an in-process, open-source novel
Read. Play. Create.
Read. Play. Create.
Saturday Afternoon
(and I was in)
(and I was in)
In the hallway, half-closed doors revealed small, messy make-up rooms and bursting closets. Peeking instead of watching, I stumbled forward through an open doorway into the theatre, directly in front of the stage.
Trix perched on the fourth rung of a ladder downstage left. She wore garish lime and black striped tights and from below her legs looked impossibly long. A worn-thin AC/DC t-shirt rode little too short as she reached, playing peek-a-boo with her belly button. From my angle, I saw more than that. An outfit that either says I'm too cool to care what I look like, or I'm too lame to know better - all depending on personality.
When Trix saw me, her face leaped into a wide, happy grin and she sprang, cat-like, to the stage floor, landing in a crouch to look down at me.
"You're here!" she exclaimed, her voice full of excitement. "You're late," she clipped, standing, with a bite of command. "Where's your guitar?"
"I'm between guitars at the moment."
She grimaced at me; frowned. Re-evaluating.
"And you're okay with that? A little break from playing, maybe?"
I didn't appreciate her scrutiny. It hadn't been that long - my fingers weren't soft. I felt myself disengaging from the conversation. She noticed, and switched tacks.
"But you're here! So use the one over there, for now, and let's play."
She headed towards centre stage, calling out, "Back at it, people!" A wave of her hand brought two boys running to remove the ladder she'd been climbing.
I stepped back to take a good look around. A well-used building, Timeless had been a theatre converted for movies and back again, with a massive stage fronting the retracted screen. A large 2/3-pie dance floor surrounded the curve of the stage, seven remnant rows of theatre seating surrounding the floor like leftover piecrust. Two spacious aisles sliced through the seating at ten and two o'clock, slanting upward to wide, arched doorways beyond which I noted a liquor bar and a big, sparkly chandelier. The ornamented theatre walls ascended surprising heights, while the lounge ceiling hung low. I admired four gilded balconies overlooking it all.
I turned around to face the stage, and walked backwards until I bumped into the chairs. I used my bum to lower a creaky seat and sat in the front row, acutely aware that I was not doing as I was told.
The activity level surprised me - I saw at least twenty people working on sets and repairs throughout the theatre, and at least eight musicians were picking up instruments. This band had at least two guitarists already. I noticed that everyone moved to a corner of the stage, leaving the centre quite open. At a walking pace, Trix turned herself around and around, arms wide-spread, testing the space. She stopped at perfect centre downstage, spearing me with her eyes. She squinted, then settled her face into a mask of concentration.
"Alright, ONE TWO THREE" she yelled, and the music started.
I needed half a minute to wrap my head around the sound. Bash's bass line carried me along a heavy cross-rhythm, with occasional curves like the ends of a moustachio. One bare chested percussionist produced deceptively subtle, intricate electronic beats, offsetting the drummer's heavier hand. Keyboard filled in and punctuated without over-synthesizing the sound. Dance-fast but lacking the light banter of dance music; hard-edged but not always, some country twangs but mostly rock...no, pop...but not really. This music defied simple definition. I loved it.
Trix stood where she was, not engaging with the music. I felt her watching my reactions.
I could imagine this music pumping an audience, especially with the right lighting and atmosphere. I felt myself moving, carried forward in my seat. I closed my eyes. After awhile, I gradually noticed that something felt off in the guitar. The lead guy definitely had experience, his beat-up vintage Stratocaster intoning what could have been a companion piece to the rest of the band. Interesting, evocative, his interpretation almost worked but it wanted to take over the song, and no one was going there with him. Beside him a younger guy, maybe sixteen, just couldn't keep up. I felt strangely satisfied by his lack of skill.
After another minute, Trix signalled a stop. I opened my eyes to see her pivot slowly and deliberately towards Mr. Strat.
"What song are we playing?" she asked him, almost mildly.
"Universe Now," he answered. His demeanour didn't shift at all. He was older than I'd originally thought from his tight, fit body - probably over forty. Maybe even fifty.
"You are playing Universe Yesterday. Or possibly Universe An Hour from Now? It's not working. Try something else."
