<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 8 Jamaican Blue Anton sat at a table in his attic studio, going over proofs for the new album cover. He was trying to decide which of several designs best captured the feeling of his music. Hunched down with his elbows splayed over the table, studying an image up close, he didn't realize at first that Kliff was standing over him with a solemn expression. "There's something I should tell you...." Anton barely looked up. "You know, none of these quite work. They all need something. Maybe if we combined pieces of each one...." His indifference angered Kliff. "You're taking this for granted, aren't you? You get everything you want, and you're fine with that." "Shouldn't I be?" He shuffled the proofs. "I like the photo here, the hand coloring's a nice touch. But the design's too slick, it doesn't go." He looked up in irritation. "What is it?" "Haven't you ever asked yourself where the money comes from for all this?" "Not really. I trust you. We wouldn't be spending money we don't have." Kliff shifted uneasily. "We're Portland's best band. We must be bringing in enough to cover this sort of thing." "That's just it, the Psychic Rangers are a local band. We can't pay for everything that goes into this project. We'll have the best road crew on the West Coast for this tour. We've got the best sound system. We're outfitting a special bus. Then there's the cost of the promotional campaign, and the art direction you've got in front of you. We haven't been skimping. Périne, the photographer who did these shots, usually gets paid thousands of dollars for work like this." "Sure, but she made an exception. We gave her behind-the-scenes access other photographers don't have. For her, that was worth more than cash." "She's a special case. Not everyone is a fan. Some people just want to get paid. I'm a businessman, it's my job to weigh the options. We've got to operate on a certain level, and that's what I'm doing. And I can tell you, we're spending a lot more than we bring in from our shows." "So what's your point? You've made too many promises? The album won't come out?" Kliff laughed. "Don't worry about that. If this turns out to be as big as we think, we'll all be rich soon. Only—" He shuffled his feet. "There's been a change in strategy, that's all." "Who sets the strategy? I do, right?" "Normally. But certain things are beyond your control, or mine." "Such as?" "The squat's being shut down in a few weeks." "Who says?" "Our sponsor. You know, the guy who—" "The hidden sponsor? The one who set us up with our recording equipment?" "That's right." "We're a community here. What gives him the right to decide that?" "It was his idea to begin with. He suggested this building. He protects us from the police." "This is hardly the best time. We're in the middle of—" "Actually, it's good timing. We'll be on the road by then." "Why is he bailing on us now, just when we're set to make it big?" "He's not bailing. Because of him, you got a distribution deal on very favorable terms. He's providing organizational support for the tour. We're traveling to thirty cities across the West, and in each one we're arranging interviews, working with local promoters, sending out advance copies of the album. That's not something a few street kids and dropouts like us can manage on our own, without some kind of backing." "So he's pulling strings for us behind the scenes?" "You could say that." "You should have told me before." "You've trusted me until now. Just a few minutes ago, you could have cared less." "What if we refuse to leave the squat?" "I guess the cops will come, arrest us, put our stuff on the street." "It won't happen without a fight. We're a community. People believe in us. Thousands of people come to our shows. If we're threatened, our supporters will be here in minutes. They'll form a human barrier. There'll be a standoff, a media spectacle." "If you believe that, you're too naive to be in this business. The masses are fickle. And in this day and age, they're schizophrenic and weird. Support in the street won't make a band's career, and it won't save the squat either." "But why is the squat being shut down by its own sponsor? Is it because my career's about to take off? He thinks Trashtown has served its purpose, so we don't need it any more?" "Something like that." "Then he's got it all backwards. Trashtown is more than a base for the Psychic Rangers. It's a seed for a new way of life. We can't give it up, because it's an example to humanity of how we want to live. It's got to expand and grow until it transforms the whole of society." "I'm with you there, but what you're seeing is just one layer of things. The fact is, closing the squat doesn't violate what you've just said." Anton worked his jaw. "How's that?" "When you first came here, part of my job was scouting the city for new arrivals. We needed someone who could take our message to the people. Someone we wouldn't have to coach, who already knew what to say. And you were that person. So once you came along, I stopped looking and became your manager." "I've heard this before." "That's