by Jeff Jackson
THE BIRDS
Noontime. The white-throated sparrow is perched in the center of its nest with a tiny fledgling. The two birds are singing, but the song keeps slipping out of tune. The timbre sounds pinched, and the pitch shifts ever so slightly. The white-throated sparrow is undisturbed as it reiterates the warbling pattern to its offspring. She waits for the wisp of fuzzy gray feathers, his small beak upturned, to repeat the sequence to her. He learns it a few notes at a time, volleying stray phrases back and forth. He slowly intuits the tune’s hidden complexities. It reminds me of instructing you, Bruce, to listen to the birds and try to memorize their songs. The fledgling only needs to have courage and keep repeating the song. Easy does it. Remember that you can sustain the contours of the sound, even when you can’t hold on to the melody.
chapter three
THE ELECT
Each night, for Xenie and Florian, the epidemic unfolds in their dreams, the killings beginning all over again.
The boy with the shaved skull moves like a sleepwalker—a strange determination to his lurching steps—locked into the dull repeating throb coming from down the street—he crunches across a gravel parking lot, heading straight toward a windowless concrete building, a shabby veterans hall—the source of the sound—he joins the line to buy tickets—a girl hands him a notice about tonight’s show, a battle of the bands whose list of performers looks endless, the bubbly handwriting at the bottom indicating yet another group added to the bill—and the boy with the shaved skull folds the flyer in half, in quarters, in eighths, making the creases perfect until the paper is reduced to an immaculate square—he throws it onto the ground—gives the cashier a few crumpled bills from his pocket—walks through the club’s empty foyer and follows the echoing rumble until he enters the darkened performance area—music blares from the speakers, but the small wooden stage is bare except for an amp, a drum kit, and a solitary microphone—everyone’s facing the stage—their attention focused on the video projected onto the white bedsheet tacked against the wall, a shimmering image of a dirt road winding through the forest at night, the camera moving relentlessly along a fitfully illuminated path—the boy scans the packed room—the audience is mostly composed of musicians—a motley assemblage of hippies in tie-dye shirts and denim jackets, punks with ratty coifs and ripped jeans, bearded indie rockers with color-coordinated headbands, long-haired kids with immaculately applied corpse paint, girls in secondhand Catholic-school uniforms clasping keyboards under their arms like purses—a low murmur of conversation, the hum of expectation—some people strike poses to simulate patience, others don’t bother to obscure their fidgeting limbs—everyone restless to perform—as the boy with the shaved skull stumbles to the front, a trio in bowling-league shirts and high-top sneakers bounds onto the stage—as if they’ve been waiting for his cue to start the show—launching into a frenetic brand of garage rock, throttling their instruments and cranking their amps—and the boy suddenly looks lost, surprised to find himself here among these shadowy faces, watching the guitarist windmill his arm and the singer strangle his microphone stand in time to the spastic beat—then the boy calms as his eyes latch on to the video projection—the image has grown darker, though he can still make out the bobbing headlights, the twilight woods, the vacant dirt road—he’s drawn toward the frame, as if he could step directly into the sheet and follow the deepening nocturnal trail—his hand reaches into the small of his back, a gesture that appears rehearsed—and now he’s pointing a revolver at the stage—the weapon hovering in the bright beam of the projection, its shadow eclipsing the entire band.
While Xenie and Florian struggle to wake up, the epidemic escalates.
