenty artificial lifeforms. Poe 18 (the first android to be a victim of panic attacks) won the young man a scholarship to the exclusive Pennifore University, an institution orbiting the lavender ocean world of Bulkslands One.
Greppledick's big break appeared to illustrate that synchronicity was perhaps an integral element of the Quark bloodline. He learned, quite unexpectedly, that the diamonds he'd collected as a child where worth a major fortune on many of the worlds outside of his dusty home planet1. Selling the fifty kilos of diamonds stored in an old steamer trunk in his parent's basement, he set up the famed Quarkworks Android Plant in the orbit of Earth III.
Throughout the following sixty years he built androids of every shape, size, type and personality. The androids of Greppledick Quark worked from one end of the Plethorian Sector to the other, performing tasks as diverse as acting as court juggler in the castle of Rampi in the Yoonk System to serving as a highly decorated general of an invading force of philosopher soldiers who confounded their enemies with a bombardment of wise sayings.
Greppledick's notoriety made him the target of the most powerful, grand-of-ego and glitzy posers the galaxy contained, all of whom wanted to brag of having met and socialized with the powerful and eccentric kneeless wonder. Never being one to turn down a chance to get the latest interstellar fashion model or prime minister into his bed, he used his celebrity without apology. His life was rich, colorful; and he held little in the way of regret and disappointment in his heart.
But on his ninety-ninth birthday Greppledick felt a depression descend upon his soul like a wet burlap blanket. There was a little hole floating somewhere in his being that needed to be filled by a more spiritual accomplishment. On that cool and misty anniversary of his birth, he stepped out onto his kilometer-long wraparound deck and cried out to the spirits of the thick, landscaped jungle surrounding his home. Assuming his actions were nothing but a futile rhetorical scream, he was stunned when an impossibly thin old woman stepped out and smiled.
She explained that his karmic contribution to the universe, married with a serendipitous intersection of his life with a cosmic event, would put him in the most favorable position in an eon.
"You will build the next Portsmith, the guardian of the great and wise Cube of Wisdom,” she assured him softly.
"Portsmith?” Greppledick wondered.
"The Guardian to the Wisest One. The android who escorts and protects the Wondrous Substance.” The old woman's voice sounded like the wind through the trees on a Sunday morning.
Greppledick Quark had heard rumors of such a cube of orange gelatinous star-stuff, fabled as the purest example of the essence that permeated all of reality. His vast travels had shown him the many churches, banks, office towers, cults, wars and charities that had been started in the name of the L'Orange. Greppledick had always written the entire idea off as just another opiate for misguided beings—albeit an opiate that looked a lot like orange marmalade.
With great patience the old woman explained the mystical wonder and the history of the line of androids who served their thousand-year terms guarding and protecting “It."
"The craftsmanship must be perfect, the subtleties of the Portsmith's programming elegant and sensitive. Subservient, yet strong. Patient, yet able to quickly decide courses of action. Wise, yet childlike in its ability to wonder. Charming and sociable, yet comfortable in its own solitude. It must be versed in all existing customs, traditions and pleasantries for the many diplomatic visits to powerful kings, popes or prime ministers. And,” the woman added, raising a finger to stress her point, “he must have powerful and rustproof knees."
"May I ask why?” Greppledick requested.
The old woman glanced down at his knees. They were solid, perfect and rustproof.
"The Portsmith may often stand motionless as it travels impossible distances on the sacred journeys of The Wise One. You designed your own knees?"
"Yes."
"Have they served you well?” She posed the question as if it were a great riddle advanced by some powerful Sphinx.
"Yes.” Greppledick considered a moment. “Squeak now and again but, all in all, quite well."
The old woman studied him. She had wiry-looking hairs growing from odd warty bumps on her chin, and Greppledick fought the urge to pluck one.
"You will have to work in isolation. Far from here. Alone. You must study and meditate and learn the history and ways of The Wise One. The history of the previous Portsmith,” she muttered, pacing the deck. “Five years will pass before construction on the android can begin."
Greppledick pondered the offer, watching with bated breath as the woman missed stepping on a loose deck board by inches—it would have resulted in her falling through the floor and to her certain death fifty feet below.
He needed to know more.
"This Wise One? Is he a nice substance? He isn't some self-righteous zealot who secretly likes young Goretians2 and collects magazines about bizarre Artenian mat
ing rituals?"
"You cannot address the substance in the sexual terms of biological life. It is pure wisdom. It has no power in Itself. It contains all that has been, is and will ever be known. The secrets of every lifeform that has, does and will exist. The histories of every event that happened, can happen, is happening and will happen. The Wise One was born in the fires of the universe's afterbirth and must be protected from those same zealots of which you inquired. As long as It is safe the universe is as well."
"Then I see the importance. I accept the offer.” Greppledick's voice rang out as he stood to his feet with raised chin.
"I knew you would. We must leave now."
Greppledick's chin hit the deck.
"I couldn't possibly. I need to pack. Send out change-of-address notes. Make sure this deck is fixed. How about three days?"
"No. Now. Or never,” she said, putting her foot down frighteningly close to the busted board.
"Can I at least leave a note?"
"No. No one can know."
Greppledick looked around and sighed deeply. “What the hell. Let's go."
The old woman nodded, and they both vanished in a flash of orange light.
* * * *
"But did you ever actually meet him?” Angie asked, her voice at the edge of its proverbial seat.
"I'm getting to that, Angie-girl,” Caffrey explained, trying to calm the impatient computer. “I was five years old. My parents owned a bed-and-breakfast on Devonshire 4. Run by my mum. One day, early in the morning, there came a knock on the door. I opened it. It was a man, an old man. Old, but his eyes sparked with the fire of a teenager. His smile was like candy."
"Much like yours,” Angie suggested seductively.
Caffrey blushed and continued.
"My parents were never too crazy about Uncle Grep. Maybe he was nuts. But he had that spark of purpose. People with purpose shine. Those without rust. I want that spark, Angie."
"Then let's get on our way."
"Yes, Angie. Let's set the controls for the heart of the sun."
CHAPTER FOUR
ROCK SHOW
What's that man moving ‘cross the stage?
It looks a lot like the one used by Jimmy Page.
It's like a relic from a different age,
Could be, oo wee!"
Paul McCartney and Wings
Caffrey Quark ran across the stretch of stone tiles, his boot steps popping the air. Above his head, whimsical bronze animals, dancing and brandishing musical instruments, turned round and round above a stone underpass. Crowning it all were two bronze monkeys who sounded bells with hammers, announcing the time. It was two a.m., and the moon was bathing the world in the perfect color to match the coolness of the autumn air.
Caffrey's eyes widened, and he pointed wildly.
"Sam! They're out!"
Sam Jennit, a thin, curly-haired fellow with pale skin, tossed his empty beer bottle into a wire mesh receptacle and joined Caffrey. The sea lions, indeed, were out.
Eight years had passed since Caffrey Quark sold his last cargo hold of exotic meat to Quigmo Digmo and set out to find more samples of the music that had kick-started his soul. His quest had netted immediate results as he managed to track down a vinyl disk recording of The Beatles’ Revolver album from an antique pharmacology museum on Santafraz 5 where it had been mistaken for a Karkajean Empress's birth control device by the proprietor.
With the help of Angie's creative research and a few daring escapades, they were able to collect three more albums—Dark Side of the Moon, Selling England by the Pound and Quadrophenia—and three singles: “Brown Sugar,” “Good Vibrations” and “Me and Bobby McGee.” A succession of unexpected musical finds in obscure destinations blew his mind—there was an almost mystical disbursement of Rock music around the galaxy!
And, as Caffrey continued with his Rock ‘n’ Roll education, it became obvious that this enigmatic and long-lost art form was not only sublime but angry, passionate, introspective, wild, fanciful, silly, fun-loving and, most surprising to him, revolutionary in the literal sense. Through some historical detective work, he deduced that Rock music had been the great equalizer to the paranoia, self-destructive nationalism, plethoras of chauvinism and the sexual and moral hypocrisy infecting the Earth during the time it was spawned.
Caffrey's complete spiritual conversion occurred upon hearing the work of a strange and wondrous being named James Marshall Hendrix, who was able to seduce his instrument into moaning ecstatically in alien tongues. The electric guitar, he soon realized, had more potential power than his S-77 blaster ever did. The prodigal son of Les Paul could scream, pout, whisper sweet nothings, laugh like a madman, curse like a sailor or gently weep.
With his conversion came a price. Mere record collecting would not suffice. He had to visit mid-twentieth century Earth. He had to travel and live on the wonderful and weird world where such powerful creative energy flowed side by side with the extreme negative forces of the odd folk who ran the place.
Circling their tiny artificial island, the half-dozen slick and playful members of the genus Zalophus were enjoying a post-midnight swim. The sound of the rippling water, soft and oddly comforting, gently accented the quiet peace of Central Park, New York City, Earth, Sol System, November 1973.
"God, I love them,” Caffrey whispered, his eyes sparkling like a child's and his long hair, hanging past his shoulders, blowing free.
