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zzambrosius_02
The rest of April passed, for Ambros, in what had become his “normal”: a blur of small but important tasks and instantaneous voyages to diverse places. He did more of the ‘Assemblyist Missionary’ visits every few days, pressing the Wobblies to find him targets. He lost track of how many he’d done.
Sometimes he came home from those trips hopeful, other times downcast and angry.
Around Tax Day he briefed the ‘highest Status’ Warriors from twenty Allied Lines on “what to expect when the coming multi-Timeline Incursion begins.”
“At least that bunch didn’t disbelieve me, or doubt my predictions,” he said to Luisa and Marie.
His weapons skills improved, to the point that he had a hard time recalling all of the lessons he'd learned: ‘Those techniques are now, each and all, part of my “style”. New stuff grows from the old, almost without me thinking about it.’
As his training advanced, his body changed, so subtly that he hardly noticed for a long time.
After a particularly grueling session with Arrenji, he went to shower in the Command Complex, instaed of at the City Baths. He caught a glimpse of himself, nude, in the wall-sized mirror. He stared for a moment.
‘I’ve lost body fat and gained muscle,’ he realized: ‘I have a very “lean and hungry” look to me now...scary.’
He had to admit to himself that he didn’t just appear to be much more dangerous than he’d ever before been:
‘I am more dangerous,’ he mused: ‘In knowedge, in relaxation, in my ability to reach a “flow state”, in striking power, in firearms handling....
‘I’m as good as Voukli,’ he admitted to himself: ‘...and I give Arrenji a real challenge when we fight all-out.’
It struck him forcefully that he was primed and ready for the struggle he expected to begin any day: ‘Maybe I’ve reached this point just in time,’ he thought. He remembered what he’d quoted to the Squid in his hallucination: ‘Everything begins and ends at exactly the right place and time.’
He nodded: ‘Maybe so. But in that case I have some major projects to complete...’
On the 20thof April he rose at dawn. He dropped into the War Room after breakfast. He went to one of the “stat-tac” room and accessed the largest tank available. Averos met him there.
Ambros spoke to his friend, saying: “For two seasons I have been collecting holo-videos of myself executing specific techniques at full speed. Now I’m gonna make a hyper-text holo-video essay showing my fighting style. I’ll link each technique to the techniques that naturally flow from them, show that flow on video, and build a text index of the attacks and defenses. And I’ll show how drills turn into techniques, and vice-versa. I have all the holos I need, and some of the structure built...if I finish this today and publish it on the Kyklo, it’ll be a big thing off my mind.”
Averos nodded: “I can help you with the technical aspects of this project.”
“I’d appreciate that very much. It’s short notice, I realize...”
Averos gave his version of a crooked SB grin and said: “This is my job, as much as anything else is.”
They set to work.
When they finished, Ambros rested his hands and forehead against the transparent aluminum casing of the holo-tank and closed his weary eyes.
Averos sat upright in a chair, hands on his thighs: “That is a fine accomplishment. After watching that come together...I almost feel like I could fight and not embarrass myself, and I’ve not held a reedsword since I was ten years old.”
Ambros drew a breath. At length he said: “Yeah. A bunch of stuff is a lot clearer to me now.”
“A Satori about swordplay, at this stage of your development?”
“Yeah.” Ambros smiled a slow sad smile: “Pity the ATL soldier who comes against me with an APS.”
“Pity such?” Averos frowned.
“Yes,” said Ambros, nodding: “I do.”
Ambros slept in till almost noon on April 30th. Once on his feet he set to work: ‘I want to get some yard work done before the concert tonight.’
He dressed in work clothes and ate a bite, slurping tea as he looked over the back garden: “There are still hunks of wood from pruning the walnut trees, all over the place,” he grumbled: “I’d better start with that.”
He’d been thinking earlier, as he lay in bed between bouts of sleep, about his session with Arrenji in Japan. To his surprise, the things she’d said that night had resolved several of his dilemmas: ‘For one thing, I see how the death of Angela D’Angelo was not my fault, though I certainly killed her. I won’t forget what I did, but I see now that I couldn’t have kept it from happening. I mean, I could now because I learned something from the experience...but that fucking drug she was on...’
He also saw how his self-importance had made him blame himself for things he’d had no control over: ‘I didn’t drink Mark to death; I didn’t attack a Commonwealth operative in the Swamp. I didn’t...yeah, so on and so on. I knew those things in my mind but now I know them in my gut, and it’s all because of Arrenji. She knows how to say exacty the right thing at the precise correct time...She’s a true mentor.’
He dragged a couple of the larger hunks of trunk over to one side, disposing them as barriers, marking the edge of the overgrown meadow that was the “back yard”.
He spoke aloud, to himself: “To think of Arrenji as a Warrior Sensei is actually to underestimate her seriously. And I’ve been doing that, all unconsciously.”
He found a garden cart, somewhat the worse for sitting out in the rain all winter. ‘I should make sure this thing gets under a roof in the fall.’
He said out loud: “And Arrenji saying that Commonwealthers are ‘fortunate’ to be free of programming...yeah, but that’s deceptive...kind of. I mean, sure the early Commonwealthers set up a very advanced system of economics, politics, and culture. But every generation since has advanced that project. They worked to keep the Revolution going...educated their children and themselves to carry it forward.”
He lifted and trundled all over the front and back yards, picking up pieces ranging from two to six feet long. When he’d piled them up by the woodbox, he stopped to consider.
“Yeah, let’s cut this up to firewood lengths, we’ll use it at the SCA event at the end of May...’ He deliberately did not think about the possibility that the shit might hit the fan before May was out: “Burn that bridge when we get to it...”
