an in-process, open-source novel
Read. Play. Create.
Read. Play. Create.
Saturday Evening
(Trace & paperwork)
(Trace & paperwork)
The front lobby looked dark except for a string of lights over the snack counter. I didn't see Trace standing in the shadows until she moved so those lights caught her champagne hair, sleek white jeans, glint of teeth. Her smile called me friend, but I didn't buy it.
"I was hoping I'd catch you, Mouse." She drawled the nickname gently with a wry humour that knew it got under my skin and thought I should get over it.
Trace rolled her body a little to lean against the counter, regarding me sideways, a cat flirting with the furniture. I noticed her almost flat upper lip and very slightly down turned nose, these minute imperfections only enhancing her loveliness by flourishing her smile. She totally possessed the words beauty and grace as I imagined them. I worked to quench my quick burn of envy.
"You never should have hit that stage without seeing me first. I need to take care of you." Her tone sounded coy. She made me nervous.
"Take care of me?"
She straightened her posture, and assumed a more business-like air.
"There's paperwork, forms to sign. Step this way, please, miss."
She glided beside me and dropped her hand casually on my shoulder, guiding us towards a windowless, unmarked thick steel door just behind the snack counter. Using a key, she opened the door and slid a guitar pick into the hinge to prop it open. Before we left the lobby, she pointed to a large sign I'd failed to see, but which I never could have missed if I'd come in the front doors. A rough piece of wood, about 4'x6', hung dead centre. Its neon orange glow blindingly backdropped the hand-painted purple inscription:
These premises monitored
by video surveillance
AT ALL TIMES!
The world is watching.
Be warned.
I loved the extreme messaging - it sounded just like Trix. Beneath the sign, someone had graffitied ornate lettering that looked like they'd misspelled sex: sXe. I wondered if Trix had painted the sign herself, and whether the graffiti was vandalism or an intentional touch.
"That's the first thing," Trace tossed over her shoulder as I followed her down the dark, narrow hallway. "I assume she told you we livestream those practices to the website? You'll have to sign off on that, and other publicity stuff. If, of course, you're going to play?"
Stepping over the threshold into the only lit office, she spun around to catch my reaction. I skittered reflexively away from her gaze before forcing myself to lift my eyes from the shadows and meet her laser-blues. That accomplished, I felt a little cocky.
"Well, I just played. Did that get broadcast on your livestream?"
"Yes."
"So if I don't sign, you guys are in breach already, right?"
She pursed her lips, then deliberately rearranged her features into a sweet smile.
"I suppose." Her hand waved to dismiss that thought as she leaned in with a secret to tell me, my new best friend in the treehouse.
"Christine, I ask because I really hope you will play with us. You're obviously talented, quite...pretty, just what we need to round out the show. Please, say you will." She lilted her tone, tilted her head; a baby doll. She was too sweet on purpose, almost over the top. She could have been more convincing but she was letting me see her maneuver, almost daring me to call her out as a fake or believe her hook, line and sinker. I had no idea how to respond to this, and my awkward came out gruff.
"Why don't you give me the stuff you want signed?"
She moved slowly across the room, in no rush, landing softly behind the desk. From a prepared folder, she slid me pre-filled release forms for media, safety and general liability, all convoluted language in 7pt courier. A personnel form required my Social Insurance Number. The volunteer agreement wanted permission for a police background check. There was even a form to verify that I had read and understood all the forms.
"You people want me to sign my life away."
"Just any liability we might have for it. You take responsibility for yourself in these walls, and you let us use what we record. That's what this jargon means. Are you in?"
I honestly couldn't see any reason why not. I didn't love the idea of band practices broadcast online, but I could see why it might help build a local following.
"I don't know if I'm, uh, in, exactly. But if I don't sign all these, I can't play again, right?"
"Right."
I picked up the pen. She diligently signed witness after me on each sheet, stacking the results neatly back into the folder. After disposing of the last, Trace sat looking at me, head cocked to the right, waiting for me to reveal whatever puzzled her. I didn't expect her next question.
"You live with Chris? Bashir's old office mate?" Why would she ask that? I felt like she really wanted something else. I decided to stick with simple answers.
"Yes."
"He's a nicely-proportioned man, your Chris, quite attractive. I miss seeing him around here. For awhile, he was here all the time. Now, not at all."
"Really?" I wished this was not news to me. My mind ran over conversations with Chris for any clue that he had involvement with Timeless. I felt pretty sure he'd never mentioned this. I was also sure Trace had guessed that.
"Bash really misses him, but I don't think Chris was ever coming here to see Bash." I sat back as my suspicion gave way to certainty. Trace was leading me down a garden path. I itched to tell her to just get on with it. She looked thoughtful.
"Really, I don't think we've seen him since Luca left."
There it was. Now a simple question on my part to get her to the point. I almost couldn't choke it out, but I managed.
"Who's Luca?"
She nodded her satisfaction as I spoke my line in the play she'd written.
"Luca was our sound technician. She and Chris seemed close...but then, she left, and now, you're here, so, mystery solved! Maybe we'll see him again, if you're going to be around." Trace smiled brightly, as though I'd cleared things up for her, knowing full well she'd just muddied my waters.
"Off you go, then. Be sure to read the materials. Welcome to Timeless." She raised her eyebrows, prettily acknowledging the irony of her welcome even while her tone felt warm and genuine. I wondered how she could pull that off.
"Thanks." What else was there to say?
"I was hoping I'd catch you, Mouse." She drawled the nickname gently with a wry humour that knew it got under my skin and thought I should get over it.
Trace rolled her body a little to lean against the counter, regarding me sideways, a cat flirting with the furniture. I noticed her almost flat upper lip and very slightly down turned nose, these minute imperfections only enhancing her loveliness by flourishing her smile. She totally possessed the words beauty and grace as I imagined them. I worked to quench my quick burn of envy.