He didn't acknowledge the reprimand, and Trix turned on her heel. She could have been parodying a drill sergeant but she seemed to mean it.
"Alright, little girl," she called to me. "You didn't pay admission for this show. Get up here and play with us. Are you a musician?"
The challenge bugged me, but I did feel like playing. I had been semi-consciously imagining myself playing the whole time I listened, which was why the guitar started jarring me in the first place. I itched for it in spite of myself. Walking towards that stage felt a little unnerving, and also comfortable, like home. Maybe like going home when you're not sure who lives there anymore.
I climbed up to the stage.
The teenage guitarist eyed me uncertainly, making as if to hand me his guitar while watching Trix for instruction. His face knew how to laugh, but just then appeared a bit crestfallen.
Trix shook her head once to the side, irritated. "No, she can use that one." She indicated a guitar, plugged and ready, lying on a stool. The boys eyes widened visibly, and his mouth rounded into an unconscious oh. He looked like a comic book character who just can't believe it.
It was a nice guitar. More than nice. A cherry Gibson SG, well loved. The spotlight shone down on its glossy exterior like a heavenly blessing. I stroked the wood gently, as one strokes a horse's muzzle to say, hello. I thought I heard a collective intake of breath, and I felt every eye in the place on me and that guitar.
"Oh, you can all relax. It's mine. They think I'm a bit possessive." Trix turned around in a wide circle, her arms spread in supplication as she called out. "See? See! I don't even know her and what's mine is hers." She leaned in my direction and said in a stage whisper, "But I do know you, don't I?" I rolled my eyes at her. I saw Trace and Bash exchange a glance.
I felt self conscious, even though people were at least pretending they weren't watching. My face warmed as I picked up the guitar. It's weight felt strange to me, the neck just a little too long, but despite that I felt my hands come alive. I picked a little at the chords, getting the feel.
Absently, I strummed out the first bars of my favourite song. To my surprise, Mr. Strat repeated the response back to me. I caught his eye, and we smiled at each other. We played the refrain together; he sang, his voice gravely but pretty too,
Why are there so many
Songs about Rainbows
And what's on the other side?
Rainbows are visions
And only illusions
And rainbows have nothing to hide.
I joined him at the same time as Trix, who had stepped lightly behind me where I couldn't see her face. Her lovely deep voice made me a bit ashamed of my own, but I'd started and I continued.
So we've been told and some choose to believe it
I know they're wrong
Wait and see
Someday we'll find it
The rainbow connection
The lovers, the dreamers and me
Bash joined unobtrusively with his bass, filling out the sound, adding something a little sharper-edged to the longing ache this song already held for me. Several voices that came in at the chorus stayed to hum when they lost the words.
Who said that every wish
Would be heard and answered
When wished on the morning star?
Somebody thought of it
And someone believed it
Look what it's done so far
What's so amazing that keeps us star gazing
What do we think we might see?
Someday we'll find it
The rainbow connection
The lovers, the dreamers and me
So many voices joined now that I couldn't see where they were all coming from
All of us under its spell
We know that it's probably MA-GIC....
Then suddenly just me. Did Trix give a signal I missed? I almost stumbled, but kept going. I closed my eyes.
Have you been half asleep
And have you heard voices?
I've heard them calling my name
Is this the sweet sound
That calls the young sailors?
The voice might be one and the same.
I've heard it too many times to ignore it
It's something that I'm supposed to be
Someday we'll find it
The rainbow connection
The lovers, the dreamers and me
And a chorus once more for "laaa la-la lee la-la-la, la la-lee la la-lee la OOOOOOOOH..." to finish it off, with some laughter as most of us went off key.
People clapped and hollered, and I heard a couple of whistles. I hadn't realized how many people were there, working in the wings, hanging things in the rafters. I felt embarrassed. I felt welcomed.
It could have been a contrived scene from a movie, but I didn't feel that way. I felt like I'd come home for the first time. These people knew my secret favourite song well enough to play it, sing it, hum the tune. That sing-along is one of the happiest memories of my life. I put it in an impenetrable bubble in my heart where none of the rest of what happened can touch it.