‘Skavo is not happy with me, right now. It’s hard to believe se ever wanted my body, but that’s the nature of Magistro Skavo. Se’s been really icy with me since se cottoned on to the nature of the plans that Sacred Band—well, parts of Sacred Band, esp[ecially Arrenji and I—have been making. I don’t think anyone told her, but our preparations are clear to someone with that much knowledge of Timeline defense...’
He got out the chain saw and did some necessary maintenance on it.
‘Yeah, Skavo was pissed.’ He smiled wanly: ‘Even se had to admit that the “Decapitate the Enemy State” idea is gonna lead to a lot less bloodshed than a straight-up fight. At least in theory. And se has no answer for “What should we do instead?”
When the walnut logs had been cut and stored, he set to work with pruners and loppers. When he got to the southeast corner of the property, he sat down and began to weed the beds: “The clover I planted is taking over from the grass, but I want to keep it out of the shrubberies if I can find time.”
He thought then about his most recent discussions with Averos, about the crazy notions he’d gotten during his last stint on the Main Control Board, and the strange connections he’d made as he ‘wrote’ his holographic sword manual. Averos had been unable to help him much, beyond assuring him that his nuttier conclusions were not entirely wrong.
His MPS warned him of the time: “Six PM,” he grunted: “Better start to get ready.”
Kim came out the kitchen door, calling him to supper.
He showered and shaved, sculpting his beard with extra care. When he sat down to stew and rice, the women teased him a bit:
“My, you are trimmed up,” said Marie: “Got a hot date?”
They all laughed. He grinned: “You know very well that I do.”
“She must be a big deal,” said Kim.
“Well, it isn’t every day a guy gets a date with a rockstar,” said Luisa.
“Hardly a star,” he demurred.
Marie said: “Really? I looked her up. She had a song on the Billboard charts for a week or so last year.”
“Huh,” said Ambros: “I am interested in her because I’m interested. She made the first pass, and she’s continued to lobby for this date, which relieves me of any doubt. But I don’t listen to Top Forty radio.”
“Well, I’m interested in her too,” said Kim: “And I do listen to the radio. I think you’ll be surprised when you hear her sing.”
Ambros nodded: “Considering that she is opening for Mr James? Entirely possible.
“That works,” she said.
Ambros maneuvered the house pickup through the streets of downtown Salem, Oregon.
“Never visited this town before,” he muttered: “My drone fleet gave me a good idea where everything is, but it looks way different from ground level.”
He found a parking place on a street not far from the concert venue. “After six, parking is free...”
He locked up: ‘Not that it’s possible to steal this rig, but let’s be safe, anyway.’
A brisk three-block walk got him to the venue. The reader board said: “April 30: Albert James and his Famous Flames!”
Ambros strolled along the line that wound its way around the corner: ‘Goes around the next corner, too.’
He approached the front; a security guard put a hand out, barring his way: “I’m sorry sir, but...”
Ambros reached into his pocket and presented the guy with his pass: “Mr James gave me this...” James’ rather flamboyant signature covered one side of the card; the other had Ambros’ name and signature,
The guard’s eyebrows rose. He said: “May I see some ID, please?” After examining that, he said: “Yes, sir, you go right on in; keep the pass with you at all times when you are backstage.”
“I certainly will.”
The guard tapped a button on the turnstile and it let Ambros through. He’d brought a safety pin, which he used to pin his backstage pass to his vest. The techies and riggers ignored him; the security folks mostly spotted his pass before they could question his presence.
Huge banks of speakers flanked the stage and amps stood all along the riser at the back. The ‘orchestra’ area occupied one side of the riser and the drums and guitars and the bass the other. He felt a wistful nostalgia for his days as a roadie/sometime musician. He wallowed in that, enjoying the absurdity, then laughed at himself: ‘There was a good reason you quit that gig. Tina and young Andrea hated the life, and the music business...’ He nodded: ‘...so corrupt. So, so drugged up and fucked up. ’
There’d been moments, though.
Someone approached him from behind; he turned and saw Jannet. They grinned at one another, stupidly happy; she hugged him, hard, then kissed him lightly and took his arm.
He stood there staring at the stage.
She bumped her substantial hips against him and said: “Memories?”
“Yeah. I played that exact drum kit one night for a show. Mostly I carried it around, set it up, played for the sound checks. But that one night...Johnny still in the band?”
“No. The kit belongs to Mr James.”
“Oh.”
“New drummer’s name is Jacob. C’mon, I’ll introduce you...”
“Well...”
“C’mon, it’ll be okay. Jacob is chill.”
She led him up some steps by the curtain and around the back of the setup. A young fellow in chinos and a sweatshirt, sporting dreadlocks and a beret, was drumming on a set of practice pads, running through multiple changes on the rudiments.
Ambros grinned: “Impressive.”
“Yeah, he can play.”
The fellow looked up: “Hey Jannet. ’Sup?”
“This is Ambros, I was wondering...”
“Yo, dude, Mr James told me all ‘bout you. You from way back in the day, huh?”
“Well, I was mostly a roadie...sound checks and all...”
“Yeah, sure, I know. Boss got you a front row seat, man. You be ready, okay?”
“What?”
“Just be ready, that’s all.”
“Shit,” said Ambros.
“What’s wrong?” Jannet looked amused.
“I know what that old man’s gonna do, I just know it...Jacob, you got some extra sticks I could borrow? I like ’em heavy...”
“Sure, man, keep ’em.” Jacob picked out a pair and Ambros stood there and flammed and rolled and paradiddled for a minute. He shook his head, laughing at himself: “At least my wrists remember this stuff.”
Jacob just laughed and went back to his practice.
Jannet took his arm again and said: “You should pay your respects.”
“Just what I was thinking...”
She led him through a hallway packed with roadies and groupies and hangers-on. A guard stood at the end; he smiled at her and gestured them by.
A door at the end of the hallway bore a gold star, with ‘Mr James’ embossed on it. She tapped on the door.
