by Jeff Jackson
—Yeah, he says. It’s good exposure. I think it’s a cool thing to do.
He adjusts his bandanna so the fabric lies flush against his throat, effortlessly slipping together into an immaculate knot.
* * *
Randy snaps on a sweatband to corral his unruly curls. He speaks up now that the first vote has been cast, choosing his words with caution, careful not to look at Florian or appear like he’s trying to convince him. We should do it, he says. Show people we’re not afraid. Stop those monsters from getting their way. And with Flo’s connection to Shaun, we’re the perfect band. It’ll really mean something. We’ll finally get heard.
* * *
Florian feels everyone’s gaze focused on him. There’s a ratcheting tension about the next words.
* * *
—I want to do something for Shaun, Florian says. But maybe this isn’t the best way. Maybe it’s not the right show.
He starts to pace. A few steps in each direction, trying not to be overtaken by his thoughts. His chin juts outward as if braving a stiff wind.
—We’re not ready. We haven’t practiced in forever, Florian says. It’s too soon anyhow. People are still in shock. No matter how well we played, it wouldn’t have an impact.
Randy and Derek D. remain silent. They’re used to giving their bandmate’s anxieties a wide berth, though it’s clear from their furrowed expressions that they’re having trouble believing him.
—We’re hardly the first band the club asked, Florian says. There’s a reason people have been turning this gig down. They don’t think it’s worth it.
Florian can sense his nausea returning. He quickens his steps and clasps his hands behind his back, compacting his elongated frame. Even walking in place, he feels himself losing ground.
—Those bands weren’t scared, he says. They just weren’t stupid.
The newspaper remains spread on the music stand, visible to everyone, the smudged faces peering from the print.
* * *
Florian scratches madly at his left forearm. His tattoo itches. The design is a stylized cursive depiction of the letter J. The first letter of his dead mother’s name. Hard to believe she’s been gone almost three years now. Florian called her Jean when he wanted to irritate her. His father called her Jeanie when he was drunk. Her friends called her Jet when they needed a favor. She acknowledged them all with a curt nod and forbearing smile. Her name was Jeanette. The bright emerald ink of the tattoo blurs around the edges as if spreading like mold spores beneath the skin. It would be typical of his luck if his protective talisman were slowly poisoning him.
I don’t want us to play that day.
That day especially.
Florian scans the room and spots it. His electric guitar, propped against the chair, still unplugged. A black cable lies next to it, coiled in a loose circle, the silver connector splayed on the floor. It’s the physical confirmation of all his objections. He can’t believe it didn’t occur to him sooner.
—Even if I thought the show was a good idea, he says. I couldn’t do it. I don’t have my amp.
His bandmates look increasingly ticked off. They don’t bother to conceal the rolled whites of their eyes.
—You lost it? Randy says. You broke it? So we’ll find it. We’ll fix it.
—I lent it to Shaun’s band. Don’t you remember? They used it at the show. That show.
Randy is unmoved.
—So buy another amp, he says. Borrow one.
—It’s a vintage tube amp, Florian says. I’ve spent hundreds getting it hand wired. The circuit is customized to distort at a lower volume. It’s completely mine. It’s my sound.
—You spend too much time chasing some tone that’s half imaginary, Derek D. says, creasing his fingers through the back of his coif. My friends are always saying we get too complicated and lose the tunes. We should rock out more.
—Nobody cares about your trust-fund friends, Florian says, or their so-called musical opinions.
—They’re the ones who come to all our shows, Derek D. says. So, you know, food for thought.
—Look, I’m sorry, Florian says. I can’t do the show without that amp. It would be a disaster.
Randy stands up from behind his kit. He stretches his compact frame with studied casualness. He scratches his lower back with the splintering tip of one of his drumsticks.
—Fine, he says. Let’s go get your amp.
Florian struggles to decrypt the undercurrent in Randy’s voice. He can’t decide if he’s bluffing. Nothing in the drummer’s posture provides the remotest clue.
—That’s impossible, Florian says.
—It’s easy, Randy says. Most of the instruments are still at the theater. I heard the police didn’t remove them all. We’ll break in.
