This is waaaaaaay too long. Does anyone want to offer their axe surgical skills?
Frosty Pine felt something warm and wet between this toes. He look down and was appalled to see the crazy Fox girl Bling-Bling brought to the after-party. She was nice enough, if you weren’t picky about Warm stoner girls. No open sores and still got her own teeth. Man, but what a thing to wake up to!
She caught him looking at her, and totally misreading his pose, she began to suckle the gray-white padding of his large claw-like feet. As a Mammal, she made the common mistake of concentrating on his face… not taking into account head motions, hand gestures, color changes, and other little tics a Rept used to express his emotions consciously and unconsciously. She could not see his disgust.
“Bling-Bling!” He bellowed, remembering that the background singer brought the Fox to the after-party. Then, switching to the street version of the Xeno-Voice, “Get this sloppy tongue bitch off me, you hear?”
Her ginger tufted ears zeroed in on him, and she looked up a little amused and a little confused. Frosty pulled his pillow over his head just as the lavender headed Anole swooped into the bedroom. His dewlap blossomed into an amused grin as he plucked the naked Fox off Frosty. She gave a token protest, used to be manhandled to a certain extent, and Bling-Bling laughed, “You leave Dr. Ice alone, you hear now?”
Now the protesting began in earnest. Frosty had repeatedly explained over and over to the girl (was her name Ginger something?), that he wasn’t Dr. Ice… he was just a fancy roadie, a high paid stage guy that just happened to also be a thin Bearded Dragon. He cursed Bling-Bling for teasing the girl and he cursed the girl for getting the morning off to a bad start. His right foot shot up in the air trying to kick the drying saliva free.
Disgusted and unsuccessful, Frosty slowly climbed out of bed. He gratefully checked the sheets for damage. None, unless you counted the Fox hairs all over the bed. Good thing they only snuggled, he thought with a full body grimace. Shedding every hour or every day, how the hell did Mammals get to be arbitrators of what’s good and what’s bad?
No, he stopped himself, he was beginning to sound like his brother, Kudzu. Frosty staggered towards the showers. It was noon. He would have to have gotten up in the next hour or two, anyway.
In the bathroom, he locked the door, Not for any modesty; he’d hadn’t even bothered to wrap the sheet around him. Once, one of the groupies had tried to steal one of his Tzitzis for a souvenir. While he couldn’t consider himself a fully practicing Chromatic any longer, it would be devastating to lose any of his little badges. Using only his right hand, he unclipped his birth Tzitzis, a little two inch bit of green braided strings with a black triangle symbol in the middle, for one of “beard” scales on his neck. He laid it on a hand towel on a sink as he recalled the name image of his mother. A misty forest, cool but welcoming. He felt her love as if she were in the room now. His father’s name image came to him as a static charcoal drawing of a spartan evergreen. A lone pine empty of depth. A hermit’s dwarf tree. His father would be surprised to see himself portrayed so, but his father never shared himself with Frosty.
It was his own damn fault.
The other Tzitzis came off in the proper order, Frosty extending thoughts and images as he did so. He thanked God for his life and thanked Mosaic for giving them all a path. Paths, actually, but Mosaic had codified many observations and granted a uniformity across the many different Breeds and Species of Sentience. The Anthro and the Xeno, the Warm and the Cold, the educated and the uneducated, the rich and the poor. These observations cut across all these lines, so that in everything one did, one could glorify god or at least testify to his greatness.
Except, perhaps, with Rap.
Frosty checked himself. By taking off his badges (including the six stupid gold ones Kudzu insisted that he wear and really meant nothing), he had unburdened himself of the past. He got his knees on the bathmat and then bowed in the direction of Homeland. “God, the one and the many, hear my humble offering that I should be guided by your hands. That the words of the Prophets should occupy my thoughts.” He could not bring himself to wish his band and family God’s blessings.
“Forgive my weakness,” he added, lamely.
Dr. Ice yelled into the bathroom, “Come on, Frosty, there other people out here, yo?”
Frosty ignored the singer and took the shower, also keeping to tradition (except for the conservation of water… they were a long way from the desserts of Homeland, after all!) he cleaned himself. He did not get all the red hairs out of himself, but his exterior was fur less now. He toweled off the way he’d seen other, non Chromatic Repts do. The traditional way just took to long, especially when one was soaking wet and not just damp. And it felt good.