“C’mon in. I’m decent.”
They entered a large dressing room and saw Mr James. He wore a robe and slippers. He spotted the drumsticks protruding from Ambros’ pocket.
James laughed: “I see you met Jacob...”
Ambros embraced the old man: “I ain’t played drums for twenty years. If I thought there was any hope of changing your mind, I’d argue with you. It’s your show, though.”
“Yeah, it is,” the old man cackled: “I’ll make it easy on you. Don’t worry!”
“Okay I won’t. No sense to worry anyway. It’s inevitable.”
“You could run away, now. I hope ya don’t...’
“Nah, I wanna see this show. Old times.”
“Good!”
They chatted for a while about those ‘old times’. Jannet listened eagerly to Mr James’ stories.
“I remember that time you got sick...Aretha was in town...Billy sang at the Apollo...Bootsy funked that one up but good...Frank could be a real asshole...”
Her phone chimed at her: “Time for my sound check...you stay here sweetie...I want you to hear me for the first time when it’s real...”
She sashayed out the door, humming a warm-up scale. The old man watched her hips sway, chortling.
Ambros and the old man sat in silence for a while.
Mr James said: “ C’mon, get them sticks out and set my mind at ease. Tap out a little funk on the desktop.”
Ambros laughed. He got the sticks out and twirled them a bit. “I’ll stay away from that when I’m on stage...” He drummed for a bit, running through a few fills and noting his deficiencies. He played a couple the standard fills a second time, correcting himself.
James nodded and smiled: “You’ll do okay.”
“Maybe,” he replied.
“My show. You screw up, it’s my fault. And you can’t claim you don’t know That Song.” Mr James grinned: “Maybe you do somethin’ good for me someday...”
Ambros nodded. He got up and hugged the old man again, then drifted along through the crowd outside.
Jannet came bouncing along, clearly excited, ready for her turn. She kissed him hurriedly and ran on towards her own dressing room.
“Thirty minutes, Jannet,” came a woman’s voice. Jannet blew a kiss at the speaker.
Ambros looked around, saw who had said it. She approached him, looking him over carefully.
“I’m Jess,” she said.
“Pleased to meet ya.” He bowed over her hand, medieval-style.
“Yeah...” Jess’ eyes narrowed and she said: “Okay. See you later. Nikki you come back here right now!” She turned and ran off after a girl of nine or so, who was wearing a rigger’s harness cut down to her size.
Ambros strolled through the people still in the hallway. A group of men in harnesses led the way toward the stage, and he followed them. He watched as one by one they climbed into the rafters.
He took the steps down and showed his pass to an usher. After checking a list, the woman said: “Front row seat. How do you rate?”
He laughed. “Mr James regards me as an old friend. I used to be a roadie.”
She grinned and led him to a seat near the center of the front row.
He sat. He leaned back and grinned; the wide front row seat reclined as he leaned.
He sat back up and looked around: “Hall is filling up fast,” he said aloud.
A young man came by with a cup of coffee: “Ms Cherborg says you like it black?”
“Um...yes, please.” He sipped it, musing.
When the hall was about two-thirds full, a man came on stage. He wore a faux-preacher outfit and carried a megaphone: “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m the right reverend Carny Barker, here to bark up a storm for ya! Y’all please take your seats, please do! We got a great show for you tonight! Are you ready for it? We got a marvelous act to warm you up and tickle your fancy! Straight from Madison Square Garden and the stages of Vegas! I’m tellin’ y’all...”
He went on for some time, as the hall filled. Somewhat to Ambros’ surprise Jacob and a couple other musicians from Mr James’ band came on stage: ‘Mr James is letting some of his own guys back her...okay, she must really be good.’
He drank a little more coffee.
Jacob began a soft drum roll, slowly getting louder and louder. A group of three dyke-y looking teenagers were bouncing up and down in their seats, one row behind him and to his right.
He grinned, anticipating a good show: ‘The hall is just about full...here goes!’
The “reverend’ Barker worked himself into some fine high oratory, ending with: “...ladies and gentlemen, ever’body please
welcome...Miz Jannet Cherborg!”
The ovation seemed to him a bit above average for a warm-up band. He applauded enthusiastically; the girls to his right jumped up and down screaming like teenagers of yore at a Beatles concert.
Jannet walked onstage dressed in a black silk jumpsuit trimmed in orange, which exhibited her size and proportions to good effect.
The girls sitting behind Ambros nearly swooned.
The bass player began a familiar line; Jannet stepped to the mike.
“Thank you, thank you everyone! We’re gonna start with a song that everyone knows...”
Ambros recognized the bass line then, and laughed.
“I’m ridin’ in your car,” Jannet sang: “I turn on the radio...”
The girls, to Ambros’ surprise, sang back-up harmonies to the song.
‘They’re pretty good, actually,’ he thought: ‘Tight close harmony, that.’
“We’d never say no,” they sang on a falling scale: and then: “We do, we do” and they all sang together on the word: “Fire...”
Jannet danced a bit as she sang; she moved gracefully, her hands expressive.
She then sang seven more songs, all original.
Ambros listened, by turns amused, entertained, and impressed: ‘She’s kinda emo, and she pays no attention to scansion or rhyme. Reminds me a bit of some of Marty Balin’s work...she has that same willingness to just sing the line over the music, and let the whole thing resolve when it will...’
As expected, she saved the best for last. Her version of the old chestnut Turn Me On (I’m a Radio) fit really well where she’d placed it, right before a song of hers that worked some of the same territory. That one went like this:
Put Me On
Like a record
Spin me round my track
Sing me, I’m your favorite tune.
Put Me On
Your mantelpiece
Admire me and then
Slide me off to take me someplace new
Put Me On
And wear me
Like a flimsy dress
Use me like your walking shoes
Put Me On
Your body
Your bed
Your life
Love me, dear ones, just like I love you.