Trix waved everyone back to work distractedly, caught in thought before abruptly snapping to.
"Are you ready?" she called, and anyone not at their instrument scrambled.
"Universe Now - one, two, THREE!"
The band started playing. I stood there like an idiot. The same song sounded different on the stage. Guitar limp in my hands, I closed my eyes to listen. I still hadn't heard Trix sing, and I worried she was watching me. Still, I didn't open my eyes.Fast and heavy with a strong, dance-able beat, Universe Now offered multiple paths for entry. I let my thinking fall aside, feeling out the music for my personal call.
Trix started a low, keening sound. The music tugged at her voice, drawing it open to increasing volume and fullness. I felt enlisted, a gravitational pull to play into the tornado in which her voice rose and rose, until it filled the theatre and there was nothing left but to finally break in anguish. A natural beat of silence, then the walls echoed with Trix's deep, elongated and finally distorted laugh. We dropped fast into a strong, repetitive grindy beat.
And I was in.
I've always loved jamming with other musicians and seeing what comes out. I listened for where they were going, especially Mr. Strat and the drums. I blended in my own unique colours, and fed off the others to add to the experience. I felt shy to meet their eyes, but pleased that they were looking for me.
As she started into lyrics, I found Trix's acidy vocals and Mr. Strat's slight whine combined for a slightly unpleasant blend . He definitely had his own, strong style, and he played a little more bluesy, a little less edgy than she sang. I felt the tension between them, each wanting to lead the direction. I recognized the feeling from when my parents fought over what was best for me. Without my really noticing, my own playing began drawing in elements of each. It felt like holding a balancing pole with one at either end. Exhausting, but I triumphed in the accomplishment.
I missed a few cues but no one minded. Not having responsibility for the core elements of the song felt freeing. I was left to become part of the music, enveloped with the band in a way I had not expected. When I heard someone throw in a playful few notes, or turn down an unexpected track, I felt deep appreciation for the essence they infused into our shared space. I felt myself feeding into and from an unfamiliar energy flow, finding its rhythm.
As we neared the end of the bridge, I leaned heavily on distortion and vibrated slowly down the scale behind the music, stopping just short of a full complement to pause at the natural pause, then filled that void with the guitar's low but rising groan, grind, wail, screech, scream, pitching higher until it disappeared into silence. A guitar impersonation of Trix's opening wail.
Trix's deep laugh broke the silence just as drums and bass crashed into that space together like a tidal wave. As I jumped in the current I opened my eyes to see Trix actually surfing the wave in perfect parody, her face tight with concentration as she executed impressive spins and jumps. I could almost see a surfboard beneath her feet. Our eyes locked and I was playing only for her, playing to keep her moving. Finally, she rode into shore as we eased ourselves to an end.
My hands tingled electrical short-out; my fingers felt tender. My heart raced. I deliberately slowed my breathing, and almost immediately remembered to feel a little shocked with myself. That wailing stunt could have been really cool or really, really stupid, and I hadn't even weighed the chances before launching in. I felt my colour rise as I considered my narrowly-missed embarrassment, even while I relished the pleasant rush of unexpected daring.
I watched Trix grab a towel and sponge off her forehead and arm pits without modesty. With no further delay, she counted us into the next song. This piece played slower and simpler, which gave me less room to play, and I felt sorely tempted to sit it out. Self-consciousness had crept in, but I stayed put and played in a simple background loop. A kid joined the stage on trumpet, punctuating the early stanzas with a sad, elongated sound, then breaking out into a compelling solo. I would have bet against a trumpet working, but this one had style.
A young rapper strode boldly on stage, talking fast over Trix's relaxed song. Their vocals blended and separated over the lyrics and his improvisations, his spoken word and her slow, languid croon. As the verse closed, Trix skipped back and gave over the stage, letting him show his stuff. Each instrument stopped in turn until only a single drum beat at the windup. Throughout the theatre, people clapped and hooted - the boy had fans.