true, I've never hidden it. Since then, as you can imagine, our sponsor has stepped in every so often to cut corners. He's given you the gift of his influence, which is more important than money. The truth is, he likes you. You've got the same goals. So he's done what he can to speed up your career. He wants to change society like you do, but Trashtown is only a part of it. It's time to move on and be even more effective." "Of course what we're doing is bigger than Trashtown, but that doesn't explain why we have to close it. Especially on the say-so of some guy we've never met." "We're a victim of your success, really. Because of you, there's too much attention being focused on the place. It could put the spotlight on other activities our sponsor is involved in, that he doesn't want people to know about. In a sense, he's sacrificing Trashtown to advance your career. Maybe it'll make you feel better to know that the squat was always meant to be temporary. It's like an egg, an incubator for artists. Once the project is ready to hatch out into the world, the shell is destroyed." This poetic vision fit with Anton's own views. The whole purpose of a structure was to be shattered, so new forms could spring up from the rubble. So why mourn the squat? Still, something nagged at him. He pushed his chair away from the table and began to pace. "We've been telling people we're independent, but that turns out to be a lie. We've been telling them they can trust us, because we answer only to them. We don't have a boss. Most of the reason we're popular is our music, but it's also because of how we live and what we represent. Independence, the do-it-yourself mentality. Now you're telling me it's a lie?" "Of course it's not a lie. Our sponsor's in it for the same reason you are. He's just in a position to do more about it. I guess you could call him your biggest fan." "Great, 'biggest fan.' That's like the Mafia, almost. 'Frankie, I want you think of me as your biggest fan.'" "It's not what you think. We don't owe him anything, it's an alliance." "Then let me see if I've got this right. The Psychic Rangers have a sponsor. He's paid for our equipment, our crew, our publicity campaign, things we could never have paid for on our own. He's pulled strings to speed up our career behind the scenes. He helps you to plan strategy for the band, and you're using his network to coordinate our tour. At the same time he controls the squat we live in, and now he wants to destroy the community we've built because it's gotten inconvenient for him." "Something like that. You make it sound like more than it is." "How can you expect me to believe we've kept our independence in this deal? We clearly haven't. He says close the squat, and we comply. Is he picking the cities we play in, too? Or the channels we use to promote our album?" "I know how it looks, but it's true. If he didn't believe in you, he wouldn't help. It's that simple." "Nothing's that simple." "He's never gotten involved in your work, has he? He's never told you how to behave on stage, or what to write songs about. Can you imagine any record company executive giving you that freedom? In the whole time you've been at Trashtown, have you ever seen him interfere with how we live? Have you seen him here at all? You wouldn't even know he existed if I hadn't told you. So what are you complaining about?" "I'm complaining because it changes everything for me. We've been lying to our fans when we say we're independent. We're posers like the rest." Kliff shot him a disgusted look. "So who is this guy, anyway? Why is he sponsoring Trashtown, and what does he want from me?" "You've already met Reinhold." Anton let out a raucous laugh. "So that's the guy who bankrolled our first album. Reinhold, porn king of Portland!" "Colonel Reinhold," Kliff corrected him. "Colonel fucking Reinhold." A vision of Colonel Reinhold's inner sanctum appeared before him, as if from a long-ago dream. The Colonel's aides sat at attention, himself included, as Reinhold leaned over his polished desk. He was bored, unable to focus. He was the Colonel's protégé, and he had heard it all before. "Colonel of what army?" he asked Kliff. "You told me yourself he was a two-bit promoter." "The Colonel wears many hats." "What have you gotten me into, Kliff?" Kliff told him that Colonel Reinhold was a behind-the-scenes operator in many fields. He sponsored alternative bands, galleries, radio stations, magazines, and storefront churches. He was a player in radical politics, on both the religious right and the anarchist left. He was a porn producer and drug designer. He knew how to break into computer networks, and was involved in "aspects of the import-export trade...then there's the heavy shit you don't want to know about." Most of the artists he sponsored weren't even aware of his support, which might be as simple as steering them toward a collaborator, or setting them up in a day job. He had noticed that artists made excellent moles, because they were willing to remain for years in modest positions if it gave them access to specialized equipment after hours. Reinhold himself remained