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OtherRealms Issue 10 Part 03
OtherRealms
A Reviewzine for the Non-Fan
Where FIJAGH Becomes a Way of Life
Issue #10
November, 1986
Part 3
The Ozzie and Harriet
Fiction by
Fred Bals
E-mail: bals%nutmeg.DEC@decwrl.DEC.COM
Copyright 1986 by Fred Bals
[This story was a quarter finalist in the 1986 Writers of the
Future contest, and is Fred's first published work. He works
for Digital Equiptment and lives in New Hampshire.]
Everyone knows that Traci Walsh did the best Elvis, but I'm the only
Ozzie who has Joplin down cold. With Traci gone I'm the best Ozzie
left. Of course, the way things are now that might not mean much.
Traci's spectacular pile-in at the walls of Graceland has started up
the whole Ozzie versus MOC debate again, with lots of flaming
editorials in the tapers and intense moaning from the video MOCs too.
No surprise. You really expect a MOC to say, "Give control back to the
Ozzies"? It'd be nice to hear, though. I wish I could finagle just a
couple of minutes with the Net's Cronkite MOC. "Hrhhmm," old Cronk
would say. "And that's the way things were today, December 18, 2052.
Give me back my Ozzie or I'll drop my pants."
No matter what happened to Traci, it's not dangerous being an Ozzie.
You just have to watch your attitude and take basic precautions. I
mean, what was Traci doing in Memphis in the first place? And where
were her people when she drove that stupid, pink Cadillac into
Graceland? Traci always traveled with a crowd. It was part of her image.
Sure, we identify. And Traci got into Elvis more than was safe. That's
why she should have followed the absolute rule for Ozzies. Never, ever
travel anywhere that has bad associations. You'll never see this little
Ozzie in Los Angeles or Port Arthur. In fact, southern California and
all of Texas are directly excluded from my tour. I'd have San Francisco
knocked out too if it wouldn't destroy the profit margin. In its own
way, this city is more dangerous than anywhere else for me.
Well, Janis isn't Elvis, thank the Rock n' Roll gods. When you start
thinking about it, what place wouldn't have bad associations for the
King? And for Traci?
But Janis and I can handle San Francisco. We're already handling it. I
got in this morning.
After checking into my hotel I spent the morning walking what was left
of the Haight, riding the crest of the street's old memory waves. But
my mood rapidly flattened as I watched hoolie street kids shake down
the tourists for spare change. Nobody carries change anymore. So candy,
buttons and pocket lint were falling through their hoolie hands, and
little street sweepers were scurrying around cleaning up the whole
mess. None of the tourists seemed to notice or care. After all, the
illusion was what they were there for, right? If the kids are really
MOC-controlled hoolies, they don't smell bad or get nasty either.
I work with illusions. I prefer reality in my spare time. So I
about-faced for the walk back to my hotel. But a rainbow splatter of
clothes was standing in my way.
"Go away, fake," I said and started to walk through it. But instead of
fading away like a good hoolie, this one bounced off of me and landed
hard on the sidewalk. "What are you, crazy?" she wailed as her
dandelion head-wreath fell askew over one eye.
I started laughing and reached down to help her back to her feet. "I'm
sorry," I said. "I thought you were a hoolie. Let me make it up to you
with a drink?"
She was laughing now too. "You've got a deal," she said.
She wanted wine when we got to the cafe. "So tell me why you were
imitating a hippie hoolie?" I asked.
She twirled her glass slowly on the table. "I'm taking this course on
the counter-culture of the 1960s. I wanted to try to get a feel for
what it was really like for a paper I'm doing."
"And what was it like?" I asked.
"It wasn't like what it was."
I was trying to straighten that out when she added, "It didn't work. Me
and everyone else trying to pretend we were 90 years in the past. I
couldn't talk to the hoolies. They've all got their own programmed
paths, so I had to keep getting out of their way. All the people were
embarrassed when they found out I was real. And then you tried to walk
through me."
I was hardly listening. Somehow, she looked very familiar. She had the
gift of seemingly changing her features at will, becoming beautiful one
moment, plain the next. A tough jaw, long honey-brown hair, gray eyes
that blazed when she was angry. I had already caught the heat from
those eyes once. "I'm Chris Demeret," I said and waited for a reaction.