Trix perched on the fourth rung of a ladder downstage left. She wore garish lime and black striped tights and from below her legs looked impossibly long. A worn-thin AC/DC t-shirt rode little too short as she reached, playing peek-a-boo with her belly button. From my angle, I saw more than that. An outfit that either says I'm too cool to care what I look like, or I'm too lame to know better - all depending on personality.
When Trix saw me, her face leaped into a wide, happy grin and she sprang, cat-like, to the stage floor, landing in a crouch to look down at me.
"You're here!" she exclaimed, her voice full of excitement. "You're late," she clipped, standing, with a bite of command. "Where's your guitar?"
"I'm between guitars at the moment."
She grimaced at me; frowned. Re-evaluating.
"And you're okay with that? A little break from playing, maybe?"
I didn't appreciate her scrutiny. It hadn't been that long - my fingers weren't soft. I felt myself disengaging from the conversation. She noticed, and switched tacks.
"But you're here! So use the one over there, for now, and let's play."
She headed towards centre stage, calling out, "Back at it, people!" A wave of her hand brought two boys running to remove the ladder she'd been climbing.
I stepped back to take a good look around. A well-used building, Timeless had been a theatre converted for movies and back again, with a massive stage fronting the retracted screen. A large 2/3-pie dance floor surrounded the curve of the stage, seven remnant rows of theatre seating surrounding the floor like leftover piecrust. Two spacious aisles sliced through the seating at ten and two o'clock, slanting upward to wide, arched doorways beyond which I noted a liquor bar and a big, sparkly chandelier. The ornamented theatre walls ascended surprising heights, while the lounge ceiling hung low. I admired four gilded balconies overlooking it all.
I turned around to face the stage, and walked backwards until I bumped into the chairs. I used my bum to lower a creaky seat and sat in the front row, acutely aware that I was not doing as I was told.
The activity level surprised me - I saw at least twenty people working on sets and repairs throughout the theatre, and at least eight musicians were picking up instruments. This band had at least two guitarists already. I noticed that everyone moved to a corner of the stage, leaving the centre quite open. At a walking pace, Trix turned herself around and around, arms wide-spread, testing the space. She stopped at perfect centre downstage, spearing me with her eyes. She squinted, then settled her face into a mask of concentration.
"Alright, ONE TWO THREE" she yelled, and the music started.
I needed half a minute to wrap my head around the sound. Bash's bass line carried me along a heavy cross-rhythm, with occasional curves like the ends of a moustachio. One bare chested percussionist produced deceptively subtle, intricate electronic beats, offsetting the drummer's heavier hand. Keyboard filled in and punctuated without over-synthesizing the sound. Dance-fast but lacking the light banter of dance music; hard-edged but not always, some country twangs but mostly rock...no, pop...but not really. This music defied simple definition. I loved it.
Trix stood where she was, not engaging with the music. I felt her watching my reactions.
I could imagine this music pumping an audience, especially with the right lighting and atmosphere. I felt myself moving, carried forward in my seat. I closed my eyes. After awhile, I gradually noticed that something felt off in the guitar. The lead guy definitely had experience, his beat-up vintage Stratocaster intoning what could have been a companion piece to the rest of the band. Interesting, evocative, his interpretation almost worked but it wanted to take over the song, and no one was going there with him. Beside him a younger guy, maybe sixteen, just couldn't keep up. I felt strangely satisfied by his lack of skill.
After another minute, Trix signalled a stop. I opened my eyes to see her pivot slowly and deliberately towards Mr. Strat.
"What song are we playing?" she asked him, almost mildly.
"Universe Now," he answered. His demeanour didn't shift at all. He was older than I'd originally thought from his tight, fit body - probably over forty. Maybe even fifty.
"You are playing Universe Yesterday. Or possibly Universe An Hour from Now? It's not working. Try something else."
He didn't acknowledge the reprimand, and Trix turned on her heel. She could have been parodying a drill sergeant but she seemed to mean it.
"Alright, little girl," she called to me. "You didn't pay admission for this show. Get up here and play with us. Are you a musician?"
The challenge bugged me, but I did feel like playing. I had been semi-consciously imagining myself playing the whole time I listened, which was why the guitar started jarring me in the first place. I itched for it in spite of myself. Walking towards that stage felt a little unnerving, and also comfortable, like home. Maybe like going home when you're not sure who lives there anymore.