invisible, working through intermediaries known as "volunteers." His volunteers came from all walks of life, and lived normal lives except for the occasional tasks they did for the Colonel. They formed a human grid that let him go wherever they went, see whatever they saw, and act through them without being present. By making the right connections at the right moment, he could create opportunities that would never have existed otherwise. In return he would take his percentage, his invisible cut. His real gift however was "tracking," or knowing everything that was happening in real time. Like any intelligence gatherer with global ambitions, he relied on a vast, intricate network of outposts and spies. "Trashtown is an outpost, and I'm one of the spies," Kliff said proudly. Anton slumped back onto his stool. "So I really am a pawn in a huge conspiracy. I was beginning to think I was delusional, but now it all makes sense." "Call it a conspiracy if you like, but it's more of a mutual support system. All Reinhold does is create the conditions for things to happen. The rest is up to the people involved." "How so?" "Let's say you're a talented artist who wants to show your work. Reinhold learns about you from one of his volunteers, who works at the corner store where you buy your milk. Another volunteer has an uncle who's an art dealer. His specialty is East Asian antiques, but he's been thinking about getting into modern art. One day a few months later, you're in a part of town where you don't go very often, and you stumble onto a new gallery that looks interesting. You walk in, talk to the owner, and he invites you to do a show. Your work gets noticed by his clients, and the new gallery is a success." "I don't get it. What if I never walked down that particular street?" "Reinhold can't control your movements, but he can drop a few hints. Maybe the guy at the corner store said something. Or maybe it was a coworker. He gets people pointed in the right direction, but they follow their instincts after that. That's why it's not a conspiracy. They do what they'd be going anyway. If they don't take the hints, it doesn't work. The thing is, most people take the hints. Direct intervention by Reinhold is very rare." Anton changed the subject. "You called Trashtown an outpost?" "Maybe recruiting center is a better word. It's a magnet. It attracts fringe kids, artistic youth, which is where we get most of our talent. It gives them a chance to survive in the city and build up their skills. It's also a listening post, a way for us to discover trends before they happen." "What happens to it now?" "We'll lay low for a while, and sooner or later we'll pick up again in a new venue. But we don't need Trashtown any more, now that we've got you. You're our new magnet. You'll reach more people than Trashtown ever did." He gave a cry of triumph. "It's time to rid ourselves of Trashtown, time to move on!" Anton was brooding. "For a long time it's bothered me that everyone I know in Portland, I met through you. You brought me here to the squat, introduced me to Blake, hooked me up with gigs and equipment for the band. Does that mean everyone around me is involved with Reinhold? Am I the only one who isn't in on this?" Kliff laughed. "I think you know more about him than anyone else. There's stories going around about the Colonel, sure, but who's met him? No one but you. He's taken a special interest in you from the beginning." "How did that happen?" "Because of me, of course. I talked to him about you long before we did the movie together. I told him you're the one we're looking for. I said that if we helped you, you had the potential to be a star. The movie was just a way for him to check you out." Anton blushed. "What a way to get to know someone!" "If I'd told you everything back then, you never would've believed me. You never would've accepted the deal, because you wanted to do it for yourself. And you have done it yourself, you've earned every bit. Only here and there along the way, you've had advantages." "It ruins everything. It isn't pure." "Nothing is pure, you know that. But if it really bothers you, you could still back out." "What do you mean?" "Go back to Iowa. Or stay in Portland, start over again on your own." "You mean withdraw the album?" "Sure, withdraw the album. What do you expect?" Anton imagined himself stepping off the bus again in Portland, and doing it all over without meeting Kliff. He would struggle alone for a long time until he met others like himself, or until he was crushed so completely that he gave up. Alternately, he saw himself leaving Portland that very night, taking the next bus home to Becky and Timmins. "It's crazy," he would tell them. "I came this close to making an album...." He'd put so much of himself into the album that he couldn't imagine keeping it from the world. He felt this way even though it was contaminated by his new knowledge. "I'm a creature of this guy Reinhold," he thought bitterly. "He made me what I am." Kliff was right, though, nothing was pure. He couldn't have gotten where he was without compromising himself. In his case, at least, it had