He also spread moisturizer and sanitizer to his skin. Dry Rept skin could carry bacteria if one wasn’t careful. While the plague stories of long-ago weren’t true, other types of outbreak did sometimes happen. Kudzu insisted that this was merely Warm Propaganda, but Frosty had seen the science. And, most of the issues were actually where one type of Rept found the infection harmless passed it to another type of Rept who found it very harmful. Plus, anything to prevent ashy skin. If he had a vanity, it would be the perfect green of his outer arms and legs. Most of the rest of him was snow white, tinting a pine green around his fingers, toes, and his orifices. Like Dr. Ice, he was a rare “sport” Bearded Dragon. Unlike the performer, Frosty didn’t think this made him special, just interesting to look at.
His ablutions completed, and the Tzitzis returned to his chest and placed himself prostate towards to Homeland, hating that he was forced to praise the God, hidden from the others. He was the only half decent Chromatic in the The Large Scale Event. He no longer felt the comfort in his lone dedication that he once might have, or the self-satisfaction.
Just as well, his father would probably call those feelings mere vanity.
When Frosty was finished, Dr. Ice was gone, probably to use one of the suite’s other bathrooms. Other musicians were beginning to wake up now. Large Scale Records had given their artists a choice for this tour. Each group could get their own room or all the performers could share a huge high class suite. The talent decided to go with the huge suite, which meant the space was practically a party house around the clock.
Frosty felt himself being sucked in little by little. He wasn’t sure if he was loosening up or slowly being corrupted. He was of two minds on that. That thing last night with the Fox. He thought they’d just snuggled, her warmth seeping into his limbs so sweetly during the night. In shower, he had discovered hairs where there really should ought not to have been. He was completely unfamiliar of the migratory behavior of fur; except that he knew it got every where. Still, it bothered him that he might sin so easily and not even wake up for it.
Or remember it.
They’d be here for three more days. A day recording with some old Jazz singer he’d never heard of so Large Scale could make the old Gecko relevant and justify buying his whole library (and not to avoid a lawsuit because Bling-Bling’s much anticipated solo album lifted a dozen distinct tracks from the Jazz Legend best of album). Then another stage show the next night, and then everyone was scheduled for interviews with multi-media outlets. They’d be talking to everyone from fan club newsletter writers to Chicago tv personalities. They’d all be asking the same questions and expecting different, exclusive answers.
Kudzu had already made it clear he’d be doing Dr. Ice’s interviews for him. Dr. Ice could reach the backrow with his voice, but he clammed up one on one. Frosty’s parody of Dr. Ice seemed to go over big with the Journalists and Dr. Ice could never be bothered to read or listen to his “own” interview. He’d lose a day organizing the packing. That was his only regret, because it was fun being Dr. Ice for a little bit.
He’d hate to have to be Dr. Ice all the time.
Frosty stepped over a few sleeping bodies, naked but not exposed. He didn’t bother lifting his tail. They were all going to have to wake up in an hour or so anyway. A few ladies would need to gather up their crap and begin their walk of shame soon. The boys could handle the groupies their own way. Unless, Kudzu got into a snit and ordered them to all clear out.
Kudzu was part owner in Large Scale Records, so he could do crap like that. This was their first tour as a label outside of New Netherlands and he’d made it very clear that he was in charge of the tour. None of the other owners could stay with the tour beginning to end and Kudzu had the tour and production experience to make it work.
Frosty wasn’t exactly sure how he’d gotten dragged into this, but he liked it just fine. It was nice to meet people out of the Green Band, but they were all so demanding and he never knew what they expected of him. He hated leaving New Amsterdam but his parents wanted him to keep an eye on Kudzu, his older and bigger brother.
He was happy to be the smart and sensible one in the family, but sometimes it was a real pain.
Kudzu, you see, was insane; a steam roller in the shape of a Bearded Dragon.
He was the most dynamic, chaotic Rept that Frosty had ever seen. It’s like his brother lived in a frying pan. It was annoying and frustrating and made worse by the very fact that no matter what bad choices he made, everything worked out for him. Everything.
