Сара Пинскер - A Song for a New Day

She wasn’t sure she believed that herself, and Joni definitely didn’t. “‘Helping his friends here’? What did he tell you about us?”

“I told you. That I’d see real bands playing.”

“Like we’re some living history holo? Are they teaching us in school now?”

“No! In my entire life until now, I had no idea anything like this existed.”

“Where do you know Aran from, anyway? I thought he was holed up somewhere writing pop songs for other fake bands and playing on a fake stage.”

This was not how Rosemary had hoped for this conversation to go. Her imagined version was far less hostile, with Aran’s name serving as a blessing for her presence or a greeting from a far-off friend instead of another cause for suspicion. Did he know how his name went over here? As far as she could tell, he thought they remembered him fondly. She redirected the question. “What’s wrong with StageHolo, anyway? They’re paying musicians to be musicians. They’re offering enough to live on. I’d think you’d all want that, but so far everyone I’ve mentioned it to tonight has been hostile.”

“Not everyone. I’m sure those boys who played before me would answer if someone from StageHolo came knocking. But I’m happy here, playing for real people, calling the shots myself without regard to demographics or market share. They’d want me to pull my hair back. They’d smooth my face. Or they’d buy my songs but hire someone else to perform them.”

“I don’t think anyone else could play your songs,” said Rosemary. “Unlike Aran’s.”

Which was true, but so was everything Joni had said. Rosemary realized she’d been rushing. Thinking about which bands to sign, when she had only just arrived. Thinking about the job first, when Joni was right—there was so much more to the question of who made a good addition to the StageHoloLive roster. She’d only seen three—no, two bands. She had time. Better to make sure she chose well. Musicians amenable to the idea of SHL, for starters; she hadn’t realized some people thought of it less favorably.

“I get your point,” Rosemary said. “Anyway, I swear to you, I’m not a cop. I had no idea crowds bothered me. I didn’t even consider that might happen, since I’ve never been around so many people before.”

“And knowing that you’re not fond of crowds, will you be coming back?”

Rosemary grimaced, thinking of the room downstairs. “I will. Maybe I can get used to it.”

“Let’s hope so. Where are you staying?”

Mentioning the fancy hotel would only lead to follow-up questions she didn’t want to answer. “I’m staying with friends.” In the moment after she said it, she wished she hadn’t lied, but it was too late.

“That’s good. The motels near here give discounts to fleas and bedbugs. And I’m starting to believe you when you say you’re not police, but I’m not ready to invite you to sleep on my couch.”

“I wasn’t asking you to, but, um, thanks. For believing me. Maybe.”

“You’re welcome.” Joni stood and stretched. “Hey, if you’re not going to eat that, I’ll put it back in the fridge.”

She held the remains of her apple in her left hand. She’d eaten every bite of it except the thinnest of cores. “I need to go pack up. Nice meeting you, Rosemary.”

She grabbed both glasses and Rosemary’s untouched apple and headed back into the building. The kitchen had filled with people, some grabbing sodas or water, some heading for the front door.

Rosemary debated going back downstairs to apologize to Luce, maybe help her carry her stuff to make amends, but the stream of departing audience members didn’t abate, and she didn’t know how to make it through the kitchen, let alone fight the current exiting the basement.

The deck overlooked a small kitchen garden with a paved path down the center. At the back, a parking pad and a chain-link fence with an unlocked gate. Wandering through alleys wasn’t the smartest idea on her first night in a strange city, but she’d be better able to keep her wits about her out there than in the basement.

The alley was dark, but back home was darker. Here the shapes were cut and warped by shadows, more ominous than the all-encompassing blackness of the farm. Light seeped from the streetlights at the corners. A rat scuttled across her path, not in any particular hurry, but she’d seen bigger possums. She made her way to the cross street, then back out to the main drag, where people still straggled from the 2020.

According to her Hoodie, it was two miles’ walk back to her hotel, but some neighborhoods in between had pretty lousy safety ratings at night—though none as bad as the alleys she’d just navigated, now that she looked. She walked a couple of blocks over to the main southbound route and waited for a bus.

She panicked when she raised her eyes from the payment pad and realized this was nothing like the interstate bus she had taken into town. No private compartments. People sitting elbow to elbow, a few slumped over like they were sleeping, threatening to collapse onto their neighbors. Some standing, clinging to poles or handholds, as if other strangers hadn’t had their hands in the same places before them. Others checking phones or wearing Hoodies, eyes watchful. She followed their lead.

She made her way to an open seat, situating herself on the edge so her hip didn’t touch the hip of the woman next to her. Left her hood down, kept her hand on her phone to feel it buzz when she reached the closest stop to her hotel. Repeated “Don’t touch me, don’t touch me” to herself, in the hope that the woman beside her wouldn’t shift closer. She’d had enough proximity for one night.

After the club and the bus, her hotel room felt like an oasis. The air conditioner buzzed, but it was otherwise blissfully, blessedly silent. She was as tired as she had ever been, but she knew if she closed her eyes now she’d replay the night in her head over and over.

She slipped behind the heavy curtain to look out the window again. The view had changed from a few hours before—had it only been a few hours ago? Still the same buildings, but they had a different quality to them now. The dark backdrop let her see the whole city, no reflection, like there was no glass between her and the sky.

She followed the long, straight roads, the staggered traffic signals, the trails of brake lights and headlights, rivers of red and white and hazy yellow against deep black. Lights as far as she could see. In another hotel room across the street, backlit, someone stood in a bathrobe toweling her hair, looking out her own window. Did their eyes meet? The other turned away, closed her blinds. All the way down, at street level, tiny people made their way along the sidewalk, the last few postcurfew pedestrians. From up here, the city took on a romantic aspect, a language worth learning to speak.

She was exhausted, but she’d promised daily check-ins, and now it wasn’t even the same day anymore. She pulled her Hoodie up and summarized the evening for Management, leaving out her terror, her failure to even make it to the third band. Three interesting bands played tonight, she settled on. At least one was a definite possibility. I’d like to hear a little more from them before broaching the subject or wasting SHL time if they don’t work out. Settled into hotel room. No prob re hotel mix-up. Have a good night!

She didn’t think anyone would bother reading it until morning, but at least she’d sent it. Maybe she’d even impress somebody that she’d gone scouting on her first night here. She collapsed into the bed without even bothering to brush her teeth. For one moment, as her head hit the pillow and she sank into the bed the size of her bedroom at home, she registered the fact that it was the most comfortable mattress she’d ever slept on, and that maybe, maybe, she could get used to this; and then she was asleep.