Jeff is lying in bed in a business
suit in this suite in the Marriott from Hell. Fully clothed, except for the
lack of shoes and socks. The lights are on, but he’s out. A girl giggles in the
next room, keeps doing it, trilling up and down the giggle scales, eventually
pulling Jeff up to the threshold of waking consciousness. His eyes do the REM
thing. Jeff’s eyes in Jeff’s head and Jeff’s watching. How, exactly? As logic holes go, it’s a sucking chest wound. Jeff
notices it.
That’s
me. Wearing a suit? I’m … Shit. I’m looking down at myself from the ceiling.
Looking down at my own eyes? How …
At which point, Jeff opens his eyes.
And sits up in bed.
Looks around. Generic hotel room, as
noted. Bad.
I
didn’t check into this hotel room.
Yeah. Bad. Grabs his … lapels?
I
don’t wear suits, either.
Calculated insult. Very bad.
A young girl’s voice, lilting behind
the wall.
“Hello?”
No
answer. OK.
Bad. bad, bad.
Jeff lies back down. Studies the
popcorn ceiling for a very long time. A rational response, given the irrational
circumstances. Said circumstances being, potentially, exceedingly bad. Dante’s Inferno bad.
By way of explanation, Jeff is a music
critic. Global bigmouth on that node all the kids like. Out of pigheaded
principle or death wish, he speaks his mind. Give me your honest opinion, Jeff. Like an idiot, he does. Happy
words, occasionally. Sad, angry words usually. Those unhappy words cost
various, powerful iProp holders money. In the vid they'll eventually make of Jeff’s life, they’re the
Bad Guys. And they’re very pissed off. Chances are they’re paying Jeff back.
Chances are, they grabbed him. And stuck him here. Where’s here?
Shitty, bland hotel room. Swirls like
the Cygnus the Swan and Orion on the ceiling. If Jeff was a travel and leisure
critic, he’d give this place a lousy review. So where …
This hotel room could be realspace. Physical.
But Jeff doubts it. It’s too freaking perfect. Mind realm, not physical.
Skullspace.
That’s what it smells like. Yep.
Chances are, Jeff’s body is a
drooling, catatonic wreck, wired up in a black clinic. Jeff’s mind, meanwhile,
is “here,” utterly helpless, in an imaginary realm where his tormentors can
rattle his cage at will, at their mercy, ha-ha-ha. Takes serious resources to
do that. Which the Bad Guys have. Most likely scenario.
But there’s still a slim, remote, infinitesimal
possibility Jeff’s workmates are messing with him. It’s those kooky social
outcasts back at the node, those cut-ups. This
is a joke, see? They’re funning with me. Sure, Jeff.
Might
as well get it over with.
Jeff stops staring at the ceiling. He gets
on his shoeless feet, starts padding around the shiny space, checking it out. That
spatially indeterminate, girlish voice keeps humming. Jeff calls out to her.
“Hello? Come out, come out, where ever
you are.”
Just buying time. Tries the fone,
dead. Tries the front door—the obsidian-black front door, which actually looks like the monolith in 2001. Gropes, gropes. OK. No doorknob. That’s
how cold this is. Not even the casual sadism of a doorknob that doesn’t turn,
or turns and turns. (Doesn’t sound like a
workplace gag, does it?) No. It ain’t the node nerds. It’s the Bad Guys,
definitely. And they’re not playing with him. Jeff’s not worth the trouble. No
suspense, no build up. They cut to the chase, these people. Right up front, the
door tells him he’s stuck, we’ve got you where we want you, this ain’t real.
“Hmmmm. Hmmm.”
What
the hell is she singing?
The reference pops up in Jeff’s musicologist
mind. Alas my love you do me wrong. “Greensleeves.”
Public domain. Henry VIII supposedly. Christians ripped it off with that “What
Child Is This”... Who cares? Focus.
Jeff does another barefoot circuit
around the “hotel room,” finds the sweet songstress not. Finally enters the
oversized bathroom. Looks at the mirror, looks in it. Sees his own reflection.
