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The Voice was early. The Harrison Red Hot was the last place on earth to find him on any other day, his wiry afro, short-sleeved Puerto Rican, chino floods and thick soles standing out among the blank workshirt potato faces of the Red Hot like magic marker on a wedding dress. Besides, he was too far downtown; the Voice was Wicker Park since he moved out from DC a decade ago. But the spot worked, with the din of the traffic on 90 and the Eisenhower providing a measure of protection from the government suits that had been pointing shotgun mics at him since Friday. The Low End heaved the duffel into the red vinyl booth first, then, despite the painfully inadequate A/C, ordered coffee, black. The Voice asked for a water, which apparently pissed the waitress off as if he'd asked her for a lap dance. The water never came. The Beat showed up instead, sitting quietly on the edge of the booth, paradiddling his calloused fingers on the tabletop. He ordered the last crumby-looking donut from under the pastry dome on the counter. And wine. With the three finally assembled, the Voice produced a briefcase - identical to the Low End's - laid it on the table and spoke. In French, this time, as it had become their custom to screw with the suits by changing languages every three hours: Je pense qu'est ce ce que vous voulez. I think this is what you're after. Across the street, the suits shouted angrily into their headphones to retire the German and get another translator. The Beat: J'ai fait ma partie, ainsi voyons-le. I've done my piece, so let's do it. The Low End downed half his coffee like a Scotch, burning his tongue but leaving his expression completely unchanged. The Beat reached for the inside pocket of his suit coat and produced a key, which he laid on the donut plate. The Voice took the key like he was drawing a card, and inserted it into the latch on his case. Open it, the suits whispered through clenched teeth. Prove us right. As the third latch on the case released, a bizarre blanket of quiet fell over the Red Hot. And in an impossibly long second, a pulse that started from nothing rose out of the brown leather, until within moments, the entire restaurant throbbed with sound. Glasses rattled as the subs kicked in; asbestos dust fell from the ceiling in a dirty snow on the tabletops. The citizen-potatoes, transfixed by the dark, dubby rhythm, one by one stood to get a closer look. The bus driver at the end of the bar was first to be hit with the vision given shape by the sound, and exclaimed, as if it were a simple matter of fact: Duke Ellington. In his best nasal accent: Lee Scratch Perry, like there was an 'n' in 'Scratch'. The cop in the next booth followed, spacing his words with pregnant pauses: The Teardrop Explodes. Nick Cave. Sun Ra. DJ Shadow. Junior Murvin. Now, from behind the bar, the cook, like he was reading from an eye chart: The Clash. Sizzla. Gil Scott-Heron. Even the waitress, the mole on her neck twitching with every word: African Head Charge. Sly and Robbie. Jah Wobble. Herbie Hancock. The Ruts. They stood there like that for almost an hour while the music played, using the only language they could muster to describe the sounds that in words they could only consider indescribable. This is like nothing we have ever heard. The suit in the van, the tall one with the carriage of a boss, cursed aloud. Then, as if it had just occurred to him, ripping off his headset: Eternals are here. Then, sotto voce: And there's nothing we can do about it. |
Damon
Locks