This time it’s Eddie who interjects: We’re going to steal it?
—Who’s stealing? Randy says. It’s our amp.
—I don’t know about this, Eddie says.
—It’s a tribute, Randy says. We’ll be using our amp, which was briefly Shaun’s amp, which will be our amp again, to honor them and their music. It’s the best sort of homage. It’s practically poetic.
The earnest inflection, the circuitous logic, and the hint of duty coalesce into an intoxicating sentiment that could justify any action. Before Florian knows it, the idea is engraved in the air.
* * *
—Okay, fuck it, Florian says. Let’s go. I don’t believe the amp is there. I don’t believe any equipment is there. In fact, I don’t even think we can break into the theater. But I’ll humor you. I haven’t had a good laugh in forever.
Randy and Derek D. head into the hallway without further comment.
Florian doesn’t move. He sighs and shakes his head.
—Sorry, Eddie says.
Florian reaches out and takes Eddie’s arm in a gentle but complex grip, the kind of position he might use to form an unusual chord.
—Listen, he says, I need your help convincing these guys.
—I’m not a member of the band.
Florian isn’t used to Eddie’s oversize glasses. Ever since he got them, he’s seemed withdrawn and secretive. His moods more camouflaged. Florian wishes he knew what his friend sees now when he looks through those lenses.
—Come on, man, Florian says. You’re part of this. You’re here because you’ve got more sense than those two combined.
—They’re not going to listen to me.
—You just need to step up. Make yourself heard. Make them pay attention.
Eddie picks up the roast beef sandwich and notices the crescent-shaped bite. Someone’s been eating my sandwich, he says. He inspects the scalloped arc of teeth marks as if these indentations might foretell the future.
* * *
The hallways of the Bunker are silent except for the fibrillating pulse of the overhead fluorescent lights.
* * *
Florian leads the procession to recover his amp, refusing to appear unsettled by the mission. The overcast sky presses down as they walk through the half-abandoned industrial park. They make their way up the hill to the theater, past the tire warehouse with its soaring towers of steel-belt radials, the perpetually shuttered art galley advertising open studios, the sheet-metal storage facility with the half-finished mural of a herd of deer, their lower halves nothing more than outlines, as if they’re emerging from the bricks. Hands in pockets, the band leans their faces into the lashing wind. Everyone maintains his own brand of silence. Florian can feel the others psyching themselves up for the burglary. Their movements have become more skulking. Hyperaware of every sound. The slide of sweaty feet in sneakers. The ragged inhalations of breath. The asphalt road feels like an extension of the Bunker, part of the same circuit of wounds.
* * *
They pause at the railroad tracks. Florian used to hang out here with Shaun, pressing their ears to the metal lines, listening for oncoming trains. The soles of his sneakers register a distinct tremor relayed through the ra
il. Something is approaching, but he can’t see any locomotive, not even the slightest shimmer on the horizon. Florian can’t remember how long it’s been since their games of chicken, seeing who could hold his ground long enough to make the engineer pull the emergency brake.
Shaun always won. No matter how many times I tried,
I could never match his nerve.
Randy whistles one of the band’s tunes. Derek D. joins him with a harmony so brutally off-key even Eddie winces. A gust of wind shreds the song into rasping shrills and gasping tatters. As they crest the hill, the theater rises into view, emerging a few steps at a time. It looms like a beacon at the edge of downtown. The sight makes Florian’s stomach churn. He tries to spit, but a squall knocks the saliva straight back into his throat.
* * *
Downtown Arcadia used to be well trafficked, but few choose to linger here now. The bodega does steady business selling flowers for the memorial, but the pizza parlor, the Indian buffet, and the twenty-four-hour coffee shop have permanently shuttered, and the sports bars are little more than darkened shells, desolate rooms with derelict pool tables and soundless televisions, the stools empty except for the staunchest regulars. The cement planters that line the sidewalks are overgrown with rude weeds. Even the trash cans seem forsaken. The band notices the heavy somnambulance that hovers over these blocks, the entire neighborhood suspended in a state of uneasy slumber.
