The couple of casual rehearsals Max had set up prior to Saturday went smoothly enough. The three musicians who had signed to back the new act looked bored and tired, but went through their paces with studied professionalism. Ross Ed played the harmonica a little, joining in as best he could. New songs had been selected from a rotating file, and while he didn’t agree with all the words or sentiments, he wanted to please his sponsors and so did his best to mouth them in what he hoped would be an acceptable manner.
Since his presence wasn’t required for the rehearsals and because everyone concerned wanted to keep the unique nature of the group under wraps until the last possible moment, Jed remained back at Tealeaf’s house. Ross Ed wouldn’t utilize him until the actual performance on Saturday. He didn’t think it would matter. The backup music was so loud and the drummer and lead guitarist so forceful with their own vocals that nobody would be able to hear him anyway.
A couple of songs were dumped and one more added before Tealeaf and Max pronounced themselves satisfied. Showtime Saturday was ten P.M., when the new group Live Texans and Dead Aliens would follow a well-established local band onto the stage.
When they arrived at the club late Saturday afternoon, it proved to be something of a disappointment. The walls were flat, square, and included op-an depictions of everything from passenger pigeons to flying whales to exploding drum sets. Dozens of spotights and smaller bulbs clung to the ceiling like hibernating bats, throwing their light through intervening scrims onto the scarred wood and linoleum floor. Tealeaf thought it was wonderful.
Passing the bouncer, who wasn’t much bigger than Ross Ed, she introduced them to the club manager. He favored Ross with a quick once-over, grunted, and gave them the nickel tour.
With the introductory formalities concluded, Tealeaf took them to dinner at an expensive local restaurant whose portions wouldn’t qualify as appetizers at any truck stop between Fort Stockton and the Louisiana border. A double dessert was all that stood between Ross and outright hunger.
After dinner their hostess took them to a mall to kill the rest of the evening while they waited for showtime. Ross Ed looked on disapprovingly while Caroline made zealous use of Tealeaf’s assortment of credit cards. It was a side of his companion he hadn’t seen before. Maybe he was being too hard on her, he told himself. She’d had nothing when he’d met her. All women, he knew, possessed the sometimes dormant but never missing “S” chromosome to go along with the X and the Y. “S” standing for Shopping, of course.
With the trunk full of frivolous purchases which nevertheless delighted both women, they raced back to Malibu, unloaded, picked up one deceased alien, and returned via Sunset Boulevard to the club.
“I can’t wait.” Though she appeared permanently preoccupied, Tealeaf was an excellent driver. Being a native Angeleno, she’d absorbed the rudiments of driving before she could walk. “You’re going to be great, Ross. You can throw that voice all over the club, bounce it off the walls, make it sound like it’s coming from different members of the audience. This is going to be a huge success, I know it! After the show we’ll fine-tune any problems, and tomorrow we’ll turn the reviewers loose for a look at you.”
“Reviewers?” He turned in the seat to look back at Caroline. “You mean my picture’s going to be in the papers and on TV?”
“If everything goes well. Don’t worry. Making you and Jed public figures will fix it so that no government agency will dare snatch you off the streets.”
“What if these reviewer people want to ask questions about
“Not a prob. I have suitable answers already written up. Also the questions. You won’t have to actually converse with anybody.” She reached over and patted his leg. She was a great patter, he’d noticed. “Just hang in there on stage for an hour or so and leave everything else to me. Don’t let the audience get to you. Hollywood crowds are pretty out there. Given your size, I don’t think anyone will try to bother you. If they do, just kick ’em off the stage.”
Caroline leaned forward. “Isn’t that assault?”
“In L.A. we call it performer-audience interaction, sweetie. Trust me, they love it. If you have any personal problems just walk backstage. I’ll be there with refreshments at the ready.”
“Walk backstage?” Ross Ed wasn’t sure he understood the proper procedure. “You mean, while the performance is going on?”
“Sure. Nobody’ll notice. If anything, they’ll applaud louder. You can have a drink, make love, go to the can; whatever you want. The band’ll carry you. That’s the way it works.” She smiled sympathetically. ‘his really is all new to you, isn’t it?”
Feeling slightly inadequate, he looked straight ahead. Sunset Boulevard came at him in a blur of headlights and expensive homes. “It’s real different from the oil business or tending bar, that’s for sure.”
Club roadies were removing the first group’s instruments from the stage and setting up for the next set Meanwhile Ross Ed, Caroline, Tealeaf, and the members of the band waited backstage. Hearing the crowd milling noisily around out front, Ross started to grow nervous. What was he doing here, trying to convince hundreds of people he was a musician and stage presence? Playing ventriloquist for the occasional barfly was one thing: singing to a sophisticated big-city audience something else.
