by Borderland
She jerked once, falling into sleep.
Scooter lay awake. Roxanne almost always fell into a deep sleep soon after sex; Scooter either felt a warm, contented glow that eased into sleepiness, or else he became restless.
When her breathing became slow and regular, he eased himself from beneath the down comforter and got out of bed. They had already blown out the lights for the night; he felt his way to the standing hat rack near the now-unused front door and removed his floor-length robe. He slipped it on, belted it, went back to the bed, and retrieved the lamp and matches.
Walking quietly, barefoot on thick plush, Scooter entered the second half of their home and breathed deeply. The old tearoom still retained a faint scent of its former existence, a delicate aroma like the smell of a Victorian woman’s sachet kept in a drawer of lover’s letters.
He liked that smell.
He struck a match (Lucifer matches, she had called them, and sure as shit, you could light them against the wall—he felt like a cowboy) and lit the hurricane lamp.
The room grew bright enough to see. Three longnecked shapes, variously slim- or slight-waisted, rested upright on stands against one wall.
On the left was the Les Paul, long quiet in its case. He ignored it.
Beside it were the Martin he had taken to the top of Monaghie this afternoon (recently restrung with nylon strings) and a Yamaha twelve-string. He had liberated them from the Guitar Center near Kester Avenue. The store had been shut tight with what had once been expensive burglar bars, and it had taken Scooter half the day to break in. In the end he’d had to use a fire ax, taken from the pitch-black basement of the AT&T building down the block, to break in.
He went in looking for a classical guitar he had lusted for since he had learned how to play—a Goya.
Twenty minutes later he emerged from the shop, bleeding from his left forearm and face where glass had cut him and grinning like the bandit he was. Home was a mile away, with only one slight uphill grade, and
Scooter had pushed his borrowed grocery-store produce cart—laden with the three guitars in their cases, three stands, a fishbowlful of picks, two amplifiers-—a Fender pig-snout and a big Peavey, a half-dozen key sets, plugs, six straps, and a big box crammed with nylon strings for the Martin, steel ones for the Yamaha, and Gibsons for the Les Paul—all the way back.
He’d been disappointed about not finding a Goya.
In the dim and flickering light from the lone lamp Scooter opened a case and picked up the Martin from its stand, pulled a pick from the bowl on the floor, and sat on the folding metal bridge chair in the middle of the room.
Cold metal touched the backs of his thighs. The waist of the guitar was cool on his upper right thigh, but warmed quickly.
The safe containing Roxanne’s drugs and other trading supplies was a dim gray form facing him across the room.
Scooter put the pick in his mouth and clamped down with his teeth. An old habit.
He strummed an open G-chord, adjusted the treble E-string, strummed it again. He nodded to himself, removed the pick from his mouth, and tuned the guitar on harmonics, listening to the pure sound fade with his ear against the body. When he was satisfied, he returned the pick to his mouth.
He used to be famous for that old habit.
It had taken some time for Scooter to get used to playing gentle music. Scooter played at The Factory every Thursday night. He could have played his Les Paul—certainly the place was set up for it—and could even have played with a band, if he wanted.
He didn’t want.
His priorities, his perspective, had changed a lot since the strangeness began years ago, and he had set about destroying his history. He immersed himself in what he seemed to have become, rather than riding the inertia of what he used to be. Since Roxanne came into his life Scooter had, to his great surprise, discovered a quietness deep within himself, a contentedness interrupted only by occasional fits of nostalgia. The acoustic guitar was a more gentle creature, and the music he played on it—and the images he conjured when he played in the Borderlands, on Monaghie—reflected what he felt inside.
Scooter played.
His callused fingers spun a web of intricate melodies, brooding counterpoints, simplistic tunes that sounded as if they were searching to become something more. Scooter felt melancholy, and though he would never have thought to use that word to describe his feelings, his music conveyed it for him.
He looked up at a sound.
Nude, lamplit skin dappled with shadow, Roxanne stood in the doorway between rooms.
