ShapeShifter: The Demo Tapes: Year 1

by Susan Helene Gottfried

  The man popped out of the back room, full of apologies in both Chinese and English.

  By the time Daniel came in to see what had happened to her, Val had promises that four bottles of Ping's would be held for her on the next shipment day -- Tuesday -- and that in the future, all she needed to do was call when she ran low and bottles would be waiting with her name on them.

  Val was willing to bet her name would be Annoying Chinese Slut.

  Mitchell scratched his head as he contemplated the seven varieties of soy sauce. He hadn't paid much attention when Ma had asked him to pick up a bottle on his way over; he'd figured that just remembering it was the brand with the Chinese name would be good enough.

  He could hear her reminder: "Good enough rarely is, Mitchell." And his father, chiming in about how to find success, a person had to give 100%, all the time.

  Clearly, he'd fucked this one up royally.

  He was still standing there when an ordinary-looking couple walked by. "Get the Ping's," the woman said. "It's the best of the all-natural brands."

  "How can it be best?" the man asked, pulling his hand away from the shelf.

  "I don't know," the woman said. Mitchell smiled at her exasperated tone. "But it is. Maybe they use special soy for it or something. Or they make it in small batches. I don't know. Call them and ask."

  Mitchell wondered if they'd get an answer if they called.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the woman nudge the man and make a subtle gesture in his direction. With a sigh, he picked up the Ping's and tried to be casual as he walked away.

  Just what he needed. To be spotted while making an indecisive ass of himself in front of something stupid like soy sauce. It wouldn't be surprising if, over the next few days, someone's gossip column mentioned that he used Ping's Soy Sauce and there'd be a run on it.

  And if he'd spend the next six months autographing the stupid labels.

  He looked at the bottle he held. The label was black. That'd make it hard to sign. No one ever carried Sharpies in colors other than black.

  He was safe, at least from that.

  Thirteen Things About the Soy Sauce Entries

  1. Ping's Soy Sauce doesn't exist, as far as I know. Since very little of Riverview resembles brands and things we're familiar with, I figured I'd create my own soy sauce.

  2. I named Ping's Soy Sauce after a friend. She'll probably never know this, but I am quite sure that if she finds out, she'll be embarrassed.

  3. Oh, well.

  4. I'm not really sure if the couple in Mitchell's outtake are me and the Tour Manager or not. Yeah, that sounds like a conversation we'd have. But how can real people exist in fiction?

  5. Following the outtake, Mitchell asks Val if he bought the right stuff. She confirms that he did.

  6. Since many of you don't know Val very well, she is the granddaughter of a Chinese national who married an American woman, who then had Val's father. Thus, the rusty Mandarin.

  7. I always thought I'd write about her mixed heritage, but I've read so many books about first- or second-generation Americans who struggle with their dual ethnicity, it's been done to death.

  8. Besides, the current WIP gives her something much more interesting to struggle with. I hope.

  9. Why do you want to know what Val and Daniel are doing going out to sex clubs?

  10. Anyone else curious to know why an Asian food market is on the way to a sex club?

  11. Yes, Val bought her clothes at Lyric's store. Want more of Lyric?

  12. For those who don't remember, are too lazy to investigate Val's history, or whatnot, Val is picky about her soy sauce not because of her Chinese roots. She is a graduate of the Riverview Culinary Academy.

  13. What do you know. Riverview Culinary Academy's initials spell RCA. And what do you know, but that's the name of an old-time record company. See how it all gets back to music?

  Death by Cheese

  Everyone loves pizza and no one more so than a group of young guys after they've finished an hour-long set of skull-crushing heavy metal. However, when you eat too much pizza and drink too much beer, you get…

  Death by Cheese. First posted November 4, 2006.

  Mitchell kicked the pizza box out of the way and, with a burp that shook the room, stretched his legs across the width of the coffee table. The rickety thing bowed under his weight.

  "M, man," Daniel said wonderingly. He picked up a drum stick and used it to scratch between his shoulder blades. "You just ate the whole thing. I thought you weren't going to do that anymore."