Pretty much what you expect to see in a mirror. What you don’t expect --
This crazy-eyed teenaged girl standing
next to his reflection. Standing to his right, in mirrorspace. Which means
she’d be …
Looks left. But she’s not there.
Looks back at the mirror.
There she is.
Just
in the mirror. OK.
“Hi.”
“Low.”
She giggles. Jeff shouts, looking for
the hidden cam.
“OK, guys. I don’t wanna play.”
As-in
the guys back at the node. Jeff’s still desperately clinging to the hope that
his pals are pranking him.
Mirror Girl wrinkles her nose.
“He doesn’t want to play.”
“Seriously.”
“OK, Jeff. Seriously.”
Smile. Merciless. Eyes like green whirlpools.
Jeff studies mirror. Sees his
reflection. Sees the smiling greeneyed girl standing next to his reflection, viewer’s
left. Black hair, like the fabric of space. Yeah,
too sexy, too young, too crazy. Just my type. The Bad Guys know what
they’re doing.
“I’m here,” he says.
“You’re there.”
“My reflection is …But you’re …”
Jeff pushes out his left hand. Mirror
Jeff extends his right hand, reaching out to Mirror Girl. But she sidesteps out
of the way.
“OK. It’s pretty clear this is not
really happening.”
“Wow, you’re so smart. It’s like all
in your mind, right?”
Jeff jabs to his left. Mirror Girl
dodges.
“You’re not here. This is either
Wonderland or skullspace.”
“Yeah.
Or I am here—in a camo suit. But the mirror makes me visible.” Little
shake of the hips. Boom boom. “So, this could
be realspace.”
“OK. It could.”
And flying monkeys could emerge from
Jeff’s ass and make all content free. Or she’d give him a straight answer if he
asks her name. He bites his tongue and doesn’t say that. He asks the question
she won’t answer.
“What’s your name?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Who’s behind this?”
“Boring.”
“Oh, do I bore you? Gee I’m really,
really sorry.”
“No, I’m really, really sorry.”
“Where am I?”
“51°25' N, 33°32' E.”
“What’s there?”
“Abandoned missile silo. Medical
stuff. Computers. You.”
“Any other questions?”
What
do you want?
That’s the logical question to ask
her. The bear trap the Bad Guys figure he’ll stick his leg into.
What
do you want?
Jeff’s biting his tongue again. It’s
not his style
He wants to say, “Fuck you. I know how
this works. The Bad Guys got me. The iProp holders I’ve pissed off. They got me
trapped in a dungeon of the mind and they’re ready to rattle my cage. ‘What do
I want?’ That question’s the trigger. You’ll start talking in a weird voice.
“What do we want? What do you think we want, Jeff?” Then I’ll fall to my needs
and start begging and bargaining. Oh
please don’t hurt me. Then you’ll laugh and start hurting me. I’m not
stupid. Fuck you, OK?”
Thank God he didn’t say that. But the
way she’s looking at him, biting her lower lip. Fuck. He did say it.
“The Bad Guys won’t hurt you. Sorry.”
“Oh great. They’re not going to
torture me—and you’re sorry? Why?”
She’s
going to torture you.
“Oh great. Then what …”
“I’m sorry.”
“Let me out. Please?”
“I’m rilly, rilly sorry.”
“Rilly.”
Valley Girl lingo. SoCal, right? Hometown patois. Or she loaded it. You never
know these days. Real, not real.
Jeff isn’t worried about the iProp
holders anymore. He’s worried about. Something familiar about. Her. If he
wasn’t such an idiot, he’d get it.
“I’m sorry!”
She’d been shouting that for awhile.
Jeff drifted off, lost the thread.
“You?”
“Yeah, me. I’m really sorry.”
Sorry.
For dirty deeds done or dirty deeds planned? Rich chick, crazy. Maybe she’s
some sick freak trapped me in skullspace for S&M torture. How do I state
that delicately?