The crowd slams into one another as the band plays, bodies ricocheting through the cramped space, spinning toward the rear of the club and getting shoved back into the centrifugal melee—the skinny boy with big hair stands at the edge of the mosh pit, droplets of sweat beading his forehead, barely reacting when people pinball off him—instead he’s watching how the musicians’ neck veins bulge as they pound out the precise riffs, their tightly wound songs scrubbed of extraneous notes—he’s focusing on the singer, who barks lyrics at a frenzied clip, his agitated sounds matching the music’s hurtling martial cadence—concluding each tune with a piercing shriek—the audience pants and stretches, wringing out sweat-soaked T-shirts like washcloths, generating a haze of rank perspiration that hovers along the ceiling of the club like its own weather system—a tropical depression of pale boys with crew cuts and long-haired girls with medieval tattoos—the skinny boy with big hair reaches into his pocket with a studied swagger, only to discover the gun is already in his hand—the recoil of the first shot staggers him backward, kicking his arm over his head—ceiling tiles crash to the floor, downy flakes of plaster powder the air—somehow he keeps firing—one shot blows apart the massive amplifier—another knocks the guitar player off his feet and deposits a sucking red cavity in the center of his chest—another finds the fleeing drummer, exploding his kneecap and leaving him writhing on the ground, clutching at the muddle of bone and cartilage—the slithering singer is flattened against the platform, pulling himself along on his stomach by his raw fingernails—a bright red plume smeared across the bass drum points the way offstage—the crowd huddles on the ground, presses against the walls, stampedes past the shooter—and maybe because everything is happening fast, the skinny boy steps slowly across the beer slicks and cracked plastic cups, taking purposeful strides toward the bleeding band members until he’s halted by an earsplitting shriek—his own—though he doesn’t recognize the voice.
They twist and tremble in their beds, though their expressions remain perfectly blank.
The two girls stand over the bodies of the dead musicians, holding Magnum revolvers of enormous caliber—the echo of their shots reverberate in their ears as loud as mortar volleys—they’re surrounded by hot shell casings and the acrid smell of gunpowder—the living room of this house show is silent, the furniture pushed against the walls, the overhead lights switched off, the walls spattered with permanent shadows—the two girls are spackled with gore, their skin wet and sticky, spongy particles lodged in their teeth—the blonde’s glasses are splashed crimson, tinting her view of the room, but she doesn’t wipe them off—the brunette’s eyes resemble scuffed marbles, her gaze steady and unblinking—she turns and shoots the blonde in the head, not watching the descent of the corpse as it crumples to the carpet—then she places the barrel of the revolver against her own temple and presses the trigger—but nothing happens—the blood from her hair steadily trickles down her smooth forehead and she starts to blink—furiously—the only sound is the repetition of the girl’s index finger pressing the trigger, the steady rotation of the empty chambers, and the rhythmic click of the hammer—those three interlocking sounds, in continual sequence, again and again and again.
THE BIRDS
Midday. A small flock of white-throated sparrows now populates the grove of trees on the edge of town. They twitter as they rustle through the leaves and hop from branch to branch. The sunlight catches glints of the stark black-and-white stripes on their heads. Each sparrow offers its own rhythmic call. Some swing up the scale and some skid down. They appear to be singing in a round or engaging in a colloquy. The components of the tune get redistributed as furious counterpoints, but then the overlapping voices become more aggressive. The song begins to sound increasingly alien, without any human feeling. It’s important that you never lose your connection to the music. Lean in and listen closer. Don’t be afraid, even as the foreign sounds grow louder, the intricate aria shrills and swells, threatening to become an undifferentiated din.
chapter four
THE EXITS
HE STANDS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET, GUITAR IN one hand, amp in the other. There’s a distant whine of traffic, but the road remains empty. Florian surveys the converted house with its cracked paint, bricked-over windows, and bleached sign perched along the ridge of the roof. Blinking away
the shimmer of afternoon sun, he’s struck by the raggedness of this two-story structure. A sagging razor-wire fence encloses the gravel parking lot, a vain attempt to isolate the building from the rest of the neighborhood. In the daytime, Echo Echo isn’t so different from the surrounding shacks with their rickety foundations and peeling tar-paper roofs. Dusk will initiate a transformation. Tonight, for the first time in months, the building will be juiced with enough wattage to make a club materialize, a luminous mirage flickering in the center of the slum.
