Сара Пинскер - A Song for a New Day

What would it be like to have a subscription and relive these shows anytime she wanted? To capture this band and have them to herself? Go to more shows? Not for the first time, she wished she could do this every night. If SportHolo and TVHolo were this real, too, that explained why her friends always looked at her with such pity when she said her family didn’t go in for any of it. She’d been missing out on so much.

“Encores are awkward in this situation,” the lead singer said after the twelfth song. “So we’re all going to pretend that was our last song, and we left the stage, and you stomped and cheered until we came out to play one more. We’ll play one more and then we’re going to go for real. Thanks for listening.”

Don’t go, Rosemary wanted to say. Keep playing. It didn’t matter that she didn’t know the songs. The music had stirred something inside her.

The real last song ended with a long cymbal splash and four cha-chunks of the guitars, which also wasn’t the ending on any music she’d ever heard before. It had to be rehearsed, but it felt a little wild at the same time, a loose possibility that things might not work out as planned. The band members grinned at each other on the third cha-chunk, and the bassist raised one lovely eyebrow as she watched the drummer. The last note hung in the air, the singer gave a final salute, and then the band blinked from existence. They were there and then gone, like magic, leaving a three-dimensional StageHoloLive logo floating in the place where they had stood.

It was followed by a voice saying, “Patent Medicine merchandise is for sale here, as well as at Superwally and StageHoloLive. Purchase now to wear instantly inside, or have the real thing droned to you by the time you get home.”

A recording filled the room, flat in comparison with what had been there a moment before. The lights came on. The room was much smaller than it had seemed in the dark, or maybe that was an illusion, too. The ceiling lower, the walls closer, the floor scuffed and littered with plastic cups, which winked away a moment later.

Most of the audience had already headed for the exit or blinked out from where they stood, but a few people still lingered by the bar, or stood blank and absent, probably buying Patent Medicine merchandise. A couple of T-shirts changed before her eyes. Rosemary understood the appeal. If there were a way to capture that first moment, when the band had played the chord that had crashed into her, she’d buy it. A T-shirt wouldn’t do that. Maybe, maybe a live recording. If not, she’d have to find a way to see them again.

She could have pulled off the Hoodie and disappeared from the room, but she wanted the full experience. Her ears rang as she walked out. There was a muffled quality to everything, like she had cotton wrapped around her. She stayed in the silent hood even after she had turned off the visual; she didn’t want to lose the feeling she had walked out with.

In her dream world, a job offer from StageHoloLive would be waiting when Rosemary checked her messages again, along with a drone delivery of a concert souvenir—a T-shirt, maybe, or a poster to add to her bedroom collection—and a free SHL subscription. Or any of the above. She wasn’t greedy.

It wasn’t until a message chimed in her work Hoodie that she remembered she’d ostensibly been there on business.

“Thank you for your help,” the message read.

She hadn’t done anything, though she would have. She had to word this carefully, so her own bosses didn’t think she had charged fraudulent overtime, or used their time to pursue something else. In the end she decided on, “I was happy to do it. It was useful for my professional development to experience how the StageHoloLive system works firsthand. Please let me know if I can be of any assistance in the future.”

She took off her work rig and replaced it with her fraying Basic. Lay back on her bed, turned on audio of “The Crash” again, closed her eyes. It wasn’t as good as the live version.

Abaseball stadium, or what was left. Smoking wreckage gaped where the stands behind home plate had been.

“Were there people there?” I asked, as if they knew more. I glanced at the clock on the wall. Six p.m. “It couldn’t have been full yet.”

“West coast,” Silva said. “Seventh inning, first matinee of the season. The stands were packed.”

“Oh, God,” April repeated.

A number scrolled past, an estimated casualty count, but my brain made no sense of it.

“Do they know what happened?” Hewitt asked.

“Bomb.” I pointed at the screen.

“That’s not all,” said Silva. “There’ve been bomb threats tonight at three other baseball stadiums, two airports, an arena concert, a convention, and a whole bunch of malls. All over the country. The president made a statement a few minutes ago, asking people to stay home tonight if possible and cancel public gatherings.”

“Isn’t this when they usually tell people to go about their business, and not to let terrorists terrorize?” My voice pitched itself an octave higher than usual. The picture on the screen moved closer. Rubble, smoke, a tiny shoe. I looked away.

“That’s what they say when they think the threat is gone.” JD shook his head. “They say that after.”

I couldn’t wrap my head around it. “But this place wasn’t threatened? We’re still playing?”

Silva shrugged. “Nobody from the office has said anything yet.”

I pulled out my phone, muted since before soundcheck. I had a dozen messages and missed calls, mostly from the label. An email, also from the label, saying they’d been trying to call.

My phone buzzed in my hand. Margo at the label, texting. Cancel your show tonite. Tell me u got this.

Silva’s phone chimed as well. He looked down, then back at me. “The production company wants to know if you’re playing. They say it’s up to you.”

I glanced at the clock again. “If doors open at seven, people are probably already on their way here.”

“We’ll do refunds, or promise tickets to another show. If they’re listening to the news, they’ll have turned back by now.”

I wandered over to where I’d left my tea. Condensation beaded on the underside of the saucer I’d used to cover it, and dripped when I lifted it. The tea was even more bitter than usual when I sipped; I’d forgotten to stir in honey. I added some, watched it stick to my spoon, then grudgingly dissolve, like it was trying to hold on to its shape.

I wished Gemma was still with us to make the decision. She worked for the label, so she would have followed their instructions. They’d never ask us to cancel if they didn’t think we had to; they were all about pushing through and playing, regardless of weather or health or whatever else had been thrown in our way. For them to tell us to cancel, it must be serious. They had insurance. As Silva said, the theater would give refunds or reschedule us or give tickets to another show. We’d have a chance to play here again, on a less somber night, to a fuller house. There’d be other, safer opportunities. If we played, it might be for nobody at all, or for ten people who felt awkward in a giant empty theater.

Or it might be for ten people who needed a lift tonight, who wanted music to make them forget the news, or make sense of it. Maybe there were people who wanted to defy the “Please stay home” order, to show they weren’t going to let anyone make them afraid. How could we deny that, when we had the power to give it? No answer seemed the right one.

“Don’t look at me,” Hewitt said when I turned in his direction. “You’re the boss.”