Сара Пинскер - A Song for a New Day

“You do know there’s still music changing hands on other platforms?”

“I thought everything existed between those two databases unless it hadn’t been uploaded yet. I mean, I understand Live is selective, but I don’t get why recordings wouldn’t be available through Superwally or basic StageHolo.”

Joni still didn’t laugh at her, but she gave a curious look. “Not everyone buys into that system.”

“Huh. I mean, my parents don’t, but I thought that was only on the consumer end. Like you noncomm people.”

“Noncomm is a philosophy. It’s not anticonsumerism. We still buy stuff, but we don’t want our purchases tracked, and we don’t think we always need to be in contact and trackable ourselves. You said you tried to find his song while I was away from the table?”

Rosemary nodded.

“So now Superwally and StageHolo both know you’re on the lookout for Ethiopian hip-hop, and they know you’re at this restaurant. Even if you’re paying for ad-free, they’re adding to their profile of you, waiting for a moment to sell it back to you in some way, or sell you to somebody else.”

“What’s so bad about that? I’d rather get ads for stuff I’m interested in than for stuff I’m not.”

“Sure, but what if you want to research something without your information being commodified? What if you don’t want to put money in the pockets of a company that donates to sketchy political candidates?”

Rosemary lost the thread. “They do what?”

“They give money to candidates on both sides of the aisle who want to keep the status quo. Candidates who want to keep the congregation laws in place, the curfews, anything that keeps people inside and using their products.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s still on the free web, public knowledge, if you know where to look. Look, you obviously enjoy their products. I’m not trying to tear down your idols, but you should know they have a vested interest in keeping you scared. The fact that you’re here with me, eating new food in a new place, gives me hope. You don’t have to give up your Hoodie: just open your eyes to the fact that you’re being bought and sold along with whatever you buy when you’re in there. Me, I’d rather work on making the world out here a better place for when people come back to it.”

“So where do you buy music?”

“You mean other than from the artists directly at shows? That’s it for me, but there are sites. If you hack a Hoodie or phone to disable the proprietary stuff, you can shop at a bunch of cool places.” Joni tore the last sodden piece of injera in two and handed one piece to Rosemary, balling the other and stuffing it in her mouth.

They spent the rest of the afternoon walking off the heavy meal. Rosemary tried to absorb what Joni had said. Were congregation laws so bad? There hadn’t been any bombs or major outbreaks since they’d been enacted. She’d grown up feeling safe. Still, here she was, so maybe safety wasn’t everything. Anyway, why care that ads tracked your interests if you had nothing to hide? There were issues she still didn’t understand, clearly. Meanwhile, Joni showed her an art gallery where you looked at art in person, instead of through bot cameras, and a bookstore with shelving units on wheels.

“They have speakers and discussion panels here a couple of times a month.” Joni pantomimed rolling the shelves away.

“On what?”

“The economy, the future, books, politics, art… you name it.”

“And I’m guessing the reason you’d go hear somebody talk instead of watching them online is that these talks aren’t available in hoodspace? Either the speakers are noncomm or there’s a reason they’re not online?”

Joni grinned. “You’re starting to get it! Come on, I have one more thing to show you.”

They walked north and east. Rosemary still turned her head constantly to try to catch the sights: tiny ethnic grocery stores, coffee shops, restaurants, hair salons, all small enough to skirt the congregation laws.

They turned onto a residential street. A few houses down, Joni slid the latch of a wire gate and let Rosemary into a yard, more crocuses than grass. Someone stood in a corner—no, that was a gold-painted mannequin waving to her from beneath a small dead tree mosaicked roots to crown in blue glass. Another mannequin sat in a claw-footed bathtub, up to her neck in dirt, which Rosemary guessed would be full of flowers in another month or two. Where would she be by then?

“One of my roommates is an artist,” Joni said.

They entered through a small vestibule ringed with mannequin-hand coat hooks. Rosemary pulled up her Hoodie to see the place as the residents wanted it seen.

“No Veneer here, Rosemary. All the art is here for real.”

She’d spent her whole adult life wishing she had a proper Hoodie to keep up with the world, and now that she had one, she hung out with people who had another idea entirely.

They walked through a dining room with walls covered in text, tiny faded notes in multiple colors of marker—more art, Rosemary supposed—and entered a tiny kitchen.

“Hey, Javi, is there enough for an extra person?” Joni asked.

The man in the kitchen, Javi, presumably, was stirring a large pot. “No problem! There’s plenty, as long as she likes lentil stew.”

“Excellent. Rosemary, this is Javi. It’s his night to cook, lucky for you. He’s the best in the house.”

“Nice to meet you.” Rosemary contemplated whether she’d ever eaten a stranger’s cooking before. Not counting restaurants, of course, but that was different. Everything looked clean enough.

She stood out of the way while Javi stirred in spices and Joni took bowls from the cabinet. A bulletin board on the refrigerator held chore and meal charts.

Two other people materialized the moment Javi declared his stew done, and Rosemary was introduced to Lexa and Clothilde. Clothilde was the artist, and Lexa owned the house. Rosemary followed their lead and filled a bowl straight from the stewpot. She still felt full from lunch, but it smelled delicious. She wouldn’t even dwell on being the fourth person to touch the ladle.

They all sat at the dining room table together to eat, talking about how they’d spent the day. Clothilde teased Javi for making stew off-season, and Javi retorted that there was no wrong season for stew. Lexa, an older trans woman who worked as an administrator at a health clinic, was celebrating a new grant for her workplace. Joni listed all the places she’d taken Rosemary, and they critiqued her choices and added more sights for her to see.

“I love when my dishes night coincides with Javi’s cooking night,” Joni said, stacking the bowls at meal’s end. “He’s a one-pot cook, and he cleans as he goes. Not like some people around here.”

Clothilde laughed. “You’re talking about yourself? The kitchen always looks like a hurricane hit it when you’re done cooking.”

“Can I help?” Rosemary held on to her own bowl.

Joni snatched it from her. “Nah. There’s a machine.”

Rosemary trailed her into the kitchen anyway, still awkward despite the warm welcome. “Is that why you brought me here? To show me you live with a bunch of people who treat each other like family?”

“No, but that’s sweet, and I hate that it’s a surprise to you. If you want to help, you can dole out one more serving in a fresh bowl.”

Rosemary did as she was told, as Joni loaded the dishwasher, then emptied the leftovers into a large glass jar.

“Come on,” Joni said. “I can wash the pot later.”

She followed through the dining room, which now smelled like stew, up a stew-scented staircase. The upstairs hallway was narrow and low ceilinged. Joni knocked on the second door on the right.