The teenaged dykes kept singing along, in unison, or in harmony, to the point that those around them became unusually quiet, listening to them as well as to Jannet.
Jannet turned and beckoned to a roadie, who ran to her side. Covering her mike, she spoke to him. He nodded, grinning, and trotted off.
Jannet spoke into the mike: “Toby, we’re bringing another microphone on stage, where should Jody plug it in? Seventeen? Okay, thanks.” Then she gestured to the Singing Girls: “You three are too good to be sitting out there! Do you know all of my songs?”
They looked at each other, then nervously nodded in unison.
“Well, get up here, then,” said Jannet, in mock irritation.
The girls jittered for a moment or two, but then obeyed; as they climbed the stairs to the stage, the crowd began to roar its appreciation.
Jannet escorted them to the newly placed mike and said: “Sing something, all together, into this mike, okay?”
They glanced around, agreed, and then sang: “We’d never say nooooo...”
Ambros looked over his shoulder and saw the soundman give a thumbs-up.
Jannet returned to her own mike and said: “That’s that. Okay, this our last song, and it’s my greatest hit, y’know? By which I mean that it actually charted, briefly, last year. It’s name is So Emotional,” she paused for a wave of applause, then continued: “So first: Tony is the guitarist.”
She introduced the rest of the band by first name, then pointed at her new backup singers: “Tell ‘em who you are, ladies!”
“Um...Kelly...Sandy...Barbara...”
Jannet stepped back, mike in hand, and swung her hips in time to Jacob’s drum intro. She started to sing; the girls jumped right in with their oohs and ahhs and bits of counterpoint. The words went like this:
It’s dark and I can hear you both breathing
Relaxed and low
Quiet and slow
And those moments of stillness bring me to my feet
I creep out of the bedroom
Find my shoes and go walking
It’s a night for weeping
And I’m so lucky
So lucky
So lucky that you found me.
It’s dark and I find myself breathing
In and out
Anxious, rattled
I choke on my voice, I’m lost
A tap on my shoulder brings me
To my feet
I’m spun round in a sudden
Joyful dance
Tonight’s a night for dancing
And I’m so happy
So happy
So happy that you love me
It’s light and my breath comes easy
Our breath breathing together
Rhythmic,
Syncopated
Anything but still
Together rolling wild kicking feet
We sing our song
And I’m so emotional
So emotional
So emotional when I’m together with you.
Jannet’s finale ended, and she gave them all a sweeping bow and ran off stage left. Ambros stood, applauding and cheering. The teenagers, exhausted, sweat pouring off of them, ran off behind Jannet.
The applause died down, slowly.
Some of the crowd rose and stretched, a few wandered off to the lobby, but the majority of the people stayed pretty much right where they were. Ambros knew why: ‘Mr James doesn’t like to keep a crowd waiting. He’ll be on stage in twenty minutes or so.’
He walked quickly up the sloping aisle to the lobby entrance, and found the men’s room. As expected, it stank.
A young African-American man stood next to him at the urinals: “Man that smells bad. Why you suppose that is?”
Ambros laughed: “Roadies always thought it was the cheap beer, and the sheer volume of piss. Can’t really expect these older venues to have state-of-the-art plumbing.”
“I guess not.” A fanfare blared from the hall: “Yo, friend, I don’t wanna miss any of this.” The guy zipped up and trotted away.
Ambros finished and washed up: ‘I got about six minutes...’
By the time he was out of the men’s room, a line had formed, making him glad he hadn’t dawdled.
He wandered the lobby for a time, looking at the posters and the Art Nouveau decorations. A crowd in the corner surrounded a table where two teenaged boys sold CDs of Jannet’s music. Ambros guessed they were Jess’ kids, by the look of them.
He made it back to his seat in plenty of time. Just as he was sitting down, Jannet came down the steps from the stage and sauntered towards him. He looked over her shoulder and saw the girls following behind in a line, like baby geese.
“Omigod,” one of them said, over and over. The other two appeared to be completely twitterpated.
He watched in amusement as Jannet escorted them back to their seats, flirted with and teased them: “...no, you are too young for me to be signing your boobs. Turn around...’
She signed the backs of the girl’s shirts using a sharpie and signing as large as possible. “There,” she said. “Now I have to kiss this guy.”
She kissed him, longer and wetter than before.
By the time she finished—reluctantly—Rev. Barker had taken the stage again. The entire band trooped on stage, waving and smiling.
“And now...” The Rev paused for effect: “and now it’s star time! Are you ready for star time?”
The crowd roared. The band began to play. The Reverend ‘preached’ for about five minutes, dancing in time, working the crowd.
Finally the band went silent. Jacob began his drumroll; Rev. Barker nearly foamed at the mouth.
“Ladies and Gentlemen! Ladies and Gentlemen! Ladies and Gentlemen! It’s star time! It’s Star Time! Are you ready? Are you ready for Star Time?”
The crowd cheered and screamed their readiness.
“You are! You are! I can hear it!”
The roar came louder yet. The “Reverend” grinned like a lunatic.
“All right! All right! All right! It’s my great honor to introduce to you a man who needs no introduction! The man who headlined the Apollo at twenty years of age! The man who sang for every President since Ike! The man who played the Pyramids and the Taj Mahal in the same week! Ladies and gentlemen! The hardest workin’ man in Show Bizness! Mr! Albert! Brownlee! Ja-a-a-ames!”
Mr James came strutting on to the stage like a man half his age. Men in white coats, as if they were medics, followed him on, pretending to try and take him away. He burst free and the band played a sting, followed by a long chord. Mr James began a ballad.
“The first set starts slowly, building up to the dance numbers,” Jannet said.
Ambros smiled knowingly: “I know.”
“Oh. Of course you do!”