Kudzu was huge. He’d grown like the weed he’d chosen as a name, smothering and crushing all other life about him.
He could hear Kudzu in the suite’s dining room holding court. As he poured his coffee, he eavesdropped a little. Reporter. Typical Kudzu. In two more days, he’d be chatting with a dozen different reporters. Kudzu liked to see his name in print, even if it was just his stage name. He only heard two voices. Frosty sighed and pour a glass of ice water for Kudzu, who wouldn’t taking until his voice was hoarse.
“No, it’s not that I don’t think that Reptile are a superior race,” Kudzu was saying provocatively to a Avi reporter holding out a cigarette pack sized recorder. He was dressed in a Heartland garb, which reminded him with a pang of his father. His brother continued, “But we’ve been conquered by sheer numbers and we always will. And the more we allow ourselves to be a part of soul crushing religions, sects, and political parties, the worse it gets as a whole for the Cold-Blooded.”
Frosty did not see the PR person around. That was worrisome.
He meant to discreetly leave the glass at Kudzu’s side, but the huge green and brown Rept jumped up, his gold chains rattling. His gold plated ivory sun glasses were his face on, despite being indoors. It canceled the mirrored coated sunglasses that sat atop the bill of his baseball cap. Kudzu’s whimsy. His gold coated Tzitzis shimmered in like a gaudy rash on his right shoulder. The man had no respect.
Then Kudzu smiled and his lower set of teeth were gold capped. His sharp upper teeth had been etched with the words ST.GEORGE and then inlaid with gold. Frosty disguised his reaction by grabbing his brother’s spare set of glasses, as if the glare from his brother’s smile had been too much. He gave a very non-emotive Dr. Ice hand shake as as Kudzu introduced him to Dave Sterling from Force magazine. The colorless claw from the feathered arm felt like a Rept’s but lighter, and disturbingly warm.
Unlike Kudzu, Dr. Ice moved to a purpose only. Once he sat, he stayed still; moving only to sip his coffee. From behind the glasses, Frosty studied the Avi reporter. Sterling was a duck of some sort, or so the Rept thought from his bill and his exposed web feet. He wore a blue grand boubou, embroidered with gaudy golden ankhs. With this draping garment, he didn’t need pants, but the most Avi did without these days anyway. He wore a matching kufi hat that made him look taller. As he sat back down, Sterling casually adjusted the back of the brocade blouse so his tail feathers would stay pointed in the right direction.
Kudos to him for letting them grow out, Frosty thought. Shame he’s not letting them out, but then nobody wants to see those silly short things curling all different ways. You’d have to have a longer tail than a Duck’s to pull it off with the boubou.
Before the reporter could ask the elusive Dr. Ice a question, Kudzu began his on his manifesto again. Frosty maintained Dr. Ice’s bored and cool persona, through out the rambling diatribe, which was easy because he’d heard it all before. Kudzi, as the rapper Saint George, headliner of the Knights of Saint George spewed out a lot of shit to see what would stick to the wall. Journalists got to pick and choose what sentences to use and if anything came back to bite Saint George in the tail, his brother would rightly claim the sentence was taken out of context.
The context, of course, would be pure nonsense.
Frosty, as Dr. Ice, watched the Avi to see if he was onto his brother’s game. Most of the best reporters were and they, in on the joke, laughed at anyone who took Saint George seriously. He did have a growing fanbase and he was poised to be the first rap superstar from the East Coast, since the 80’s. Despite the nonsense, interviews with the bedazzled Bearded Dragon sold issues. It was just another example of his brother doing something the absolute wrong way and coming up smelling like roses. Sterling, however, seemed to smell the fertilizer Kudzu was shoveling.
Frosty allowed himself a small smile, that the Avi might or might not notice. Everyone knew how to read Mammal expressions because there was just so many of them. You grew up watching them on television. Every blink, twitch, facial muscle tug, pretty much meant the same thing across the boards. Avi and Repts were more subtle than that. Repts had hand gestures, head bobbing, blink series, color changes, and tail slapping. Some species even had dewlaps that expanded and colored. Avi had crests, eye shapes, head motions, and a few facial muscles that they could shape into a smile behind their beaks if they practiced.