"You never should have hit that stage without seeing me first. I need to take care of you." Her tone sounded coy. She made me nervous.
"Take care of me?"
She straightened her posture, and assumed a more business-like air.
"There's paperwork, forms to sign. Step this way, please, miss."
She glided beside me and dropped her hand casually on my shoulder, guiding us towards a windowless, unmarked thick steel door just behind the snack counter. Using a key, she opened the door and slid a guitar pick into the hinge to prop it open. Before we left the lobby, she pointed to a large sign I'd failed to see, but which I never could have missed if I'd come in the front doors. A rough piece of wood, about 4'x6', hung dead centre. Its neon orange glow blindingly backdropped the hand-painted purple inscription:
These premises monitored
by video surveillance
AT ALL TIMES!
The world is watching.
Be warned.
I loved the extreme messaging - it sounded just like Trix. Beneath the sign, someone had graffitied ornate lettering that looked like they'd misspelled sex: sXe. I wondered if Trix had painted the sign herself, and whether the graffiti was vandalism or an intentional touch.
"That's the first thing," Trace tossed over her shoulder as I followed her down the dark, narrow hallway. "I assume she told you we livestream those practices to the website? You'll have to sign off on that, and other publicity stuff. If, of course, you're going to play?"
Stepping over the threshold into the only lit office, she spun around to catch my reaction. I skittered reflexively away from her gaze before forcing myself to lift my eyes from the shadows and meet her laser-blues. That accomplished, I felt a little cocky.
"Well, I just played. Did that get broadcast on your livestream?"
"Yes."
"So if I don't sign, you guys are in breach already, right?"
She pursed her lips, then deliberately rearranged her features into a sweet smile.
"I suppose." Her hand waved to dismiss that thought as she leaned in with a secret to tell me, my new best friend in the treehouse.
"Christine, I ask because I really hope you will play with us. You're obviously talented, quite...pretty, just what we need to round out the show. Please, say you will." She lilted her tone, tilted her head; a baby doll. She was too sweet on purpose, almost over the top. She could have been more convincing but she was letting me see her maneuver, almost daring me to call her out as a fake or believe her hook, line and sinker. I had no idea how to respond to this, and my awkward came out gruff.
"Why don't you give me the stuff you want signed?"
She moved slowly across the room, in no rush, landing softly behind the desk. From a prepared folder, she slid me pre-filled release forms for media, safety and general liability, all convoluted language in 7pt courier. A personnel form required my Social Insurance Number. The volunteer agreement wanted permission for a police background check. There was even a form to verify that I had read and understood all the forms.
"You people want me to sign my life away."
"Just any liability we might have for it. You take responsibility for yourself in these walls, and you let us use what we record. That's what this jargon means. Are you in?"
I honestly couldn't see any reason why not. I didn't love the idea of band practices broadcast online, but I could see why it might help build a local following.
"I don't know if I'm, uh, in, exactly. But if I don't sign all these, I can't play again, right?"
"Right."
I picked up the pen. She diligently signed witness after me on each sheet, stacking the results neatly back into the folder. After disposing of the last, Trace sat looking at me, head cocked to the right, waiting for me to reveal whatever puzzled her. I didn't expect her next question.
"You live with Chris? Bashir's old office mate?" Why would she ask that? I felt like she really wanted something else. I decided to stick with simple answers.
"Yes."
"He's a nicely-proportioned man, your Chris, quite attractive. I miss seeing him around here. For awhile, he was here all the time. Now, not at all."
"Really?" I wished this was not news to me. My mind ran over conversations with Chris for any clue that he had involvement with Timeless. I felt pretty sure he'd never mentioned this. I was also sure Trace had guessed that.
"Bash really misses him, but I don't think Chris was ever coming here to see Bash." I sat back as my suspicion gave way to certainty. Trace was leading me down a garden path. I itched to tell her to just get on with it. She looked thoughtful.
"Really, I don't think we've seen him since Luca left."
There it was. Now a simple question on my part to get her to the point. I almost couldn't choke it out, but I managed.
"Who's Luca?"
She nodded her satisfaction as I spoke my line in the play she'd written.
"Luca was our sound technician. She and Chris seemed close...but then, she left, and now, you're here, so, mystery solved! Maybe we'll see him again, if you're going to be around." Trace smiled brightly, as though I'd cleared things up for her, knowing full well she'd just muddied my waters.
"Off you go, then. Be sure to read the materials. Welcome to Timeless." She raised her eyebrows, prettily acknowledging the irony of her welcome even while her tone felt warm and genuine. I wondered how she could pull that off.
"Thanks." What else was there to say?
Preview: Too Tall to be Yoda
I felt I'd just been bested at a game I didn't know had started, with rules I'd never learned. I replayed the conversation as I made my way down the dark hallway and out the front door without seeing anyone else. I hesitated on the sidewalk, then decided to head back the way I'd come that afternoon, hoping to find a closer bus stop along the walk. This edgy neighbourhood didn't invite a nighttime stroll, and I felt nervous. I heard footsteps behind me, faster than I liked. I sped my pace as Trix knocked my heart into my throat by loping up beside me."Hey, Mouse, what did you think?" she asked, like she hadn't just given me a heart attack. I didn't respond right away.
"You don't like me calling you Mouse?" she asked, direct. "What would you have your nickname be?"
"I don't want a nickname."
She stopped, so I stopped out of politeness. She took my shoulders in her big hands, turned me to her, and bent down fast, bringing us face-to-face. I got lost in the large pupils of her dark eyes, a little mezmerized. I couldn't look away. She spoke low, her voice deep and barely above a coaxing whisper, "Tell me your secret name."