Beast Of The Heartland And Other Stories Part 7

Where the h.e.l.l was she?

She usually gave him time alone after a show to write his column. Went and had a drink with friends.

Three hours, though.

Maybe she'd found a special friend. Maybe that was the reason she had missed the show tonight. If that was the case, she'd been with the b.a.s.t.a.r.d for... what? Almost seven hours now. s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g her brains out in some midtown hotel.

b.i.t.c.h! He'd settle her hash when she got home.

Whoa, big fella, he said to himself. Get real. Rachel would be much cooler than that... make that, had been much cooler. Her affairs were state-of-the-art, so quietly and elegantly handled that he had been able to perfect denial. This wasn't her style. And even if she were to throw it in his face, he wouldn't do a thing to her. Oh, he'd want to; he'd want to bash her G.o.dd.a.m.ned head in. But he would just sit there and smile and buy her bulls.h.i.+t explanation.

Love, he guessed you'd call it, the kind of love that will accept any insult, any injury... though it might be more accurate to call it p.u.s.s.ywhipped. There were times he didn't think he could take it anymore, times -- like now -- when his head felt full of lightning, on the verge of exploding and setting everything around him on fire. But he always managed to contain his anger and swallow his pride, to grin and bear it, to settle for the specious currency of her lovemaking, the price she paid to live high and do what she wanted.

Jesus, he felt strange. Too many pops at the Vanguard, that was likely the problem. But maybe he was coming down with something. He laughed.

Like maybe middle age? Like the married-to-a-chick-fifteen-years-younger-paranoid flu?

Still, he had felt better in his time. No real symptoms, just out of sorts, sluggish, dulled, some trouble concentrating.

Finish the column, he said to himself; just finish the d.a.m.n thing, take two aspirin, and fall out. Deal with Rachel in the morning.

Right.

Deal with her.

Bring her breakfast in bed, ask how she was feeling, and what was she doing later?

G.o.d, he loved her!

Loves her not. Loves. Loves her not.

He tore off a last mental petal and tossed the stem away. Then he returned to the desk and typed a few lines about the music onto the computer and sat considering the screen. After a moment he began to type again.

"Plenty of blind men have played the Vanguard, and plenty of men have played there who've had other reasons to hide their eyes, working behind some miracle of modern chemistry that made them sensitive to light. I've never wanted to see their eyes -- the fact that they were hidden told me all I needed to know about them. But tonight I wanted to see, I wanted to know what the quartet was seeing, what lay behind those sungla.s.ses starred from the white spot. Shadows, it's said. But what sort of shadows? Shades of gray, like dogs see? Are we shadows to them, or do they see shadows where we see none? I thought if I could look into their eyes, I'd understand what caused the alto to sound like a reedy alarm being given against a crawl of background radiation, why one moment it conjured images of static red flashes amid black mountains moving, and the next brought to mind a livid blue streak pulsing in a serene darkness, a mineral moon in a granite sky.

"Despite the compelling quality of the music, I couldn't set aside my curiosity and simply listen. What was I listening to, after all? A clever parlor trick? Sleight of hand on a metaphysical level? Were these guys really playing Death's Top Forty, or had Mr. William Dexter managed to chump the whole world and program four stiffs to make certain muscular reactions to subliminal stimuli?"

The funny thing was, Goodrick thought, now he couldn't stop listening to the d.a.m.n music. In fact, certain phrases were becoming so insistent, circling round and round inside his head, he was having difficulty thinking rationally.

He switched the radio on, wanting to hear something else, to get a perspective on the column.

No chance.

Afterlife was playing on the radio, too.

He was stunned, imagining some bizarre Twilight Zone circ.u.mstance, but then realized that the radio was tuned to WBAI. They must be replaying the simulcast. Pretty unusual for them to devote so much air to one story. Still, it wasn't every day the dead came back to life and played song stylings for your listening pleasure.

He recognized the pa.s.sage. They must have just started the replay. s.h.i.+t, the boys hadn't even gotten warmed up yet.

Heh, heh.

He followed the serpentine track of the alto cutting across the rumble and clutter of the chords and fills behind it, a bright ribbon of sound etched through thunder and power and darkness.

