Not good at all.
“C’mon, Petey, what’s up?” Hempstead asked. A big black hand clomped on Pete’s shoulder. “You been kinda lumpy all mornin’—”
“Hey, just fuck off, okay?” Pete spun around in his seat, shoulder harness pinching into his side.
Telling Hempstead to fuck off was not the act of a rational man. Neither was the sudden physical gesture. The chopper lurched with the unexpected motion. Jake looked up, startled. So did everyone else. The guitarist remained in his defiant, awkward twist, locked in an eyeball war with the sax player.
Then Hempstead smiled, a tactical move. “Whoa, blood,” he said, not moving his hand. “Just chill out a second—”
“I don’t want to chill out. I want your hand off my fucking shoulder, okay?”
“Hey, Petey, we just playin’.”
“Yeah, well, it’s no game,” he hissed, jerking out from under the grasp. The chopper lurched again.
“Oh, chil-dren!” Slim Jim called over his shoulder. “This bird is quite hard enough to fly as it is, without all the creative weight redistribution. PIA is less than twenty minutes away. Can we hold off on the festivities until our scheduled ETA, or would you like me to crash us into the Haverford State Mental Hospital?”
“Might not be a bad idea,” Jake said.
He had been hip-deep in data the whole way in: Cody’s news updates, Junior’s revised lighting schemata, a million other piddling details that needed his attention, now. Things were wired enough without this shit.
And judging from the pile of papers in his lap and the document in his hands, there were plenty worse things to be worried about . . .
. . . like the fact that the latest articles in Time and Rolling Stoneshowed that people were pretty much burned out on compassion, fresh out of helping hands to lend. Jake wasn’t terribly surprised: the mood of the whole damned country had turned volatile and snappish of late, like a household pet with its legs in a steel trap. What with the Age of Reagan sputtering out and the inheritors of the legacy making over the nation in their own image, everybody was starting to feel the hurt.
Besides, a concert to benefit poor little rich and famous rock stars wasn’t worth its weight in noble sentiments like the myriad This, That, and the Other Aids that had sprung up in the wake of the original. Never mind if over half of the “rich and famous” stars in question made less than your average computer hacker per annum; never mind that many of those involved in the show were under either Congressional scrutiny, actual litigation, or both. And never mind the fact that the juggernaut of Right-thinking Decency was chugging full speed ahead.
Never mind all that.
People wanted to see the blood on the sands. People wanted their bread and circuses. They wanted heroes.
And even more, they wanted scapegoats.
And if you couldn’t be the one . . .
Jake stared back and forth, from Junior to Pete to Hempstead to Bob to Bob to Pete to Junior, who just shrugged and riffled his lighting charts. They stared back: all but Pete, who sniffled and slumped back down in his seat.
Jake sighed and shook his head.
A bark of static sounded from the cockpit; final clearance for landing from the PIA control tower. They were nearing the airfield, which lay just to the other side of the I-76 bridge and the industry-clogged banks of the Schuylkill River.
The chopper banked to the south.
And JFK Stadium was directly below.
“Do a lap around it, wouldja?” Jake asked.
Jim nodded affirmatively. “Check it out, kiddies.”
The arena sprawled beneath them like a gargantuan, multi-tiered concrete horseshoe, the stage sealing off the mouth in a labyrinthine mass of plywood platforming, electrical cables, and steel scaffolding. Twin towers of heavy-duty sound reinforcement bristled on either side, as well as a pair of huge, multifaceted Diamondvision screens that would broadcast close-up images to the unfortunate thousands seated at the very back of the amphitheater. The dozen-odd trucks and vans on hand for sound, video, and satellite uplink were scattered across the neatly carpeted sod of the football field like a jumbo toddler’s Matchbox toys.
There were maybe fifty people visible in a space that tomorrow would hold upwards of fifty thousand; from the copter’s-eye view, they looked like ants. Another swarm milled outside the gates and in the car-, camper-, and minibus-speckled parking lots. Some of them held aloft placards that looked like specks of confetti . . .