"Harriet Cisco," she answered. Nothing else. No big eyes or gaping
jaws. Not surprising. Ozzies are known for who they become, not for who
they are. But I'm always hoping.
"They call you Harry?" I asked. And got roasted by the gray eyes again.
"Only when they don't want to see me again," she said. "And I'm late
for class now. Thanks for the wine, and I guess I won't sue you for
knocking me down. Goodbye."
"Wait," I said as she started to her feet. "I'm in town for a couple of
days. Maybe ..."
"Have a great time," she called as she walked out the door. Great. So
much for that. Boy meets girl. Boy flattens girl. Girl walks out of
boy's life.
"Hey," I yelled to the bartender. "More wine!"
* * *
"Hey, idiot," I yelled into the microphone, "get your fat butt out of her."
The mc just stood there like a fool. I swung my arm and watched as
Janis swung in simpatico on the stage. Her fist went through the mc's
face.
"Listen carefully," I said into the mike. "You introduce her, and then
run off stage right. Stage right! Pin a note to your shirt if you can't
remember. She'll be coming in stage left. If you go through her
tonight, you'll be dealing with a real fist." The mc looked up to the
glassed-in Ozzie heaven where I was standing. "Why all this stupid run
in, run out stuff?" he shouted. "Why can't you turn it on right here
like everyone else?"
I'd been using the loudspeaker mike, but now I flipped on Janis' voice.
"Look at me," she screamed in those unique, whiskey-strained tones.
"Look at me when you're talking about me! There's nothing up there
except a dude pulling strings. I'm Janis Joplin, can you dig it? I've
sold this place out for two nights. And they're going to want it as
real as I can deliver when they see me. They don't want some jerk
ruining the dream in the first minute. We do it right or I walk."
He turned away muttering something about Ozzies, but I let it pass. I
turned off Janis' voice, wearily sank down in the control seat and
looked at the chancery parchment Traci had given me years ago taped up
on one of the walls. "PAY NO ATTENTION TO THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN!"
it blazed out in crimson letters.
The scene in Ozzie heaven resembled a cross between a video control
booth and a sound stage, an exact replica of the real stage below me
complete with dummy microphones and the band's equipment. I had spent
the last few hours taking measurements and taping markers to the floor.
A lot of work to get things right, and all too easy to ruin by someone
who couldn't tell left from right.
Turning on the loudspeaker again, I said in my own voice, "Let's try it
one more time."
The emcee finally stumbled through the introduction and exited
off-stage without problems. I pressed the hand button on my remote,
launched the band into Half Moon and raced out to my floor microphone.
Janis paralleled my actions down below. The front and sides of my booth
developed into hoolie projections of the stage and empty hall. I/Janis
grabbed the mike, swung our heads down and I quickly squeezed the hand
control again. Tonight, those who knew what to look for would see
Janis' hand close and know I was letting the song sequence run on
automatic. But the illusion would hold for most of my audience.
I brought the little MOC on line and let it take over Janis' program.
Her digitalized voice, indistinguishable from the real Joplin's, howled
through my booth like an electric banshee.
I checked the MOC's readouts and idly scratched at the receptors pasted
on my body. The band looked fine. It seemed I had cured the lead
guitarist's bug. During my New York show, he had started to project
six inches off the stage floor. In spite of my frantic scrambling with
the controls, he levitated nearly 10 feet off the ground for the rest
of the show. I'd been horrified, but the New York audience, all LSD
revival crazies, had loved it.
Time for the band solo down below, and time for me to show what
separated Ozzies from MOCs. I took over control from my MOC and went
into Janis as she began her, "hey, hey HEY!" lead-in for the guitars.
Janis and I whirled together, flying on the wild wind of the music. The
hoolie musicians came dancing toward us, right on program. But Janis
and I were free, no moves predictable, as the MOC picked up my mad
dance and replicated it in Janis. I grabbed up a real tambourine.
Janis in turn reached for her holo. We leaped into a gypsy rhythm,
spinning around the band like dervishes. The projections in Ozzie
heaven tracked Janis' perspective as we raced around the stage. And I
saw the stage hands grinning out from the wings, clapping along with
the band's boogie.
