Voice (5 page)

Danny’s hatchback pulled in next to her as she was getting out of her car. John got out and stretched.

“Nice day, huh?”

She stared at him through half-lidded eyes. “You look like hell.”

“Didn’t sleep much,” he said. “I see you’re extra cheerful today.”  

“Let’s load up.”

They started moving the stuff, packing it into Danny’s hatchback and into her little Toyota in any way they could get it to fit. Nobody had a van, so they’d agreed to take two vehicles, and she had insisted that she drive one of them. They seemed like good guys, but she hadn’t known them long. She’d keep control of one of the cars, thank you very much. She had some doubts about whether her ten-year-old Corolla would make it the three hours to Wichita Falls, Texas, and back, but she’d take her chances.

Quentin showed up before long. He went inside to get his bass rig, and John stopped her from following.

“Just a sec,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“I’m riding with you, if that’s all right.”

“Not with your brother?”

“Nah,” John said. “Quentin—well, honestly, you stress Quentin out.”

She shrugged. “Whatever. You ride wherever you want.”

They finished loading, and she watched as John situated himself near her passenger-side door. Sure enough, Quentin took in the situation and looked relieved as he headed toward Danny’s car.

She finished her coffee in one long swallow, and then they were off.

***

Highway 287 was a boring road all the way west. John said he’d stay up to keep her company, but he didn’t even make it ten miles. He slumped down in a position that made Case’s back and neck hurt just to look at and started snoring shortly thereafter. She turned up the CD player.

The next time he was conscious was when they stopped to hit the restrooms. John grabbed lunch at a roadside stand, then picked at it, taking a few bites of his cheeseburger before wrapping it back up in the paper and throwing it out.

“Nerves,” he explained sheepishly. Case shook her head.

John fell asleep a few miles later and didn’t wake up until they were rolling into Wichita Falls, a little after five in the afternoon. He started jittering, tapping his foot, and folding his notebook right away, and Case figured his nerves were cranking up already. She hoped he wouldn’t puke.

“There,” he said. “That’s the college.”

“Midwestern State University,” Case read off a sign. “Home of the Mustangs.”

John leaned forward. “Cool.”

Case nodded. She drove through campus, looking around at the buildings. Students walked between classes, but they didn’t walk very far.

“This is a very small college,” she said with some asperity.

“I told you it was, didn’t I?”

She pulled over to the curb, stopped, and put the car in park. John pressed himself against the car door.

“John?” Her voice was pitched low and felt tight in her throat.

“Yes?”

“Look me in the eye and tell me that this
college is going to pay us eight hundred dollars to play for a couple of hours.”

He squirmed. Case saw a frantic look in his eye, and he looked out the window like he was half-thinking about making a run for it. “I never said that,” he said.

She ground her teeth. “You told me, very clearly, at least twice, that I would personally take home two hundred dollars from this gig.”

“That’s true,” he said. 

“It better be. If you stiff me, I will pull your balls off.”

John nodded hastily. “I won’t stiff you, I swear. I never lied to you—I told you you’d get two hundred dollars, and you’ll get it.”

She faced forward and put the car in gear. Before she pulled away from the curb, something else occurred to her. She turned back to John. “How much is the total pay for the gig?”

“Six hundred,” he said, too fast. She gave him a flat look. “Forty dollars,” he mumbled.

“Forty dollars,” she repeated.

“Yeah.”

She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, John had a stupid, sickly grin on his face. “You dumb fuck,” she said. “If—and I stress
if—
I stick with this band for any length of time, you are never allowed to handle band finances again. Got that?”

John nodded. “So, since now you know about the forty, do you suppose that maybe—”

“Don’t even joke about that. Just shut up, John.”

He shut up.

***

“This is a fucking cafeteria,” Case said.

John glanced nervously at the two girls from the Student Activities Committee, who were in turn looking nervously at Case, as if she might go off or something. The four of them stood in the basement of the student union, in a little corner area full of ugly, varnished yellow tables and benches.

“It’s not really a cafeteria,” John said. “It has more of a, I don’t know—coffeehouse vibe.”

Case didn’t bother to address that. She walked over to the tiny platform that constituted a stage and made a show of inspecting it. The drums would fit on it, just. She put her hands on her hips. “Where’s the PA?”

One of the girls—John thought her name was Charlotte—pointed at a big green Rubbermaid box in the corner. Case walked over and pulled a snarl of cables out of it and looked inside. She dropped the mess on the floor and then picked up a speaker that was about the size of a toaster. The look on her face could have curdled milk.

John walked to the box, trailing the nervous committee girls. There was a second toaster-sized speaker in the box and a cheap combination mixer and power amp.

“I, uh, guess these are the monitors?” he said hopefully.

Case gave him another of her withering stares. She could communicate an awful lot with silence, John had noticed. Mostly disapproval. And anger. She was very good at anger.

John had a sinking feeling. “Those are the mains, aren’t they?”

“What do you mean?” Charlotte asked.

“Yes,” Case said, ignoring her. “Those are the main PA speakers.”

“No monitors? At all?”

“You figure it out.”

Danny and Quentin showed up then. Danny took in the place in one glance. His forehead wrinkled up and his mouth tightened in that way it did when he was trying not to laugh. He was being a good sport, but that only pissed John off.

Quentin looked like somebody had punched him.

“Well, let’s get the gear in,” Danny said. He chuckled. “I’ll get the roadies started and make sure the tour manager has security on standby. Looks like it’s gonna be a rowdy gig.”

Case grinned, and it looked like there was actual humor in her smile instead of just spite. That made John feel even worse—this wasn’t much of a gig, but it was still important, dammit! His guts were churning; he was worried about the equipment, about whether anybody would show up, and above all about his own performance. Was it too much to ask for them to take it seriously?

