~ ~ ~
Arriving at the venue, a medium-sized club called Electric Lane, everyone was in good spirits, definitely up for the night; there was already decent attendance, they were scheduled for 11:00 p.m.-a good, visible slot. They were nearly three hours early and the first act was just finishing their set. Pulling around to the side of the building, Prez parked the van and went to the load-in door while Bryan readied the gear-moving ritual. The drummer walked back confused, shaking his head. Leaning against the van he scowled and said, "Hey, man, something's wrong. They wouldn't let me in. They said we're not playing tonight."
"What? Whaddaya mean?" said Bryan.
"Guy at the door said we're not playing. Our name's not on the schedule or something like that."
"Prez, what's going on?" Dedra had been rummaging for something in the cab and walked up behind them.
"They won't let me in. I told 'em we're supposed to be on at 11:00 and we just wanna load in but they keep sayin' that we're not playing."
"Huh?"
"I think you need to talk to somebody; you've got the badge. This whole thing's feeling pretty tight."
"Oh no." Dedra's face turned pale.
"De?" June had been on the other side of the van and only now heard what Prez said.
"This isn't right." Dedra shook her head. "This is not right."
She and June walked around to the front entrance and found a young SXSW staff official who eyed them suspiciously. "So you're that Fox Top group, huh?"
"It's Faux Toppa," she corrected him. "And yeah, that's us."
"OK, so what are you doing here?"
"Whhaaa?? We're performing here. We're on the schedule for 11:00 tonight."
"11:00?" He unfolded a sheet from his jacket pocket, studied it pompously and said, "Uh, no. You were pulled off the schedule. You knew that."
"Pulled off?" Dedra's mouth tried to form more words; none came forth.
"What the hell is going on?" June stepped in to pinch hit.
"Look," he said, "your band got pulled off the schedule. I didn't do it and I honestly don't know why it happened. Weren't you notified?"
"Notified? No one told us anything."
Bryan and Prez joined them. Dedra began breathing noisily.
"You weren't contacted today?"
"No, we weren't!"
"Oh gosh." His face softened. "I'll tell ya what?you guys stay right here. Let me go see if I can talk to somebody."
He disappeared through the doorway. From inside, an Ed Hall song played over the P.A. while a drum set line-checked. Outside, more bodies were materializing, more activity ramping up. Bryan sat on the ground. "This is fucked."
A few minutes later the man returned. "Ummm?it's been confirmed. Got the word straight from the boss. You were pulled from the lineup because you played a non-official show last night. Kinda violated your contract, he said. Understand, I had nothing to do with this." Lowering his voice, he added, "And, frankly, I can't say that I agree with their decision."
An older, more imposing man carrying a large Maglite approached. "These them?"
"Yeah," sighed the young man.
"You guys come with me. Mr. Loomis will talk to you." He turned toward the doorway; the band followed. Inside the club they trudged past the crowded bar and into the main room where growing knots of people stood. They stopped near the side of the stage, upon which a bald-headed solo acoustic act was plugging in. Mr. Maglite leaned into a standing conclave and said, "Here they are."
An official-looking man in a circle of official-looking men turned slightly sideways and waved the classic one-fingered gesture of "wait-a-minute" in their direction and turned back to his conversation. After three minutes he extracted himself from the discussion to impassively face the band. It was "Dude." Fifty-ish, greying, with black baseball cap and casual workman's jacket, standing like a jaded minor-league manager, he stared Dedra down before decreeing, "You guys screwed up. You know it and I know it."
"But?"
"But nothing. The terms of your contract specifically state that no bands or artists will perform at non-SXSW events or venues while the festival is in progress."
"But why are you picking on us? We didn't do anything worse than all the other bands playing non-official shows. According to the local paper it's a grand tradition."
"The local press does not determine festival policy."
"This is blatant hypocrisy! It's bullshit!"
"Hypocrisy? Bullshit? You signed a contract. You violated the terms. I hired you and I can fire you. End of story."
"Then why don't you fire the other bands that play non-official shows?"
"Because I don't have to."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" June stepped into the conflagration. "Is that really fair? Fairness? Or haven't you ever heard of the concept?" None of Mr. Loomis's entourage had dispersed, nor had Mr. Maglite.
"I don't have to do anything you tell me." He turned toward her. "Besides, I witnessed you breaching your agreement last night. That will stand up in court. And, for your information, the Song & Dance Syndicate show will be shut down tonight."