been merciful. He hadn't even known it was happening. "I can't back out now," he told Kliff. "You know that." "I know," Kliff said. They sat for a while in silence. Kliff felt sad. He truly admired Anton, and he wished that Anton could have found a way to get out of the deal if that was what he wanted. Still, he was relieved that Anton had seen reason. It meant they would still be working together. Anton picked up the proofs from the table and shuffled them glumly a few times. "Listen, from now on it's different. I'm the decision maker here." "That's always been true." "I need to know the whole story. If I'd known how involved we were with Reinhold, that would have changed the choices I made. I might not have made the right choices for my career, but they would have been mine." "Sometimes, not knowing is the best thing." "What do you mean?" "You can walk away from all this, but I can't. It's my life, everything I do. Everything I've shown you since you came to Portland belongs to Reinhold." Anton ran his fingers through his hair and stared at the wall. After a while he said, "What I want is to make music. The rest is details." "Then let's go ahead with the tour. When it's done, there'll be a profit. You'll have resources of your own, money to spend however you want. No one will tell you how to do things. Reinhold will only be involved if you want him to be. He'll protect you, as always, so you can take more risks." Anton had already accepted this outcome. Still, he felt defeated. He'd believed he was completely free, when in fact he had little control over his own life. Crucial decisions had been made for him. He stared out the window for a while, until he had a thought. It was an idea that made him almost happy. "I want to meet him again. I want to talk to the Colonel, for real this time." Kliff shuddered. No one asked to see the Colonel. But the request had been made, and Reinhold had already heard it. In Anton's case, it would have to be honored. He agreed to set something up. • • • A few days later, Kliff invited Anton to a fabulous party. It didn't start until after midnight, so in a burst of nostalgia they went to Deb's Diner, where Anton had been working when they first met. "Nothing's changed here," Anton remarked, chewing his patty melt sandwich. "What did you expect?" Kliff sat opposite him, hunched over a black coffee. "You knew all along how this would play out." Anton's tone was admiring and bitter. "It was a guess. Not a shot in the dark, exactly, but a guess. You might not have been the right one at all." Anton recalled how Kliff had come into his life as if by accident. After talking with an older man on the street, he'd blown in out of the rain to ask for a cup of coffee. Anton had refused because Kliff didn't have any money. He'd even felt righteous about it. He noticed now that Kliff was scanning the street as he had then. "Do you still come in here looking for fresh talent?" Kliff pulled back from the window. "Why would I do that?" "Maybe there's another one like me." Kliff scoffed and shook his head. "It'll never happen." They took a taxi to the party. It was in a former department store, an art deco showpiece perched on a ridge in a hilly suburb. Kliff spoke to the ponytailed doorman and slipped him "a small tribute, not cash," as he explained once they were inside. The doorman let them in through the VIP entrance, which hadn't seemed to be there until he opened it, allowing them to bypass the throng of ratty teenagers queued up for their taste of the high life. Kliff ushered Anton into the building, hand on his elbow. They were drawn into a maze of robotic searchlights and densely shifting walls of sound. People pressed against them, barely visible in the confusion. He guided Anton to one side of the room, and pressed his mouth to Anton's ear. "Check this out." He removed a small packet from his coat. "What's that?" "It's something special. Jamaican Blue." He opened the paper to reveal a small mound of iridescent crystals. "What's it do?" Anton looked skeptical. "Just try it." He touched a finger to the blue pile, and raised the fingertip to Anton's face. Anton put out his tongue to receive the substance. "Not like that!" Kliff said in mock horror. He touched his fingertip to Anton's nose, and Anton sniffed. The crystals bit the delicate skin inside, bringing blood. "It stings!" Anton cried, jumping back. "Don't sneeze," he said, laughing. "It's aggressive. It goes right in." He took some himself, scowling viciously. Then he offered the packet to Anton. "Want some more?" Anton was about to turn him down, but the onrush of sensation made him think again. The train was leaving the station, and he wanted a ticket. He touched a finger to the crystal pile and coated it nicely. "Is this enough?" He raised it to his nose and sniffed violently, rubbing it in for good measure. "Whew! That's enough. What is this stuff?" "They're eggs. They hatch an organism in your blood. Microscopic swimmers with psychic powers." "Tastes like burnt plastic!" "It's synthetic," Kliff allowed. He took another dose for himself and refolded the paper. "We'll save the rest for