He started to ask how long she had been watching him, looked back down at the Martin instead.
“Are you all right, Scooter?” she asked.
A quick triplet held the final note, then slid into a D-chord on the bottom three strings. “Can’t sleep,” he said, slurring the “s” around the pick in his mouth.
She shifted her weight to one leg. A hand went up to twirl a strand of hair by her ear. “Something’s wrong.” Her tone did not rise on the last word: a statement, then.
Scooter shrugged. He removed the pick from his mouth, wedged it under a thigh. “You know. I’m not . . . I mean, I get like this.” He shrugged again. “You know,” he finished.
She said nothing.
After a minute he looked up from his playing. His right hand stilled the strings. “Some kid today. Up on the hill. He recognized me.”
She lifted her right foot, scratched her left shin with her toes. He watched her foot: instep straightened, arch pronounced, looking seamed and waxen in the soft light, toes pointed. Like a ballerina, he thought. “It’s happened before,” she said.
“Yeah.” He brushed long hair from in front of his eyes. “It bugged me this time. I don’t know. Why, I mean.”
She waited nearly a minute before asking: “You really miss it sometimes, don’t you?”
“Nah. Well, sometimes, sure.” He leaned back in the chair, turning the guitar faceup on his lap. “But not if I really think about what it was like.” He snorted. “I mean, I was getting fucked up almost every night. I did some crazy shit, you know?”
“I know. I can imagine, I mean.”
“Shit, I’d be dead now if I’d kept that up. Your body, your system, doesn’t want to handle that. Everything was a blur all the time. We were moving around a lot. It was really fast, you know, really busy. I guess what I miss is how fast it all was, how much was happening to me all the time. But if I stop and think about what it was that was happening to me—” He shrugged. “It don’t mean very much.”
“ ‘Full of sound and fury,’ ” she said, “ 'signifying nothing.’ ”
He grinned. “Yeah. Like that. Everything was loud— our drummer, Phil, was half deaf—and I was goddamn angry all the time.” He laughed. “I don’t even remember what I was angry at. Everything. Nothing. Shit, I don’t know. But I was always mad, and when I played I just felt madder. I hated the crowds, man; they were like this . . . this big, hungry animal, and I played as raw and angry as I could just to see how pissed I could make it.”
“But they didn’t get pissed,” she suggested.
“Hell, no! They ate it up! They wanted to see us break some heads. And even with everything happening to me, and all, I think underneath I didn’t feel like I was doing anything, you know? But my playing was always trying to tell me. I’d get up there and wail, and it was like the music was trying to show me how mad I was at everything, how much I hated everything. Only I was too fucking stupid to listen.” He looked at the guitar on his lap and shrugged again. “People work things out in different ways. Some of ’em write, some of ’em talk; they see shrinks, or break plates, or take kung-fu, or something. I got my guitar. Only I’m not as mad as I used to be; I feel a lot better about myself. So I can’t play like I used to. It’s different now. That’s all.” “It’s slower now,” she replied. “But it’s not all that different. For you, I mean, Scooter.”
He frowned. “Why do you say that?”
She had caught herself twirling the strand of hair by her ear and lowered her hand. “Well, I mean, you still play. You still do gigs at clubs. You still have a loyal following. A lot of them know who you are—”
“Who I was,” he interrupted.
“Who you are. They just don’t mention it because they know you don’t like to talk about it much. But you still play half the day and night, and you go up on Monaghie once or twice a week, and you hardly do anything else except read mysteries.”
Shadows shifted across her body as she moved. “Don’t take this wrong or anything, Scooter, but your gigs don’t bring in enough for you to live on. That stuff in the safe isn’t going to last forever. And since we moved in together it’s started to—”
“Look,” he said. “I know all this. What do you want
me to do?”
“Why don’t you help me with the press?” she asked, and he sighed. She continued regardless: “The work isn’t that hard. You could write the ad copy or—”
“You know I don’t write so good,” he said.