“Just relax.” Tealeaf was smiling and reassuring and pretty high on something that didn’t require water for ingestion. “Don’t worry about the crowd. There’s a full house and the floor is packed. Go out there and have fun. Prance around the stage and kick a few people in the teeth.”
He looked solemnly down at her. “I can’t do that, Tealeaf. I was raised proper.”
She waved it off. “Well then, spit on them, or something. You don’t want to disappoint your fans, do you?”
His eyebrows lifted. “I have fans? I haven’t done anything yet.”
“What do you think publicity’s for, sweetie?” She grinned through her pharmacologically induced haze.
“Let’s do it, man.” Roger, the lead guitarist, clapped Ross Ed on the back and headed for his waiting instruments. Roger was from Blackpml, in England, and most of what he said was quite incomprehensible. He made an ideal backup singer.
The rest of the band followed, settling themselves into position. His mane of black hair reaching below his shoulders and covering his eyes like a sheepdog’s, the drummer donned a grotesque latex alien mask, all rubber drool and painted-on blood. Live Texans and Dead Aliens had been airbrushed onto the big drum in front of him, the letters green and pustulant. A few amputated rubber tentacles dangled from mike stands. Downcast, Ross pointed it all out to Tealeaf.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, “but it was the best we could do on such short notice. Once we set up a tour we’ll have a regular special-effects team.” It wasn’t what he was referring to, but given the brief window of opportunity he chose not to comment.
As both guitarists tuned their instruments, the crowd set up a howl out front. It was an appropriate unearthly sound, unlike anything Ross Ed had ever heard before. Caroline wished him luck with a whisper and a kiss.
Resigned, he removed the silent and unprotesting Jed from the venerable backpack and cradled the body in his right arm. The lumpy alien form felt neither lighter not heavier than when he’d first removed it from the depths of its New Mexico mountain cave. How long ago had it been? He couldn’t quite remember.
On the other side of the drop curtain someone screaming loud enough to injure an untrained human throat was making an introduction. Ross Ed thought he heard his name mentioned but he couldn’t be sure. The noise from the band, as his backup swung into action, was acute enough to kill flies.
Up went the curtain and an unseen hand shoved him forward, sending him stumbling out on stage. Apparently this was an accepted mode of entry, because the crowd roared at his appearance. Backed by an incomprehensible rampage of sound, he stared out at the mob. The club was a milling sea of expectant faces, outrageous hair, and enough pierced body parts to do a tribe of nineteenth-century Papuans proud.
The combination of deafening music and braying crowd sounded like a well blowout on hold. He tried to say something to the bass player, without success. The man was wearing industrial-strength earplugs and didn’t acknowledge him. Helpless, he turned to the seething, boiling mass of postpubescent humanity. Tealeaf was right; it was the standard packed-house Hollywood crowd: riot-in-a-box, with applause the coupon on the back.
He wasn’t sure the activity many of them were engaged in could be called dancing. Certainly it was a long way from doing the cotton-eyed Joe. Glancing into the wings he saw Caroline smiling encouragingly and an anxious Tealeaf gesturing for him to do something, anything. Caroline had on a new outfit, he noticed. It looked expensive.
Taking center stage, he pulled out his harmonica and began playing. Though he wondered how they could possibly pick out the homely hum of the harp from the background bellow, the crowd noise immediately ratcheted up a notch.
Something soared past his head to land in the vicinity of the drummer, who kicked it aside without missing a beat. Not especially familiar with feminine hygiene products, Ross Ed was unable to identify it. Without waiting for him, the band launched into another song. Though he didn’t know it, it was actually quieter on stage than out front beneath the towering obelisks of gigantic black speakers. Occasionally a member or two of the audience would pause to caress the speakers in a pantomime reminiscent of a particularly famous scene from a well-known movie.
Ross Ed thought about trying the harmonica again. Instead, he found himself looking down at Jed. How anyone could hear anything he said in his alien voice he couldn’t imagine, but Tealeaf was waving frantically and pointing at the crowd. Caroline smiled encouragingly, fingering the new necklace that adorned her neck.
He couldn’t just sit there, he knew. Settling Jed on his knee, he did his best to improvise.
Something must have engaged because the suit began to glow. This time the light was pale green. Axing away, the lead guitarist grinned at him. Ross found himself mumbling the words to a favorite old song. Results were immediate.
The hundred or so kids who found themselves actually dancing on the ceiling didn’t miss a step, but it did slow the band for a minute. Mattress the drummer kept pounding out the backbeat rhythm, however, and the two astonished guitarists soon picked up where they’d left off.
As for the dancers, they weren’t fazed in the slightest. Progeny of a technologically sophisticated society, they embraced the inversion of natural law as readily as they would a new ride at Disneyland, to which the more thoughtful members of the mob were already comparing the experience.