Rocking. The illusion complete, I had them caught up in the show as
well as Janis herself ever had.
We circled back to the mike stand. What the hell, I thought, might as
well give them everything. Keying out the MOC altogether, I took the
song home myself. My crow's voice audible to me alone in Ozzie heaven,
coming out beautiful in Janis below. The guitars slowly faded into the
ticking of the drums, and we ended, both slumped over our microphones.
Then I looked up in surprise as the applause floated in over the
speakers. Harriet was standing in front of the stage with someone else.
* * *
"The reality behind the dream," Harriet's companion said as I led them
into Ozzie heaven.
"I guess that's how you could look at it," I replied stuffily. My
pleasure in having Harriet appear was tempered by my annoyance at being
caught so wound up in the act. "I like to think it's realer down there
when I'm doing it right."
"Chris, it was great," Harriet said. "It was like she was really here.
The dance looked so unrehearsed. Almost like it wasn't a computer
program at all."
Oh boy. "Let's make a deal," I said. "I won't call you Harry and you
won't tell me that six years of work almost didn't look like a computer
program. O.K.?"
Her features seemed to change again and she looked about nine years
old. "I'm sorry. I was just trying to tell you I thought it was
fantastic programming. I didn't mean to make you angry. I've seen
people run MOCs before, but never ..."
"Damn it," I exploded. "I'm not a MOC programmer. I'm a performance
artist who uses MOCs as a tool. I'm an Ozzie."
"And a great one," Harriet's friend interjected.
"Yeah, thanks." I started plucking the receptors off my skin. "Do you
have a name?"
"That's Mike," Harriet answered for him. "We go to school together. He
wanted to come along when I told him I was going to try to see you again."
"Beautiful equipment," Mike said as he stroked my little MOC's
keyboard. "I'm working on my MOC degree, but I've never seen anything
rigged like this."
"Custom job. Mostly my own work." Maybe Mike thought he was stroking me
too, but I'm not a techie and I don't like people who like MOCs. I
built and maintain the hardware because that's the only way I can make
sure Janis will run properly.
"Chris, I'm so stupid," Harriet blurted out. "I was all the way back to
the campus before I realized who you were. Mike must have told me about
you a million times. He says you're the best Ozzie in the world. I just
wanted to apologize for the way I treated you. And I really do think
you're a great artist."
"Forget it." I finished peeling off the receptor paste, and was about
to ask her out for another drink when the loudspeaker blared.
"If you're set with the sound check, Demeret, can we get back to work?"
I flipped on the loudspeaker toggle and answered, "It sounded fine.
Bring down the lights a little tonight. I could see through the band
hoolies. Except for that we're all set. I'll be back at seven for the show."
"Are you going back to the Sheldon, Chris?" Harriet asked. "They've got
a nice bar there. Maybe I could pay you back for the drink?"
An alarm was ringing insistently in the back of my head, but those gray
eyes were boring into mine. Ozzies, especially male Ozzies doing female
roles, seldom get what were called groupies in Janis' day. But there
are always exceptions. I glanced over at the clock display.
"I've got to do an interview first," I answered. "But we're meeting in
the Sheldon's bar anyway. That should only take about twenty minutes.
Come on along." I looked at Mike. "How about you?"
He was still pawing my little MOC and all but frothing with excitement.
"Do you think I could stay here a little longer and look this over?" he
asked. Normally I wouldn't let the Pope herself near my equipment, but
it seemed to be a good way to be rid of Mike. If he'd rather be with
hardware than Harriet, it was just fine with me.
"If one thing is screwed up when I get back, I'll nail you to a wall,"
I said. "With that in mind, be my guest and take all the time you
want." Like about six hours, Mike, I thought. And then tonight and
tomorrow night too.
Harriet and I walked down from Ozzie heaven and met the producer coming
up the ramp. "Everything right, Demeret?" he asked.
"Give your mc a compass for tonight and everything will be fine," I
answered. And since he was eyeing Harriet, I decided to pull a
superstar trip. "Got a paper and pen?" I asked.