“—or solicit ads, or do the printing while I drum up business and post them down at the trading board in the Galleria. Henry Harris wants to start up that review magazine, Nightlife, because the clubs are doing so well and people are starting to put on plays and all. I met a writer this afternoon who’s writing a book about his year in the Borderlands. I’d love to bring it out—when was the last time someone published a book? Scooter, there’s a lot you could do to help me with this.”
He sat up and readjusted the guitar on his thigh. He retrieved the pick—warm from his body heat—and held it between thumb and forefinger. He struck a discordant arpeggio. “We’ve got enough stuff to last a while. I’ll help when we need me to.”
“That isn’t fair, Scooter.”
He looked up at her. “Look, I just want to play my guitar right now. Okay?”
She said nothing, but her mouth went tight.
“We can talk about this tomorrow, or something,” he continued. “I—I’m just not in the mood for it. I don’t want to deal with it right now.” He looked around the room, his gaze finally settling on the guitar. “I’ll just play for a while longer and come to bed. All right? Tomorrow we’ll talk some more. All this ... I mean, right now. ...” He put the pick back in his mouth. “Not tonight,” he finished lamely.
She watched him for a while, then whispered, “You won’t feel like it tomorrow, either.”
But he was playing again and didn’t hear.
Scooter woke up when Roxanne drew back the curtains. “What time is it?” he asked sleepily, squinting in the brightness.
She held up her watch, though of course he couldn’t read it from the bed. “Twelve-thirty,” she said.
Scooter rubbed his eyes and blinked. He sat up and drew the covers up to his stomach.
Roxanne was dressed in khaki shorts, tennis shoes, and an oversized white T-shirt with the collar torn out. The outline of her bra showed beneath. Funny, he thought, how few women wear bras anymore. “Where you going?” he asked.
“Galleria. Trading. There’s half a loaf of bread in the bathroom.” She paused. “What are you doing today?”
“I don’t know.” He yawned, stretching, and cracked his knuckles. “Gotta play at The Factory tonight. You coming?”
She made a sweeping hand gesture that could have meant anything.
He glanced around the room. Dust specks settled in the light near the curtains where they had been disturbed. “You know,” Scooter said slowly, “I was thinking maybe we could fix this place up some. I mean, we got what we need to get by, but it’d be nice if we had nice things. You know? A good bed, a big one, and dressers and chairs and stuff. Maybe a little sofa or something. This place ought to be more than just good enough. We’ve been saying, like, it’ll do for now ever since we moved in.” He squinted at her. She was silhouetted in the large window.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I think,” she said, “you should do whatever you want.”
It was still fairly early and the Factory was uncrowded. Scooter played unobtrusive music on the stage erected near the north wall, where the long counter had been when the Factory was a mod clothing store. In the chaos following the Change the store had been ransacked, but had remained relatively undamaged. It had been a trendy fashion store with its own sound system, light show, and deejay, and when the “new management” —squatters who had claimed ownership—decided to open it as a local watering hole with live music, they had a place already rigged for sound and lighting. Out with the clothes racks and tables, in with a huge oak bar moved from an abandoned bar and grill called P. Eye McFly’s four blocks away, and they had an instant gathering spot for those who still felt the urge to gather.
There weren’t as many of those as there used to be.
It was Scooter’s habit to play lighter pieces earlier on in the evening—mostly his own compositions, sometimes the works of others he particularly admired. Right now he was playing a pleasant piece by Alex DeGrassi called “Turning.” He glanced around the club to see who had arrived. Regulars lifted their mugs in salute when they caught his eye. Pick in mouth, he nodded back. One of the waitresses, Tammi, had remarkably long legs sheathed in black mesh; torn (deliberately) at the calf, the back of the knee and the back of the thigh, and Scooter tried, without much success, not to ogle her as she bent over a table, tray on forearm, to set down mugs of cold beer before four boys Scooter would have guessed ranged between thirteen and seventeen in age.