  "I wasn't," Mitchell slurred. He leaned his head back onto the grimy dressing-room couch. "But I wasn't gonna drink this much anymore, either." He burped again.

  Trevor held up a hand, all five fingers splayed. Slowly, he dropped each finger in turn, starting with the index finger. Just as he tucked his thumb in, Mitchell sprinted for the bathroom.

  "Death by cheese," Eric laughed.

  "Should we save the box as a reminder for next time?" Daniel asked.

  "Dumb fuck," Trevor said, shaking his head and, for a few minutes there, feeling in tune with Daniel and Eric.

  Eric’s Flu

  One of my blogging friends came down with the flu and asked for stories and essays that contained time-proven flu treatments. Leave it to ShapeShifter to come up with this one.

  Eric's Flu, first posted February 6, 2006

  Daniel and Mitchell had gathered around Eric, who stared up at them from Trevor's couch on the tour bus, his eyes glassy.

  "Freaky," Mitchell said with a nod. He pulled a potato chip out of the bag he'd bought at the rest stop half an hour ago.

  "I think it's a hangover," Daniel insisted, holding out his hand for a chip.

  Mitchell ignored him. "We weren't drinking that much last night. And you can't blow your nose that much when you're hungover. It makes your brain try to escape."

  "Good point," Daniel said. He put a possessive hand on the bag of chips, but Mitchell pulled it out of danger and tossed it toward the kitchen area.

  Daniel took a wary step back, but Mitchell was fast and pinned the drummer to the empty couch across the aisle from Eric. "You can fucking share," the drummer snarled.

  "No I can't," Mitchell growled back. "And let's hope Eric doesn't. He's got the flu, you dumb fuck. All of us can get it."

  "We have a show tomorrow," Eric moaned. "We can't cancel."

  "True. ShapeShifter doesn't cancel."

  "What do we do?" Eric's moan turned sniveling. "I can't fucking move. Do you know I spent the entire stop trying to get out of my bunk and up here?"

  "Well, I wish you'd gotten here sooner," Mitchell told him, diving for the potato chips before Daniel could grab them again. " 'Cause if we'd known, we could have picked up supplies."

  "Supplies?" Daniel asked, sucking on the thumb that Mitchell had bent backwards in their rush for the chips.

  "Yeah," Mitchell said, popping another chip into his mouth. "Soup, Jell-o." He grinned. "We could have some real fun with the Jell-o that sick boy there doesn't eat."

  "What girl's gonna want to get on a bus that's got a guy with the flu on it?" Daniel asked.

  "Who said we'd tell them before we're rolling?"

  "Show tomorrow," Eric said and pulled another tissue out of the box he'd propped on his chest. "Me. Gotta play," he said and blew his nose. Hard.

  Mitchell shuddered. Charlie, the band's tour manager, jumped for the used tissue and put it into a plastic bag. Judging by the fullness of the bag, this had become a ritual.

  "What do we do without soup?" Daniel asked.

  Mitchell shook his head uselessly and eyed his potato chips. There was something unappetizing about eating after listening to the goop that had come pouring out of Eric's nose. He crumpled the top of the bag closed and offered it to Daniel, who held one hand to his stomach and shook his head, his nose wrinkled in disgust.

  "You fuck heads," Trevor said, getting up from his usual spot on
the couch, at Eric's feet. "There's only one cure for the flu." He pushed past Mitchell, who gave him a quick slap to the back of the head, and opened the fridge. He pulled out a beer and grabbed the opener. "You get him so drunk, he forgets he's sick."

  "We might pickle him before that happens," Mitchell said with a frown. He opened the potato chips and, without looking, fished one out and ate it.

  "Pickle me!" Eric begged. "Just … make me better."

  Trevor handed over the beer. Daniel helped himself to a potato chip and shrugged at Mitchell.

  It was worth a try.