"Oh, I get it," Dedra let fly, "So bands wanna come here to play and be part of your holy scene and spend their money, and they're encouraged by everyone to play parties and other shows and you, Mr. Big Shot, can't control that! You don't even try to control it, cuz the town is full of tourists because of it and they're putting tons of money in your damn pocket and never mind that we drove over 2000 miles to your 'Live Music Capital' just to play music and have fun like everyone else and you wanna punish us for it? What the fuck?"
"Those are the breaks, doll."
"Hey!" June got in his face. Maglite and a few of Loomis's cronies flinched forward as she shouted, "You need to show a little goddam respect!"
"Oh, do I!"
"Her name is not doll, it's Dedra! And your name is Mr. Big motherfucking Asshole and this is the most ridiculous load of crap I've ever seen!"
"Listen." He edged back from her and expansively uttered, "I know the law. Your band signed a contract. I think you need to learn how to read, honey."
Omigodalmighty. Hands tightened into fists, a high fly ball sailed out of her brain, past her bleachers, through a subway tunnel and slammed into the exit hatch of a jetliner. Prez, knowing what she was thinking, jumped up next to her and Bryan flanked just behind her.
Beginning to turn away from her, Loomis crowed, "For the week this festival is on I own this town. Got it? I don't need you or any little scar-faced cunt telling me otherwise."
It was the last thing she remembered before seeing Prez in front of her barking, "Stop it! Chill, dammit!" His hands shoved against her shoulders and Bryan's arm around her waist tugged backwards. A few feet behind Prez was the angry visage of Maglite, namesake lifted in the air. There was the hush of bystanders taking stock of the situation. Bodies and mean-eyed faces pressing toward her. A voice asserting, "Get her outta here." Dedra screeching, "Leave her the hell alone!" June about-faced and charged away from it all. A hand attempted to grab her wrist, then fell back. Over her shoulder she heard Bryan scream, "Dude, let her go!"
Pushing through the crowd she sought the front door and outside air. The atmosphere in the club was thick and the nauseating vision of Loomis was burning in her brain, and this was the night she would do something thoroughly regrettable unless she got the hell outta there real fucking quick. In her retreat, she heard Dedra's voice rise like the whine of a bottle rocket sailing inches above everyone's head. She considered turning back but the drill sergeant in the base of her spine ordered that she keep moving! Screw Austin and screw SXSW! The rest of the band would find their way back to base camp well enough.
In the parking lot were folks milling about with badges, wristbands and schedules. Most seemed oblivious to the fact Faux Toppa had been ousted from the lineup. If they had been aware, odds were they didn't care. Something in the Friday night air smack
ed of indifference; these were people who would be more inclined to wander toward the next venue to see the next highlighted name on their do-lists. Next to the lot were railroad tracks and there was an Amtrak station a short 200-yard walk down the line. She had some money in her pocket and the thought of buying a ticket and getting on a train to some random destination angrily appealed to her. Removing herself from the proximity of innocent assholes that she didn't really want to hurt, the fuming amazon walked deliberately toward the glinting steel rails. Wishing she had a baseball bat in her hands, she exhaled through her teeth, "I coulda taken all of 'em."
Stepping over railbed stones, June was startled by a massive object that suddenly blocked her path. A train. More precisely, a lone Union Pacific diesel engine sitting on the tracks. If it had been moving she'd be dead. Had blind rage kept her from noticing it, or had it blinkingly materialized out of unaccountable ether? Omigod, what did the answer matter? Time had plummeted to a thud and somewhere there was another punch line about to be swept up and placed in a box with other damaged freight.
June. Her name was June, wasn't it?
And this was someplace called the Earth, right? Right?
And that white thing up there?that was the Moon, wasn't it? A quarter moon in a cereal bowl defying any footsteps so bold as to dwarf mankind's and womankind's best intentions. Yes, Mr. DeMille! Send in the goddam clowns! I'm ready for my fucking close-up!
The moon and a spoon.
A girl named June stood her ground. The machine hummed and crackled with electricity. Idling unattended, a landlocked Flying Dutchman, no engineer or crew in sight, ghostly control lights in the cab, its metal stairways beckoned invitingly. 'Twould be so easy to climb aboard and await a motion or a poetry of eclipse. A dog howls at the moon for the same reason a financier howls at his money: not because he can grasp it, but because of its fatal attraction. This engine's number was 1994-red numerals on a yellow field. The coincidence was too close for comfort. She stared as she had once stared at the Statue of Liberty, didn't scream, gazed back at the parking lot harboring a humanity she had no use for, not a familiar face in sight, and turned in the direction of the Amtrak station. Halting sixty feet down the rails, she looked back at the unmoving engine, knowing a strikeout was better than a base on balls. The game over or not, she pivoted on a heel, pushed off toward the boulevard a block away and walked.