by Rudy Rucker
“The vlog?” I asked unnecessarily.
“I need some gigs,” said Cammy tossing her head. She had Bettie Page hair, dark and cropped into a thick bob, with short bangs and purple streaks. “My group broke up. We were called Nutricious? We even cut a CD, but we never really got paid, and we started fighting. And then the frontwoman got her own deal, the drummer got into smack, the guitarist started doing studio work, and I’m destitute. I’m sharing an apartment with five other people in Hunter’s Point. There’s a resident geek in our apartment, and he saw you talking about needing a bassist, and we recognized Ratvale so, what the hey I jammed over here.” Cammy made a graceful swooping gesture with one hand. She seemed very comfortable in her own skin.
“Excellent,” I said. “Let’s hear you. I’ve got a spare speaker- amp you can use.” Packrat that I am, I had quite a bit of equipment left over from the E To The I Pi days.
I started a bluesy raga line to match the oil pig lyric K-Jen had suggested. After a few bars, Cammy came into the envelope of the beat, dancing around the time signature in the lively unpredictable style of the true musician, ahead of the count here, behind it there, throwing in grace notes to keep things interesting.
We kept on jamming. I enjoyed watching Cammy’s moves. She was taking little dance steps in her black engineer’s boots, and swaying her guitar neck in synch with mine. She had stage presence, and without being exactly beautiful, she was sexy. Approachable.
And now Naz and K-Jen came tumbling back in the room, loose and laughing, ready to rock, Naz whacking and boinging his drums and drum vest, K-Jen by turns tuneful and raging. It was wonderful. In the space of an hour we’d nailed Washer Drop’s very first song, “Oil Pig.”
So now Cammy, who knew the San Francisco music scene better than any of us, got on the phone and tried to get us a gig. She smoked as she talked, her eyes focused in the distance, visualizing the person on the other end of the line. I felt a silly, possessive twinge, wanting Cammy to be visualizing me. My heart is a dog running after every cat.
In the event, all the bars Cammy tried were booked for this Friday which was when I was hoping to play. And then I had the idea of playing in San Jose at my mother’s restaurant, East-Vest. The plan seemed synchronistically apt.
Although East-Vest was too small to hold more than twenty people, there was a big, bleak strip-mall parking lot right outside Ma’s front door, deserted on weekend nights. We could set up a stage there, pile up pallets or something. And we’d give a free concert. I phoned Ma and got her okay, even though she didn’t quite understand what I had in mind.
So that was Monday. We rehearsed for next three days, writing songs, learning covers, and getting comfortable with long jams. We had at least an hour and a half’s worth of music, maybe more if we stretched the jams and faked some extra covers.
Leni really got into the concert idea. She told me we had to get an event permit from the City of San Jose, a necessary step that hadn’t crossed my mind. That would have been a deal breaker for me, but Leni sliced right through the red tape, with Van Veeter making a few calls to smooth the way. As well as the event permit, San Ho was charging us for police protection— what an absurd concept, paying the cops to hassle you. But Leni and Veeter sprang for the cop fee, not to mention the rental charges for lights, an outdoor sound system, and a temporary stage. Buzz stood to rack up some fat ad revenues from our live event, and Veeter would get nice publicity for the Rumpelstilt- skin vlog ring.
Cammy and I drove down together Friday afternoon; K-Jen and Naz were coming in Thuggee’s family car. Thuggee’s parents were letting him be our roadie, at least for today.
“I’ve never been to San Jose,” Cammy told me on the way down. It was a sunny day, the rolling hills along Route 280 already turning summer-yellow.
“You didn’t grow up around here?” I asked. Whenever we’d been together this week, we’d been rehearsing; we hadn’t yet done any small talk.
“I’m from Ohio. I’ve only been in the city for two years.” “What was your day job?”
“Night job. Sometimes I work as a stripper.”
“I’m impressed,” I said glancing over at her.
“It’s performance,” said Cammy. “The other women are nice. I was with a, like, classical burlesque group. Kind of liberated. The Fluff Circus? We had jugglers and contortionists.”