The boy closest to her, the youngest, leaned in his chair to look up her short skirt. Tammi caught him looking, picked up his beer, and walked away without changing expression.
Scooter broke into a chorus of “nyah-nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah” on the Martin and the kid glared at him. Scooter grinned and switched back to “Turning.” The kid said something to his friends and got out of his chair, still glaring at Scooter. Near the club entrance Tommy Lee cleared his throat loudly. The kid looked over: Tommy Lee was tapping his heavy truncheon against his thick biceps.
The kid sat down, Scooter continued playing, Tommy Lee got into animated conversation with a woman at the door who wanted to bring her dog in with her. Just another night at The Factory, folks.
The power went out around ten o’clock. Lamps were hurriedly lit, and Scooter could hear Marti the mechanic swearing, “Goddamn piece of shit,” as she made her way to the generator in the back room.
A dog began barking at the front door and there was a loud, “Fuck you, asshole!” yelled by a woman. Tommy Lee, scarred and grinning face looking evil as hell in the light from the lamp at his feet, just shrugged. The next person waiting in line to get in—a kid with bleached-blond hair streaked with black—handed Tommy Lee two jugs of home-brewed. Tommy Lee unscrewed the cap on one, lifted it to his mouth, drank, lowered it, looked thoughtful a second, then nodded and replaced the cap. The kid entered and made his way slowly in the darkness to the bar to give the bartender the jugs to put in the refrigerator—which he would do when the power came back on. One for the kid, one for the house, and the kid got admitted to the club and got his beer cooled in the bargain.
Though the mike was no longer live, Scooter continued playing. The nice thing about an acoustic guitar, he thought, is that it still works when the power fails.
The hubbub of conversation seemed louder without the lights on, and in pockets of lamplight Scooter saw isolated, amber-hued faces, some propped on palms, regarding him attentively.
Tammi brought a hurricane lantern to the stage. “Is this okay?” she asked, setting it by his feet.
“Fine,” he replied. “Thanks.”
Marti came back in, a battery-operated Coleman camp lantern held near her face. “Ten minutes, folks. Twenty, tops.”
Mixed cheers and boos.
Marti went away. “Piece of shit,” Scoooter heard her mutter.
In a minute the sound of her hammering came from the generator room.
Scooter let the Martin hang on its shoulder strap and raised his hands above his head. He began to clap in time with Marti’s hammerings. The audience—its size doubled in the last half hour—took it up. When they were going along on their own, laughing, Scooter stood up from the stool, pulled the pick from his mouth, and began to play.
The hammering had stopped, the clapping continued.
Scooter toyed with funky beats that wrapped around the metronome of the audience, chords coming hard and fast. He swayed with the rhythm, and framing his face, his hair swung in and out of his vision with the swaying.
Someone banged his table with his mug and shouted:
“Hoooeee!”
The audience laughed, Scooter laughed, and the rhythmic clapping grew ragged and became applause as he ended his musical dialogue with them. Grinning, he bowed, and returned to his stool.
“I’ve, uh,” he began, then waited for them to quiet. “I’ve been working on something,” he said. “Now’s a good time to play it, I think.”
He adjusted the Martin on his leg, brushed hair out of his way, looked up at them. They watched silently. “I’ve messed with it a lot,” he said, “but maybe you’ll recognize it.”
He began to play.
After the intro, which was new, and his, there was applause and a few intaken breaths when he eased into the long-held opening chord and two short, pumping minor chords of “We Don’t Get Fooled Again.”
They were quiet while he played. His version, though different from Townshend’s acoustic version, was as mild, and they listened raptly, remembering.
The lyrics contained a different sort of pertinence than they had once held.
Near the end he heard someone blow his nose.
There was no applause for several seconds after he finished. He wiped his eyes dry against his sleeve. “Thank—” he began.
The lights came back on.
A rash of cheers broke out and died as quickly as it had erupted. Chairs scraped, and someone said, “Holy shit” in a mild voice. Tommy Lee turned at the commotion and gave a surprised start.