Ambros named each song before it began. Jannet’s eyes got wider and wider.
Ambros grinned at her between songs: “I saw this show about 500 times in two years. It never changes. But it never gets old.”
They reached the intermission. Jannet said: “I have to be backstage for Jess and the kids. See you after the show...”
She had to stop and hug the girls, who gushed enthusiastically about several of her songs.
“Oh ladies, thank you so much! And thank you for singing with me! I love you all!” She waved happily and trotted up the steps.
He sighed and sat back. He got out the drumsticks and tapped out some rhythms on his knees. He contemplated the situation, trying to calm himself: “Johnny always hated sound checks...Mr James let him sit them out...I played this song in sound checks well over a thousand times, and once for real...my hands and feet will remember...I fuckin’ hope so, anyway...it’s just like the old man to manipulate the situation so I can’t escape, except by being an asshole...”
A guy in a blue denim jumpsuit stood in front of him. He wore a set of wireless headphones with an attached microphone. He looked Ambros over dubiously and said: “Soundman. You got anything to say to me?”
Ambros raised an eyebrow: “I have a harder strike than Jacob. Be ready to adjust when I start.”
Soundman looked only slightly less dubious as he walked away.
‘He just can’t be unaccustomed to this sort of thing,’ Ambros thought: ‘Mr James pulls this sort of stunt regularly...’
Reverend Barker danced onto the stage and began his patter. Mr James came on stage, limping, pretending to stagger. The crowd roared.
Mr James fell to his knees, and then crawled to the mic stand. Two of the horn players put their instruments down and came forward to “help” the star stand up.
“I’m gonna say something...I’m gonna say something...’
The crowd became a little quieter and Mr James continued: “I got an old friend in the house...” cheering...”I want ya to welcome him on stage! Mr Ambros! Come on up!”
Ambros rose and walked to the stairs, waving his drumsticks and grinning. The crowd had no idea who he was, of course: they trusted Mr James.
‘Hope I can do this...’ He tried to blank his mind: “Do it just like a sound check. Or like that time when Johnny was in the hospital...”
Mr James welcomed him to the stage with an enthusiastic embrace. Ambros moved around behind the drum kit, slapping hands with Jacob as they passed. He sat on the drummer’s ‘throne’ and wiggled it a bit. He got up and adjusted it. He went through the motions of all the slight alterations any drummer did when taking over another’s kit. His mind cleared, but his hands were shaking.
‘I hope that stops when the music starts.’ He nodded at the star, who spun around and confronted the audience.
“How ya feelin’?”
The crowd cheered.
“Ya know how I feel?”
Another roar.
“I feel good! How ‘bout you?”
An enormous wave of sound rolled over Ambros. He stopped shaking; indeed, he felt paralyzed.
He realized that a flashback was about to overwhelm him—just in time. He reached into his pocket and physically shut down his Shifter.
The world slowed and everything in his sight became ultra-clear, his eyes simultaneously focused on near things and far. The stage lights dimmed and the follow-spot that kept Mr James visible to the crowd seemed to brighten perceptibly. Ambros drew a breath.
The air filled his lungs, slowly. He felt a sense of bi-location. He was in another hall, in a different city, and a much younger version of himself sat grinning behind a very similar kit. He felt the young man’s confidence, and his excitement. He saw both crowds equally well. The younger version of Mr James hopped up and down in glee as he pumped his fist in the air.
“I fee-ee-eel good!” Two versions of James raised a right hand above his head, and pointed their left behind him at Ambros: “I feel! Good! Right! NOW!”
In the blink of an eye it was over. The hallucination vanished. It left behind no memory. It was years later before he recalled that nanosecond of duality.
Ambros’ lungs were full, his breath bated.
He was back in the present; he got the sting in just in time. He knew, he suddenly knew, that he could play the song reasonably well.
“I feel good,” sang James: “I knew that I would!”
Ambros kept the rhythm while the horns filled between lines. He knew he was too loud, but kept playing. He heard in the monitors how the soundman adjusted the levels.
“Two stings coming,” he muttered to himself.
“So good! So good!”
His mind relaxed then, and he simply played. Before he knew it, he was rolling up the end, watching Mr James. The star raised his hands and the whole band got louder. Then James dropped his hands and the band cut off. Ambros got the cymbals muted, the last one not quite in time. He shrugged mentally.
‘I did that better when I was twenty-five,’ he thought. His body sagged, as though he had played the entire show, as he had that one time long before.
Mr James turned to Ambros and mouthed to him: “You see? You see? You can play a little!”
He turned to the crowd and said: “That’s the first time my friend has played in twenty years! Give him a hand! Give him a hand! Give him a hand!”
Ambros slapped hands with Jacob again as they passed. He walked off stage, waving his drumsticks, smiling. He was muttering to himself about “barely competent...”
He stepped off stage right, and nearly fell. Jannet was there, and caught him. He pulled away and leaned against the wall, cursing and trembling.
“That was great,” she said, huskily.
He waved the compliment off: “I was late on the first sting, I buried the horns twice, I jumped in too soon after the guitar fill, I let a cymbal ring too long at the end...that sucked.”
“It did not.”
Something in her tone got his attention. He looked at her.
“That did not suck.”
She turned him and pushed him back onto the stage. He looked at the crowd; most of them were standing, cheering wildly. James came over and threw an arm around him, waving with his other hand. Ambros felt the subtle pressure on his shoulders. He bowed, and the crowd applauded, slowly dying down to its ambient—but still very enthusiastic—level.
Mr James kissed Ambros on the cheek and then danced across the stage to the mic stand while the band played and the crowd chanted. He began the next number and Ambros, numb and exhausted, staggered off stage into Jannet’s arms.
“That did not suck!”
He looked at her, disbelieving.