* * *
On the side of Echo Echo, the torn trash bags are piled three deep. Their spilled contents marinate in a pool of their own blackened juices. Even from a distance, Florian finds the odor overpowering. A noxious mix of rank leftovers, month-old Szechuan beef and spoiled papayas. His heightened sense of smell is an early warning that a crippling migraine is on the way. Hours from now, he’ll be flattened against a mattress, hammered with pain, his head trying to cancel itself out. Florian doesn’t bother to take one of his meds. Instead, he walks over and tosses the pill bottle atop the festering heap. He wrinkles his nose and inhales again, deeply.
* * *
After his mother died, Florian was the one who filled garbage bags with her possessions, emptying the house of her coats and dresses, romance novels and rosaries, toiletries and perfumes. He found himself seized by a compulsion to get rid of everything she’d touched. Suffocated by the very sight of her stuff. He knew that she’d understand. Early one morning Florian sat next to the towers of trash bags that lined the curb, the firmament lightening as he listened for the rumbling garbage trucks, holding his breath for minutes at a time, waiting to make sure every last item was ferried away.
Today.
Today of all days.
Florian enters the club. He’s surprised to find it pitch black. His eyes detect a slight glimmer, and he trails that faint illumination past the ticket booth. As he turns into the hallway, it grows brighter. Arriving in the bar area, he sees the glass case full of beer bottles at the far end, which bathes the room in a limpid glow and supplies the stammering mechanical hum that’s the venue’s only soundtrack.
—Anybody here? Florian shouts.
Above his head, he makes out the soft clomp of footsteps. It must be the twins who run the club.
—Florian? calls a voice from the ceiling.
—Yeah.
—You’re early.
—Not really, Florian says.
There’s the muffled sound of conversation that resembles a throat-clearing contest. It builds to an inconclusive crescendo.
—We’ll be down in a few minutes, the voice says.
Florian pushes open the doors to the performance area and tentatively steps into the shadowy space. From the fugitive gaps in the walls, the room is shot through with shafts of light. As his eyes adjust, the club reveals its contours. One errant sunbeam outlines the lip of the stage.
* * *
Florian paces the perimeter of the low wooden stage. He keeps muttering the word fans as he marks out the exact distance to the nearest exit. He begins to measure the other exits, counting off the number of footsteps, then realizes what he’s doing. He stops himself midmeasurement. Enough, he says. But in his mind, his feet are still moving.
I can’t let myself get carried away.
Florian turns on the soundboard console. He’s brought a recording of a deep electronic drone for the band’s preshow music. It’s part of his strategy to remain calm. The music has the gaseous quality of an expanding cloud. The tones thicken the atmosphere, building toward an inevitability that never arrives. This drone is designed to replicate the soul’s journey through the different phases of death and create a sense of acceptance in the listener. If Florian listens closely enough, maybe it will recalibrate his attitude. He imagines this sound subtly altering the color of the club’s atmosphere. With a properly attuned mind, maybe he could perceive the precise shade.
* * *
The twins stomp downstairs, clutching microphone stands and cursing each other. They both have stocky lumberjack frames, black metal T-shirts, and combat boots. A.C. has loose black curls, while B.C. sports a military crew cut. They resemble not-very-clever variations on a theme. Both acknowledge Florian with a terse nod. They flip on the overhead fluorescents and throw open the patio door. The performance space floods with light, revealing the collection of graffiti scrawled across the walls and ceiling. The room is a turbulent fresco comprising the names of iconic bands and local legends, signatures amassed across the decades, adorned with aerosol cans and Magic Markers. They’ve become an integral part of the club’s lore. The teeming textures of the club’s walls could be cataloged as archaeological layers. Florian has daydreamed about the exact spot he’d add his own mark. It’s not far from where the Carmelite Rifles and Jerusalem Crickets left their tags years ago. An unblemished area along the back wall. A few square inches that corral years of longing.
* * *
Another layer of writing lurks throughout the crevices of the club. Slogans and messages furtively etched into the bar, inked underneath the booths, concealed behind the stage, manifestations of the institution’s unruly id.