A moment later he looked at the clock and was startled to discover that the moment had lasted twenty minutes.

Well, so he was a little s.p.a.ced; so what? He was ent.i.tled. He'd had a hard wife... life. Wife. The knifing word he'd wed, the dull flesh, the syrupy blood, the pouty b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the painted face he'd thought was pretty. The dead music woman, the woman whose voice caused cancer, whose kisses left damp mildewed stains, whose...

His heart beat flabbily, his hands were cramped, his fingertips were numb, and his thoughts were awhining, glowing crack opening in a smoky sky like slow lightning. Feeling a dark red emotion too contemplative to be anger, he typed a single paragraph and then stopped to read what he had written.

"The thing about this music is, it just feels right. It's not art, it's not beauty; it's a meter reading on the state of the soul, of the world. It's the bottom line of all time, a registering of creepy fundamentals, the rendering into music of the crummiest truth, the statement of some meager final tolerance, a universal alpha wave. G.o.d's EKG, the least possible music, the absolute minimum of sound, all that's left to say, to be, for them, for us... maybe that's why it feels so d.a.m.n right. It creates an option to suicide, a place where there is no great trouble, only a trickle of blood through stony flesh and the crackle of a base electric message across the brain."

Well, he thought, now there's a waste of a paragraph. Put that into the column, and he'd be looking for work with a weekly shopping guide.

He essayed a laugh and produced a gulping noise. d.a.m.n, he felt lousy.

Not lousy, really, just... just sort of nothing. Like there was nothing in his head except the music.

Music and black dead air. Dead life.

Dead love. He typed a few more lines.

"Maybe Dexter was right, maybe this music will change your life. It sure as h.e.l.l seems to have changed mine. I feel like s.h.i.+t, my lady's out with some dirtball lowlife, and all I can muster by way of a reaction is mild pique. I mean, maybe the effect of Afterlife's music is to reduce the emotional volatility of our kind, to diminish us to the level of the stiffs who play it. That might explain Dexter's peace-and-love rap. People who feel like I do wouldn't have the energy for war, for polluting, for much of anything.

They'd probably sit around most of the time, trying to think something, hoping for food to walk in the door..."

Jesus, what if the music actually did buzz you like that? Tripped some chemical switch and slowly shut you down, brain cell by brain cell, until you were about three degrees below normal and as lively as a hibernating bear. What if that were true, and right this second it was being broadcast all over h.e.l.l on WBAI? This is crazy, man, he told himself, this is truly whacko.

But what if Dexter's hearing aids had been ear plugs, what if the son of a b.i.t.c.h hadn't listened to the music himself? What if he knew how the music would affect the audience, what if he was after turning half of everybody into zombies all in the name of a better world? And what would be so wrong with that?

Not a thing. Cleaner air, less war, more food to go around... just stack the dim bulbs in warehouses and let them vegetate, while everyone else cleaned up the mess.

Not a thing wrong with it... as long as you weren't in the half that had listened to the music.

The light was beginning to hurt his eyes. He switched off the lamp and sat in the darkness, staring at the glowing screen. He glanced out the window. Since last he'd looked, it appeared that about three-quarters of the lights in the adjoining buildings had been darkened, making it appear that the remaining lights were some sort of weird code, spelling out a message of golden squares against a black page. He had a crawly feeling along his spine, imagining thousands of other Manhattan nighthawks growing slow and cold and sensitive to light, sitting in their dark rooms, while a whining alto serpent stung them in the brain.

The idea was ludicrous -- Dexter had just been shooting off his mouth, firing off more white liberal bulls.h.i.+t. Still, Goodrick didn't feel much like laughing.

Maybe, he thought, he should call the police... call someone.

But then he'd have to get up, dial the phone, talk, and it was so much more pleasant just to sit here and listen to the background static of the universe, to the sad song of a next-to-nothing life.

He remembered how peaceful Afterlife had been, the piano man's pale hands flowing over the keys, like white animals gliding, making a rippling track, and the horn man's eyes rolled up, showing all white under the sungla.s.ses, turned inward toward some pacific vision, and the ba.s.s man, fingers blurring on the strings, but his head fallen back, gaping, his eyes on the ceiling, as if keeping track of the stars.