While Harriet was digging through her purse I said, "This is Harriet,
Lou. I want her to have the run of the place while I'm here. Understand?"
"Got it," Lou nodded.
I took the pen and paper and scrawled, She can go where she wants, and
added my signature. "Put your name right under mine, Lou," I said as I
handed him the paper, "and, by the way, there's a guy up in Ozzie
heaven. Leave him alone unless you see him walking off with my MOC."
Lou gave the paper back and I passed it on to Harriet. "There you go,"
I said. "You can't be in heaven while I'm working, but you can get the
view from anywhere else you like. Just flash this if anyone bothers
you."
I got a fast kiss and a nice flash from the gray eyes. Arm in arm, we
walked back to the Sheldon.
* * *
"Where does `Ozzie' come from?"
I tried to resist rolling my eyes and thought about the times I had
been asked the same question. Too many times, I decided as I stirred
the ice in my Jack Daniels. Too many times, in too many bars in too
many cities. And I had seen the same bored look plastered on too many
indifferent faces as reporters plowed through their rote questions. But
publicity kept me working.
"The Wizard of Oz," I answered and tried to manufacture an ingenuous
smile. "A flat screen movie done about 120 years ago. These people went
to find a wizard who turned out to be a little guy running a
projection. Almost like a hoolie. Some joker made the connection and
started calling us Ozzies. The name stuck. Better than being called a
Wizzie, I guess."
My feeble attempt at humor fell flat on the table. I grimaced at
Harriet sitting at the next table and she stuck her tongue out at me. I
was obviously winning my audience over.
"There aren't too many Ozzies left, are there?" the reporter asked.
"We're not exactly dinosaurs," I shot back. "There's the combined
Stones/Who tour. That uses five Ozzies. The Big Rock n' Roll Show is
still going strong with Holly and Berry. I've even heard rumors that
the Beatles are being switched back to Ozzie-run." The last was a lie,
but maybe he wouldn't pick up on it.
He didn't, but the next question was worse. "Still, you're talking
about group acts, where a few Ozzies are running two or three
performers in tandem with MOCs.
Isn't it true that you're the last solo performer now that Traci Walsh
is dead? Doesn't all the controversy about being a solo Ozzie worry you?"
I knew he would ask sooner or later, but that didn't make it feel any
better. I drained my glass before I answered. "First," I said, "if you meet
Jagger's Ozzie I wouldn't tell him you think he's just part of a group ..."
"You're not answering my question," he broke in.
"All right, no, it doesn't bother me," I lied. "There is no proof that
being a solo is dangerous. Traci Walsh's death had nothing to do with
her being an Ozzie. Look, you know I knew Traci. She always drove too
fast. Her antique Cadillac was a nightmare to steer. Traci was goofing
around and had an accident. It could have happened to anyone. The
stories about her flipping out are garbage. I've been an Ozzie for six
years. I do my show five months a year. And I'm in better mental health
than most of the people I see on the street."
But it wasn't enough to make him leave me alone. "You're saying that a
135 mile per hour crash into the real Presley's home was an accident?"
he asked. "No more," I shouted. "That's it. We can talk about my show
or that's it. I've said everything I have to say about Traci."
He sat there fiddling with his microcam and smiling. I hated him for
Traci's sake and for the story I'd see in tomorrow's tapers. Another
example of an Ozzie losing control.
"Another subject, then," he began. "This whole thing about Ozzies
imitating dead performers is rather gruesome, don't you think? And
leading off that question, many experts do believe that identifying
with their roles is dangerous for the performers, whether you
personally agree or not. A MOC could do your show letter perfect right
now without your personal involvement. Most shows are, in fact,
MOC-run. Why not go with the crowd?"
"You're dead wrong," I replied. "And that's not meant to be a joke. I'm
not trying to bring Joplin back to life. I don't identify with her
except in terms of performance. I'm interpreting her and her era.
There's a lot of people who still want to share in the dream even after
it's gone. Do you know that live people used to make good livings from
imitating Presley and the Beatles? Ozzies are their successors, and we
do a hell of a better job. What I find gruesome is that people would
trust a Cronkite hoolie reading the news more than getting it from a
real person."