“What is this, some kind of sex
thing?”
“No. And it’s certainly not torture,
bad boy.”
“Who said …”
“You. Not yet.”
She smiles. Those whirlpool eyes.
“Microexpressions. Tongue. T. . roof
of the mouth.”
What
the hell are you?
“Torture, from Latin root, tortu, to twist. No, it’s not like those
cruelfun vids, no. Sorry! Bad girl implying don’t-hurt-me cowardly badness in
you. Fear is a natural response. Badness is me. Yeah, rilly. His heart is
beating too fast, tell him? OK. I’m not going to –”
“Hurt me physically.”
“Physically, metaphysically,
metempsychotically, no. “
This
associational word salad. Something familiar about it. Yeah. She’s one of those
…
The girl giggles and claps her hands.
Schizophrenics.
The new kind. The old kind used to hear voices. The new kind all hear the same
voice.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that.”
Madthings.
Popped up when the gods did.
“What are you thinking?”
I’m
thinking you’re a madthing. I’m thinking I should keep that to myself.
“Stuff.”
“What do you think of me?”
Lie.
Tell ‘em what they want to hear for once.
“I think you’re beautiful, probably
Irish, look to be 19 or so. For all I know you’re a 47 fat guy in his
underwear, but I think you look like you back in realspace. Intelligent, but
…you’re probably out of your fucking mind. One of those Madthings, I’m guessing.
Hear voices. Gods ordering you around.”
Great,
Jeff.
“Do me a favor and cut the shit, OK? Why’d
you bring me here?”
Puzzled look.
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. Look, I already know the
iProp holders didn’t put me here.”
Smile.
“So you put me here.”
Smile fades.
“OK, you’re not alone. It’s not the iProp
guys. Who are you working for?”
She hollers. He’s under the distinct
impression she said “God.”
“’God’…as in ‘God, what a stupid
question.’ Or ‘God,’ as in ‘the Man Upstairs.’
“None of the above. File not found.
Ask again later.”
“You’re a mouthpiece for the gods,
right? One of those things that popped up. Little messenger girl?”
She nods, shyly.
“Why am I here?”
Shrugs.
“They want you here.”
“Why do they want me here?”
“Here, you’re an ear. Here.”
“Clear as mud.”
“Midas had ass’s ears.”
“He did, huh?”
“Yes, no. Mythological figure, Greek.
Midas, the king with the golden touch.”
“How did he go to the bathroom?”
She giggles. Good sign. Or not.
“You know the story.”
“The Midas touch?”
“No. The other story. The song story.”
Jeff thinks. Yeah he knows it.
“King Midas was pals with Pan, the
goat-god with the pipes.”
“Pan was satyr but wiser, ha.”
“Ha-ha. Anyway, Pan challenged Apollo,
the wise-god, with the lyre, to a battle of the bands. Pan played. Apollo
played. Two gods. Three human judges.”
“Apollo was the better lyre.”
Insane bright eyes.
He goes on.
“Yeah. Anyway, King Midas was one of
the judges. Knowing what was good for them, the other judges kissed Apollo’s shiny
ass. “Yeah, you’re the best, man. God of
Light and Music and Poetry. Totally.” These two picked Apollo. Midas, like
the dumbass he was, voted for his pal, Pan. Apollo, despite his reputation for
rationality, rewarded him with donkey’s ears. Midas tried to hide them with a
hat. But only your barber knows for sure, right?”
“The barber knew.”
“The barber knew. What do you know?”
“The barber dug a hole in the ground,”
she says. “He whispered the story. Into the hole.”
“I know. And?”
“The hole filled in. The grasses grew.
And then they spoke. ‘Midas has asss
ears. Midas has ass’s ears.’ The grasses told on Midas.”
“To the wind. I know.”
“The wind whispered and whispered it.”
She’s
going someplace with this. It’s creeping him out.
“I know. Cute story. The talking wind.”