later." "I don't know if I'll want any. It's thick. Sticky. Let's get some water." "I've got a better idea. Becherovka is great for this." "What's Becherovka, self-induced vomiting?" "It's the Czech national drink. An herbal liqueur." They passed through a zone of tall tables at which shadowy figures were seated, until they came to a bar in what had once been the jewelry section. A glass display case was stocked with shot glasses and tumblers. The shelves behind were lined with mirrors, lit from below so that the bottles on display appeared like torches of ice. Only three types of alcohol were available, cognac, pear vodka, and Becherovka. The bartender leaned his meaty hands on the counter, a chummy smile on his lopsided face. "What can I get for you boys?" "Two Becherovka." Kliff wiggled two fingers. The man poured them each a drink and pushed them across the counter. Kliff took his and started to walk away. "I guess we don't have to pay," Anton said as he caught up. "That's the whole point of this network we're in." Kliff was right, Becherovka was the perfect complement to Jamaican Blue. Anton's mouth felt spicy and refreshed. The sticky feeling cleared away and the drug rushed into his blood, flickering there like a pilot light in a furnace. "Can you feel it?" Kliff steadied him slightly as they climbed a staircase at the center of the room. It got narrower towards the top, like the train of a dress. The stairs were thick with people, but they made their way past. "It's subtle." "Do you want more?" "No, not yet." They stepped out onto a broad balcony. The music was more subdued than it had been down below. People sat around on sofas or piled cushions, gesturing, blending their words in a harmonious murmur. Lamps were scattered about, making pools of light. The local artists were all there. Kliff introduced him to twin sisters from Romania who made avant-garde films, the founder of No Exit Theatre, and a photographer who did portraits of the dead. There were the bar rats who, having read Bukowski, imagined they were poets, and the club kids who, if they were pretty enough, were allowed to serve as filler. People milled about, sampling the interesting green drinks and wieners on sticks, tweaking the nipples of the boys and girls who served them, waiting for the moment when the powders would be brought out. If they wanted, they could dabble in face paint or, for the brave, get a tattoo, the most popular being a commemorative serpent on the left buttock. Andy Warhol was there, too. Kliff pointed him out. He sat alone in a corner on the couch, pale and mannequin-like. Someone had propped a drink in his hand. "I thought he was dead," Anton said. "He is, but he hasn't changed a bit." "He's still Andy," someone chimed in. "He wouldn't miss this." Kliff spotted a friend, a Senator's wife who bought art as an investment. His earlier life as a streetcorner hustler had brought him in contact with the great artists of the day, and he had become her informal adviser. Without realizing it, she had been sucked into his steamy underground life on the edge. Now, seeing him at her shoulder, she turned to him with evident relief. She had found a reference point in all the confusion. "Kliff, darling, lovely to see you!" "Fine, I'm just—" The music was louder now, making conversation difficult. "This is my friend Anton. He's a musician." "How wonderful! You're the boy who paints roses?" Anton looked at her blankly. Kliff smiled in apology. "Mrs. Harrison—Laura—we'll catch up later, okay? When things are calmer." He turned to Anton. "Let's go on the roof." They passed through a service door into a corridor that was painted white and smelled of disinfectant. At the other end was a freight elevator with a thick metal door, and a smaller door with a single pane of reinforced glass, revealing a stairway leading up. Kliff pressed a button beside the stairs, a camera moved overhead and the door clicked open. "Come on," he said, waving Anton ahead of him. The stairs were steep, and the door at the top was open. They could hear music, a swing band perhaps, and merry laughter. "Sparkling," Anton thought. He could imagine fountains. As they stepped onto the roof, a man in the shadows looked them over without turning his head, then returned to his ruminative mood. The roof was long and flat, like the deck of a ship. The building was perched on a hill, overlooking the slowly curving river and the lights of the bridges. A hundred or so people were scattered about. At the far end a Bedouin tent had been erected. Between them and the tent, musicians played for the benefit of whirling couples. There were honeyed pastries on trays, silver urns of dark coffee. The moon was a long, low crescent. "This is the real party," Anton said. "This is it." Kliff pulled him closer, giving him a friendly embrace. He replied with a peck on the cheek, by Kliff's ear. "Thanks, bro," he whispered. "Let's squeeze a few moments of truth out of life while we can, huh?" He ambled over to the side table for a pastry. "What's in the tent?" he called over his shoulder. They walked there together. Along the way, Anton was popular. People