“I’ve heard of them,” I said, glancing at Cammy once again, reconsidering her figure.
“Like my tits?” She batted her eyes and palmed her thick bob of hair.
“You have this great vibe, Cammy. You’re so sure of yourself. It’s attractive.”
“Strutting around naked on a stage will do that for you. You should try it sometime. Fluff Circus has male strippers, too.” “This week I’m a stripper every time I’m in the bathroom,” I said, wiggling the finger with the vlog ring. “I don’t get to hear people cheering—but the ring does get redder when I’m nude. I guess yeah, it’s made me more confident.”
“We’re pros, you and me,” said Cammy. “I’m up for our concert. How big a crowd you think we’ll draw?”
“Leni figures it’ll be several hundred. I hope all the equipment works.”
“I’ll show you how to do a good sound check,” said Cammy. “And we need to have monitor speakers pointing back at us. I did a gig without monitors once, and I couldn’t hear myself play. I wish we were charging admission. Am I going to get paid?”
“Mas gonna give the band half of what she makes selling food and drinks,” I said. “She’s getting a bunch of kegs. She got a permit to set up tables in front of the restaurant.”
“Your mother’s Chinese-Hungarian? Nothing personal, but she’s gonna short us. How about your cut of the Buzz advertising, are you gonna split that with the group?”
I was feeling a little put-upon. “How much would it take to make you feel satisfied about playing tonight, Cammy?”
She named a fairly reasonable figure, a couple of hundred bucks.
“I’ll make sure you get at least that,” I said. “You’re an experienced musician. You deserve to get more than Naz or K-Jen— at least for our first gig.”
“Thanks, Bela,” said Cammy. “You’re a good frontman.” “Look,” I added, happy to have this intriguing woman smile at me. “I’ll do something else for you. My vlogging contract with Buzz runs out tonight. I’ll push Leni to let you be her next vlogger.”
“You don’t want to do it anymore?”
"No, it’s—it’s getting to be too much.” Half the people I saw on Telegraph Avenue knew every intimate detail about me. As if I were Leroy, sleeping on the sidewalk with my face to the sky and my pecker hanging out. I felt like the watching eyes were wearing my personality bubble away; I was starting to feel porous.
“The Struggling Musician,” said Cammy, happily making plans. “That’s what I’ll call my vlog show. I’ll cut a swath. I’ll do my act at Fluff Circus while I’m five. Break a thousand hearts.”
“You’re not at all embarrassed about the stripper thing?”
“Sex isn’t that big a deal to me,” said Cammy. “It’s like brushing your teeth. I don’t see why everyone gets so bent out of shape. Are you still mooning over that girl I heard you talking about? You know, what’s-her-name. Uma?”
“Alma,” I said. “Yeah, I’m still thinking about her. I had this idea that if I got famous I might be able to get her back. Especially if her new boyfriend Paul Bridge cheats on her. Alma and I are both the type to—like you said—get bent out of shape. Old school.”
“Is he cute?” said Cammy thoughtfully.
“Paul Bridge? He’s smart, and I used to like him a lot, and we wrote a great math paper together. But I’m not sure I’d call him cute.”
When we got to Ma’s restaurant it was almost supper time. Naz, K-Jen, and Thuggee were already there, helping set up our rental equipment. Ma and her cooks had been working all day making rabbit-meat skewers and little cartons of E
ast-Vest paprika-fried rice that she could vend to the expected crowd, the food all set behind a long outdoor table. She offered us some. Cammy ate a box of the rice right there, eager to get to work on the sound check. But I went into the empty restaurant to sit down and chat with Ma. She reheated some of the rice for me in the wok, adding a portion of salami the way I liked.
“I hope you stop this vlogging nonsense soon,” said Ma, swirling the food. “I’m embarrassed around my relatives. Shirley Woo said her granddaughter Ling-Ling watched you taking a shower, and now she keeps talking about it. Disgusting brat. I haven’t watched it myself. I don’t want to be spying on you. I thought I’d raised you to have a little modesty, Bela.” She scooped the glistening, fragrant rice onto a plate and set it before me. “Eat.”