Frosty had read somewhere that scientists now thought the Avi and Rept species were very closely related, that they had evolved from the same fish that crawled out of the ocean and eventually became what was now known to be dinosaurs. It seemed an interesting article, but when he got the sentence, “Avi sapiens are simply more evolved,” he tossed the magazine. Even science was full of Anthro bias.
“The West Coast rappers,” Kudzu said, grabbing Frosty’s attention again, “They are all against us. And by us I mean myself and my Knights, Dr. Ice here, and entire the Large Scale Records talent stable. There’s this basic philosophic attitude that they are unbending on, that only true rap can come out of places like Compton. But what they are forgetting is that hip hop began in the Bronx, that Grandmaster Coldblood brought it to The Harlem Opry, that Rept:DOA brought it to television. Poor money management is what done in the East Coast rap record labels. The scene didn’t collapse, it didn’t go away, just the labels. That’s why PumpDaddy, Street Dog, and I founded Large Scale with Dick Dagwood, a rap fan with all the musical talent of a cash register.”
“They call him Ka-ching,” Frosty interjected. Dagwood had been producing since his college days on Loon Beach Island. He had plenty of talent which included a nose for finding fresh talent and he knew how to manage the money. They really owed their continued success to him, perhaps more so than their own talent. He liked being mentioned and he liked the ribbing, too. He was a good man, for a Bear.
Kudzu laughed at this outright lie with a hardy laugh. By tomorrow, they would be calling Darwood Ka-Ching. Sterling took this as his opening to ask Dr. Ice a question, “What’s your view on the West Coast-East Coast feud?”
“I din’t tink mush ov it you’know,” Frosty mumbled, “But them depth threats… feh, they coward anyhoo. We got nuthin’ to worry 'bout.”
Kudzu made a dismissive gesture so obvious even a Mammal couldn’t miss it.
Sterling dove into the gap. “What death threats have you been getting?”
“No death threats,” Kudzu said. “Just big talk from little men. Don’t mean a thang.” This was of course exactly the thing to say that might antagonize any serious threat, but Saint George had to be fearless in the face of danger. “Any devisiveness among Repts serves no one but the Warm Blooded Power Structure. It is of the utmost importance that we remember that.”
The interview continued on in a similar vein until the timer went off. The Duck looked a little frustrated as they shook hands. Once he closed the door, Kudzu turned to Frosty and said, “You know, I think Dad has a dress like that.”
Frosty chuckled. Now that he thought about it, it was true. “It’s called a boubou. And it looks better on Father.” A pit of yearning opened up inside of him. He wished he had the relationship with his father where he could just simply call him and say, I saw something that reminded me of you today. Frosty had no idea why there was a gap between them. No idea why all of his father’s loving attention went to Kudzu.
“What happened with Jarvis Munch, the PR guy?” Frosty folded his arms across his chest. “You promised you wouldn’t give interviews if he wasn’t here.”
“I fired him,” Kudzu spoke with disarming frankness. When he spoke like that, Frosty thought his brother would have made a great mad scientist. “He insisted that we downplay the East Coast/West Coast Feud.”
Frosty’s head bobbled with annoyance and his tail slapped the ground trice. “But that’s exactly what you did!”
Kudzu smiled his ivory and gold smile. “Did I?” He asked, heading back for the kitchen where breakfast for the posse was finally getting under way. “Did I really?” Then he laughed and glanced back. “Go put some clothes on, my brother.”
Grumbling, Frosty did as he was told.
Sunrise chases shadows into hiding across the mountain side.
They huddle beneath snow covered pines, small and impotent fragments of the night.
Treetop snow weeps as it wastes away, untouched by a child’s hand .
A single pine needle collects all its sad tears, for the time when it needs to cry.
Frosty opened his eyes and found himself in the stairwell of the hotel. A cell phone in his hand and a guilty shadow hovering behind him. He didn’t recognize whose phone it was, but it was probably one of the rentals LSR got for them. Luckily, he knew his parent’s number by heart. It rang and then his mother’s sweet voice. Her “greeting” seemed a little strained, however.
“Mom, it’s Frosty. Is everything OK?” Then belatedly, he responded, in kind, “All things come from the creator.”