I climbed up to the stage.
The teenage guitarist eyed me uncertainly, making as if to hand me his guitar while watching Trix for instruction. His face knew how to laugh, but just then appeared a bit crestfallen.
Trix shook her head once to the side, irritated. "No, she can use that one." She indicated a guitar, plugged and ready, lying on a stool. The boys eyes widened visibly, and his mouth rounded into an unconscious oh. He looked like a comic book character who just can't believe it.
It was a nice guitar. More than nice. A cherry Gibson SG, well loved. The spotlight shone down on its glossy exterior like a heavenly blessing. I stroked the wood gently, as one strokes a horse's muzzle to say, hello. I thought I heard a collective intake of breath, and I felt every eye in the place on me and that guitar.
"Oh, you can all relax. It's mine. They think I'm a bit possessive." Trix turned around in a wide circle, her arms spread in supplication as she called out. "See? See! I don't even know her and what's mine is hers." She leaned in my direction and said in a stage whisper, "But I do know you, don't I?" I rolled my eyes at her. I saw Trace and Bash exchange a glance.
I felt self conscious, even though people were at least pretending they weren't watching. My face warmed as I picked up the guitar. It's weight felt strange to me, the neck just a little too long, but despite that I felt my hands come alive. I picked a little at the chords, getting the feel.
Absently, I strummed out the first bars of my favourite song. To my surprise, Mr. Strat repeated the response back to me. I caught his eye, and we smiled at each other. We played the refrain together; he sang, his voice gravely but pretty too,
Why are there so many
Songs about Rainbows
And what's on the other side?
Rainbows are visions
And only illusions
And rainbows have nothing to hide.
I joined him at the same time as Trix, who had stepped lightly behind me where I couldn't see her face. Her lovely deep voice made me a bit ashamed of my own, but I'd started and I continued.
So we've been told and some choose to believe it
I know they're wrong
Wait and see
Someday we'll find it
The rainbow connection
The lovers, the dreamers and me
Bash joined unobtrusively with his bass, filling out the sound, adding something a little sharper-edged to the longing ache this song already held for me. Several voices that came in at the chorus stayed to hum when they lost the words.
Who said that every wish
Would be heard and answered
When wished on the morning star?
Somebody thought of it
And someone believed it
Look what it's done so far
What's so amazing that keeps us star gazing
What do we think we might see?
Someday we'll find it
The rainbow connection
The lovers, the dreamers and me
So many voices joined now that I couldn't see where they were all coming from
All of us under its spell
We know that it's probably MA-GIC....
Then suddenly just me. Did Trix give a signal I missed? I almost stumbled, but kept going. I closed my eyes.
Have you been half asleep
And have you heard voices?
I've heard them calling my name
Is this the sweet sound
That calls the young sailors?
The voice might be one and the same.
I've heard it too many times to ignore it
It's something that I'm supposed to be
Someday we'll find it
The rainbow connection
The lovers, the dreamers and me
And a chorus once more for "laaa la-la lee la-la-la, la la-lee la la-lee la OOOOOOOOH..." to finish it off, with some laughter as most of us went off key.
People clapped and hollered, and I heard a couple of whistles. I hadn't realized how many people were there, working in the wings, hanging things in the rafters. I felt embarrassed. I felt welcomed.
It could have been a contrived scene from a movie, but I didn't feel that way. I felt like I'd come home for the first time. These people knew my secret favourite song well enough to play it, sing it, hum the tune. That sing-along is one of the happiest memories of my life. I put it in an impenetrable bubble in my heart where none of the rest of what happened can touch it.
Trix waved everyone back to work distractedly, caught in thought before abruptly snapping to.
"Are you ready?" she called, and anyone not at their instrument scrambled.
"Universe Now - one, two, THREE!"
The band started playing. I stood there like an idiot. The same song sounded different on the stage. Guitar limp in my hands, I closed my eyes to listen. I still hadn't heard Trix sing, and I worried she was watching me. Still, I didn't open my eyes.Fast and heavy with a strong, dance-able beat, Universe Now offered multiple paths for entry. I let my thinking fall aside, feeling out the music for my personal call.