And he hears the fucking wind.
Talking.
No.
Music
through the walls.
She’s crying. Jeff sees her reflected
in the dead TV, her eyes welling up with tears. He knows where the tears come
from, the poisoned spring at the bottom of the well in her eyes. This chick feels
guilty. About what? What she’s going
to tell him? What she’s going to show him? What? He’s curious, can’t deny that.
But the I-don’t-want-to-die faction of his brain definitely outvotes the
curiosity. He’s keeping his mouth shut and staying right here.
And he’s walking down the hallway.
That damn monolith door is behind him, closing shut. He can see her walking
next to him in the hallway mirrors. Faint music playing from somewhere.
“What do you want?”
“Who are you?”
“Who …? I’m a music critic. What …”
He figures it out.
“You’ve got to hear the music,” she says.
They’re standing in front of the
elevator. The elevator door opens. Music pumping in louder. He can hear it, all
right.
“This is as far as I go, kid.”
Now they’re in the elevator. Going
down. He can see her in the shiny steel door. The freaking music is making his
ears bleed. Aside from looking sad, it doesn’t seem to bother her.
“Let me explain something to you. This
god music, whatever it is? I don’t want to hear it.”
“You’ve got to hear it.”
“No I don’t. Why don’t you hear it?”
“I can’t hear it,” she says.
“Can’t. As-in won’t.”
“Can’t as-in me. Brain. Wiring. Sorry.”
“You literally can’t hear it?”
“No. Madthing, I. Hear the godvoices.
The music? Mad all the way.”
“That’s why you’re in the mirror.”
“Battleship. Sunk.”
“That’s great, kid. You can’t hear the
music. I get it. Well, I can’t either, OK? No freaking way. Like it or not, I’m
staying in this elevator.”
He gets one last glimpse of her sad
face in the steel doors. Then they open.
And he walks out of the elevator.
Into a hotel lobby, completely
deserted. Throbbing music from somewhere, louder now. Jeff follows the bass
heartbeat. Trying not to, but his legs aren’t taking orders right now. Keeps
walking towards that music. Sees an open stairwell, red. Sign on a stand in
front of it. BAR. Arrow pointing down.
Jeff goes down the stairs,
Emerges in a basement bar.
Seedy, low-rent. Sprayed-black
urethane ceiling. Stage with musical instruments. Vintage speakers and gear. No
band, so recorded music. Two old-school microphones. The music cuts off. Spot
hits the stage.
Two shining beings emerge from the
blackness, walk up to the microphones. Each takes one. Stands there. Just the
two of them.
Chiseled features, perfect hair.
Ridiculous muscles, perfect teeth.
Two rock gods, for want of a better
term
Or, just plain gods.
One is Apollo, one is Pan. That’s
obvious. But Jeff has no idea who’s who. No obvious clues like God #A is
holding a flute, God #B is holding a lyre. No. Just those mics, yeah. This is going to be a sing-off. And I’m …
The sound system booms. DJ voice.
“Jeff! Thanks for coming, my man—and
what an honor and privilege it is. Your reputation for honesty proceeds you!”
Precedes,
dumbass.
“Well, OK, looks like the gang’s all
here. OK, I guess it’s that time. Hey, Jeff
if you could please the seat of honor, we’d all like to get started.”
Spotlight reveals a seat at a table
dead center, not too close to the stage, not too far. Good acoustic separation,
yeah. Red table cloth. Little foldy thing on top. RESERVED FOR JUDGE.
If
I guess wrong, I’m going to wind up with donkey’s ears or turned inside-out and
buried alive in a cornfield.
Some freaking honor.
“OK, Jeff. First contestant, chosen at
random…”
The spotlight turns to the god at
stage left.
“Just give us your honest opinion, Jeff,
that’s all we ask.”
He smiles.
Kiss
my ass. That’s all I ask.
A B# chord plays from the
speakers.
The rhythm line cuts in like a
jackhammer.
And the god begins to sing.
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