by Rudy Rucker
Bela’s weenie,
First I ever seenie,
I'm a happy teenie,
Sock the raga rock.
Ling-Ling and her friends were screaming and jumping up and down, not hiding their mouths anymore. Hello Kitty learns to talk. Cammy was laughing hard. I made a space for her in the sound.
She came in with a funky bouncy bass line, Naz attacked his drums, and K-Jen echoed my verse and chorus, adding iller elaborations of her own. It made for a funny, funky, whacked- out song.
We went on from there, the sound check segueing right into the show, “Bela’s Weenie” leading into “Universal Automaton” which set us up for “Oil Pig.” Thuggee was up on the stage dancing side by side with K-Jen, switching from cute little Motown-type steps to whirling dervish routines. To thicken the sonic mulligatawny, Naz had wired Thuggee with mikes so that his body was itself a feedback device, altering our music as he moved around. Dog, we were on.
People were showing up in packs, alerted by my ongoing vlog. We ended up playing three hour-long sets, playing more or less the same songs each time. As the crowd got more excited, some people reached up towards us; Thuggee did a good job of keeping them off the stage.
To close out the final set, we did a twenty minute jam version of “Sex Files,” during which K-Jen and Thuggee took off their shirts and did street theater—K-Jen playing an alien queen abducting Thuggee. Thuggee knelt and begged, K-Jen leered and brandished a green dicklike scepter, Thuggee crawled after her, K-Jen crotch-bumped his face, Thuggee jumped up and humped at her butt—with K-Jen raving in alien tongues all the while.
I was looking down at my chromed guitar, and I noticed some alien reflections. Things like cone shell snails floating above the happy audience, the stage lights picking out the white and orange triangle patterns wrapped around the cone shells, the triangles linked in skeins. When I looked out across the crowd with my naked eyes, the creatures weren’t there, but I kept on seeing them in the mirror of my guitar. Two flying cone shells as big as ponies.
Nevertheless I stayed with the music. I was almost afraid that if I stopped playing, the cone shells might burst out of the mirror world and storm the stage.
As it turned out, it was a bestially drunk San Jose guy who stormed the stage. He wanted to get at Cammy in particular. Thuggee bodily lifted up the drunk and threw him back into the crowd, after which the cops none-too-gently dragged him to one side.
After the concert the band retreated into Ma’s restaurant, and she locked the door and closed the blinds, lest we be mobbed. Our rented police officers came in handy here, keeping the crowd from busting the glass door. It was that intense.
Although there was no sign of Veeter, Alma, or Paul, Leni Pex had made her way into our sanctum.
“Great, great performance,” she said, focusing on Cammy. “You were spectacular.”
“The most fun I’ve had in a long time,” said Cammy, smiling over at me, eyes dancing beneath her long, level brows. “Good work, frontman. And, yo, Naz, where’d you get those beats, my man?”
“The programs came to life,” said Naz. "Thuggee was jam- min’ it too.”
“What about me?" said K-Jen, who was pulling her sleeveless T-shirt back over her lacy red bra.
I knelt down and salaamed. “You’re a rock goddess.”
And the others salaamed her as well, even Cammy. “All hail K-Jen!”
“You children were very professional,” said Ma, for want of a better word. “I couldn’t believe how you whipped up that crowd. We sold every bit of our food and beer. You should make a CD.”
“I’d like to spin off a DVD version of the concert,” said Leni. “And market that for people who can’t watch it on the Web.”
“Hello?” said Cammy. “Royalties? Publishing rights? You may have signed Bela, but you didn’t sign me.”
“Or me," put in K-Jen.
“Don’t look so bad, girls,” said Leni. “I’ll have to talk to Van. Maybe we can make a side deal with the band for the DVD. It would be great for your career.”
“Let Cammy take over the vlog show, and that’ll help,” I said. “My time’s up, right? Cammy should be the next one.”
“I’m more interesting than her,” said K-Jen. “Sorry, Cammy.”
“I’ll keep you in mind,” said Leni to K-Jen with a quick smile. “Who knows, maybe we’ll do the whole band. But, yes, I like the idea of Cammy going next.”