* * *
You are entering an occupied territory. Put your cell phone on vibrator. Be your own anarchy. No more rape jokes. Here comes the something. Go into exile. Eat your makeup. Under the paving stones, more concrete. Anybody can shoot anybody. Please limit your set to 30 seconds.
* * *
The twins survey the performance space as if they’re unsure how to begin. A.C. stumbles onto the stage and stomps his feet several times, evaluating the echo. Part of the security plan, he assures Florian. Explain it to you later. B.C. sits behind the soundboard and starts to adjust speaker levels, only to realize he’s missing a couple of crucial adapters. The twins bought the club several years ago and live in the overhead apartment. It’s their entire life, and right now their life is either badly hungover or struggling to sober up.
* * *
The activity in the club steadily escalates. B.C. crawls around the baseboards, attempting to trace the source of some whistling static. Echo Echo is renowned for its stellar sound, making it a coveted venue for bands to play, but right now the main audio is a series of listless grunts. A.C. leaves belligerent voice mails for the security team to find out why they haven’t arrived. He tallies the online ticket sales and realizes tonight’s show is oversold.
Lisa-Lisa, the bartender, breezes into the club and immediately discovers a profound shortage of bourbon. How much did you fucking monkeys drink? she bellows. It’s been so long since they’ve produced a show that everyone is off their game.
Florian sits with his head sunk between his knees to block out the surrounding commotion. He’s trying to visualize performing a worthy tribute to Shaun. He is determined not to settle for mediocrity like the other bands on the local scene. He shuts his eyes and envisions the audience surging in front of him, absorbing every shuddering note, waiting to get knocked clean out of their bodies.
Tonight I’ll be good enough.
Florian removes a ballpoint pen from his bag. He sits on a barstool and rolls up his sleeve, revealing the emerald lines of his tattoo. He reinforces the blurred edges of the initial J with a few stabs of black ink. This needs to be prominent. He recalls how his mother eased him out of anxiety as a child. She’d remind him about the birds who never know where they’re getting their next meal, migrate thousands of miles, yet never stop singing. Think about their songs, she’d say. Together they’d recite the names of various songbirds. They’d repeat them until he was calm.
—Easy does it, Bruce, she’d say.
* * *
Under a pile of tottering boxes, Eddie appears with the latest copy of the guest list. Florian notices something different about his old friend, but he’s too busy marveling over all the requests to pin it down. For this first local show since the epidemic ended, the list is crammed with columns of names. It’s crazy h
ow many people have reached out the past few days, Eddie says. It’s all coming together. Florian suppresses a smile. Scattered among the band’s support network is a roll call of the most respected musicians and critics on the local scene. Arcadia will be here tonight.
* * *
Florian begins his show preparations. He positions his freshly painted green amp on the stage. He picks up a broom and starts to sweep. After weeks of obsessive practice, he’s unaware that his left hand treats the wooden handle like a fretboard, his fingers forming a succession of riffs.
* * *
There’s the hum of an unseen presence in the room, prickling the hairs in his nostrils, then Florian realizes the drone is still playing.
* * *
Clanging doors, shouted greetings. Yo Flo, Randy the Mongoose calls as he hops onto the stage. Florian feels surprisingly soothed reciting his part of the exchange. Hey Goose, he says. Randy begins to assemble his kit piece by piece. Soon he’s tuning the snare, tightening the cymbals, testing the volume. He essays a few delicate rolls, then beats the drums with increasing fury. He concentrates on hurling his full weight into each thundering blow. The sound shudders through the club’s walls, and he seems determined to make the hits reverberate as loud as mortar volleys.
* * *
Nobody expects Derek D. to be on time, much less arrive early. But here he is, strolling into Echo Echo, bass tucked under his arm. He drags a hand along the graffitied walls, running his fingertips against the rough texture, luxuriating in the splinter and scratch. He’s decked out in black leather pants and a black shirt, hair coifed for the occasion in a shocking-pink pompadour.