. . . then the chopper was out of range, floating over the gracefully arcing Schuylkill bridge. Everyone had grown suddenly quiet in the realization of the enormity of what they were about to face.
“I only want to say this once, people,” Jake began quietly. “So listen up.
“In a very few minutes we will be touching down. A limo will be waiting to pick us up and take us, one and all, to the hotel. On the way we’ll pass back by the stadium, where you’ll get a close-up view of the crowds. Most of them are just waiting on line and trying to have a good time.
“But let us not forget that there are also protesters there, and rumor has it that the two camps don’t much care for each other. The temperature is inching toward ninety-three, and the humidity is high, and it’s apt to stay that way. The long odds are saying that there might be violence this weekend. A lot of people are very nervous. They should be.
“And so,” he added, “should we.
“So when you step out of this bird, I really hope that you leave whatever’s going on here behind.” His attention was leveled at Pete and Hempstead. “Cause if we fuck up out there, they might just eat us alive.”
The portent hung uncomfortably in the air for a few moments, then sank like a stone. Bob and Bob just rolled their eyes. Oh, boy, more threats. Hempstead gave him a very cool, cryptic nod. Junior sighed and went about his business.
Pete stared purposefully at his shoes; a man caught red-handed at being an asshole and yet completely unable to let it go. His anger was like that, Jake knew: it could never roll over, it could only recede.
But, and Jake knew this equally well, a lot of damage could be. done, in the waiting.
The airfield was directly below. Slim Jim spoke into his headset and then tilted the cyclic imperceptibly; the helicopter responded in a smooth, steepening spiral.
“Hang on, boys and girls,” he called back, grinning. “’Cause we be goin’ down.”
By three-fifteen, Jake and Hempstead were sweating like pigs in the sleek new chromed and mirrored expanse of the Hilton’s Holiday Spa. They were three quarters of the way through a practiced, killer workout; running, abs, jump rope, and a full three times around the Universal weights, followed by a slow bake in the sauna.
Another tradition. Their contract rider always included a gym-access clause, as well as the requisite food and drink demands (like Pete’s bizarre insistence on six-packs of Yoo-Hoo and grapefruit-flavored seltzer in the dressing room, with which he made a vile concoction he called a Florida Yoo-Hoo spritzer).
Perspiration slicked their hair and left stains like Rorschach-blots tracking down their unfashionable sweats. Bland disco music blared through speakers flush-mounted in the ceiling; a smattering of guests in carefully coordinated togs moved through the circuit, trying very hard not to make a mess.
Hempstead leaned over to adjust the set pin on the bench press. “God, I hate this music,” he muttered into the towel draped around his neck. “Whatchoo want this on, anyway?”
Jake huffed, staring at the ceiling. His T-shirt (emblazoned with a college logo that read CATATONIC STATE) stuck to his heaving chest, the light gray color gone charcoal in the dousing. He took another deep breath and tightened his gloved grip on the press bar.
“Two-forty.”
“Two-forty!” Hempstead looked down at him, a bead of sweat dangling on the end of his nose. “Man, you crazy. You never lifted that much in your life.”
“Yeah, well, I’m going to now.”
“What, d’y
ou have an extra helping of Wheaties today or somethin’?”
“I’m a masochist. Set it up, already.”
“Seems like an awful lot of trouble, sometimes, just to stave off decrepitude.” Hempstead grinned.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just set it up, wouldja?”
“Okay,” he shrugged, “it’s your hernia.”
He pushed the pin into the rack of black iron blocks and watched as Jake started to suck air, going whoof whoof whoof like a derailing steam engine. On the third whoof he pushed, and pushed . . .
. . . and the weights rose up, faltered, rose a little more. . .
. . . and Jake pushed, pushed some more, his face beet-red, the veins in his forehead bulging as he let out a roar and gave it every last ounce of strength he had . . .
. . . and still, it wasn’t enough.
He released his grip and let them clatter back down on their guides; they ker-chunked into place with brute finality. “Damn,” he gasped.