“I thought we’d call my show The Struggling Musician,” said Cammy, shaking out her bobbed hair, preening.
“You’ll be good,” said Leni. “You have a certain look. But we’ll call it The Stripper Musician. More commercial.”
“It’s not like I’m always stripping.”
“Bela’s not always crazy, either,” said Leni. "You know how it is. People’s expectations. Here, check out the contract.” Once again she called up some fine-printed text on her handheld device.
“Did Veeter leave any kind of message for me?” I asked Leni while Cammy studied the screen, K-Jen enviously reading over her shoulder. In the back of my mind I’d been thinking about that consulting gig.
“Oh yes, I almost forgot. He said to meet you at Paul’s house at Stanford, noon tomorrow. He took off near the end of your first set. His ranch is off Skyline Boulevard above Palo Alto. He gave Paul and Alma a ride home. I think they were fighting.”
“Good. So now can I take off this soul-devouring ring?”
“In a second,” said Leni.
“So you really only own the rights for rebroadcasting my performances during the vlog week,” said Cammy, still studying the fine print on Leni’s phone.
“That’s right. You still own your songs, of course. All we own is the raw bytes that get blogged—not the intellectual property. Just the sounds and images of this one week of your life. Say you agree, press Enter, and we’ve got a deal.”
“I’m down with it,” said Cammy. “Yes.” She pressed the button and handed back the phone.
“I’m gonna talk to an agent,” grumbled K-Jen.
“Great,” said Leni and busied herself with her handheld, which functioned as her all-purpose control center. A moment later my vlog ring loosened up. I handed it to Cammy.
“Put it on now, Cammy,” said Leni. “With this ring I thee vlog.”
“Right now?” said Cammy, giving me a look. She shoved the ring into her pants pocket. “I have something private I still need to take care of tonight. But I’ll put the ring on first thing tomorrow morning.”
“I don’t like that,” said Leni. “It means Buzz has dead air.” “Cut her some slack,” I said. I had an inkling of where Cammy was going with this. “For tonight you can just rebroadcast our concert—and all the other wonderful highlights of The Crazy Mathematician."
“People can click the highlight links already.”
“So just for one night they won’t have to click,” said Cammy. “But that’s how it’s gotta be. I’ll start vlogging by nine tomorrow morning.”
‘‘Oh, all right,” said Leni. “And as soon as you actually start, I’ll pay you.”
We spent the next couple of hours helping to tear down the stage and stash the equipment in Thuggee’s van, discussing the concert all the while.
“I saw flying alien cone shells reflected in my guitar,” I finally mentioned. “Did you guys see anything like that?”
“Sure I saw aliens,” said K-Jen, not really understanding what I meant. “All over the place. It was wild. I love that people are dressing up for our shows.”
“I’m talking about real aliens,” I said. "Extraterrestrials.”
“What you smokin’, bud?” said Naz. “Throw some down for your bros.”
“I heard that people used to wear Martian costumes to the Joeys concerts,” said K-Jen. “Back in the day.”
“It adds wild merriment if the Washer Drop fans are being eccentric,” said Thuggee. “Up to a point.”
“And beyond that point we’ve got
you to protect us,” I told Thuggee. “Thanks for throwing that drunk off the stage. And your dancing was great. I hope you can keep being our roadie.” “My parents are only partially understanding that Washer Drop is a golden opportunity,” said Thuggee. “And this is reminding me that we need to be on our way.”
We all congratulated each other some more and then Thuggee, K-Jen, and Naz headed north to Humelocke.
“Let’s go home too,” said Ma, who’d been cleaning up the restaurant. “Come on, Bela, spend the night at our house. Cammy can stay too, we’ve got room.” Ma didn’t often encourage my female acquaintances to sleep over.
“Sounds good to me,” said Cammy. “I’m definitely ready for bed.” Another look from beneath her level eyebrows. Was she thinking what I was thinking? Why else would she have left the ring off?
Ma’s house was a little flat ranch house on a tiny lot in a low- cost neighborhood near the train station and under the airport’s jet path. Her bedroom was at one end of the house, with two smaller bedrooms at the other end—the lairs where big sister Margit and I had weathered high school. Nominally Cammy was going to sleep in Margit's room. But as soon as Ma had settled into her room, Cammy was standing in my doorway, wearing only her T-shirt and panties.