came up to Kliff asking, "Who's your young friend?" or "Is this the new musician?" They touched him, clinging to him until they were pushed away by someone more important. Finally they entered the tent and there, seated on a throne surrounded by gauzy curtains, was the Colonel. He could see right away that this was no ordinary Colonel. His uniform was colorful like a Central American dictator's, making him resemble a parrot. It glistened with a pale fire that hovered around it like vapor. Leading to his richly upholstered armchair was a wide carpet, with attendants standing or sitting on either side. They were young, tawny and strong, in tunics and Turkish pants, with curved swords at their belts. Impulsively, he stepped onto the carpet and knelt, kissing the Colonel's ring. The Colonel smiled and stroked his head, then gestured to a seat which his nearest attendant hastened to vacate. Anton splayed himself over it luxuriantly and accepted the pipe that appeared at his fingertips. "Your epaulets shimmer with luminescent charm," he remarked. "They reflect the dangerousness of the world," replied the Colonel. Anton inhaled deeply from the fragrant draught that was like a blend of apricots, lemon and rose. "Is it customary here to pass this around?" "Of course," said the Colonel. He passed the pipe to the Colonel. Reinhold puffed it as he spoke, then passed it back. Anton wanted to pass it on to Kliff, but Kliff was nowhere to be seen. They spoke of many things, but coherent intervals were brief. "Our president doesn't have a clue," Anton ventured. "Sometimes it's better not to know the truth." Reinhold exhaled a rich cloud of smoke. "Like when he's in a room full of hired killers, for example. That happens fairly often to a president." "His lets his advisers handle things like that." "Exactly. It really is the best way." The Colonel smiled and said, "You're an adventurous drug user, aren't you? You seem to take anything that's put in front of you." Anton blushed. "It's all for a cause, you know. I want to arrive at the unknown through a long, enormous, and deliberate confusion of the senses." "How original." "Besides, I'm in training. If they ever try to drug me against my will, to make me cooperate or something, I'll know how to handle it." "Let me offer you some advice. You'd be better off keeping your vices to a minimum. If you have too many at once, it's hard to tell which one is doing what. Is it the cigarettes that make you tired, or the overeating, or the bourbon? Does the bondage fantasy make it hard to concentrate, or is it the aftereffects of last night's mescaline? Of course the alternative is to keep going, to immerse yourself in vice until it all blurs together and becomes normal. But in practical terms, that's hard to sustain. It requires not just money, but a reliable source. In short, it requires being above the law. That's not a path that works for everyone." From the evidence around him, Anton felt certain that the Colonel was above the law, and he could guess that he would benefit from this as long as he was under the Colonel's protection. Perhaps the Colonel was warning him not to get hooked on any of the riches he was tasting, because they emanated from the Colonel and depended on him. "I'm not one to form habits easily," Anton assured him. "I hope not. It gives you less handles to be held by." After Anton took his leave, he headed downstairs to look for Kliff. He found him sitting on one of the couches in renewed conversation with the Senator's wife, Laura Harrison. Leaning in an archway, Anton watched them from across the room. Kliff dangled a cigarette from long fingers that rested on one knee, which was pulled up under his chin. With his other hand he brushed the hair from his eyes, which had long delicate lashes. Until now, Anton hadn't noticed that he was beautiful. He had a thin and distant smile, and when he smiled he would bring his hand up to stroke the sharp contours of his face. He wasn't looking at Mrs. Harrison at the moment, but smiling distractedly at something she'd said. He raised the cigarette to his lips, and her eyes followed in a kind of trance. Spotting Anton in the archway, he whispered something to her that caused her to laugh. "Do you think he's jealous that we're laughing together?" he said loudly enough for Anton to hear. He gestured for Anton to come join them. She looked up and laughed more openly, tossing her head a little. Little brass shapes dangled from her ears and framed her neck. When Anton came over, Kliff offered a spot on the couch. "Did you two hit it off?" he asked. He warned Anton with his eyes not to say too much. Anton shrugged. "He gave me some friendly advice. I tried to show him that I'm not as irresponsible as it seems—that it's more of a style." "The difference between style and life can get blurry sometimes." "He pointed that out." "What's this about?" Mrs. Harrison asked. "Oh, nothing," Kliff told her. "A friend of mine wants to help Anton in his career." "It's so nice that you boys look out for each other." "That's what it's all about." <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>