“So you ain’t Superman.” Hempstead smiled. “You still sing pretty. Where d’you learn to breathe like that, anyway?”
“Lamaze classes with Rachel,” Jake moaned, lifting himself painfully off the bench. “Owwww . . . I’m gettin’ too old for this shit.”
“Bullshee-it.” Hempstead handed him the towel and slid into place on the bench. “You jus’ gettin’ raggedy around the edges, is all.” He took a huge lungful of air, expelled it, shook the sweat out of his eyes. “Got your perimeter spread too thin, muh man.” He sucked in another gust, exhaled, and pistoned the bar straight up.
“You been runnin’ yo’self like a fool: takin’ on the world, eatin’ and sleepin’ like shit, gettin’ all stressed out over this thing . . .”
He levered it smoothly back down, repeated the motion—up, down, up, down—going through a full set of ten in the time it took Jake to fail once, threw in one for good measure, lowered the bar back into place with a dull thump, then sat up and took the towel.
“. . . all kinds of weird shit can happen,” he concluded.
“Yeah, so tell me something I don’t know.”
Hempstead rolled his eyes and said nothing.
“What? Are you holding out on me?” Jake waited for more, but nothing seemed forthcoming. “Would you mind filling me in already,” he pressed, “or should I hold an envelope to my head to get the answer?”
“Dunno.” Hempstead shrugged and shook his head. “Lotta seeds of discontent been sown in your con-siderable absence. Jesse’s got some kind of problem she won’t talk about; Petey’s been getting wasted every fuckin’ night; the Bobs are restless—with you gone most the time, it all kinda flies apart.”
Jake just looked at him.
“You know, Petey runs a good rehearsal,” Hempstead continued, “but he ain’t the leader. You the glue that holds this thing together, Jake, and I think everybody’s gettin’ a lil’ bit tired of the holy war.”
Jake squirmed under his best friend’s appraisal and tried to shrug it off. “Comes with the territory, I guess.”
“A lotta things come with the territory, man, and sometimes there’s more than one road to go by. Best to keep that in mind.”
“So what are you telling me?” Jake insisted. “That I should give it up? I can’t do that. Not now.”
“I ain’t even sayin’ that you should. But be advised: we players, first and foremost. Not politicians; and for sure, not saviors.”
“Oh. come on, man—”
“No, Jake. You wanted to hear this, so now you will.” Jake humphed and tried to keep his fists from clenching. Hempstead’s voice was steady and low as he continued. “Ever since ‘TV Ministries’ hit it big, we been less of a band and more of a circus sideshow; an’ ever since this whole Rock Aid thing started, you been gettin’ further an’ further away from what it is you’re all about. Talk shows an’ shit are fine, but the best hype in the world is still just hype.
“Talk is cheap, bro’. It’s the action that counts.”
“This isn’t just talk!” Jake was hopping mad now. People stared nervously in their direction. “God damn it. Out of everybody, I thought at least you understood! These people didn’t stop with warning labels; you give them an inch and they take a continent! They have to be stopped, or the whole game is over, and you can’t do that by sitting around at the studio—”
“No, you do it by sittin’ around on the Moynihan show—”
“You do it by raising money to fight them, God damn it! In Congress! In the courts! You do it by matching them, blow for blow—”
“Can we do this at a lower decibel level, please?”
“Yeah, right,” Jake hissed, but his volume dropped. “I just love all the fucking support I’m getting. Makes me wonder what I’m even doing it for.”
“Hate to break this to you, babe, but lots of people been wonderin’ the very same thing.”
“Oh, great.” Jake was red-faced and miserable looking. “So what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Let me put it to you simple. How many people go out an’ buy Bob Geldof’s solo albums, you think? As opposed to the Boomtown Rats?”
“That’s not fair.”
“You’ll have this. Next question: When was the last time you sat in on rehearsal? Three weeks, at least? Almost a month before that?”
“Oh, Jesus . . .”