“That did not suck,” she repeated: “There might be a few musicians out in that crowd who are critiquing your performance right now, but they hardly matter. They are missing the point. Like you are.”
“But...”
“No buts. You just gave every garage band guitar player and clumsy drummer in that hall a memory. ‘That time when the ex-roadie played drums on “I Feel Good” with Al James and the Famous Flames in Salem, Oregon!’ they’ll say. ‘I was there! I saw it!’ they’ll say.”
He saw what she meant; he thought: ‘Under the circumstances, I did good.’
“Okay,” he said, smiling wanly: “I accept the compliment...with ‘grace and gratitude’,” he said signing the quotes.
“Good,” she said. She stepped into his arms then, and his hands went automatically around her waist. She continued: “Now I have something to say.” She turned her head a bit and looked at him sidelong, flirtatious: “If you don’t start fucking me sometime in the next fifteen minutes, I may just explode.”
“Can’t have that. I’m kinda flop sweaty...”
“I don’t care. Oh. Right. Jess wants to be there. I hope that’s okay. She’s waiting...can you...um...”
“Can I perform while someone watches? I have in the past. I’m a little bit emotional right now...”
“Oh, goodie,” she said, mischievously: “I like emo-shun-alll...” She sang the word as in her song. She grabbed his hand and led him through backstage towards her dressing room.
They got to the dressing room. Ambros noted that it had a double bed in one corner, and a curtain that could wall it off from the main space. The room had its own shower, as well.
“Pretty fancy for a warm-up act,” he said, grinning.
She laughed: “Jess and I have the next room over, as well. We need the space, traveling with four kids like we do.”
“I expect so. Not that it’s any of my business, but...”
A voice interrupted him: “"Um. Miss Cherborg?"
She turned to the doorway to see a flustered stagehand and the youngest child. "Hm. Yes?"
"We found this one up in the rigging. I think she was about to do something with the lights?"
"I...see." Jannet put on a scowl and gestured. "I'll take it from here. Young lady..." she closed the door, "What did you think you were doing? How many times do we have to tell you?"
"I know, I know, don't get caught! But wellllll I really thought the guys were looking the other way and ummmmmmmm, oops?"
Jannet sighed: "Yeah, oops. You know the shop boss is going to come have a word with your mom tomorrow. They really don't want you kids up there until you're old enough to join the union. Go on, find your mother and stay out of trouble, please."
"But mamma, I was staying out of trouble, I wouldn't have been in trouble if that guy didn't see me!" Jannet gave her a look. "Oh. Right. I let him see me. Okbye!"
Jess appeared in the doorway as Nikki opened it: “Ahem.”
“Oops!”
“Caught in the rigging again?”
“I know. I’m sorry...” Nikki began to cry.
“You should be asleep by now...shouldn’t you?” Jess looked grim.
“Yes, mom.”
“Then git!” Jess pointed at the next door down; she followed the child’s crestfallen slog towards their other room. They heard Jess’ voice fading as she escorted her daughter along: “Sandra is going to sleep in the room with you guys tonight, I want you to be good. Okay?...”
Jannet grinned: “Let’s have a shower!” She stripped out of her jumpsuit, proving what he’d suspected: she wore nothing underneath.
It took him a minute to match her, as he wore several more layers than she had. She turned on the water and steam began to fill the room.
She drew him in to the shower, a cubbyhole a little smaller than an old-fashioned phone booth.
“Tight fit,” said Ambros.
“I don’t mind...” Jannet rubbed herself against him. They smiled, happy for the skin contact.
“At last,” said Jannet. She soaped him from his hairline to his toes, and he returned the favor.
They rinsed, not hurrying. Ambros heard Jess re-enter the room.
“I could use a quick rinse, too,” Jess said.
“Okay,” Jannet slipped out of the cubby and Jess squeezed in. She put her arms around his neck and laid her head on his shoulder.
“I was under the impression you were gonna watch. I assumed you wanted to be here to watch over Jannet...”
“I never just watch...help me rinse off.”
Soon the three of them stood facing each other, drying with fluffy towels.
Jess spoke diffidently: “I hope you’re okay with me being in this thing...I mean...I wouldn’t want to coerce you.”
Ambros smiled: “You can’t coerce me. Trust me on that. I’m in, and that’s my choice.”
“Okay,” said Jannet, dragging him towards the bed: “Then come over here and come in. Right now. Please...”
Jannet turned out to be easy to please, coming almost as easily as Voukli did. Jess made Ambros work harder; Ambros was fairly certain she’d never climaxed at all, while he was in her.
Jannet and Jess made love to each other, and Jess’ orgasms there made up for Ambros’ failure.
Jannet wiggled her butt: “Come in here,” she ordered him. He obeyed. He did her slowly, from behind, while she licked Jess.
They collapsed in a heap, a familiar outcome for any poly group.
He woke, and saw a clock: ‘One AM,’ he thought.
He went for another shower. When he came out, he found Jess awake.
They sat side-by-side on a divan across from the bed. Jess leaned into him; she kissed his shoulder, still wet from the shower, and said: “See if you can get her to sleep a bunch while you have her with you. She never gets enough sleep.”
He nodded: “I’ll do what I can.”
“She has so much to do, what with rehearsals and sound checks and performances...and helping me with the kids.”
He turned her to face him: “Don’t you have too much to do as well? It sounds like you’re Mr James’ tour manager, right?”
She shrugged: “Well, yeah, but the crew are pretty self-sufficient. Most of these guys have worked for Mr James for, I don’t know...decades. I have to keep the old man sober till the show’s over, and make sure he eats enough to keep his strength up. Keep my kids in check and out of trouble. And try to make sure Jannet gets enough sleep.”
She kissed him again, and went back to bed.
He walked around the room, silently. On Jannet’s dressing table he found a picture of Jess, taken at least a decade before, in Navy whites. On the chest of drawers he saw a photo of Jannet, singing into a microphone, Jess in the background, out of focus, in the wings of the stage. Next to it he found a picture of the two women and all four kids; near it, a photo of a young man in Army green, surrounded with black lace. He frowned, feeling that sense of familiarity: ‘In another Line, I know that guy.’ His hand tingled as he picked up the photo, and he felt a touch of sadness. He set the pic back down, disturbed.
Feeling sleepy again, he carefully slid under the covers, not waking either woman. His eyes closed and he slept.
They all woke to the alarm that Jess had set. The clock read two-thirty.
They dressed and drank coffee or tea, as Jess spoke: “You have all day tomorrow—today, now, I guess—and tomorrow night with Ambros...Then it’s the first of May, and the bus will be headed south from here around ten AM.”
“I know the schedule, sweetheart. I know: you’re the tour manager; it’s your job.”
Ambros followed Jess and Jannet through the silent halls of the backstage, and downstairs to a guarded door. The Security guy opened it for them.
Jess, Jannet, and Ambros stood outside the stage door in an alley in back of the theater. The air felt chill with a fresh breeze blowing.
A bus with ‘Famous Flames’ painted on it sat blocking one end of the alley; roadies loaded speakers and amps into a semi. Jannet had an overnight bag and a small purse.
Jess said: “The bus will stop at the Whiz-mart parking lot, just off the freeway in north Eugene, on the 1stat noon. You have to be waiting there, okay?”
“Yes Jess,” said Jannet: “I’m sure Ambros will get me there on time.”
“If the creek don’t rise,” Ambros said.
They laughed and shared kisses and embraces.
Jannet took his hand and he led her away, out the open end of the alley and down Commercial Street to the side street where he’d parked.
He palmed the passenger side door open and handed her in.
Her eyes widened when he laid his palm on the dash and the motor hummed to life. He fastened his seat belt and she did hers, then he began maneuvering the vehicle through the streets of Salem. The heads-up display on the windshield showed him traffic and emergency vehicles, police patrols and the easiest routes to the freeway.
Jannet’s eyes widened more. He drove along Commercial Street until he hit the freeway ramp, where he banished the heads-up and settled in for an hour and a half’s drive.
“This is quite a pickup truck,” she said.
“It’s the only one like it. It has a really good electric motor, and some other features...”
“So I noticed. Where’d you get it?”
He laughed: “Friends. I have strange and talented friends.”
“Seems like it. Y’know...”
“Yes?” he said.
“...when I first saw you, in the bar at Tully’s Hotel in New York, I wanted you immediately. Not that that’s the first time something like that happened, but it was definitely the strangest. When we shook hands...”
“I know.” He smiled, comfortable with the ambiguities in their new relationship. It occurred to him that she was perhaps not.
“I hardly know anything about you...Mr James likes you, so that’s a comfort, but...Who exactly are you? What do you do for a living?”
He shrugged: “These days? I’m more or less independently affluent. But I do stuff: I’m a writer, I practice and teach the Martial Arts, and I run a couple small businesses. But the real truth is, mostly I am a spy.”
She laughed. He raised his eyebrows, amused; she quit laughing and frowned.
“Who are you a spy for? I mean, like industrial or...”
He grinned: “I’m not a spy for anybody, nor for any country. I—and a group of friends and mentors—we are working on a project: save the world from poisoning and fascism. I spy for them. For us.”
She looked at him like he was insane. He was used to that.
He continued: “You don’t really need to worry about the spy part. Failing some huge coincidence, or a sudden bout of Sardonic Synchronicity, we two will just have a good time.”
“Well,” she chuckled: “that’s what I was hoping for anyway.”
She stayed silent for a long while. When the traffic and weather allowed him a glance, he found that she’d leaned against the window and dropped off to sleep.
‘Good,’ he thought: ‘She needs the sleep.’
He called on his heads-up display and looked at the holo-map. He saw police and sheriff’s patrol cars in the area of the off-ramps to Eugene, and one State Police car a mile or so behind him. He saw very little traffic on the southbound side of the freeway.
He glanced at Jannet again, then chuckled. He gradually sped up, passing those few vehicles still ahead of him, then pushed the accelerator halfway to the floor. The truck responded, accelerating rapidly to about one-twenty, its frame sinking lower over the wheels as the recently mounted hydraulic system sensed the increased speed.
He checked the displays frequently. When he caught up to a car near the Harrisburg exit, he slowed to just above the speed limit and passed it by safely.
He took his foot off the accelerator as he approached the exit for Coburg, and he rolled along at the speed limit. The heads-up showed him three LEO cars from various jurisdictions, none of which twitched as he went by.
His MPS told him that it was after four when he led Jannet up onto the front porch at Rose House. She stumbled into the house, weariness visible in every movement. He relieved her of her overnight bag and led her down the stairs to his basement room.
He felt his own exhaustion.
He helped her to undress. She sighed and leaned into him, kissing him and rubbing his shoulders.
She crawled into the bed, and said: “Come here.”
He stripped and joined her. She drew him on top, wrapping her arms and legs around him.
He had nothing resembling an erection, but it didn’t matter. She dropped off to sleep in just a couple of seconds.
He rearranged the two of them until they spooned, and then he too fell asleep.
He rose well before she awoke, and did a few online chores standing at his desk. He stretched and did his usual calisthenics, as silently as possible, and then went back to email and messages.
He could hear footsteps above his head, as Luisa and Marie stirred; after a while he smelled sausage and bacon.
He heard Adele squalling briefly. He smiled and shut down the machine.
Once Kim and Jimmy had made their way upstairs, he sat on the bed next to Jannet. She stirred and rolled over.
“Ready to meet the family?”
She yawned: “I am. I could still use some sleep, I guess, but...ready!”
“Let’s go then. Up and at ’em!”