Her voice warmed up, “Oh, everything is fine. We’ve just been getting the strangest calls. Your father says we might have to get an unlisted number… Imagine that. Him volunteering for the extra expense and all that.”
Frugality. The Green Band wasn’t known for spending more than they had to. Just another reason this Saint George business must be eating his father alive. The excess and the gaudiness of Kudzu’s rise to stardom flew against everything their father ever tried to teach them.
“What type of calls?”
“Oh the press,” his mother relented as if he’d kinked her tail. “They asked how we felt about someone declaring war on Singe. I really had no idea who they were talking about. It’s your brother. He got a new name, again. Again! You can tell him he can make his own Tzitzin this time. I saw what he did to the others. Such a waste.”
He wanted to swear, Of course, he got the press chattering about a feud. All by saying almost nothing when Frosty had brought up the death threats. How did his brother do it? Instead, he said, “Chromatics change their names all the time, mother.”
“No,” she said sharply. “No, we express our name-image differently. As we grow older and wiser, we reinterpret ourselves. Furthermore, your brother has made it quite clear he no longer follows Mosaic as prophet and guide. And his attempt to create a Gold band is pure mockery. Your father can barely roll out his sajada at the mosque without hearing disgruntled murmuring.”
Frosty looked at the cell phone in disbelief.
“I didn’t know Chromatics could be rude during worship,” he said honestly. He rather liked the idea. It made them seem like normal people.
“Well, mostly it is the young men. The new ones. Your father ignores them.”
Frosty took the plunge there. “Is father there? I saw something that reminded me of him today. A boubou. This one was blue, not green, but the embroidery was identical.”
“Oh, yes, I know the one you mean. He has a black one just like it, but of course, he never wears it any more.”
Suddenly, the line went dead and a strange dial tone came out of the cell phone.
Dr. Ice came into the stairwell silently and took a judgmental stance. They were almost mirror images of each other, except for their obvious attitudes. Frosty could see the singer was mad at him, but he didn’t know why. He felt sure he should know. Dr. Ice held out his hand for the phone, and then suddenly Frosty remembered whose phone this was.
He sheepishly handed the cell phone back.
The recording session with Jonny Heartland started out a little awkwardly. The three limos the Large Scale posse took from the hotel filled up the parking lot. Shedding Skin studio was an unimpressive concrete block. Paint peeled off the building in foot long swatches, almost if to match its name.
To this, Kudzu had dragged a million dollars worth of equipment and talent. This time, it was just Frosty that cast doubtful looks. The big Rept smiled and cajoled and got the crew moving. The talent mostly sat around and smoked, most of it legal. Frosty began wrangling the crew when Kudzu began cursing at the front door. It took only a few moments for everyone to realize the giant Bearded Dragon was stymied by an old fashioned set of “man doors.”
And that he was stuck.
Before there could be too much ribbing (and before Kudzu could break the antique doors), a young Gecko with an absurd penciled on mustache appeared and expertly extracted the large Rept. He introduced himself as Felix Climber. Climber explained that the building started out as a Speakeasy. The narrow doorway kept the visitors and police single file, more or less. The Gecko pointed out two small black and white signs. The bigger sign said, “WARM ENTRY” and the smaller one below that said “Cold Entrance” with an arrow pointing to the right.
“Follow me,” the Gecko said, turning to the right. They followed a well worn path into the grass around the building to a wide barn door. Above the door, were several signs, of every shape and size declaring this the Reptile Entrance. “As these signs came down in the 50’s, my grandfather made it a point to collect them and nail them up here. Each one is a little victory for Rept Rights.”
One of the biggest signs had the word COLD crossed out. The word “Talent” had been painted over it.
This made Frosty smile.
Inside, the walls were floor to ceiling knotted pine paneling. Black and white pictures of various obscure Rept Jazz and Blues singers were arranged in a oddly low line across the walls. On the desks and tables were various pieces of equipment. “This looks a museum,” Frosty said, still dubious.
They made way for a few roadies and then Climber said, “Yes, actually, we are legally listed as a museum. It keeps the doors open, but we are still a fully functional studio.”
