Hidden Wheel. Michael T. Fournier

4

      He went outside.

      Through the fog, he saw someone moving between lampposts. Ben became aware of a strong odor, like gasoline, which grew in intensity as the figure drew closer. The first recognizable feature to emerge from the mist was a torn jacket, pastel.

      Max, Ben said. What’s that smell?

      Okay, Max said, smiling, you got me. He removed a giant marker from his pocket.

      I didn’t know you did graffiti.

      Graffiti my ass, Max said. Mizst is an artist.

      Can I ask Max something?

      Max laughed. Sure.

      Why don’t more people come to these shows?

      No publicity, Ben said. Katie’s a great artist, and she does these flyers—have you seen them?

      No.

      Black-and-white ink drawings, like cartoons but fucked up. Anyway, she does those, but people aren’t looking to lampposts for shows anymore. They’re online, and no one in this town seems to care.

      But you use lampposts.

      Because no one else uses them, he said. Besides, they’re advertisements for my walls.

      There’s PalCorral, Ben said.

      Unless you’re down with one of these bands you’re never going to find out. Gotta write your name in as many places as you can so people know what to look for.

      I wish there was a space dedicated to art, Ben said.

      For serious. People could always go to one place instead of going from JR’s to Kensington to the Dingo.

      Ben and Max descended the stairs to the basement. Amy said ‘check’ into the microphone. Bernie hit the snare, fiddled with a knob on the side, hit, fiddled, hit, fiddled. Each hit yielded buzz.

      Ben thought about Max, writing his name on lampposts.

      Amy and Bernie finished their check.

      We’re Stonecipher, Amy said. This is Coxswain’s first show. Festival of Hamburgers, too. And we’re opening. Life’s a bitch. Fucking GO!

      Amy’s bass grumbled under the no-beat thump of Bernie’s drums.

      Secretaries, Amy shouted. Nurse’s aides. Arglbl. Gah. GODDAMN ROLLERBLADES. Arggh. Beh!

      A realization slowly dawned on Ben: they practiced this music. He recognized their mess as one of the online songs. Stonecipher had a trajectory somehow, a clear blueprint they followed, known perhaps only to them. Bernie, behind the kit, flailed away, dressed in all grey, looked up every few moments to grin at Amy, who turned towards the kit when she wasn’t mumbling into the microphone. They must have amazing sex after shows, Ben thought, the way they communicate without speaking.

      The thirty or so people at the show nodded their heads, trying to approximate where the beat might be. Could they hear something he couldn’t? Feel something? Ben realized his interest in Stonecipher was half academic—how did they decide to do what they were doing? Why?—and half voyeuristic, like paying a few dollars to see the world’s largest legged snake at a state fair. Being swindled was part of the fun. He wasn’t sure if he was the legged snake, or if the band was.

       He didn’t think there was any money in them.

      * * *

      Every night after the Dingo I walked past the back of the video store to see if they dumped any more videos they did it was DVD cases5 big black plastic I tried them they were okay but went into the basement pile practice I wanted everything to look the same. I didn’t know if the DVD store would ever have the CD size again. Stupid. No one buys music any more or even keeps it. Downloads. I didn’t want to wait to get more though so I just used what I had kept my eye open dumped the files onto my laptop blew them up to case size on the monitor the distortion of getting something so small so big made me see things different tried it out with cans first too hard couldn’t control or get intricate got a brush from Leo Hamburgers at the art supply store. Ever use him?

      Use him?

      Leo’s the sweet fucking hookup man hates his boss doesn’t give a fuck just gives the shit away if you ever need anything he’ll just give it to you.

      I never did that.

      What was I talking about?

      Painting CD cases with a brush.

      Right! I tried spraying and brush mixing didn’t work wasn’t meant for that I had to get tubes not cans went back I tried not to overdo it found two colors purple and this weird yellow I thought were good Leo told me to get more didn’t whisper just said it get more I was like okay got two more he put a closed sign on his register the people in line behind me sighed grumbled said come on walked to the paint section threw like ten more tubes in my basket big tubes this is what you want he said. I was like what’s so great about this stuff? Sateen DuraLuxe is a new brand of paint they sent us boxes and boxes of it to sell no one will even notice it’s gone know what he said fuck it put all this stuff back and meet me in the alley so I did walked out through the front door people still standing in line at his register I was like haha! Suckers! I got the hookup! then around the building to the back the door opened he handed me bags and bags What are you working on he said I told him it was a secret he smiled said like your Faze tags I said shut up man you never know who’s listening in an art supply store cops.

      * * *

      I AM TIRED OF BOOKS. I AM TIRED OF PEOPLE WHO WORK EXCLUSIVELY WITH AND IN THEIR HEADS. I NEED TO FIND WORK WHICH IS MORE PHYSICAL. I WILL DEVELOP ALL ASPECTS OF MYSELF: MIND, BODY, SOUL. I WILL NOT BE CONSUMED BY MACHINES. I WILL FIGHT. I WILL PROVIDE AN EXAMPLE THROUGH MY BEHAVIOR. SOMEHOW.6

      * * *

      The servers became his most lucrative investment: everyone, no matter their vocation, needed to be online. He installed one hundred terabytes7 of space in the room adjacent to his office. But he still dealt.

      * * *

      Sven Gunsen: As she grew, I waited for her to start talking about the latest pop bands she liked. That never happened.

      Lewis Brinkman: I asked her about music when she got to the right age—twelve or so. She had remarkably adult-sounding tastes.

      Rhonda Barrett: Rachmaninoff and Shostakovich were my favorites.

      Luna Vallejo: She didn’t seem to watch any sports on TV or listen to music. I follow music.

      Stan Barrett: Rhonda photocopied a picture of Baryshnikov from a newspaper and hung it on her wall. On a later trip, she photocopied Susan B. Anthony from a library book.

      Ralph O’Keefe: Thank God she never talked to us about music. It hasn’t been the same since the Sixties.

      Lou Schwartz: She talked to us about the grandmaster matches. Those we were happy to talk to her about.

      Lewis Brinkman: She was fascinated by Zaitsev vs. Zoltov.

      Sven Gunsen: Had the internet existed during that time, she might have watched the games unfold in real time. How good that would have been for her!

      Luna Vallejo: She asked us about the coverage of previous tournaments. We all remembered Bobby Fischer. She was aghast that we didn’t know any of the rest.

      Lewis Brinkman: She rooted for Zaitsev, of course. How could she not? He was innovative, young, attractive.

      Sven Gunsen: Zoltov was us.

      Lou Schwartz: By then, she had beaten all of us but Brinkman. She just had him to beat, then she’d be on her merry way to beat businessmen senseless, or whatever it is she did. Or does.

      Lewis Brinkman: