I went back to my seat to wait. Another twenty minutes passed. The bus lurched forward, and eventually passed a tow truck trying to extricate a car from the guardrail. Once we got past, the highway emptied out again, as if there’d never been a problem.
We made it as far as the Thomas Edison rest stop. This was supposed to be an express from New York to Baltimore, but the loudspeaker crackled and the driver announced, “We’re making a quick stop to disembark a sick passenger. Stay on the bus and we’ll be back on our way momentarily.”
The doors were on the opposite side from where I was sitting, so I had to crane my neck to see. An ambulance waited for us at the rest stop, and we all watched as a passenger I didn’t remember from the line made his way to it with the help of two paramedics. There hadn’t been much noise from downstairs; I assumed if something dramatic had happened, we would have heard it upstairs.
I checked the time. Eleven a.m. already. Late enough to text April without feeling too guilty if I woke her.
How u doing? I wrote. No response.
The bus started again. The rest of the ride was uneventful. I texted April a couple more times then gave up, hoping she was sleeping it off. If she didn’t answer, I didn’t have any other way of reaching her.
Trudging from the bus back to the house reinforced the letdown. A single show was not a tour. It wasn’t even enough of a rush to get me through a day. I let myself in to the house I lived in, a house that still didn’t feel like a home. Not that there was anything homey about a tour’s worth of hotel rooms, but at least that carried some payoff. Home was the road, the gig, the music.
There was nobody in the living room. Nobody in the kitchen. A cat I’d never seen before mewled a greeting, but when I stooped to pet it my gig bag swung off my shoulder and it skittered away. Back in my room, I leaned the guitar against a wall and collapsed on the bed in an exact replay of every day previous to the day before. Playing a single show hadn’t changed anything, and I still didn’t know what would.
8
ROSEMARY
Little Boxes
The farm truck hadn’t been allowed on highways since the phaseout, so Rosemary had to hire a single-cell cab to drive her to the StageHoloLive orientation. She’d never been in a single-cell before. A nice bench seat to herself, and if she kept her hands in her lap she didn’t have to contemplate the other people who’d sat here and touched the surfaces. She didn’t have to touch anything other than her own phone and the door handles, and there was no driver to force awkward conversation, the way they did in her parents’ old shows.
She was glad she hadn’t driven the farm truck; she’d be stuck watching the road ahead and listening to the misfiring engine, which roared too loud for her to bother with music. In the truck she’d be stuck on the rutted county roads, since Rattlebang wasn’t allowed on this smooth new automated highway. This way she got to look out the windows at everything she’d missed for the last dozen years stuck in Jory. Not that she could see much from the highway, but she caught glimpses: shopping centers turned detention centers turned Superwally distribution centers; barns with winter-bare oaks thrusting through caved-in roofs; the skeletal spines of roller coasters in an abandoned amusement park; a motel captured in time; a cinema, where total strangers used to gather in large groups to watch movies. Everywhere, the ghosts of a past she was old enough to remember, barely, but not to remember well. Her parents’ world, not hers.
Her own world overlay theirs. The silent-running cab meant she could listen to Whileaway songs as she rode, the perfect soundtrack. She kept her new Hoodie in mapview, generated highways painted onto blacktop, landmark identifiers whizzing by in the periphery. Ads for the latest Patent Medicine song and Nightlights birch beer hovered in the cumulus clouds. Migrating flocks, flying north, tagged on the wing with the BirdGoggles app. Here and there, a walled compound, the houses of those who had fled the city with more money than her family, or a trailer enclave, for those with less.
She didn’t resent the tiny safe place they had built for her. She’d had friends, even if they were online. There was always enough to do to keep her from getting bored, except for at work, which was expected. If she took this one opportunity to see what went on outside of her Hoodie, her house, Jory, then she could say she’d done it. Done something, even if it led right back to her room.
Her stomach tied itself in knots as the single-cell exited the highway and navigated a series of quick turns to arrive at a ten-foot security gate. NO UNAUTHORIZED VEHICLES read one sign on the gate, alongside NO UNAUTHORIZED VISITORS. A bored-looking white guard at the gate inspected her ID through a clearviewed Hoodie. “You’re on the list,” he said after a moment. “But the vehicle isn’t. I can get them to send a car up here for you, but if you’re able to walk, it’ll be less hassle.”
“I can walk.” No point in making trouble. The single-cell puttered off toward its next customer as soon as she’d lifted her bag from the trunk and released it. No turning back.
She wanted to ask where she was supposed to go, but she didn’t want to be a bother. Anyway, there was only one road, wide and tree-lined. The ancient suitcase she’d borrowed from her mother had one cracked wheel and pulled to the right as she walked. Too early for budding back home, here trees bloomed pink and white, big puffballs she didn’t recognize. It must have rained recently, because the ground was carpeted with more blooms, making it that much harder to pull the suitcase, even if it did serve as a delightful welcome mat rolled out just for her.
After a ten-minute walk, an enormous building loomed into view. Bigger than the abandoned high school in town, bigger than the Superwally Fulfillment Center between Jory and Belgicus. There was a giant door and a human-sized door, so she picked the human side.
A man about her age smiled at her from across a reception desk, and she realized with a shock that she couldn’t identify his features. Online she knew the shorthand that told you an avatar’s ethnicity, or where to check if you didn’t know. It was considered appropriation to wear an avatar of a culture that wasn’t yours, unless you were Quality Control, and even they only did it for a minute. She wasn’t sure how to categorize his ethnicity at all, and her assumption of male pronouns might be wrong, too. Nor was she sure why it mattered, or if it mattered. Maybe she cared because she liked the idea of being from somewhere, even far back in family history, since she wasn’t from anywhere special. Maybe she was used to inhabiting spaces where people had ways of telling you how they wanted to be perceived. All those thoughts ran through her head in the time it took him to say, “Welcome to the StageHolo family, Rosemary,” in a Texan accent.
* * *
—
StageHoloLive had the same Talent Management hoops to jump through as Superwally; they called it People Operations here, perhaps to distinguish from the actual talent onstage, and after letting her drop her bags in the dormitory room, they ran her through all the paperwork required to get paid and stay employed. She waited for the part where they’d start listing workplace restrictions, but they didn’t seem to care. They didn’t require inspirational posters, or put any demands on her workspace at all. She also wouldn’t be doing much work from home, though they didn’t say what that meant. Those were the pleasant surprises.
Her private room was a pleasant surprise, too, with its own tiny bathroom and meals delivered to the door during her stay; she hadn’t realized how apprehensive she’d been about sharing space until she walked through the dormitory area. The macaroni and cheese she ordered had different spices from those she was used to—onions, and paprika—but it was still a relief not to have to eat in a cafeteria. She’d seen cafeterias in her parents’ old movies, and they always looked chaotic and dirty to her.
It turned out the main reason they brought new employees in to the compound, other than the paperwork, was to show them how the actual concerts were recorded. It made sense. Some new hires would be working on the broadcas
ts, as stagehands or technicians. Others supported the talent: makeup, wardrobe, artist liaison. There were eight altogether in her training group, all around her age or younger, but Rosemary was the only new hire going out to work “in the field,” whatever that meant.
The second day started with a tour. Her training group all eyed each other, assessing, leaving as much space as possible between their bodies in the small classroom. Rosemary had agonized over what to wear to an in-person training, settling on something not too unlike her Superwally uniform. The others were a little more casual, in jeans or tights and unbranded long-sleeved T-shirts. They all looked scruffy in comparison to the avatars she was used to interacting with. Their colors were off, their hair frizzed. A couple had pox scars on their cheeks or arms. She’d been lucky enough to get through the outbreak with scars only on her torso, hidden beneath her clothes.
“Ah, you’re all here! Welcome!” The new woman in the room had a military bearing, ramrod spine, and a geometric twist piled on her head that surpassed even the most gravity-defying av hairdos. She had the darkest skin Rosemary had ever seen outside hoodspace. “My name is Jeannie. I’ll be your mama duck, and y’all will be my ducklings. Follow, ducklings.”
They followed. Jeannie marched her gawking charges through artist lounges, dressing rooms, practice rooms, and editing studios at a pace that left the group gasping for breath.
As they passed people in their work environments, Rosemary wondered how anyone had gotten the experience to wind up in these careers. She’d been led to computers the moment she had shown aptitude, and had never gotten any hint that any other path existed. High school funneled her classmates to one of eight concentrations: medicine/nursing, farming, military, construction, teaching, trade, computers, or some aspect of the Superwally empire, which technically bled over into the other seven. Did people teach themselves sound and makeup, or was there someplace they learned those things? She kept her mouth shut, afraid she’d sound silly or provincial, until Colton, the wardrobe guy, asked, “How do people become musicians, anyway?” and nobody laughed.
Jeannie stopped. The woman behind crashed into her, and Rosemary walked straight into both of them. She flinched at the contact, stepping backward onto someone else’s foot. The unexpected touch left her so flustered she almost missed the response to Colton’s question.
Jeannie answered without teasing, which suggested why she was the guide; it would be easy enough for someone working here to laugh, to forget what it had been like to be new. “Some were musicians already, Before, with live shows and everything. I know it’s hard for some of you to imagine a time when people made a living playing live concerts for live audiences, but a lot of our musicians, even the younger ones, never stopped imagining it. They came to us, or we sought them out, because we’re the ones who can make it happen for them.”
She started walking again, and the group raced to keep up with her. “I know we promised to show you a live recording, and you’re in luck. We have a very special performance today. If you’ve never seen Magritte play, you’re in for a treat.”
Colton gasped, and a couple of others perked up at the news. Rosemary pretended to be excited as well. She knew she had a lot of catching up to do in her musical education.
The narrow hallway ended in a locked door. Jeannie flashed a pass and ushered them into a space as big as a Superwally Fulfillment Center. The change from low-ceilinged hallway was drastic, but the soundstage itself wasn’t so different from what Rosemary had expected. She’d pictured an auditorium, given the way Patent Medicine had played, or at least something the size of the Bloom Bar. All of their moves had been so much larger than life.
She’d expected the size, but not the silence. She’d imagined a set filled with people, bustle, music. Instead, the enormous space was filled with small modular rooms, like trailer homes. Rosemary looked for a stage. If not the exact one from the Bloom Bar, at least something similar. Speakers, amplifiers, lights. Something.
Jeannie spoke as if someone had asked a question. “You’ll understand in a minute. Take it all in. There’s a quiz later.”
They all exchanged glances. Rosemary couldn’t tell if the part about the quiz was true or not, so she tried to memorize the layout. The walls were lined with digital clocks stating the hour, minute, and second in three dozen cities around the world. Wires snaked everywhere from the trailer-boxes.
Jeannie glanced at her watch, smiled. “They’ll arrive any second now.”
As if on cue, a door opened on the hangar’s far side, where the wardrobe and makeup wing branched off. A tall black woman entered, wearing a silk dress the color of rain. The man following her looked like he might be related—they had the same cheekbones, the same build—and a white woman trailed them waving a tablet. “Are you sure you want to change the order now?” she asked. “The techs aren’t going to like it. You’re on in ten minutes.”
The tall woman had an accent Rosemary was unable to place, even after all her vendor services calls. Caribbean, maybe? “I am not interested in playing ‘Warm Bed’ tonight. I am not feeling that song. I want to play ‘Misnomer’ instead.” She wasn’t shouting, but her voice carried across the cavernous space.
“Mags,” the man said, in a similar accent, matching her in volume, tone, and timbre. He wore a black suit with a stripe and tie the same color as the woman’s dress. “Be reasonable. They don’t have time to redo the cues for us.”
“Asking to take one song off a set list is not unreasonable.”
“Are you asking to remove the song, or replace it? Removing is easier than replacing.”
“If we remove it, the set’s too short.” They neared Rosemary’s group. Up close, the performers were even taller, and both faces were covered in thick makeup. The woman sighed dramatically, but didn’t acknowledge the audience to her conversation. “We are artists, not trained dogs. I don’t bark on command.”
The man looked at the second woman, raised his eyebrows, then shrugged. “My sister says we aren’t playing ‘Warm Bed’ tonight. Let us know if you prefer for us to cut it and run short, or substitute ‘Misnomer.’ It’s the same length.”
The second woman exited through a side door, leaving the performers—the artists—behind.
“I am not being unreasonable,” the woman repeated as they walked over to two box-rooms, each entering one.
“You can move closer to take a look.” Jeannie gestured for the group to follow the artists.
“Who are they?” Rosemary whispered to Colton. She chose him in part because he had reacted so dramatically to the performer’s name, and in part because he’d been the one brave enough to ask anything. Not to mention he was the one she was least likely to ever interact with again if hers was a stupid question.
“Are you serious?” he whispered back. “She’s the queen of Zoukhop. She and her brother practically invented it. She’s like the national hero of Dominica.”
As they got closer, Rosemary realized each trailer was an isolation booth, each with an array of cameras and lights and microphones orbiting a ministage. They had foam-padded walls, with windows into the booths on either side. She tried to reconcile the new information with her memory of Patent Medicine. The bassist’s wink must have been to someone outside these windows.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
Jeannie heard her. “It’s always a shock when you first see them. Like being handed a single puzzle piece and asked what the whole looks like.”
Rosemary struggled to make sense of it. Inside the room on the left, the man stood just outside his spotlight, tuning his guitar. To the right, Magritte—Mags—sat on a stool, staring into a camera, arms crossed. Air conditioners whirred, creating more noise than any of the other equipment.
A voice boomed over an intercom, bouncing around the hangar. “We’re cutting ‘Warm Bed.’ Please cut ‘Warm Bed’ from your cue sheets. The set will be t
wo minutes and forty-seven seconds short. I want acknowledgment from every department in the next minute. Ping Control if there’s a problem, but don’t have any problems.”
Rosemary didn’t hear any acknowledgment, or any problems, so there must have been some other method of conveying those from each department to the mysterious intercom person. The guitarist moved into the spotlight in his tiny room. A light shifted a couple of inches along a track, then another did the same. The woman in the other booth still hadn’t moved.
The air conditioners cut off and the hangar’s overhead lights guttered, leaving machine silence, an absence of hum. Someone in the group giggled. Inside the booths, spotlights lit the performers, stark against the surrounding darkness. The man began playing his guitar. Mags must have stepped into her position in the moment the lights went off; now she swayed in time with her brother’s syncopated strum.
“Why can’t we hear them?” somebody asked. Rosemary was glad the question had come from someone else.
“Ssssssh,” said a second person.
“Those are isolation booths,” another voice whispered. “They’re soundproof.”
“In both directions?” the second one asked again.
“Ducklings,” said Jeannie in a normal voice, cutting through the argument and answering in favor of soundproofing. “This way.”
The group followed their guide away from the booths. Rosemary kept pace but glanced over her shoulder as she went. She still didn’t understand how the pieces added up to the whole.
They went through yet another door. So many doors. Rosemary had no idea if they had already been down this hallway or seen this control room earlier. If they had, it had only been in passing. Now it was full of technicians and engineers, all in their own half-walled booths, all watching the two performers on monitor screens, from a hundred different angles.
A Song for a New Day Page 9