If fully functional counted as 8 track analog recording deck, then Climber was absolutely correct. Their sound tech and Climber got into working out the details right away. A baby grand took up much of studio one and the equipment was sensitive enough to pick up a strange echo on test, which pleased and annoyed the sound tech and Kudzu. Rearranging the mikes and putting up a few baffles seemed to do the trick. Frosty heard nothing, but it made them happy.
Jonny Hartman arrived, looking gray and dusty. He wore black shorts and a white heated hoodie, although it was a warm summer day. Both were well broken in, almost too worn for wearing, but then an Alligator’s skin was roughly corrugated, almost serrated in spots. Frosty gave Kudzu a dubious look and for the first time Kudzu gave him an equally dubious double blink back.
In the next instant, Kudzu seemed to snap on, super charged and jolly, he began the introductions and the assignments. Everyone supposedly already knew who’d be singing what and had time to listen to the original versions of their songs, but some people study better than others. There would not be time for retakes here. They be done in the Large Scale studio mixer. It was getting so you could fix almost anything electronically.
The old one was pleasant and modest and almost overwhelmed by the attention. His teeth were like indian corn, some white, some brown, but most of them yellow. Only the white ones seemed sharp, making Frosty wonder if the 'Gator had dentures or if he still had teeth growing in, like a shark.
Heartland seemed especially interested in meeting Mimic. The Box Turtle was Large Scales best Living beatbox and the story of his disfigurement as a child in the early 60’s was pretty well know. Turns out that Heartland had been in the same protest mob when the cops let loose the water cannons. The old man seemed surprised that Mimic didn’t really want to talk “the good old days.”
It takes a lot of time before you can look back on tragedy fondly. Mimic probably had two or three decades to go before he could look back and smile about being ripped apart in the streets, on live television, yet.
“Well, the reason I brought it up is, I’ve been watching your career, young man… and it seems to me you started as something of a novelty act. But you transcended that. The sounds you make with your body… well, son, they remind me of my friend Lefty Terrapin. He went off to “the Last Great War” and came back with two legs and an arm missing.”
“Land mind?” Mimic ask dutifully.
“No, he got tangled up in some barb wire. Ripped himself up something good, did Lefty, and of course, everything’s infected by the time they get him to a M.A.S.H. Unit. Fool surgeon, overworked, cut off the arm and legs thinking, they’d grow back.”
Several of the Repts flinched, including Mimic. The rest hadn’t really been listening. Some Repts could grow a portion of their tails back, but they were the exception and not the rule. It was a common Warm misconception and almost every Rept family had a sad story involving that myth.
Mimic’s plastron deformities were cause by random high pressure water injection. He was sent home from the hospital the next day with little more than a antiseptic salve spread on chest and groin. The doctors apparently believing that since the plastron and the shell on a Turtle’s back “broke apart” as a Turtle matured and became more limber, that the dead shell pieces would fall off by themselves. Instead, Mimic’s plastron grew wild and unchecked.
Mimic, at least, been able to remake himself, if not reshape himself. Frosty had always admired the Turtle’s strength. If he were torn apart like that, Frosty did not know if he’d be able to put himself back together.
“Now, we promised Lefty a place in the ensemble if he made it back alive… so we made him this.” The alligator took out a tie box. It’s a little weird, but I thought you might be able to use it in your act."
Mimic pulled out some vealgut strings strung between two odd pieces of wood and metal. He raised an eyebrow at the Alligator. "Lefty was a bass player. If you clip this on the bottom of your… um, vent there… " Mimic just looked dumbly at Heartland, so the old 'Gator just clipped it onto Mimic himself with a clinical mechanical air. “And this part here…” The top piece was obviously a compact headstock with tuning pegs and clipped that to at the plastron, pushing the Turtle’s head back, Mimic took this with remarkable good humor tinged with a little embarrassment.
“Mr. Climber,” the old Jazz artist called out, “Do you have a two inch pickup I could borrow?”
Climber scurried away as Frosty and Kudzu exchanged looks. Heartland hadn’t signed anything yet; all the agreements were just verbal. Over 100 hours of studio hours would be wasted if the 'Gator didn’t sign.
“Now,” The 'Gator looked at Mimic as if the Turtle had just come back into the room. “Now, do you know how to play a bass?”