After breakfast they sat around the living room, chatting idly about nothing in particular. They watched a few videos. Ambros told stories of SCA battles he’d been in; Marie spoke of exotic places she’d visited when buying silk for her recently sold fabric store; Luisa read from one of the novels she had been working on. Jimmy talked about his father’s house in Guatemala, and his travels; Kim told about meeting Ambros at the Country Fair. Ambros found her version of that meeting illuminating.
Jannet told about meeting Jess, love at first sight, and something of the men in her life before that. Luisa played the piano and Jannet sang, improvising lyrics or singing along with old songs.
The front door opened and Randy entered, Marissa in tow. After a few minutes spent getting them up to date, they chatted on for a while. Kim asked Jannet a bunch of questions, slowly zeroing in on her relationship with Jess and what she did and did not have permission to do.
Eventually, Kim handed the baby and the towel to Jimmy and said: “I wanna sit with Jannet for a few minutes.”
The afternoon passed, a long slow spring day. Kim and Jannet went for a walk; when they returned they went to the basement. Jimmy breathed deeply and said nothing about it.
Marie distracted him with kisses, but after a bit he pushed her away. He said: “I married into this, all right? I’m okay.”
“Okay,” said Marie.
Ambros and Randy watched some videos of swordfights in various styles from the previous year’s Isabel de Clare Tournament; after a bit Ambros called Jimmy over and he joined them:
“See, footwork! Watch this cut...here’s a headshot...be wary of a big guy in high guard...don’t ever let anyone hold their arm in front of their shield...one quick tap and then hit it square...watch this guy...don’t stand in distance without cutting...”
Suppertime rolled around. Ambros built a fire in the grill, and Marie barbequed some burgers. Luisa retrieved homemade pickles and chutneys from the basement.
Afterwards, they watched some Cirque du Soleil, and then Ambros read from his novel Mathilde. Kim sat on Jimmy’s lap with Adele on hers, and they spoke quietly together for a while.
Jannet pointed to the clock, and led Ambros towards the stairs to the basement. Kim led Jimmy, now with the baby in his arms, in the same direction.
Marie and Luisa took Randy and Marissa off to their rooms.
Ambros had a small fan in his studio/bedroom; it stirred the air, but it was very much overmatched. The room smelled of sweat, and sex.
Jannet sat back down on the bed next to him. She reclined and stretched her arms above her head.
Ambros admired her.
“Enjoying the view?” she asked, mischievously.
“I am. And more than just the appearance.”
“Say on,” she laughed.
He shrugged briefly: “You have some strength in you. Rock-hard abs under smooth soft skin.”
“I have a singer’s diaphragm,” she admitted.
She rolled half over and kissed him. His arms went around her; her back was like her belly, soft to the touch but wiry strong beneath.
She said: “I was wondering...”
He nudged her: “Go on.”
“Well, when you and Mr James were talking about old times...I noticed that—I mean, when you were talking about Springsteen you both called him Bruce, and when you were talking about Zappa you called him Frank...and George Clinton was George, and all that...”
Ambros nodded.
“...but you never call Mr James anything but Mister.”
“An astute observation.”
“It implies that you have a lot of respect for him.”
He nodded again: “I have a perhaps an exaggerated respect for Mr James. I know he’s not a perfect person. He’s tough to work for, he’s a perfectionist...he’ll chew you out like a pitbull for lack of professionalism. When I was a roadie, I learned fast that every little thing had to be right where it was supposed to be...”
“But look what he did yesterday!” She sat back up: “He let you play in the band again, knowing you’d mess up...some...”
“Yeah,” he said: “And he’s done that kind of thing for other people as well. Mr James would have a day off and he’d go to some ‘Battle of the Bands” or a talent show at some random school or church...he’d sit through a whole show, dressed as a poor working man, listening to absolutely awful stuff, just to see...if there was an actual good band or singer there...he’d get names and contact info and a year or two later that band might get called to warm up for the warm-up band when he was on tour in their neighborhood.”
“Yeah,” she said, somewhat self-deprecatingly.
“That happened to you?”
“Not exactly. Jake—the drummer, right? He apparently heard me singing at a County Fair here in Oregon. He made a bootleg—I didn’t even know he’d recorded it—and played it for Mr James. So then I got this email: ‘Don’t bring anything but your songs and your voice...’ I didn’t even believe it was real, at first.”
“Yeah, I can imagine.”
“So three years ago, at the same venue we were at last night, I found myself on stage with musicians I’d never met, who had arranged those songs I’d sung at the Fair. Jake sits down at the drums and says: ‘Start with that one “So Emotional”.’ I sang that, and ‘Fire’ and ‘Put Me On” and then the house lights came up and there was Mr James, sitting by the sound man.”
They remained silent for a few minutes.
“He made me sing every song I’d written, or covered, and he made a set list, and I opened for him that night.”
“Were you nervous?”
“I was terrified! But you know...I could hear how good I sounded. I’d never before done a show with a pro soundman, or decent monitors. Or, you know, professional musicians. By the time I finished singing ‘Put Me On’ I had completely relaxed into the show.
“I met Jess that night after the show. It’s been amazing ever since.”
“Hmm.”
Jannet kissed him again: “Got any more?”
He shrugged: “Let’s find out...”
Several long kisses later she began to work her way down his body. He did not try to slow or stop her.
His body shuddered and shook.
She drew back for a moment: “You okay?”
“It’s okay. I’ve rarely been with anyone who’s so good at that, that’s all...”
“I’m good at sucking?” she laughed.
“So good,” he said.
She gripped his peos; her hand resembled the rest of her, soft skin and powerful muscles. She rolled the two of them over and took him in, saying: “Go. Do it! Hard!”
He woke for a moment in the middle of the night; she slept, dreaming, saying Jess’ name in her sleep