“Thanks.” I loved Ma’s cooking.
She sat down across from me, keeping up the stream of motherly advice. “And now you’re starting a band with Cammy? She looks like a nice level-headed girl. Competent. But what are you doing with those grubby high school kids? And how’s this supposed to help you get a good job as a professor?”
“I’m not so sure that’s going to happen. My adviser Roland Haut doesn’t like me, and the department chairman’s mad at me too.”
“How could they not like you? Are they crazy?”
“Haut is, yes. But the music thing could really take off, Ma. And there’s always consulting. You never know.”
“I say forget about both the music and the teaching and get a job in high-tech like your cousin Gyula. That’s where the real jobs are. The family’s trying to find a way to get you in where Gyula works.”
“Aw, Ma. Gyula doesn’t know jack. He’s not really high-tech. He’s a guard, a company goon.”
“He’s vice administrator of security for some new company that bought Membrain Products, Bela. He sees the new big boss all the time because he’s been driving his limo for him. Gyula mentioned you to the boss—without actually saying he’s related to you—and guess what, that man knows about your big math paper! Gyula said his boss is very eager to meet you, and that he might even offer you a job!”
“Oh, right. Who’s Gyula’s new boss?”
“That guy who just got elected. What’s his name. Van Veeter.”
“Huh?”
As if on cue, a white Hornswoggle stretch limo with dark glass pulled up at the restaurant’s front door. Gyula hopped out the driver’s seat. He was a swarthy guy with heavy stubble and a low forehead. A tough cookie. We’d always been somewhat competitive with each other—if he actually helped me get a job, he’d love lording it over me in the future.
Gyula offered me a sarcastic salute which included giving me the finger, then opened the car’s rear door for, yes, Van Veeter. As if that weren’t enough, who else should appear from the dark leather recesses of the limo but—a twitchy Paul Bridge and a smiling Alma Ziff. My life was beginning to feel like a movie script.
“Hi guys,” said Gyula, leading the way into the restaurant. “Meet the Honorable Van Veeter. Mr. Veeter, this is Xiao-Xiao Kis and her son Bela.”
“Bela,” said Veeter. He was a soft-faced sandy-haired man wearing high-end business clothes: matching gray silk jacket and knickers with a pale lilac shirt and a yellow silk Pompano bow-tie, the brand name subtly worked into the fabric. His teeth were preternaturally white, his skin well-tanned. “I’m a big fan of your work.” said Veeter. “And that Web show of yours has been a total time sink for me this week. Fascinating way to decompress. It’s good to finally meet you.” He was considerably shorter than he looked on TV. Barely taller than my shoulder.
I shook Veeter’s hand, wondering if he’d absorbed the accusations that I’d made about him. Hard to tell. His grip was firm and intense, the Platonic ideal of a handshake. It took awhile to get my hand back.
“That was nice of you to help organize the concert,” I muttered. I was distracted by the sight of Alma staring at me.
“I’m not nice,” said Veeter. “I need something from you. And please don’t take offense if I leave early. I’m in crunch mode, even though I’ve been pissing away time watching your vlog. I have to get back to my ranch early tonight.” In person he seemed less like a hard-charging can-do politician, and more like an engineer with no patience for social niceties. One of my people.
“Still friends?” said Alma suddenly planting a kiss on my cheek.
The scent of her intoxicated me. “I miss you,” I blurted out.
“I think I made a mistake leaving you,” she stage-whispered so that everyone could hear.
“Van just bought the patent for the BKH theorem from the university,” announced Paul, drowning her out. “He has some special hardware, it’s a membrane of optically sensitive plastic. Limpware, really. He calls it a Gobrane. I’ve been up to my eyebrows in chemical engineering all week. We’ve made a programmable paracomputer. Van’s awesome, Bela. He knows how to model the morphons. Day before yesterday, we had this big breakthrough over your little comic strip about the membrane codec technique. Believe it or not, you drew a picture of the temporal evolution of long-chain polymer entanglement.” He was talking very fast.
I recognized the signs. Paul was high on speed. No wonder Alma was unhappy with him.
