A Song for a New Day

by Sarah Pinsker

  Nobody was outside when she walked past, but the lamp reassured her, as did the two battered gas cars out front. Nobody would park on this block if there weren’t something happening. Right? Of course, this was her first time here, and any absolutes crossing her mind were her own mind’s devising. She had always invented rules for her own reassurance, though some had proven truer than others. Logic wasn’t the point. Two cars might be a drug deal, or Aran could have sent her here to deliver her to a prostitution ring. That seemed too much trouble for him to go to.

  Walking past, obviously too early, she realized there were details he hadn’t provided, and she hadn’t known to ask. What time they started, for example. She had never been to a live show, but StageHoloLive shows always took place at seven p.m. in their target time zone, so she had assumed music started at seven here as well.

  It was almost seven now, but nobody went in or out. The city’s midnight curfew had been posted on the highway signs, so she guessed that this show must end earlier. Somewhere between seven and midnight, then. She didn’t want to miss it, but she didn’t want to look overeager or do anything wrong.

  She walked a little farther. She didn’t see any dividers between neighborhoods, but she must have crossed some invisible line. Two blocks up, a few rowhouses had been replaced with garden plots, all awaiting their spring tilling. Another block along, the houses took on a more lived-in look. Some had window boxes with flowers, or screens painted with landscape scenes. Unlike the earlier places she’d passed, they had steps, though the steps were brick or wood rather than marble. Here and there somebody sat on a stoop or in a plastic chair, talking to neighbors. A vendor leading a pony cart full of apples and oranges rang a bell and shouted, “Fruit, fruit, get your fresh fruit.” The chestnut pony and his harness gleamed with good care.

  Kids on bicycles raced back and forth from the sidewalk to the street, enjoying the warm evening. Rosemary expected them to spook the fruit cart pony, but he didn’t bat an eye. One house had its windows and door open and a SportHolo baseball game projected in the front room: a half dozen teenagers leaned in on the windowsills and doorframes, watching.

  What was it like living this close to neighbors? More people were hanging around these five blocks than she usually encountered in an entire month. Living wall to wall with each other, breathing the same air. Technically they weren’t congregating, they were all on different properties, but they were still interacting like they weren’t strangers at all.

  There was a small restaurant on the next corner. Rosemary didn’t recognize the brand, but it looked safe and well lit, as good a place as any to kill some time and eat something. In a booth by the window sat people she guessed might be a band she’d be seeing later. They had a look she imagined bands had, like they were a misfit family rather than friends or colleagues, with all the accompanying family love-hate drama.

  The door looked heavy, but when she pushed, it swung farther than she intended, crashing into the booth behind it with a jangling thud. Everyone in the place craned their necks to see who had made such a grand entrance, and Rosemary flushed with embarrassment, willing herself invisible. It didn’t work. A tiny, elderly black woman with snow-white hair glanced up from behind the dining counter. Rosemary waited, letting the woman appraise her.

  “Sit anywhere.” The woman went back to filling salt shakers.

  Rosemary walked past the band to the small booth beyond them, where she’d be able to eavesdrop. She slid onto the banquette, trying to be nonchalant about the fact that there were no isolation dividers. She tapped the table, but no menu appeared. Pulled up her Hoodie to get the overlay, but that didn’t work, either. Her phone didn’t suggest any link.

  It took her another minute to notice a small laminated menu tucked behind the napkin dispenser. She pulled it free with two fingers, holding the smallest edge possible to avoid germs. It gave her three chilies to choose from (vegan, chicken, and burn-your-face-off) with options of rice, fries, hot dog (vegan, chicken) or pasta to put it over if she was so inclined. She flipped the menu over, but the other side was blank. Noticed the logo: the place was called the Heatwave Diner. A note at the bottom read “No Superwally? No problem. Cash only.” Rosemary had brought cash, but she’d never been anyplace that didn’t offer both options.

