A coin flashed through the afternoon sun and dropped into my open case. I scowled at the worn bit of silver shining against purple velvet, and an F-sharp slipped from my horn. The old geezer who’d tossed it spat a few vowel-heavy words, tugged down his feathered hat, and turned away. Honestly, who wears a fedora nowadays?
Busking the farmers’ market made for a tough living. Mr. Fedora was one of the few lingering Saturday shoppers, so I gathered up my trumpet and meager tips. Anger radiated from the hunched, old man, but when I turned to glare back, he was shuffling away. Green flashed near his right hand, two sullen emeralds that winked out immediately. Cufflinks would match his antiquated headdress. But the pair had been set wide, surrounded by the ghost of an outline, an impression of…something. My nerves jangled. The familiar headache stabbed behind my left eye, and the air grew thick and warm despite a fall breeze. I plopped down on the edge of my improvised stage, arms heavy at my sides.
I hadn’t had an episode all year. The pain made me want to crawl into a dark, cool corner, though I doubted I had the strength. I closed my eyes and tried to dredge up a happy, silly melody. Instead, a dirge filled my head, somber and relentless. But it distracted me until the pain and fatigue passed.
I wiped at the hair plastered to my face, pulled off my jacket, and counted out my money. The change and two reissued bills didn’t amount to much. I sighed and plucked an odd coin from the pile. I figured Fedora tossed in a dime, which was pretty insulting, but the silver disk was larger, its surface worn to the point of illegibility. I could just make out a hint of the original imprint and image, worthless.
The headache threatened to return, and I looked around for a clear path to my car. Pete Easton, an exclassmate, bustled about nearby, folding up tables that had sagged under his offering of corn and melons.
“Music will be ready in a few days,” I called, swallowing my residual nausea. “Chores around the house keep getting in the way, but I’d rather not freeze this winter.”
“You just had to live in a mansion.” Pete grinned up at me. He pronounced it ‘man-shuun’, drawling out the long ‘yu’ sound, mocking the twang his family had kept alive for generations.
At six one, I towered over Pete, but his wide build, straw-colored hair, and chiseled features put my gawky charms to shame. Those sturdy farmer genes were even resistant to the C-12 virus. Working the market rekindled our friendship, but I hadn’t been out to Pete’s place in years. His family’s turn-of-some-century farmhouse probably stayed toasty with just firewood.
“Mom wanted me close.” I shrugged. “Can’t beat next door.”
Abandoned stores ringed the parking lot, silent sentinels. Even the bakery and seamstress were shut tight against the afternoon chill. I slid into my powderblue Toyota RAV4, a car that laughed at snow, but I had hoped for something a little sportier or tougher.
Of course, half the town drove similar cars, and they were all ancient, the cars, that is. Well, and most of the people. As the population declined, manufacturing went belly up. On the bright side, the waterfront housed cargo containers chock-full of brand new, fifty-year-old vehicles, and there’s lots of gas. Just my bad luck to start driving when the mini-tanks were doled out.
One stop and ten minutes later found me crunching through leaves by the stone circle in front of my brick colonial. The dried-up fountain was over the top, but the place wasn’t all that big. Surprisingly, I found my sister stretched out on the leather couch facing the cold fireplace in my living room.
“Piper? Where’d you park?”
“Hello to you, too, Edan.” Piper eyed my white, paper bag. “Don’t worry. I ate.”
I sighed, easing the stranglehold I had on my meal, and plopped down into the armchair to eat most of my day’s earnings. “You know it’s just Ed now. Car?”
“The shop,” she answered absently, twirling two fingers around a strand of dark-red hair.
Sure, “in the shop.” Mechanics were a dying breed. More like she abandoned her sleek, black Charger. Sis would have to see what the next riverfront raid yielded.
Piper and I don’t look much alike. She’s a couple of inches shorter with long, red hair, straight as an arrow. Freckles fleck her round cheeks. Dark, wavy hair frames my olive complexion. She’s Irish or Welsh, whereas I have a heavy dose of Latino or maybe Native American, considering my height and regal nose. I’m not as athletic, but hoped my sporadic workouts would soon start adding bulk. Piper claims to be five years older, but it’s really only four. My birthday is coming up fast.
Like most everyone, our folks couldn’t have their own kids, thanks to the C-12 virus. That was a total screw-up. No one had noticed the gene-spliced contraceptive “medicine” mutating, until birth rates plummeted. Fifty years later, the world population is back to six digits and everyone’s still infected. Only about three percent can bear children, like the Eastons. I know because Dad works at the Census Bureau. His office keeps assessing humanity’s viability and trying to build a plan.
We have it good in New Philadelphia: utilities, working traffic lights, you name it. Even a wing of the old Bryn Mawr hospital is still open, an easy commute for Mom. Consolidating southwest of the old city center was genius. Who’d want dilapidated housing over suburban estates?
“Sooooo, there’s a job open.” Piper smiled wickedly and fell silent.