"But Cronkite is a MOC," he interrupted again.
"And Janis isn't. She needs me to bring her to life! A MOC can't do
that. All the Cronkite MOC does is run a hoolie sitting behind a desk.
So what? That's not performing." "MOCs are capable of handling
performances. You mentioned the Beatles yourself."
I knew that would be back to haunt me. But I was still fighting. "The
Beatles were never a stage act. People don't expect much from their
show except the music itself. Any MOC could handle them.
"But come to my shows and you'll see the difference. The largest MOC in
the world can't handle half of what I do. Every show, every night is
different. I feel what the audience wants and I give it back to them
through Janis. Nobody will ever build a MOC that can do what I do."
"Well, that sounds like a good place to end," he said as he fed a
toothy smile to the microcam. "Go see Chris Demeret's Janis Joplin show
at Winterland II and decide for yourself if he's right. Goodbye and
good news from Walt Blassie."
Blassie's smile switched off with the click of the microcam as he
turned back to me. "O.K., Demeret, fifty dollars for the plug," he said.
"With all the crap you gave me, it should be fifty cents." But I was
already reaching for my wallet. The microcam had recorded the
interview, but Blassie could still stop it from airing. And I needed
the publicity.
"You're stupider than I think if you really believe that," he answered.
"Traci Walsh's suicide is interesting. Ozzies going crazy are
interesting. Walsh is selling more videos now than when she was alive.
Kind of ironic, isn't it? Just like her hero. "What isn't interesting
is talking about how you can outperform a computer," he continued. "I
can get a hundred interviews from the Rust Belt with people saying the
same thing. Nobody believes them and nobody is going to believe you. If
you had any sense you'd use the crazy image rather than fighting it."
"Just make sure the interview gets on the air," I mumbled as I stared
down at the table.
"It will play," said Blassie as he moved away. "No thanks to you. Think
about it, Demeret. Start dressing in drag and work out an interview
act. If it's good, I'd even consider giving you a discount the next
time you're in town."
With Blassie gone, Harriet came back to my table. "You have to pay for
interviews?" she asked as she sat down. "That's awful, Chris."
"That's show biz," I said as I waved for more drinks. "It depends on
the town and who controls the entertainment news. Blassie decides what
gets on the air for his station. And it's the largest in San Francisco.
His station manager could care less whether Blassie interviews me or a
talking dog. No, cancel that. If Blassie found a talking dog, he'd run
it as the lead story. But I'm old news."
"But you sold out your show both nights!"
"Hype. `Sold Out' means anything you want it to mean, and doesn't mean
anything the day after a show. More than half of the tickets are being
run through discount houses. Blassie's station owns one and will run a
promo for it right after my interview. You know, Fanza Productions can
get you in tonight's sold-out Janis Joplin show! Type in your credit
number right now and get your tickets for less than box-office prices!
Blassie will probably get a kick-back on that too. It works out pretty
well for everyone except me. People want to go if they think everybody
else is going. They like it even more if they think they've paid less
than the rest of the crowd. The trouble is the price cut. I'll be lucky
to clear a little over expenses even if I do sell out. Harriet, it
costs a lot to run my show."
"The glamour of Ozzies," said Harriet as she watched me.
"Yeah. The glamour of it all. Listen, I've got a bottle up in my room
and the prices are a lot better than drinking down here. What do you
say about coming up with me?"
She was still watching me. "You've got a show to do," she replied.
"And I've got a lot of time before it starts. Can you think of anything
better to do than drinking?"
"Yes," she answered. "Let's go up to your room."
* * *
It had been a long time since Traci. I never had decided whether we
were more lovers, rivals, or bit-players in a monster movie during our
short, disastrous affair. More the last toward the end, I guess, when
she started to fall apart and I never knew if I'd be dealing with Traci
or the King on any given day. The King wasn't amusing at all,
especially when that nasty ego was packed into a beautiful 14-year-old
who looked like she had stopped playing with dolls only the day before.
The King had finally worn me down and worn me out. And I had canceled
the Nashville performance Traci had talked me into doing with her. And
she had gone by herself. And the day before the show she went for a drive.