Sam smiled. The Central Park Zoo was closed, but the chance to watch what had become Caffrey's second favorite animal in the galaxy was worth the risk of arrest. Sam stepped up, and the two climbed the iron gate and took seats on the concrete steps beyond. Sam took out a joint and lit up, taking a long hit then passing to Caffrey, who did likewise. He closed his eyes and let the smoke drift slowly and deliberately from his nostrils. A far-off smile filled his eyes.
"I swear—Page is God. Simple as that. I will build a church by hand—brick by brick—using my blood, sweat and spit for mortar."
"That was an amazing show,” Sam said, coughing on his last toke.
"Amazing?” Caffrey gasped, standing up, highly insulted. “Dig deeper into your thesaurus, pal! Epic! Mystic. Bloody mythic! Page is like Strider with a double-neck Gibson!"
"I think he'd rather be Gandalf,” Sam retorted. “He had on them heavy wizard pants. Guess that would make Plant—who? Boromir?"
"No, Legolas. John Paul Jones is Boromir. Plant is a definite Elf. He has the golden locks—that pretty-boy, deep-forest way about him."
"And Bonham the Dwarf!"
"Gimli on drums!"
"We have to do a few of their covers next gig,” Sam said eagerly as he took one last hit for the road.
"Anything but ‘Stairway.'” Caffrey put his foot down. “I'm not an adept. I haven't the spiritual fortitude to touch that."
"Speaking of ‘Stairway,’ I finally got that bootleg single. I stuck it in the jukebox."
Caffrey smiled softly. So, that's where it came from. He tried to ponder how a jukebox from late-twentieth century Earth would one day find its way into interstellar space on a direct intersecting route with his spacecraft far, far in the future of his past. Within the colorful box would be a vinyl single—a certain song that would one day become a cliché of an era—yet would forever be the greatest Rock tune every written. It had changed his life—would change his life—whatever. Time was so bloody schizoid! It was too much to ponder, and Caffrey gazed across to the sea lions.
"How about a dip with these beauties?” he suggested. “Hey, my cuddly mates? You mind a little human company?"
He stripped naked, and Sam rolled on the ground in hysterics as he watched his friend step into the water and swim around with the animals. The sea lions barked with joy at their unexpected company.
* * * *
Second Avenue and Fourth Street tended to be quiet at four a.m. With the exception of the ninety-year-old Ukrainian couple sitting on the stoop of their brownstone to escape their stuffy apartment,
most of the late-night crowd was up towards St. Mark's Place.
Caffrey's heart felt warm. There was an air of honesty about this place. Although it had none of the techno-sparkle or the perfected cleanliness of his home-born time and space, there was something about the dirt and grease of the streets, the dusty and broken buildings and the imperfect people that made him smile. He no longer held regrets for having left his past behind to live on the original Earth in a time when its future still held great potential.
All the trepidation and sick twinges in his gut at having sold The Moby Dick—along with the spurned and heartbroken Angie—to a pair of Marweegian Crebbledogs were gone. He'd paid a small fortune to hire a transport ship with a Temporal Twist engine to take him to the Sol System circa 1965.
He settled into a railroad apartment on the fifth floor of an East Fourth Street walk-up and found his bliss with a cherry-red Fender Stratocaster and a procession of artistic and sexually adventurous farm girls seeking fame and fortune in the big city.
And Caffrey Quark soaked the music in. He saw Hendrix live at Café Wha?, the Beatles play Shea Stadium, Bo Diddly the Blue Note, countless other bands in Central Park, CBGBs and, of course, Led Zeppelin's famed The Song Remains the Same show at Madison Square Garden. He was among the few who cheered when Dylan went electric, among the handful who remembered Pink Floyd had a missing member and among the many who camped on the fields of Yasgur's farm when anybody who was somebody played Woodstock.
His record collection grew to four digits as the diversity of the genre astounded him. His imagination was tickled by the wondrous complexity of Genesis, Emerson Lake and Palmer and Yes. His very guts felt warm at the cross-culture results of British kids who, obsessed with American blues masters, interpreted the genre with their own special touches. And he felt hope as many musicians went beyond mere fame and fortune and used their music to aid in the social changes that were exploding around him.
Caffrey cursed when the reactionary halfwits burned Beatles albums over a misunderstood comment. He laughed when Jim Morrison stuck it to the man on The Ed Sullivan Show and cried when Jimi and Janice died. And he made friends. Four very good friends, all hungry for Rock ‘n’ Roll heaven. They formed the Rock band Marmalade Skies and would wow the locals every Thursday night in the basement of the Crimson Court Pub on East Seventh Street.
