Jeff Jackson - Mira Corpora

The walls rattle from the sound of the band ratcheting up for another headlong chorus. The tape is striking for its scrim of fuzz and static, but one element is instantly clear. That voice. The performance contains no obvious clues to Kin’s sudden abdication though it’s marked by an intensity that’s eerie even by his extreme standards, a disturbing vodoun vibe where it’s impossible to tell whether he is channeling the songs, or vice versa. Hank starts to stir. He says: “There’s something you guys need to see.”

As Hank stands up, I notice his fingertips are smudged black. In a few places, the ink from the interwoven patterns on his arms is beginning to run. He solemnly presents us with a blurred photocopy of what looks like an X-ray. There’s some scratchy handwriting below the image and a sequence of typed numbers. It appears to be the cross-section of a human skull, its mouth wide open. There is a square chunk of bright matter behind the teeth. “A friend of mine works in the psych ward and was there when it happened,” Hank says. “He figured we’d want to know and snuck me this copy.”

“I don’t get it,” Lena says. “What exactly are we looking at?”

“A severed tongue,” he says. “Apparently Kin chewed off his own tongue during like the tenth round of electroshock therapy.”

We silently pass the image from hand to hand. Holding the page, I’m visited by a feeling similar to the one I had staring at the store window. My collar bone thrums and my stomach flops.

Hank tacks the paper to the wall, where it hangs like some kind of fucked-up talisman. The copy is too smudged to tell anything for certain — even the name on the X-ray isn’t conclusive, the scratchy doctor handwriting typically illegible. But this seems beside the point. Hank’s tale sounds grotesque enough to be true. There have been persistent rumors that Kin suffers from schizophrenic episodes.

Everyone is devastated. Markus tries to buoy us with logic and lamely plays devil’s advocate. “There have been all sorts of crazy stories about Kin,” he says. “Who says this one has to be true?” Hank says his friend isn’t a liar and points out that none of the previous rumors have been backed up by hard evidence. I try to add my two cents, but no words come out. It falls to Lena to supply the verdict. “It’s depressing,” she says. “Really fucking depressing.” The tape winds past the final number and now only scattered shards of murmurs and applause emanate from the speakers, the sound of the audience making its way toward the exits.

When the stereo clicks off, the silence is jarring. I find my index finger hypnotically tracing the outline of the X-ray as if it formed a sort of map, as if it were a pattern to be brought into focus. Then I have it.

I say: “The new music store in the neighborhood.”

I say: “It’s only a few blocks from here.”

I say: “We’re going to steal the instruments.”

As soon as the words come out, I know they’re exactly right. Markus nods in agreement. Hank seems unsure at first, but slowly a smile emerges. “It’s beyond perfect,” Lena says. “We’ll carry on Kin’s music for him.”

Hank takes the lead in masterminding a plan. It should be straightforward, but he wants to know about more than the store’s location and the instruments in the window. He obsesses over the likely floor plan, the possible security system, the layout of the primary street and surrounding avenues. Strategies are hatched about disabling alarm mechanisms, spray-painting the lenses of security cameras, establishing the quickest routes of entry and escape. “This is impossible without a van,” Hank says. I roll my eyes, but it turns out Lena knows someone who can lend us one. Markus alone has second thoughts. It’s difficult to read the level of concern in his burned features, but he keeps hinting at misgivings about the morality of the proposition.

Lena defends the idea as my brainchild. “This is the way people on the street get things done,” she says.

“It’s a basic right,” I clarify. “Like starving people who steal bread.”

Hank puts a slightly different spin on it. “Come on,” he says. “Anybody stupid enough to open a music store in such a shitty neighborhood deserves this.”

The planning continues for what feels like hours. Maybe it’s a necessary part of screwing up our courage. That evening we’re finally ready to make a dry run and fine-tune the details of our heist. We borrow a beat-up white van that looks well acquainted with this line of work. Hank rolls up the schematic drawings he’s concocted and announces he’ll drive. Markus, Lena, and I huddle on the metal floor in the back. It feels like we’re apostles on our first mission. Markus hums the riff to a favorite Kin Mersey song, Lena taps out the beat on her stomach, and I imagine my voice soaring over top of it all.

We park the van a block away and casually saunter toward the music store. It’s one of the few occupied storefronts in this so-called commercial zone of the neighborhood. Even in the hazy light of the sporadic streetlamps, I can tell something is wrong. The display window looks unreal, as if it’s mystically shed one of its dimensions. Then I notice a shimmer of glass on the sidewalk and realize we’re too late. It’s been smashed. As we creep closer, I spot a metal trash can lying inside the store. Some bastard tossed it through the glass and cleaned out the instruments. We hear police sirens approaching and tear back to the van. We haven’t done anything wrong but Hank peels maniacally around random corners until the sound dies away. Eventually we shudder to a stop outside a bar, somewhere on the far edge of our neighborhood.

The bar is open, so we’re forced to get drunk. We slump into a table and order several rounds simultaneously. “This is just a setback,” Hank says. “We’re still going to do this. There’s no doubt about it.” But I can feel the momentum draining away. Our platitudes about carrying on sound listless, like speeches at an infant’s wake. We try to distract ourselves by focusing on the band that’s getting ready to play on the wooden stage in the corner.

Lena has an idea. She smoothes her multi-color tresses, fixes her lipstick, pastes on her cutest smile, and strolls over to request a number by Kin Mersey. A balm for our disappointments. She returns to the table wearing a potent scowl. “They’ve never heard of him,” she says, spitting on the floor. It figures. The band of athletic longhair dudes start to bang out some thirdhand hard rock. The longer we listen, the clearer it becomes these so-called musicians are committing crimes against art. The sight of them playing these instruments makes as much sense as Neanderthals operating sonar.

We outwait the band as a matter of principle. After their interminable set, I notice them dragging their equipment through a service entrance into the street. I pretend to use the bathroom so I can get a better view. I watch them carefully arrange the drum kit and bass amps in the back of a van. I rush back inside, grip the side of the table so hard the beer bottles rattle, and let it blurt.

I say: “There’s a van outside full of instruments.”

I say: “Stealing them from these assholes will be a favor to society.”

I say: “We’ve got to hurry.”

We sketch a quick plan and arrive on the scene just in time. The band is loitering on the sidewalk. Their van is loaded with the instruments. Hank waves his arms and calls out to them, launching into his crazed fan routine. “You guys rock!” he says. He somehow keeps a straight face while asking if they have albums for sale and when they’ve got their next gig. Of course the band has neither, but they talk a good game about future plans. Even the driver climbs out of the front seat to explain that they’ve been thinking about changing their name and rattles off some idiotic options they’ve been considering. Hank asks for their autographs and when nobody has paper, he hoists his shirt and insists they sign his stomach.