“Ummm, no,” Mimc said trying to his head to a comfortable position.
“No worries, Lefty hadn’t a clue either but he learned. At least, you won’t need you tongue for the cord changes.” He clapped Mimic on the back as Climber handed him a small piece of wood roughly shaped a toddler’s brass knuckles. “Yes, this should do.”
The 'Gator stuck the wood between the strings and the Turtle’s hard stomach. He tuned it 90 degrees and it strings hummed a bit as they slid into notches. Mimic made a little noise himself.
“Now, I’d tune you myself, but my arms are too short to go around you.”
“Dr. Ice can play bass.” Kudzu volunteered and Frosty rolled his eyes. They were burning valuable studio time and Heartland had already made it clear he would not, could not travel out of state. Before he could say anything, Dr. Ice stepped forward and put his arms around Mimic from behind.
Dr. Ice had tuned the gimmick on Mimic’s chest, quick and easy. Mimic stood stiffly, with his arms out straight and his fingers twitching with embarrassment. But he was a trouper, and he knew that this was important. Then Dr. Ice just held him for a moment from behind and ran his hands up the Turtle’s plastron, from below the vent then up and around the holes and protrusions that marked his orange-brown front. There were some giggles as Mimic took on a look a ill-ease. He moved his head awkwardly, and Dr. Ice blew on his neck. The living beatbox stiffened, eyes wide, at the unexpected sensation. “I’m going to play you now,” Dr. Ice said in a velvet whisper and the Turtle’s eyes went wider still.
Dr. Ice’s piece for today was supposed to be one of Heartland’s more popular love songs, From Brooklyn to the Bayou. He didn’t remember it exactly, but it was Jazz, so he just rolled with it. Mimic squirmed within the green and white embrace trying not to move. He finally pressed a hand below his vent as the sensation came close to overwhelming him. Then, finally, he could stand it no more and he looked up at the ceiling and opened his mouth as if to scream. Instead, was a serious of shrill wheezing sounds and then the screech of a turn-table scratch escaped his beak. As Dr. Ice continued to pluck at him, producing sensations and music directly into his brain, Mimic sung out a living percussion beat of
harmony.
Suddenly, Kudzu bellowed, “Get in the studio! The three of you!”
Dr. Ice tried to pick up Mimic like he would his own bass, but the Turtle batted him away. “I can walk,” he said but instead he stared into Dr. Ice’s sunglass covered eyes for a full minute.
“So, walk,” Dr. Ice said with a smile in his voice and a gentle push.
In the recording both, Heartland pushed the stool away and spread his legs in a catcher’s stance and his body bent forward in an arc until the chin of his toothy mouth rested on the baby grand. His arms too short to play it any other way but it did not look at all comfortable. Climber adjusted a mike over the Alligator’s head and the Large Scale sound tech added a stool and a mike for Dr. Ice. The special mike set up for the living beatbox was already in place.
Dr. Ice looked cool and steady while Mimic trembled with excitement. When the sound tech asked for a beatbox check, Dr. Ice reached forward and slapped his palms on the Turtles chest like he was playing bongo drums. Mimic sucked in a breath in surprise and then began spitting out bongo noises.
The sound tech brought them all wireless head sets and the Kudzu counted down, 3-2-1… Dr. Ice lead the way, playing From Brooklyn to The Bayou as he remembered it. It was close; close enough for Jazz. Mimic had surrendered to Dr. Ice, straightening and relaxing as the Bearded Dragon directed… Then Mimic jumped in with percussion like grunts and squeals, bringing the rhythm forth.
Then Jonny Heartland threw in the piano, wild and kinetic, in synch with Dr. Ice and Mimic but with a slight counterpoint that suggested things this piece was not at all tamed. And how the old Rept had moved! From the tip of his thick serrated tail to the end of his snout, the Alligator was in motion swaying to in time to the music. Jaws dropped on the other side of the glass.
The 'Gator was not done with his surprises yet. When he opened his mouth to sing, it wasn’t the smooth longing velvet voice of his younger days. A strong, steady, but harsh voice of bitterness escaped his body, turning the love song sour. He didn’t sing in Aenglish, but in the noble, slang-free Xeno-Voice of his youth. Click-clack, they’d called it in the Age of Jazz.