  Green Hair Week

  Green Hair Week sprang out of an event I created solely for backstory, long before I had a blog or could conceive of spending an entire week telling a story to a faceless but rabid public. Because Mitchell has this only-in-fiction, magically white-blonde hair that doesn't darken with age and yet somehow manages to be shot through with strands of brown and gold, he's susceptible to the ravages of pool water. And because Mitchell acts like a fish at times and can be impossible to pull out of a swimming pool, he suffers the curse of hair that's turned green by the heavy metals and chemicals in the water (believe it or not, it's not the chlorine that does it!).

  This small problem reached new heights during the band's three-day break in Phoenix when they were touring with Jim Shields, a rocker in search of spiritual enlightenment. The band didn't leave the pool area during those three days; who needed to with beer-and-pizza delivery? Any girl who wanted in was welcome, but when the band's cash ran out, the girls were expected to pony up. Given that they were getting an open-ended orgy with four very willing young guys, they opened their wallets willingly.

  Now, back to Mitchell and his hair. Here's the problem: I'm not blonde. Not even close. I had no idea what a guy in his late teens/early twenties would do if all that pool water turned his hair green. In desperation, I consulted with the experts, some friends I know through a now-defunct online book site. The ideas they gave me for Mitchell to use to get the green out made me laugh until I cried.

  I referenced Mitchell's Green Hair once in the blog and a few of you wanted to know what it was all about. So here, in its full glory -- and without you needing to read from the bottom of the page to the top, as you would on the blog -- is the entire Green Hair Week, including the Thursday Thirteen that went along with it.

  Green Hair Week ran from December 3 to December 6, 2006 and for awhile was the set of entries that brought in the most Google searches -- from people searching for remedies for green hair. Wish I could help, but when you see the Thursday Thirteen list of things Mitchell put on his head, you'll probably tell me it's fine if I don't.

  Entries included The Run-up, The Discovery, The Concert, I'm Sure We Can Find Something, Thursday Thirteen: The List, and Drastic Measures. All were posted the week of December 3 through December 9, 2006. What a way to end a year.

  The show was over for the night. They'd kicked ass for a change, so Mitchell hadn't worried much when their tour manager had asked him to make time for a chat after his shower. He'd been expecting to hear that JR, the band's manager, had set them up on a headlining tour at last. Instead, he came back to the dressing room with the next-best news he could think of.

  "Guys, get this," he said with one of those grins that should have told them trouble was ahead. "Charlie just told me that Jim Shields changed the schedule."

  "Again?" Eric groaned. He was bent over, tying his Doc Martens; his voice was muffled.

  "Yeah, but this is good. He wants to take three days off after the Phoenix gig so he can go explore some of the power centers and shit in Sedona. We're his opening act. We get three days off!"

  "Power centers?" Eric arched an eyebrow.

  "I heard his dick could use some energy," Trevor said. He was sprawled on his back, one foot on the floor, the other flung over the back of the couch. Mitchell wasn't entirely certain what he was doing with his hands -- or why there weren't any girls around. They were ShapeShifter; there were always girls around.

  "Three days off," Mitchell said again. "Hello? Three days."

  Daniel grinned at him. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

  It still seemed too good to be true. "A place that's warm enough for an outdoor pool and three days with nothing to do but have some fun? Fuck yeah, I'm thinking what you are!"

  "Outdoor pool?" Trevor asked. He propped himself up on his elbows and gave Mitchell one of those looks that meant he was plotting something.

  Mitchell didn't know he could smile any bigger, but somehow, he did. "I told Charlie to make sure the hotel has all-night lighting out there and the pizza delivery guys will be able to find us. I, for one, am not leaving unless the cops make me. And even then, I'll be back!"

  Daniel laughed. "I'm right there with you, bro."

  "Eric? Trev?" Mitchell looked at them. As if they'd miss this.

  The bigger question was who'd remember it.

  No one noticed it until just before showtime. "Uhh… Mitchell?" Eric asked, standing over the band leader and peering down at his head.

  "What?" Mitchell growled. His hangover was proving more stubborn than he'd anticipated and he'd already chugged the four quarts of orange juice that the band's tour rider specified. A runner had been sent for two more. That meant, he was sure, he'd get halfway through the half-hour set and have to piss. Hopefully, there'd be a bathroom nearby. If not, he'd be decorating the venue.