Trix started a low, keening sound. The music tugged at her voice, drawing it open to increasing volume and fullness. I felt enlisted, a gravitational pull to play into the tornado in which her voice rose and rose, until it filled the theatre and there was nothing left but to finally break in anguish. A natural beat of silence, then the walls echoed with Trix's deep, elongated and finally distorted laugh. We dropped fast into a strong, repetitive grindy beat.
And I was in.
I've always loved jamming with other musicians and seeing what comes out. I listened for where they were going, especially Mr. Strat and the drums. I blended in my own unique colours, and fed off the others to add to the experience. I felt shy to meet their eyes, but pleased that they were looking for me.
As she started into lyrics, I found Trix's acidy vocals and Mr. Strat's slight whine combined for a slightly unpleasant blend . He definitely had his own, strong style, and he played a little more bluesy, a little less edgy than she sang. I felt the tension between them, each wanting to lead the direction. I recognized the feeling from when my parents fought over what was best for me. Without my really noticing, my own playing began drawing in elements of each. It felt like holding a balancing pole with one at either end. Exhausting, but I triumphed in the accomplishment.
I missed a few cues but no one minded. Not having responsibility for the core elements of the song felt freeing. I was left to become part of the music, enveloped with the band in a way I had not expected. When I heard someone throw in a playful few notes, or turn down an unexpected track, I felt deep appreciation for the essence they infused into our shared space. I felt myself feeding into and from an unfamiliar energy flow, finding its rhythm.
As we neared the end of the bridge, I leaned heavily on distortion and vibrated slowly down the scale behind the music, stopping just short of a full complement to pause at the natural pause, then filled that void with the guitar's low but rising groan, grind, wail, screech, scream, pitching higher until it disappeared into silence. A guitar impersonation of Trix's opening wail.
Trix's deep laugh broke the silence just as drums and bass crashed into that space together like a tidal wave. As I jumped in the current I opened my eyes to see Trix actually surfing the wave in perfect parody, her face tight with concentration as she executed impressive spins and jumps. I could almost see a surfboard beneath her feet. Our eyes locked and I was playing only for her, playing to keep her moving. Finally, she rode into shore as we eased ourselves to an end.
My hands tingled electrical short-out; my fingers felt tender. My heart raced. I deliberately slowed my breathing, and almost immediately remembered to feel a little shocked with myself. That wailing stunt could have been really cool or really, really stupid, and I hadn't even weighed the chances before launching in. I felt my colour rise as I considered my narrowly-missed embarrassment, even while I relished the pleasant rush of unexpected daring.
I watched Trix grab a towel and sponge off her forehead and arm pits without modesty. With no further delay, she counted us into the next song. This piece played slower and simpler, which gave me less room to play, and I felt sorely tempted to sit it out. Self-consciousness had crept in, but I stayed put and played in a simple background loop. A kid joined the stage on trumpet, punctuating the early stanzas with a sad, elongated sound, then breaking out into a compelling solo. I would have bet against a trumpet working, but this one had style.
A young rapper strode boldly on stage, talking fast over Trix's relaxed song. Their vocals blended and separated over the lyrics and his improvisations, his spoken word and her slow, languid croon. As the verse closed, Trix skipped back and gave over the stage, letting him show his stuff. Each instrument stopped in turn until only a single drum beat at the windup. Throughout the theatre, people clapped and hooted - the boy had fans.
Preview: Feeding Time at the Zoo
We all looked up at once to watch a small girl with a pleased smile make her way down the aisle, pushing a large but unsteady cart that creaked suspiciously under its pile of food. Everyone dropped what they were doing and ran toward her while she laughed a tinkling sound, delighted to be so popular.Trix appeared in front of me and gently removed the guitar from my hands, placing it carefully on a stool; I had been gripping it possessively the whole time. She motioned to the commotion.
"Feeding time at the zoo, Mouse," she said.
I scrunched up my nose at her, disgusted at the nickname, but realized that probably made me look even more mousey. In any case, she had leaped from the stage without noticing my reaction. I clamoured down behind her.