I was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing some old pajamas I’d found in my dresser, going over the concert in my mind. It felt like I could remember every note of every song. What a triumph. I was feeling less and less interested in writing math papers that only a few dozen people would ever read.
“Let’s visit a little more,” said Cammy. “I’m too wired to sleep.”
“Come on,” I said, patting the bed beside me. Cammy sat down beside me and we talked for maybe two hours. We went over the concert one more time—and the conversation spiraled out from there. She told me about being in a garage band back in Ohio, about hitching to California and working as temp, about the stripping scene, about her cat. I talked about E To The I Pi, about being a math student, about the big theorem I’d proved with Paul, and about the aliens I thought I’d been seeing. We talked about nursery school memories and favorite foods, high-school proms, good and bad drug experiences, rock concerts we’d seen, which states in the US we’d visited, and the best places to find new music. We discussed our past lovers and our hopes for the future.
Cammy looked into my eyes, a gentle smile on her slightly crooked lips. We were going to kiss. We were going to fuck. We were falling in love.
“I wanted this to be private,” she said softly. “That’s why I’m not wearing the ring.”
But just then everything changed. The phone rang a few times in the other end of the house, no great distance away, and Ma fluted my name, clearly relishing the action. “Bela! It’s for you!”
“Damn,” I said. “I'll be right back, Cammy.” I’d had my cell phone turned off all week, lest Crazy Mathematician viewers start calling me up at odd times. So who would know to call me on Ma’s landline?
I padded into the kitchen and picked up the crufty old extension phone.
“You rule my world, Bela.” Alma's voice, warm and husky “Paul got jealous and made us leave early. I’m so sick of him. He always wants me to fuck him, and I never feel like it anymore. I swear, Bela, I haven’t let him touch me all week.”
“You, um, liked the concert?”
“Un-freaking-believable. I’ve been replaying it on the computer. I can’t stop watching you. I just had to call. When your cell phone didn’t work, I thought of finding your mother’s number under Xiao-Xiao Wong. I had a feeling you’d go to earth in old San Ho.”
“Clever girl. So now you miss me, eh?”
“Are you coming by our house tomorrow? I think Van set up a meeting? Let’s be sure and get some time alone. My beautiful Bela. My big star. I owe you an apology.”
"Will you come back to Humelocke with me? I renewed the lease.” I was a sucker for this girl. My pulse was racing, and all thoughts of Cammy had vanished from my head.
“Maybe,” said Alma. I heard background noises from her end. “Oops, I gotta go.” She signed off with a special kissing noise that we’d come to enjoy making at each other. “Mmwah."
I responded with a "Mmwah,” hung up, and there was Cammy across the kitchen staring at me, shaking her head.
“How cheesy.”
I lost my temper. “Alma and I have something special together. Maybe you wouldn’t understand.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t,” snapped Cammy, turning on her heel. “Asshole.” She walked down the hall and closed her bedroom door with a slam. A familiar sound from the old days of family drama. I knew that what I’d said was cold and stupid. I could have, should have, gone to her and apologized, but I was tired. As I fell asleep, my heart was singing Alma’s name.
Next morning on the drive up, Cammy and I were all business, discussing our play list, possible gigs, equipment changes, and ways to make good use of the vlog. She was wearing the ring now, broadcasting The Stripper Musician in real time.
We didn’t seem to be talking about last night at my house— probably to our fans’ bitter disappointment. I had a feeling that maybe I’d let a precious opportunity slip away. But I was too obsessed with Alma to apologize. I sensed that Cammy might be planning some kind of revenge on me for rebuffing her, but I couldn’t quite visualize what form this would take.
“You mind if we stop at Paul and Alma’s?” I asked as we neared the Page Mill Road exit. “I’m supposed to meet with Van Veeter to talk about this research contract.”
“And sniff around that phony little priss-pot. Palo Alto’s where she belongs all right. She’s a born yuppie, Bela.”