“I’ll start unloading,” he said, and he stalked out.

***

They put the little speakers up on chairs that were themselves on top of tables they’d dragged to the sides of the “stage.” There were, in fact, no monitors, so they angled the speakers in toward the center to try to give John a fighting chance to hear himself. If he moved so much as half an inch forward, squalls of screeching feedback rent the air, but if he moved back a step, he couldn’t hear himself at all.

Not that he could hear himself that well in any case. The speakers were small and not nearly loud enough to get over the drums. At first, John just turned the amp up louder, but the speakers started to distort, putting out an ugly, compressed sound that fuzzed out whenever he got loud. That wouldn’t work, so he tried fiddling with the equalizer to find some way to get the vocals to stand out more in the mix.

After twenty or thirty minutes of this, Case pushed him out of the way and cranked the amp up until well past the point of ugly distortion. John grimaced. His voice sounded like it was coming out of a megaphone and going through a fuzzbox at the same time.

Case listened for a moment and then nodded. “That’s not a bad sound for you.”

“Thanks.”

She shrugged. “It makes you sound mean. Can’t understand a damn thing anyway, so you may as well sound like you’ve got some attitude.”

He wasn’t sure the speakers were going to survive the experience, but the sound definitely had attitude. It made the feedback problem even worse, though, until he found the one spot where the mic could stand without shrieking all the time. He resolved not to touch the mic stand the whole night. That would be awkward—he had no idea what he’d do with his arms, and he suspected he would look like a fucking tool, but those seemed like the least of all available evils.

It was a good thing they’d arrived early, because sound check took over two hours. They finished up less than twenty minutes before the show was supposed to start. A handful of curious students had already taken up some of the chairs toward the back.

Behind them, standing in the very back corner, stood an aging ex-rocker, hair hanging lank around his face, his eyes narrowed in a steady, measuring squint.

What the fuck is
he
doing here?
John’s nerves, already frayed from the gathering crowd and the stress of sound check, sizzled with unwanted extra voltage. His stomach heaved and twisted, and he excused himself. It was all he could do not to run to the bathroom, and as soon as he got around the corner, he
did
run. He made it to the toilet just before his meager lunch came up.

He washed his hands and rinsed out his mouth. His hands were shaking even worse than they usually did before a show. He stared at himself in the mirror for a minute or more, working up his courage, and then he went back out.

The guys—Case included—were waiting just to the side of the stage.

“All right,” he said, trying not to look at the crowd, or past it to the man appraising them at the back of the room. “Let’s go.”

***

The performance turned out to be a good time, much to Danny’s surprise. They made a few embarrassing fuckups at the beginning, but the crowd had a good attitude and didn’t seem to care. About thirty bored college kids had showed up, probably because the entertainment options in Wichita Falls, Texas, were pretty thin, particularly for the under-twenty-one crowd. They weren’t the most animated crowd he’d ever seen—mostly they just sat at the tables and nodded their heads—but they clapped at the right parts and didn’t run off, so that was cool.

John didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, so he jammed them in his pockets and left them there the whole time. He looked like a flagpole or a stalk of corn, and Danny felt bad for him. He sang as badly as Danny had ever heard him, and between songs, he made awkward, garbled jokes into the mic and shuffled his feet a lot.

That was a shame, but it would be okay. It was obvious that the students had come out because they were bored, but that they stayed because of Case. She was smokin’ tonight, playing like a woman possessed. Danny had been worried before the show—she had seemed more than a little put out at the venue, and really pissed at John, doubtless for one of the ten thousand reasons John usually pissed people off—but Danny had cracked a few jokes and gotten a smile out of her, and once the music started she loosened up a lot. She was a hell of a player, and it was hard not to watch her move once she got into it. Danny stared, just like everyone. At one point, she turned around in the middle of a song and happened to lock eyes with him. It felt like a spark—no,
lightning—
jumped from her to him. He flushed and almost lost the beat. She turned away in an eyeblink, and maybe it was wishful thinking or just his distractedness, but he thought that she fumbled the next chord.

During the last song, she got up on one of the tables and played her solo to raucous cheering. This was probably the loudest it had ever been in this room, Danny thought.

They got a hell of an ovation when they finally finished up, a little before ten, and the four of them stared at each other in bemusement and surprise. Danny gave Quentin and John a high-five each, and then held up a hand for Case.

“That’s really lame,” she said, but her eyes were bright and she was smiling.

“Come on.”

She slapped his hand hard enough to sting his palm.

A lot of the students hung out while the band tore down, and while most of them wanted to talk to Case—she was not incredibly receptive to this, Danny noted, answering in monosyllables—a few of them were musicians who wanted to talk shop with Danny and Quentin. Danny chattered happily about snare drum heads and bass pedal tension, Neil Peart and Mike Portnoy and all the usual drummers-only topics, and before he knew it one of the kids invited him and the rest of the band to a party off-campus.

That was when he noticed that John was gone.

“Fucking Christ,” John spat as he kicked open the doors exiting the student union. The air had grown stifling and oppressive inside, and he wanted nothing more than to get out, to get as far away from this building as possible. He’d tolerated it as long as he could, but as the mob formed around Case and zit-faced college kids lined up to talk to Danny—and a couple of cute college girls stood giggling and talking up Quentin, for fuck’s sake!—he’d stood, alone, just in front of the stage, waiting for any sort of acknowledgment. None had come. One kid gave him a sheepish nod and half a smile as he walked past, trying to get to Danny. When John had finally stalked off, nobody had even noticed.