  The woman from behind the counter walked over. “What can I get you, sweetie?”

  Rosemary pointed to the coffee and the chicken chili over fries.

  “Cheese? Vegan cheese? Sour cream?” the woman asked.

  “Um, cheese, please. Thank you.”

  She pulled out her phone and sent a quick message home to say she’d arrived. No sense worrying anyone at SHL by mentioning she hadn’t set foot in her target destination yet. Close enough.

  The server deposited a mug and a miniature cream pitcher at the table. Rosemary took a test sip; the coffee tasted good enough to drink black, rich without bitterness. The group in the next booth were arguing over what to play that night, which meant Rosemary was right that they were a band.

  “. . . Luce, we haven’t played that in months. I don’t think this new kid has even heard it before.”

  “I’ve heard it, but I’ve never played it,” someone who must have been the new kid agreed.

  “See?” asked the first voice again.

  “. . . But I’m sure I can follow. It’s straightforward, as I remember, except that weird bridge.”

  “See?” A new voice, a woman’s, low and warm, echoing the first in a way that sounded closer to teasing than mocking, a laugh behind it. “It’ll sound fresh. It’ll be great.”

  “It’s eight years old.”

  The woman again. “Eight years and still so relevant. I wish it would stop being relevant.”

  “We’ll crash and burn.”

  “And nobody will care. I love a good crash and burn.”

  The waitress slid a chipped white bowl to Rosemary. “It’s hot.”

  Rosemary stirred the cheese into the chili, poking underneath to see which fry cut they used. She usually knew what brand of potatoes a proper restaurant franchise ordered, could probably even still recite the Superwally product code from her first-year job checking orders, but these looked rough and house made.

  The bowl wasn’t as hot as she expected from the warning. She took a mouthful. Her first thought was that the chili wasn’t all that hot, either. Her second thought was obliterated by peppers. Tears poured down her cheeks. She reached for the cream pitcher and chugged it.

  “I told you it was hot,” the waitress said.

  Rosemary wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “But I didn’t order the burn-your-face-off.”

  “That wasn’t the burn-your-face-off. I make people sign a waiver the first time they try that one. Here, try it with sour cream.”

  Rosemary stirred in the sour cream and tentatively took another bite. The waitress was right. With the heat cut, the flavors spilled out: chili, paprika, cumin. She’d never had any food that packed that much punch. She took another spoonful and nodded at the waitress in appreciation. Another and she realized exactly how hungry she was. She had packed sandwiches for the bus, but she’d eaten the last one hours ago.

  The band stood to leave, and Rosemary got her first good look at them. The guy with the blue hair wore a T-shirt with the arms torn off, the better to show off his tattoos. He had more tattoos than skin. Another looked younger than her, androgynous in a sundress and a denim jacket. They stacked their bowls on the counter as they left. Rosemary wondered if that was standard procedure; she’d never been in a restaurant where the customers cleaned up after themselves before.

  The woman left last. She was maybe in her thirties, long ponytail, looking less dramatic than her companions, but exuding something Rosemary couldn’t name. She shrugged on a leather jacket and winked at Rosemary as she straightened her collar. Reached into her pocket, grabbed a handful of cash,
and tossed it on the table without counting. “See ya, Mary. Thanks!”

  “Have a good show, Luce!” The waitress waved after them.

  Rosemary didn’t want to chance missing the band. She scarfed the rest of her chili, counted out cash to cover her check and tip, and then followed the others’ lead and brought her dishes to the counter. The waitress smiled. If it wasn’t standard procedure, it was at least appreciated.

  “Um, do you know what band that was?” She was embarrassed to ask, in case they were super famous, but better to know.

  “They go by ‘Harriet’ this week, but ask again soon and they’ll have another name.”

  “Heretic?” Rosemary asked, searching for something that sounded like a band.

  “Nope. Harriet. Like the girl’s name. They’ve had better names, and worse. You should check them out. I think they’re playing tonight.”