“And the Gobrane is made of entangled polymers,” continued Paul. “And your missing fifth frame? We realized that it’s—”
“Stop right there,” said Veeter, holding his hand up as if to cover Paul’s mouth. “I don't want to go into patentable details while we’re on the air, for crying in the sink.” For a little guy, he had a lot of presence. He smiled at me. “But I will say this much. The Morphic Classification Theorem is manna from heaven. A new model for computation: turn your problems into physics and forget about writing machine code! We’re starting a new golden age, the age of paracomputation. I’m here tonight, Bela, because I want to ask your advice about this one particular process I want to model. Paul’s not quite sure how to do it.”
“It’s a cake with a rake handle and a teapot spout jammed into it,” said Paul. “And it’s supposed to match the—”
“Hold your horses, Paul,” said Veeter, giving Paul’s arm a gentle shake. He seemed to have a fondness for corny idioms, which was probably a plus for reaching the electorate.
"Why did you decide to have me do a vlog show anyway?” I asked Veeter.
“For me, the Morphic Classification Theorem was Christmas morning,” he said. “And you’re Santa. When I heard you ranting on Leni’s webcast from that Bulkington party—it seemed like a slam dunk to have you vlog fulltime for a week. That way I could pick your brain. I didn’t realize you’d be starting a rock band! But why not. Now that your vlog week’s over, I’d like to offer you a Membrain consulting contract for this one particular mystery app. Paul’s on the project too. Membrain Products has made him a principal investigator for a research grant through Stanford. And President Doakes wants to see that Cal Kweskin and Maria Reyes get a separate morphonics grant from the National Security Agency. There’s money all around, Bela; you’re in high clover.”
I felt a little confused. “But your company is Rumpelstilt- skin, right?”
“We acquired a controlling interest in Membrain last quarter,” said Veeter. “I’m pulling ashore as many boats as I can before I put my business interests into trusteeship. I take my oath of office next week, you know. This one remaining app is my last hurrah. At least for now. And then I’m off to debug DC.”
“You’re quite the octopus, Congressman Veeter.” I said this with a bit of a sneer.
“Call me Van,” he said, with a flicker of aggression in his gray eyes. “You’ve publicly accused me of arson and election fraud. I’d say that puts us on a first-name basis.”
“Sorry about that, Van,” I heard myself say, at the same time feeling my mouth form itself into a shit-eating grin. Part of me wanted that consulting contract very much. “Maybe I was wrong about the arson. I have a thing about Heritagis
ts.”
“I don’t blame you,” said Veeter with a shrug. “I’m a citizen first, a geek second, a Heritagist third. One of my goals is to move my party back towards its mainstream roots. But let’s not talk politics. Let’s talk morphic classification for Membrain Products. We’ll set up a meeting tomorrow.”
All the while there’d been noise out front from Naz’s drums, K-Jen’s mike, and Cammy’s bass. And now Cammy herself popped into the restaurant.
“Come on, Bela!” She looked elated, frisky, full of life. She’d put on heavy lipstick for the show. “Oh, you must be Andrea,” she said to Alma, in a casual tone. “I’m surprised you showed up.”
“Alma. And you’re the stripper musician?”
“Meoowr," said Cammy, making a clawing gesture. And then she took my hand and pulled me outside. I was glad. If Alma was miffed and jealous, that was good for my cause. I needed to seem hard to get.
A few early arrivals were milling around the parking-lot, and among them was my third-cousin Ling-Ling Woo, the one who’d been talking about the vlog of me taking a shower. She had her strawy black hair up in an excited ponytail. Three of her girlfriends were at her side, all of them waving at me and doing that Asian thing of covering their laughing mouths. Just for the hell of it, I stepped up to the mike and began improvising a song as part of my sound check. I started slow.
I'm an open-book flatland screen man, you watch me now and then.
Click on my ads to pay me, I’ve got pixels in my skin.
You know me real well, and I don't know you,
But some of your thoughts, they're comin' through,
I’m glad, little girl, to hear you say,
The crazy mathematician’s gettin’ real today.
And then I switched to a sing-song chorus.