“Bottom line, Jake. Once this show is history, you’re gonna have to make a decision: Do you want a band or not? I mean, you got to consider: you got a bunch of professional musicians who picked up their lives and moved them, from New York City to Pennsylvania, just for the chance to keep working with you. Now they sittin’ around like bored little wifeys with nothing to do but watch TV till the hubby comes home.”
“You want me to bring you flowers, is that it?”
“Not funny, bro’. You keep this up, they maybe start to thinkin’ they made a mistake.”
“Oh, man.” Jake had his head in his hands now. “This sucks. I really don’t need this.”
“Well, you got it.”
Silence dropped like a gauntlet between them. Hempstead felt he’d said enough; he waited for Jake to pick it up. The silence had allowed the hated chintzy disco pap from the speakers to intrude on their lives again.
“God, I hate this shit,” Jake muttered.
“Me, too.”
“You know, if Furniss has his way, all music will be as lame as this crap. No, worse. Even this is immoral, to his way of thinking. That jungle rhythm, don’t you know.”
Hempstead said nothing, but he smiled a little.
“I didn’t choose this battle,” Jake continued. “This battle chose me. I think you can appreciate the difference. If I felt like I had any choice in the matter, I’d just play with you guys every day.
“But they’re trying to take that away from me, man. They’re fucking with our tribal music: our freedom to play it, to be who we are. They want to take our whole stake in the culture and drive it back underground.
“Can you live with that? I know I can’t.”
“I hear you.”
“Okay. But freedom isn’t something that God doles down. It’s something you fight for, if you want it bad enough. If you don’t, then the people who want to control you just haul its ass away, and you’re left with whatever they decide to give you.
“And it’s a bitch, because freedom is a bitch. But what other choice do you have?”
Hempstead shrugged, remained in silence. It was clear that Jake had a psychic boil to lance. Best he get it over with, soon as possible.
“But you know what the worst of it is? I’m not even sure what side I’m on half the time. I mean, on the one hand, we’ve got Pastor Furniss and Esther Shrake trying to legislate morality and make the world safe for stupidity. That’s easy: I know they’re my enemy. We can smell each other a mile away.
“But then you get to what’s supposed to be our side, and we’ve got crazy bastards like The Scream, causing riots in concert parking lots and te
lling people to fuck the devil and raising hell every which way and otherwise telling us that maybe the assholes on the other side of the fence were right in the first place!”
“That’s ‘cause you’re not on anybody’s side. The fact is, you’re on your own. You just have to go with what you believe.”
“That’s what I’m doing. For all the fucking good it does me.”
“That’s people, Jake. They don’t give a shit. They just want to go along their merry way, do whatever the hell they want. They want to have opinions, so long as they don’t have to back ‘em up. They want to be left alone.
Now you come in here all pissed off, and you say, ‘Let my people rock ’n’ roll!’; and that’s cool, so long as you know that everybody doin’ the same dance here. We don’t want equality. We want to be on top. And because there’s so many of us, and we all disagree, ain’t nobody ever goin’ to really win this game.”
“But you have to try.”
“Oh, yeah.” Hempstead smiled. “Otherwise, what’s the point of even playin’?”
* * *
FIFTEEN
Ah, mundanity,” Rachel sighed. “How sweet it is.”
She was at the kitchen counter, scrawling her grocery list on the back of a used envelope from Jake’s nut file; these days, his mailbag averaged about fifty true fruitcakes a week. This one was from a Mrs. Clarence Rorbaugh of Glen Rock, Pa. It was spread out before her as she jotted down funzies like light bulbs and diapers:
Dear sir:
My friend Lois and I saw your rock music vidial, and we just want to say that you are sick. There should be a place for people like you and there already is. Its called the Loony Bin and thats where you belong.
In case you dont know mister, this is a Christian nation. People who are in leege with Satan shouldnt be a lowed to spread there filth. We rote to MTV but they wont listen because they belong to Satan too.
We will pray for you but it wont do any good if you dont repent. God loves the sinner but hates the sin and if you dont wise up and ask Jesus to forgive you, you will be damned to Hell with no one but yourself to blame.
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