* * *
The outside of the theater teems with thick shingles of ivy. The edges of the leaves are curled and blackened. Vines that once marauded across the walls have become limp and sallow; their rotting tendrils lie listlessly against the concrete. The town treats the theater like holy ground, but nobody wants to consider whether the rest of Arcadia is being poisoned by its purity.
* * *
Florian scoops up a handful of loose gravel from the street. He slings the rocks at the front of the theater, which remains encased in an intricate architecture of yellow police tape. The others follow suit, raining stones on the façade, pelting the oversize poster that warns this is a crime scene. A preemptive strike against this imposing structure. The band stands under the unlit marquee that’s stripped of every bit of alphabet except remnants of the letter E. They try to determine the current state of the theater, but the windows are scabbed over with multicolor band posters, illustrated concert schedules, official venue announcements. Strata from an antediluvian era.
* * *
A patrol car rolls slowly past the theater. An officer glares at the band, which has swiftly adopted the pose of pilgrims here to pay respects. They pretend to be so absorbed by the shrine that they’re oblivious to the authorities. As Florian combs through the latest contributions, he finds himself genuinely overcome by a photograph of Shaun with his long hair obscuring his face. In it, Shaun displays the same V-shaped gesture with each hand—the one closest to the camera extends the peace sign while the other offers the two-finger salute. This characteristic bit of mischievousness now scans as a more conflicted and complicated gesture. An unexpectedly profound portrait. The band stands before the image for several long moments, breath caged, throats dry. None of them notice when the cop rounds the corner.
* * *
The most conspicuous additions to the shrine are the folded sheets of paper left by fans. Most are scrawled with snatches of song lyrics. They were just another local band while Shaun was alive, but death has conferred an unlikely aura of importance upon them. Florian is amazed how Shaun’s music suddenly radiates meaning for these strangers, their handwritten notes tucked in the crevices like prayers. In the corner, he glimpses the cover of the cassette he contributed to the shrine. Somehow, among this entire expanse of offerings, it’s the only flash of violet.
Shaun was always obsessed with that color.
The only time Florian has seen this many mementos was at his mother’s grave. The mound of remembrances that ringed her headstone in the old family cemetery. She still glides through his dreams, her pockets leaking birdseed, singing the same three notes in a halting rhythm, and he keeps forgetting she’s gone, believing for a few tangible moments each morning he’s waking into an unbroken world.
* * *
Jet, Jeanie, Jeanette.
* * *
Whiskey bottles line the shrine’s perimeter like sentinels. Shaun’s favorite drink. One bottle miraculously remains half full. An inviting tide of burnished amber. Perfect to fortify them for their task. Randy hoists the bottle and proposes they each take a swig.
—To the departed, he says.
He and Derek D. each take a healthy hit off the bottle.
Eddie refuses and waves it off. This whole thing is a bad idea, he says.
Last is Florian. His hands clamp the bottle like he’s about to smash it, then he takes a longer throat-searing swallow than anybody else.
* * *
They turn down the alley that leads to the theater’s loading bay. Eddie hangs back a few paces to watch for circling cops. One by one, they disappear around the corner and dash up the metal staircase to the rear entrance. Derek D. pulls on the door, tilting backward with all his weight, but it doesn’t budge. Randy runs his fingers along the latch, but there’s not even a lock to pick. Sealed from the inside, he says. Florian can’t look away from the pattern of rust that’s corroded the center of the door. Against the brushed steel, the accumulation of raised red flakes stands out as a distinct configuration. It reminds him of the contours of a remote atoll, or the outline of exotic blooming flora, or maybe the shape of a cancerous sarcoma invisibly spreading in the intestine.
* * *
There must be another way inside. They round the corner of the theater and walk past the row of boarded-up windows. Randy halts at the last one. Stepping closer, he inspects the piece of plywood from several angles. He places his hands on either side to ensure a steady grip and lifts the panel without the slightest resistance. The nails had been removed. It was simply propped against the sill. You’ve got the radar of a true thief, Florian says. You should be using your skills to steal us a van so we can tour. The band marvels at how the window frame has been cleared away. It’s nothing more than a large hole. Florian stares into the beckoning portal.