  “Yeah, I’m planning on it. Thanks!”

  Rosemary retraced her route. She passed the members of Harriet, who had stopped on a corner to continue their argument.

  A few more cars and vans dotted the street now. Rosemary glanced at her hood’s display for the time: eight fifteen. A little more reasonable, maybe?

  She dug an ancient piece of spearmint gum from the pack in her jacket pocket; the most important night of her life and she’d eaten dragon-breath chili.

  16

  ROSEMARY

  2020

  Aran had called it the 2020, and she hoped he wasn’t messing with her; it wasn’t a name that tripped off the tongue, like the Bloom Bar. Maybe it had a nickname, or maybe 2020 was the nickname, and she was inventing random worries to distract herself from her own nerves. The woman at the diner would probably have told her, but she hadn’t thought to ask.

  She approached from the side, as if she was trying to sneak up on the place. Willed someone else to walk in first, so she could study the method, aware she was acting overcautious again. She had taken the bus all the way here. She had walked in a strange city, eaten in a strange diner; surely it wasn’t such a big deal to knock on the door. Or open the door? Too many options.

  It was a venue, she told herself, even though it looked like a boarded-up vacant. She decided to push the door open, not knock, and found herself standing in somebody’s sparsely furnished living room, a canned basic StageHolo show playing out on the tattered throw rug, some band she didn’t recognize. The walls were bare and off-white, as was a painted-over fireplace. Nailheads poked out where pictures must have hung at some point, whiter white rectangles beneath them.

  A tall, broad woman with the shoulders of a linebacker sat on the stained and sagging couch, her arms spreading over the back. “Can I help you, Officer?”

  Rosemary took a step backward, almost off the doorstep. Looked behind her to see who the woman was addressing, only to realize the question was aimed at her. “I’m not an officer. Um, my friend told me bands play here.”

  The woman didn’t move. “You know if you are police you are legally obligated to identify yourself now.”

  “I swear I’m not. Is this 2020? The 2020? I didn’t mean to intrude if I’m wrong.” Somewhere under their feet, feedback squalled. Rosemary looked down. “This is the right place, I’m pretty sure.”

  “Close the door a sec.”

  Rosemary closed it, happy to be on the inside, but the look on the woman’s face didn’t get any friendlier.

  “You’re not police, then, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I don’t recognize you.”

  “Do you recognize everyone who comes to your club?” The front door creaked open again behind her, but Rosemary focused on the problem at hand.

  “Club? This is my house. My spouse is down in the basement playing guitar.”

  This was getting exasperating. “Look. I know this is the address. Aran Randall from Patent Medicine told me to come. I drove eight hours to get here.”

  “Patent Medicine? You’re going to mention a StageHolo band to get into my basement?”

  “What’s wrong with StageHolo? Some good bands play on there. You’re watching one right now . . .” Rosemary pointed to the basic box on the woman’s coffee table.

  “Patent Medicine. Go back to wherever you came from.”

  A hand settled on Rosemary’s shoulder, and she leaped sideways.

  “Alice,” a woman said behind her. “Are you harassing my new guitar tech?”

  Rosemary turned. It was the woman from Harriet-the-band.

  “You know her, Luce?”

  “Yeah. She’s tuning our guitars tonight. She’s cool.”

  Alice frowned, then sighed and waved her hand. “I don’t know why she didn’t say so. She would have gotten a whole lot further mentioning you than mentioning Patent Medicine.”

  Luce lifted an eyebrow at the name. Rosemary made a mental note not to mention Aran’s band again until she figured out why people here had that reaction.

  Luce pushed past Rosemary. Her bandmates followed her in, and Rosemary trailed behind. They crossed the living room and entered a narrow kitchen, then turned 180 degrees to a basement stairwell beside the kitchen doorway.