This was really happening, he thought; he believed it, yet he couldn't rouse himself to panic. His hands flexed on the arms of the chair, and he swallowed, and he listened. More lights were switched off in theadjoining towers. This was really f.u.c.king happening... and he wasn't afraid. As a matter of fact, he was beginning to enjoy the feeling. Like a little vacation. Just turn down the volume and response, sit back and let the ol' brain start to mellow like aging cheese.

Wonder what Rachel would say?

Why, she'd be delighted! She hadn't heard the music, after all, and she'd be happy as a G.o.dd.a.m.n clam to be one of the quick, to have him sit there and fester while she brought over strangers and let them pork her on the living room carpet. I mean, he wouldn't have any objection, right? Maybe dead guys liked to watch. Maybe... His hands started itching, smudged with city dirt. He decided that he had to wash them.

With a mighty effort, feeling like he weighed five hundred pounds, he heaved up to his feet and shuffled toward the bathroom. It took him what seemed a couple of minutes to reach it, to fumble for the wall switch and flick it on. The light almost blinded him, and he reeled back against the wall, shading his eyes. Glints and gleams shattering off porcelain, chrome fixtures, and tiles, a shrapnel of light blowing toward his retinas. "Aw, Jesus," he said. "Jesus!" Then he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Pasty skin, liverish, too-red lips, bruised-looking circles around his eyes. Mr. Zombie.

He managed to look away.

He turned on the faucet. Music ran out along with the bright water, and when he stuck his hands under the flow, he couldn't feel the cold water, just the gloomy notation spidering across his skin.

He jerked his hands back and stared at them, watched them dripping glittering bits of alto and drum, ba.s.s and piano. After a moment he switched off the light and stood in the cool, blessed dark, listening to the alto playing in the distance, luring his thoughts down and down into a golden crooked tunnel leading nowhere.

One thing he had to admit: Having your vitality turned down to the bottom notch gave you perspective on the whole vital world. Take Rachel, now. She'd come in any minute, all bright and smiling, switching her a.s.s, she'd toss her purse and coat somewhere, give him a perky kiss, ask how the column was going... and all the while her s.e.xual engine would be cooling, ticking away the last degrees of heat like how a car engine ticks in the silence of a garage, some vile juice leaking from her. He could see it clearly, the entire spectrum of her deceit, see it without feeling either helpless rage or frustration, but rather registering it as an untenable state of affairs. Something would have to be done. That was obvious. It was surprising he'd never come to that conclusion before... or maybe not so surprising. He'd been too agitated, too emotional. Now... now change was possible. He would have to talk to Rachel, to work things out differently. Actually, he thought, a talk wouldn't be necessary. Just a little listening experience, and she'd get with the program.

He hated to leave the soothing darkness of the bathroom, but he felt he should finish the column... just to tie up loose ends. He went back into the living room and sat in front of the computer. WBAI had finished replaying the simulcast. He must have been in the john a long time. He switched off the radio so he could hear the music in his head.

"I'm sitting here listening to a little night music, a reedy little whisper of melody leaking out a crack in death's door, and you know, even though I can't hear or think of much of anything except that s.h.i.+very sliver of sound, it's become more a virtue than a hindrance; it's beginning to order the world in an entirely new way. I don't have to explain it to those of you who are hearing it with me, but the rest of you, let me shed some light on the experience. One sees... clearly, I suppose, is the word, yet that doesn't cover it.

One is freed from the tangles of inhibition, volatile emotion, and thus can perceive how easy it is to change one's life, and finally, one understands that with a very few changes one can achieve a state of calm perfection. A snip here, a tuck taken there, another snip-snip, and suddenly it becomes apparent that there is nothing left to do, absolutely nothing, and one has achieved utter harmony with one's environment."