I glanced at Harriet, cuddled into my side with her eyes closed.
Someone around Janis' time had written a line about, "if you can't be
with the one you love, then love the one you're with." Good advice for
people on the road. But that kind of sex, and everything leading up to
it, seems to become meaningless seconds after you've finished. Our
performance together had been good, certainly satisfying to me,
apparently satisfying to her.
But performance was the word. We had both acted as if there were a
group of unseen judges with us in the room, silently raising placards
with scores written upon them. 8.5 for technique. 9 for style. 3 for mood.
Harriet murmured and raised herself from the cushion of my arm. "My
God, what time is it, Chris?" she asked.
"You've only been asleep for about twenty minutes," I said. "Listen, I
don't want you to think I'm throwing you out, but I've got to start..."
She was already out of bed and scrambling into her clothes. "I know,
you want to get ready for your show," she finished for me. "That's all
right, I have to go do something anyway. I'm already late." Amazingly,
she was ready to leave. She came back to the bed and gave me a fast
kiss. "That was really nice, love. I'm sorry I have to run. I'll see
you tonight." Then the gray eyes were searching me again. "Chris, do
you really like being an Ozzie?" she asked quickly.
"What brought that up?" I answered. "Like has nothing to do with it.
It's what I do. It's all I've ever done. I don't want to do anything else."
She looked as if she wanted to say something, but then just shook her
head. "It doesn't matter. I just wanted to know. I'll see you tonight."
And she was out the door.
Did I like being an Ozzie? I wondered what Traci would have answered to
that. And I could almost hear her laugh, "What does it matter, Chris?
What other choice have we ever had?"
* * *
The hall was starting to fill up nicely, and I looked out in
satisfaction at a herd of reporters near the stage. It was too late to
hit on me, so it looked like there were still reporters in the City who
weren't on the take. From the number of people I had seen outside even
Blassie's station had done its job. My "sold-out" show might live up to
its reputation.
I headed up to Ozzie heaven and met Lou heading down. "Looks good,
Demeret," he said. "Give them hell." "Good line, Lou," I answered. " I
bet you came up with it all by yourself. Listen, I want the rules
followed. No one on the stage after the show starts and no one allowed
in heaven until it's over. That definitely means the intermission, too.
I don't want to be bothered once I start."
"We'll follow your rules, Demeret," he said. "You know, you're a real
pain in the ass to work with."
"But I'm a star," I said as I started up the stairs. "You take care of
your end, and Janis will take care of the rest."
Heaven looked good. If Mike had done any damage to my equipment, it
wasn't visible. That sort of techie usually treats hardware like gold
anyway, so I hadn't been really worried. I fired up the MOC and started
pasting my receptors back on again. Then I taped the list of songs I
wanted for the night on my console and went to work.
Usually, I let the mc do his intro first and then bring out Janis and
the band. Tonight, I was going to have the band on stage first and let
them work into "Buried Alive in The Blues." When the audience was at
full-tilt, the mc would give the introduction and Janis would charge
out and do the song. I was probably the only one in the hall who would
get the message, but I thought Janis would like having the song she
never finished as her opening number.
I brought down the recorded music, projected the band hoolies
off-stage, and walked them out. There was scattered applause as the
audience spotted them. As I positioned the band I checked behind my
chair to make sure Mike hadn't moved the markers. The last thing I
needed was to have Janis running into the drum set. But everything was
fine. The hall was nearly filled. I decided to give the early audience
a thrill. I started the MOC program on "warm-up, various segments of
music" and watched my band fiddle with their instruments. The audience
cheered as the lead guitarist suddenly ripped into Hendrix's, "Purple
Haze," the ham.
One last thing to do. I hit the red button and the little hoolie popped
up on my console. "So where are we tonight, honey?" she asked as she
took a slug from her miniature bottle of tequila.
"Home, Pearl," I answered. "We're back in the City."
"San Francisco," she cried delightedly. "It's been a long time. Are we
at the Fillmore?"
"Winterland," I said, and didn't bother to add the Roman numeral. It
wouldn't have meant anything to her anyway.
"Just as good," she answered. "Although I would have liked to give
Graham some shit. Well, it'll be a good crowd. They always are in San
Francisco. Are we starting soon?"