“Where?” I ventured. Her last lead was…less than ideal. Piper contemplated the ceiling with pursed lips. I rolled my eyes and waited. I loved my sister, but it was a fine line sometimes.
“Main Line Studios!” she finally blurted, her feigned indifference shattering.
“Seriously?” The remnant of my headache and dark mood vanished.
Piper rocked in her seat, clapping her hands and grinning. “They need a gofer and sound guy. You might even get to use the studio after hours!”
Okay, it was back to brotherly love.
****
In short order, I found myself hustling recordings around the studio, filing, and occasionally working on equipment. The first week had been a confusing whirlwind, but mornings quickly settled into an enjoyable pattern of cataloging old items and feeding news clips to the broadcast room. Afternoons were for planning and maintenance. Billy, the station engineer, mentored me in spite of my dubious natural ability. I was a wizard with apps and filters, conjuring music from degraded audio, but I was proving fundamentally inept with hardware.
Thanks to Piper, the station manager, Mr. Conti, insisted I use the auxiliary sound room after hours. Professional gear made finalizing my playlist a breeze. I would have Spiritual Mayhem ready for the weekend market, despite working with damaged albums scavenged from Old Philadelphia.
Thursday night I put the final track through an acoustic filter to remove background noise and level the volume. Needles in the gauges at my station twitched fitful and uncertain as the music began.
“Yes,” I whispered, coaxing the Trans-Siberian Orchestra’s number to life with precise hand gestures and wrist flicks. The opening strains trod atop the preceding piece with staccato complexity, tensions rising. “Wizards in Winter” blossomed to life in my little studio, and the world dropped away.
****
A dark form moved beneath the meager streetlamp along Delaware Avenue. The figure pulled its coat tight and approached a pair of glass security doors. A shadow should have fallen across the keypad, but shadows presented certain vulnerabilities, so the dirty white keys remained illuminated by feeble, yellow light. At the wave of a gnarled hand, the lock let out a reluctant snick, and the doors opened. The feathers atop the black hat rocked in disapproval as the hunched figure entered.
****
Throbbing chords filled me, swirling and building. The short, fierce piece was a perfect finale to my mix of progressive rock, metal, and alternative. I left the genreless hip-hop, stained with corporate agendas, moldering in the city ruins. This music was real, powerful.
My hands flew, calling forth a blizzard of notes from the embattled instruments. Legions charged down the thrumming bass line toward their final conflict. Goosebumps rose on my arms as pianos crashed in. Among the cascading chords, the pianos and guitars hesitated, belched forth a final, staccato flourish, and it was done.
“Perfect!” I panted through raised arms.
“Okiw, too dramatic,” a voice rasped from behind me.
I whirled, hands thrust defensively forward, my mind halfway between snowy mountains and reality. The man darted right, his fur coat scattering audio disks and my dinner. Sparks, and just a tiny jet of flame, shot from the patch panel by the door. Crap! The small figure popped back up in the shadows to my left.
“Mr. Conti?” I looked at the panel and winced. “I can fix that.” Hoping it was true, I grabbed a towel. Why had the boss come back?
“You harness the music well.” The dry croak was not the station manager’s mild tenor.
“Who?” My head snapped up from the spilt iced tea. “How did you get in here?”
“Front door.” The man cackled and stepped into the light. He was old and bent.
“This is private property.” I scrubbed a scorch mark, paused at the thought of getting zapped, and rounded on the intruder. “New Philly isn’t some abandoned town. You can’t just go anywhere you want.”
“I visit children,” he said as if that explained everything.
Family, sure. The vagrant’s face was a desert of crags and gullies, his features more leather than skin. An impressive nose hooked out beneath shiny, black eyes gleaming with birdlike amusement or beady malice. It was difficult to tell which, with his hat pulled low. My eyes locked on the two feathers tucked in the hat’s satin band.
“Fedora!” I blurted. “You threw me that useless coin.”
“Ungrateful. You give sour tone. I give nether coin you deserve.” I couldn’t place his clipped accent. He craned over my work area and started pushing buttons.
“That’s it.” I used my no-more-crap voice. “Time to go.”
He made a grab for my table mic, but I scooped it into my back pocket and shooed the kook toward the entry, trying not to provoke him. Out front, something scrabbled at the metal trashcans in the alley. Fedora whipped his head toward the sound, hands clenched. The noise subsided in short order, but the angry glint in his eye spoke volumes. If he reacted that way to a few raccoons, I didn’t what to see him get riled up. I was shocked to find my own fists clenched and that I’d taken a step toward the commotion. The old man’s antics had me on edge. A pair of unblinking, red eyes looked back from the alleyway, then vanished.
The man half shambled, half hopped down the street, and I carefully relocked the front doors, ensuring they were secure this time. After pulling the circuit breaker, I straightened up the studio and scanned the room. The patch panel was dry, but looked—well—fried. I’d have to face the music for that.
I noticed a vacant nook by the meters. The microphone! I reached to my back pocket, but could already tell the mic was absent. Instead, I fished out a bit of metal and shook my head. Another faceless coin.
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