I hope the amp isn’t here.
The theater empty.
The equipment gone.
Nothing but dust and darkness.
The others climb inside, but Florian can’t bring himself to cross the threshold. He unzips his fly. As he listens to his piss splash against the theater wall, something about the sound emboldens him to join his bandmates. He watches his urine flow away from the building, streaming down the cracked blacktop, branching into golden tributaries.
* * *
On the other side of the opening, they’ve landed in the theater’s business office. Everything remains in its place, the perpendicular arrangement of metal desks, the red leather sofa, the framed silver records hung on the wall. Only the line of file cabinets has been incinerated. The metal is blackened and scorched. The drawers pulled out and emptied. Strewn papers blanket the floor. Over the door that leads to the lobby, someone has carved two words in welcome: KILL CITY. As they shuffle through a wake of charred receipts, contracts, and concert riders, the ashen scraps stubbornly stick to the bottoms of their feet.
* * *
The lobby is pitch black. The band’s pupils are slow to dilate. They feel their way along the walls with their shoulders, stuttering a few steps at a time, until they reach the opening that leads to the auditorium. They’ve entered this room many times, but now they’re met by silence. Gradually it gains texture. The wind rattling the roof tiles. The metal crossbeams sighing. The concrete support columns shifting. Florian can sense the ceiling rising far above. He recalls the theater’s contours, but the space feels larger than memory. The massive soundboard stands next to them, shrouded beneath a black tarp.
* * *
Soft flap of wings. The band freezes as an unseen bird flies overhead through the
auditorium. The flapping reverberates in Florian’s mind, echoing so loudly through the empty space that he can hear the creak of gristle in its joints, envision the outstretched wings as large as helicopter blades, kicking up all the settled dust. The bird lands somewhere in the rafters, nestling into the patchy insulation. Florian tries to guess the species. Feral pigeon, mourning dove, sparrow hawk. He waits for it to sing, but the creature keeps its song to itself.
* * *
Deeper into the hushed chamber. The slope of the inclined floor feels unexpectedly steep. They descend through levels of increasingly strong smells. Spilled beer, stale sweat, musky piss. Faint note of mothballs. Undercurrent of incense. Their outstretched phones light the way. The scattered lumens catch snatches of beer cans, rat turds, hobbled barstools. Plastic wrappers clumped in weird hieroglyphs. It’s impossible to tell where shadows end and walls begin. Unseen items crunch underfoot. Florian brandishes the whiskey bottle from the shrine like a protective talisman. He’s afraid to shine his light through the rubble, to witness the true scale of the disaster, to confront an infinitely extending field of wreckage.
* * *
People have been here before them. Florian encounters a balled-up and still-soggy sweatshirt. A boom box ringed with freshly discarded batteries. Pizza boxes with grotty leftovers barely a day old. He pretends to not be spooked, but it feels like they’ve breached some inner sanctum, tomb raiders who arrived too late. He’s shocked to discover an entire drama has been unfolding here in secret. He wonders whether this space has served as a hidden refuge for runaways, a tourist spot for ghouls engorged by the epidemic, or even a site of arcane necromantic rituals. Or perhaps it’s simply that part of the Arcadia music scene was drawn here, the grief-choked core groping toward one another, seeking solace.
I should’ve known about this.
I should’ve started something like this.
I should’ve been here.
They hoist themselves onto the stage. Somebody has stacked singles from Shaun’s band, the label featuring the picture of a freshly disemboweled panda, in a wobbly tower. The vinyl is surrounded by a circle of votive candles. Wicks recently blackened. Tallow soft to the touch. A few steps farther, they encounter an archipelago of musical equipment. The police forensics team did its work on-site. The instruments, microphones, and monitors have been tagged, but they haven’t been shifted since that night. Their positions now seem as inevitable as sculptures. Florian stumbles over a coil of cords. Before him, his vintage tube amp gleams, its surface hand-painted a livid emerald green.