  Not that he'd never done that before.

  Eric was touching his head, picking at his hair. Angrily, he swatted the lead guitarist away. "What the fuck are you doing?"

  "Your hair." Eric swallowed audibly. Mitchell, through the throbbing head and now the heartburn from all that orange juice, decided to let him say whatever it was that he was scared to. Then he'd kill him.

  "It's … green."

  Mitchell turned away and grabbed the nearest lock of hair. As he held it up, he could see what Eric was talking about -- and the color wasn't as faint as he'd hoped. "Fuck," he groaned, drawing the word out so that it was more a sound than an actual word.

  "Three days in a pool, blondie," Trevor giggled, coming over for a look.

  Mitchell very deliberately placed a fist in Trevor's gut and shoved him away. "Lemon juice," he ordered, looking around. They had some, he was sure of it, because of Daniel's thing for tea.

  The drummer hustled to hand over the little plastic lemon. Mitchell grabbed it and carried it into the bathroom. He leaned over one of the sinks, squirting the juice straight on his head and working it through his hair. Fucking stupid color for hair, he thought as he squirted and rubbed, squirted and rubbed.

  Eric followed and helped. "Dans, send for more when you see a runner!" he called.

  "Just steal some from the crew," Trevor said, a cigarette dangling from his lip. He was leaning against the doorframe, booted feet crossed at the ankles, watching as if this was better than anything he'd ever seen.

  Then again, this being Trevor, it probably was. At least until the next greatest thing came along.

  "Is it working?" Mitchell asked, the fumes making his eyes water. "My neck can't take much more."

  "Uhh… no," Eric said. "And M, I hate to tell you this, but …"

  "Spit it out."

  "It's really green."

  "Holy shit!" Daniel said, coming in the bathroom and poking at Mitchell's hair. "How'd you make it worse?"

  Mitchell jerked up so fast, he cracked his head on the faucet. He let out a wordless yowl and jumped up and down, a hand clapped to the sore spot, until the first jolt of pain faded.

  Daniel patted him on the shoulder as he walked past, hopefully on the trail of more lemon juice. "Better fix it fast," the drummer said.

  Mitchell stared at his reflection. He didn't need to get close to the mirror to see it. Green. His hair was green. He looked like a fucking algae-covered polar bear at the height of summer, except even polar bears had some white left to them. He couldn't say the same. Not really
. Not without exaggerating. Wildly.

  Trevor, bent over at the waist and holding his gut, broke into peals of laughter.

  "Trev, shut the fuck up. You're not helping," Mitchell told him, fighting a wave of panic. They had a show to do…

  "FUCK!" Daniel roared, storming into the bathroom. "Charlie just came in. Dudes, we're on!"

  They froze, giving each other terrified looks. They were about to take the stage, and their frontman, the one person everyone looked at, had very wet long hair. Green hair.

  The hot stage lights would probably only help one of those two problems.

  Mitchell glared at the crowd. "What's the matter with you pussies?" he sneered.

  He could feel the band holding its breath behind him. Like they hadn't expected him to do this.

  "You guys are acting like my head's green or something."

  Trevor cracked up, laughing so hard, he doubled over, his unbuttoned shirt brushing against the strings of his bass so that it, too, had a comment to make.

  The crowd, though, was stunned almost into silence. After a long pause, they roared.

  "That's been taken care of," Mitchell told Eric and hit the opening chord for the next song.

  Mitchell was still waking up on the bus, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and scratching it off his chest, when he staggered into the front lounge.

  Trevor took one look at him and screeched, dropping his cigarette into the ashtray.

  "What the fuck?" Mitchell asked, squinting at his band. He was, like it was any surprise, the last one up. Even Charlie the tour manager was sitting in the front lounge, pretending to read a magazine but actually staring as avidly at Mitchell as the rest of them.

  "Your head," Daniel said, choking on the words.

  Mitchell scrubbed at his beard. He'd been too lazy after the show the night before to shave; he figured that blanket fuzz or pillow feathers were stuck in it. Again.