“Alma’s parents are Santa Cruz stoners,” I said defensively. “Her Dad’s a termite exterminator, for god’s sake. And her brother Pete is—” I remembered the vlog ring. “Oh, never mind. It’s not Alma’s fault if she wants a nice life.”
“Maybe I’ll just wait in the car. Or you could drop me off at the train station.”
“Oh, come on, Cammy. It might be interesting. My old roommate Paul Bridge, he’s quite a character.” An unworthy thought passed through my head. My master plan for winning back Alma. If Alma had been freezing out Paul, it would be easy to turn his head. “You might like him.”
“I might like him more than you,” said Cammy “That’s the pattern, right? All right, then, bring him on.”
Right away I had second thoughts. "Look, I’m not saying that you’re actually supposed to—”
“Make things easier for you? But that’s my job, isn’t it? Backing up the mighty frontman.”
“Look, if you’re gonna trip out, I should just drop you at the Cal Train station.”
“No, I’m up for this now. I’m going to teach little Alma a lesson. We’ll see who’s the real whore of Babylon in this lamer crowd. Two math dweebs and a—was it a rhetoric major?”
My stomach felt like I’d swallowed razor blades, but then, blessedly, Cammy winked at me. To some extent she was hamming it up for the sake of her vlog. Doing street theater. But I sensed an undercurrent of sadness as well. If only Alma had phoned an hour later last night. If only there were more than one world.
Gyula was parked in Veeter’s Hornswoggle limo on the street a few doors down from Paul’s house, as if not wanting to make it too obvious where the boss was. Noticing us going by, Gyula pointed at me and grinned, showing his sharp incisor teeth. I parked in the driveway beside Paul’s new van.
Alma met us at the door. She looked dreg-style suburban, in a dark paisley jogging suit with her striped shag hairdo teased into a pouf. Cammy pushed right past her to check out Paul in the kitchen.
He was in there with Veeter; they had some equipment spread out on the dining table: a laptop, a little video camera on a tripod, a barcode scanner wand, a shiny low-slung brass teapot. Veeter was wearing the same gray knickerbocker suit as last night, with a white shirt and a red bow tie, although he’d taken the coat off, rolled up his shirt
sleeves and untied the tie. He greeted me with a friendly smile.
Before I could talk to the boys, Alma tugged me off alone into the living-room and planted a big kiss on me. “I’m thinking about what you said,” she whispered into my ear. “About coming back. Maybe, Bela, maybe.”
In other words Alma was keeping her options open. From the kitchen I heard Cammy laughing charmingly at something Paul had said, and through the door I could see her leaning forward so that her purple-streaked black hair hung across her cheek. My bassist. Maybe she really would close the deal for me. What a girl. Why was I so eager to get Alma back again? And then Alma kissed me again, her tongue hot and avid. Oh Alma.
“Check out our rig, Bela,” called Veeter a minute later. So Alma and I trooped into the kitchen and watched. Paul was holding a—magic lamp?
“Van thought it would be funny to mount his Gobrane in this brass teapot he found,” said Paul. “In honor of our Seussian nomenclature.” The brass teapot was a warm shade of orange- gold, with an elongated profile; it resembled an Aladdin’s lamp. Paul set the pot on the table and lifted off the little lid. “Look inside.”
An elliptical membrane of shiny multicolored material was snugged into the pot, fitting as tightly as if the pot were half full of tea. The little plastic drumhead was undulating, with slight ripples moving back and forth. The criss-crossing ripples were interacting to form delicate filigrees and fleeting moirés— like a tiny wind-ruffled pond. In addition, the membrane was spotted and striped with colors: blues, greens, aquas, yellows, and mauves—like watered silk, like an old book’s marbled endpapers, like the mantle of a giant South Pacific clam.
“Oh; Paul!” said Cammy. “It’s beautiful!”
“We want to use it to predict the—” began Paul, but Veeter interrupted him with a cry.
“Ah-ah!” cried the tycoon, loud enough to drown out whatever Paul might have been about to say. “I’ll tell Bela myself in just a minute. And meanwhile, Paul, I wonder if you could take Cammy outside to look at your new van or something?”