The screen was glowing too brightly to look at. Goodrick dimmed it. Even the darkness, he realized, had its own peculiar radiance. B-zarre. He drew a deep breath... or rather tried to, but his chest didn't move. Cool, he thought, very cool. No moving parts. Just solid calm, white, white calm in a black, blacksh.e.l.l, and a little bit of fixing up remaining to do. He was almost there. Wherever there was.

A cool alto trickle of pleasure through the rumble of nights.

"I cannot recommend the experience too highly. After all, there's almost no overhead, no troublesome desires, no ugly moods, no loathsome habits..."

A click -- the front door opening, a sound that seemed to increase the brightness in the room.

Footsteps, and then Rachel's voice.

"Wade?"

He could feel her. Hot, sticky, soft. He could feel the suety weights of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the torsion of her hips, the flexing of live sinews, like music of a kind, a lewd concerto of vitality and deceit.

"There you are!" she said brightly, a streak of hot sound, and came up behind him. She leaned down, hands on his shoulders, and kissed his cheek, a serpent of brown hair coiling across his neck and onto his chest.

"How's the column going?" she asked, moving away.

He cut his eyes toward her. That teardrop a.s.s sheathed in silk, that mind like a sewer running with black bile, that heart like a pound of red-raw poisoned hamburger. Those cute little puppies bounding along in front.

The fevered temperature of her soiled flesh brightened everything. Even the air was s.h.i.+ning. The shadows were black glares.

"Fine," he said. "Almost finished."

"...only infinite slow minutes, slow thoughts like curls of smoke, only time, only a flicker of presence, only perfect music that does not exist like smoke..."

"So how was the Vanguard?"

He chuckled. "Didn't you catch it on the radio?"

A pause. "No, I was busy."

Busy, uh-huh. Hips thrusting up from a rumpled sheet, sleek with sweat, mouth full of tongue, b.r.e.a.s.t.s rolling fatty, big a.s.s flattening.

"It was good for me," he said.

A nervous giggle.

"Very good," he said. "The best."

He examined his feelings. All in order, all under control... what there was of them. A few splinters of despair, a fragment of anger, some shards of love. Not enough to matter, not enough to impair judgment.

"Are you okay? You sound funny."

"I'm fine," he said, feeling a creepy, secretive tingle of delight. "Want to hear the Vanguard set? I taped it."

"Sure... but aren't you sleepy? I can hear it tomorrow."

"I'm fine."

He switched on the recorder. The computer screen was blazing like a white sun.

"...the crackling of a black storm, the red thread of a fire on a distant ridge, the whole world irradicated by a mystic vibration, the quickened inches of the flesh becoming cool and easy, the White Nile of the calmed mind flowing everywhere..."

"Like it?" he asked. She had walked over to the window and was standing facing it, gazing out at the city.

"It's... curious," she said. "I don't know if I like it, but it's effective."

Was that a hint of entranced dullness in her voice? Or was it merely distraction? Open those ears wide, baby, and let that ol' black magic take over.

"...just listen, just let it flow in, let it fill the empty s.p.a.ces in your brain with muttering, cluttering ba.s.sy blunders and a crooked wire of bra.s.sy red snake fluid, let it cozy around and coil up inside your skull..."

The column just couldn't hold his interest. Who the h.e.l.l was going to read it anyway? His place was with Rachel, helping her through the rough spots of the transition, the confusion, the unsettled feelings.

With difficulty, he got to his feet and walked over to Rachel. Put his hands on her hips. She tensed, thenrelaxed against him. Then she tensed again. He looked out over the top of her head at Manhattan. Only a few lights showing. The message growing simpler. Dot, dot, dot. Stop. Dot, dot. Stop.

Stop.

"Can we talk, Wade?"

"Listen to the music, baby."

"No... really. We have to talk!"

She tried to pull away from him, but he held her, his fingers hooked on her hipbones.

"It'll keep 'til morning," he said.

"I don't think so." She turned to face him, fixed him with her intricate green eyes. "I've been putting this off too long already." Her mouth opened, as if she were going to speak, but then she looked away.

"I'm so sorry," she said after a considerable pause.

He knew what was coming, and he didn't want to hear it. Couldn't she just wait? In a few minutes she'd begin to understand, to know what he knew. Christ, couldn't she wait?