"In a few minutes."
Pearl looked around Ozzie heaven and then back at me. "This sure is
weird. Tell me again. I'm dead but you stuffed me in a computer
somehow. And now it's almost 100 years later and I'm not really real
but you and I put on shows together." "That's about right," I agreed.
She laughed up at me. "I don't know about you, but I feel real. And
that's all that matters to me. Let's go out and show these dudes what
rocking is all about."
I hit the button and Pearl winked out. "You're right," I said. "Let's
do it."
I hit the "Ready" switch to let the stage manager know it was time and
keyed the band into "Buried Alive." The crowd began roaring as they
realized the show was beginning. I started hyperventilating as I rose
from my seat and prepared for Janis' entrance. I heard the mc shouting,
"And now ladies and gentlemen, Winterland II presents to you -- JANIS
JOPLIN!!!" Then everything crashed.
The music stopped as suddenly as if the power had been cut. Racing to
the window, I saw all the hoolies wavering. One by one the band flicked out.
"Mike!" I roared as I scrambled back to my MOC. "What the hell has he
done?" Nothing on the box was responding. I had a half-ton, million
dollar paperweight on my hands. Then, as if this were only a senseless
nightmare, I saw Harriet walking out on the stage below me.
"We are the Living Artists Symbiotic Collective," Harriet announced
into the microphone. "We have taken this action to dramatize the
differences between live performers and dead machines. Machines can be
stopped with a turn of a switch. Nothing can stop real art."
"Rather than paying to see a recreation of the dead past, you should be
looking to the future," she continued as booing began to erupt from the
audience. "We are ready ..."
But whatever she was ready for was lost as a security guard finally
appeared and hustled her off-stage.
* * *
I was watching Pearl dance on the console when Harriet and Mike walked
in. Mike was able to interpret the look on my face. "I'll wait outside,
Harriet," he said.
"I thought you were in jail," I said to Harriet as I turned back to Pearl.
"Bail," she answered and dropped a piece of paper in my lap. "We talked
to Lou. He's dropping the charges. That's a check for the damages to
your MOC, plus the loss you took for tonight. Mike's father is rich. Of
course, you can still have us prosecuted if you want."
"The Sheldon," I said, ignoring the check. "You knew where I was
staying. You let me run into you on purpose. How long have you been
setting me up?"
"It wasn't necessarily going to be you, Chris," she answered. "It was
the act that was important, not which Ozzie we did it to. You just
happened to be here at the right time."
I whirled in my chair to face her. "Now I'm supposed to ask, why? What
was the point, damn it?"
"My thesis," she said. "It's on the 60s, as I told you, but I'm doing
an analysis of classic radical protest. I needed a live test to compare
audience reactions between then and now."
"You're telling me that all this," I looked down at the empty theatre,
"all this, was for a term paper?"
"A thesis," she said again. "A lot more important than a term paper.
And I needed the publicity to get a job. There's only a few places I
can go and I need to stand above the crowd."
She reached down and took my face between her hands. "And you needed
the publicity, too. We haven't hurt you. With that," she waved to the
check I had let fall to the floor, "and with the publicity we've given
you you're in better shape than ever. This place will be packed
tomorrow. There's always curiosity seekers after a protest."
I didn't say anything. She looked into my eyes for a long moment and
then sighed and turned away. "I can understand," she said. "It was a
lousy trick. Chris, the other ..."
She hesitated and then began again, "Going up to your room, that wasn't
planned. I knew Mike should have finished by the time the interview
was over. I know it doesn't mean much to you, but I'm sorry."
She turned away. As she reached the door I said, "You kept reminding me
of someone. I finally figured out who it was."
She turned back to me and said, "Who?"
I just kept looking at her. "If it's either one, thank you," she said.
"Goodbye, Chris."
The door closed. Pearl whirled off the console and dropped into my open
palm. She began a new dance. I sat, a king in his heaven, and watched.
"Just you and me, babe," I whispered. "Just you and me."
* * *
OtherRealms is Copyright 1986
by Chuq Von Rospach
All Rights Reserved
One time rights have been acquired from the contributors. All rights
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