  The basement was at least as large as the house above, but still tiny compared to SHL venues. The ceiling was low, the floor packed clay. There was a faint odor of cat piss. A stage area filled one end, not any higher than the room, but differentiated by strands of LED lights and two bulky monitor speakers. SHL used those on the soundstage for effect, window dressing, even though the performers all had in-ear systems. The monitors looked good on the edge of a big stage, and served as a barrier. That was the one similarity between this and the Bloom Bar.

  A banged-up drum kit lay in pieces at the stage’s back, and a bass amp covered in stickers from a hundred bands sat tucked in beside the scattered drums. Guitar amps lined the wall beside the stage, and eight or ten guitar cases were piled in the corner. Microphone stands at various heights stood in stalagmite patterns on the stage perimeter, cords wound around them like vines. She fought disappointment that it was so cramped, an experience in miniature. Even though Aran had called it “a little underground space,” she hadn’t thought he meant it literally.

  “What is this place?” she asked under her breath.

  “It’s either a shrine to rock as it was or an attempt to build something better. Some days one, some days the other. Are you gonna help or what?” Luce squatted a few feet away, rummaging in the pocket of a guitar bag.

  “I—I thought you were kidding.”

  “Why kid? We don’t have any comp tickets here. Either you’re our guitar tech or you owe Alice eight bucks.”

  “She wasn’t going to let me in.”

  “True. Maybe you don’t owe Alice after all. You can go back to when she was telling you to get lost.”

  She said this matter-of-factly, though her eyes and the corners of her mouth hinted she was messing with Rosemary. The whole situation had gone wrong. Too fast, too aggressive, too jokey. She hadn’t even had a chance to mention she worked for SHL. Or maybe she wasn’t supposed to mention it yet; the training manuals left her a few different options.

  “Okay,” she said. “What do you want me to do?”

  Luce held up a small box. “Do you know how to tune a guitar?”

  “Nope.”

  “Change a string?”

  “No.” Rosemary’s face flushed. She crossed her arms. “I’m not stupid. I’m just not a musician. Teach me whatever you need me to do. I’m a fast learner.”

  “That’s better. Do you have a name, by the way?”

  “Rosemary. Rosemary Laws.”

  “Cool name. Mind if I use it for a band sometime?”

  “No, um, yes? Maybe?”

  “You can get back to me on it. Okay, Rosemary Rosemary Laws. Lucky for you, tuning technology has advanced to a point where you don’t ne
ed to know music, as long as you can read the alphabet and follow up and down arrows. You can read?”

  “Yes.” Maybe by the time the night ended she’d know whether to stop feeling offended.

  A few more people straggled downstairs. One started assembling the drum kit, another taking microphones from pouches and attaching them to the cords on the stands. Luce pulled a black electric guitar from a case and plugged it into a pedal. She tuned two strings, then handed the guitar to Rosemary, who self-consciously turned the tuning keys, with the encouragement of Luce and the pedal. A red light with arrows told her which direction to twist, and a green light in the center blinked when she had it correct. She did the four remaining strings before handing the guitar back.

  “Nice. If you can do that a few times when I hand you guitars during my set you’re hired. I won’t bother showing you how to string tonight—that guarantees I’ll break one, you watch—but you can help us sell merch, too. Earn your keep.”

  Rosemary nodded. All she had to do was keep her mouth shut and observe, and if she liked the band she’d introduce herself again and explain why she was there. She had practiced that speech a hundred times in her head on the bus. Funny how now that she’d arrived she couldn’t get enough words out of her mouth to say any of it.

  The band finished setting up. Rosemary picked a wall to lean against where she could be unobtrusive.

  “Excuse me, can I get in there?” A tall black man with a pierced septum and dreadlocks pointed behind her, and she realized she’d managed to block the soundboard.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, resituating herself in front of the board instead of behind, hoping she wasn’t obstructing anything else.

  “Come on, Rosemary Laws,” said Luce from beside her. “Let me show you how our merch setup works.”