And when the song called for Brooklyn, he sang out Harlem, instead.
They tired and slowed towards the end and Kudzu hit the heat lamps to help keep them going. The song ended at 3 minutes and 14 seconds. Mimic kept saying, “Oh my stars, oh my stars.” and he had to cover his lower to keep from embarrassing himself. Dr. Ice patted the Turtle’s head. Together, they then helped Heartwell outside to cool off.
“Got it on the one take,” Frosty said when he was done listening to the playback.
Kudzu nodded, a big shiny smile on his face. “Good thing, too. We couldn’t get Mimic to do that again.”
“That old man is just about ready to go again,” Frosty could barely believe it. “You did good with this plan of yours, Singe.”
“Oh you, heard about that, did you?”
Frosty nodded. “Mom let it slip.”
“I’m going to spell it a dollar sign instead of an S.”
Frosty rolled his eyes. “Of course, you are.” He raised a bowl of cold chai in a salute. “Here’s to $inge.”
His brother raised his mineral water and clinked their bowls. “Here’s to Dr. Ice, for getting this thang going on a high note.”
Frosty hesitated for a moment and then shrugged. It wasn’t like he expected much personal recognition but then Dr. Ice had really knocked it out of the park.
The cold chai felt surprisingly good on his rough throat.
The next recording was with Lady Pink. It was a duet, One House/Two Rules, his first single. They both crooned it, but as father and daughter instead of husband and wife. Heartland’s velvet was still there, just a little thinner. A little sadder. In the end, even Lady Pink sounded sad and brokenhearted to be declaring her independence.
Once again, the vocals were completed on the first take. The second take was for the piano only. Listening to the playback on his head set, Heartland rolled out the notes smoothly and professionally. He hit the keys without looking at them, his body arched again so his short arms could reach all of the ivory without trouble.
The next five sets continued as wonderfully as the first two. Mimic eventually came out of the water closet and did his assigned set with Heartland. It was a gimmick comedy piece that the 'Gator had done with the USO Orchestra near the end of the Last Great War. Instrumental, it told the story of a 4f boy with a run down jalopy, driving all over town looking for a date. All the soldiers were back and the girls all wanted a real hero instead. Heartland took the piano. Mimic got the whole orchestra, as well as all the sound effects. Mimic did several takes, to layer the sound effects, and then he had a last minute inspiration to add the sounds of a jail break and drive by shootings. The story changing to all the girls wanting real gangstas, and not some poser. Heartland and Kudzu gave their approval, and Kudzu wrote up a little news bulletin for the 'Gator read.
“We interrupt this educational program with a special report. There’s been a jailbreak and we have unconfirmed reports that upwards to 100 immoral sex-starved gangsta are roaming the streets looking for a booty call. Please stay indoors until this emergency is over.” He sounded like a flat television reporter; earnest, clear, and precise, but boring as hell. It was exactly what Kudzu wanted.
The last session was the hardest. Bling Bling just hadn’t picked up on all the excitement that the old Jazz musician had created. In fact, he seemed a little surly and resentful about the whole thing. And it was a simple love song call Cold Charline. After a dozen takes, Frosty pulled him out of the recording booth and into Climber’s office. “What gives?”
“Boo, this is taking all day. It was supposed to be just two hours here. A little vanity project just to get the old guy to sign over his catalog.”
“Do you not hear how good he is? This isn’t about your little legal mistake anymore. This old man is going to net us legit awards and press.”
“Everyone lifts tracks, Boo.”
“Not half a song’s worth.” Frosty poked the Anole in his chest. “Get back out there and sing Cold Charline like your life depended on it.”
“Does it have to be Cold Charline? It’s going to sound a lot like the first track on the album.”
Frosty rolled his eyes. “Well, big surprise there.” Frosty thumped his tail thoughtfully and held his tongue until he was certain he could answer civilly. “Can you play an instrument? Besides the tambourine and rainstick?”
“OK, well, then be a good spot and we’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
On the third take after that, Heartland figured out BB’s heart wasn’t in it and he played Cold Charline as a half slow blues song. Suddenly, Bling Bling’s apathetic robot droning turned sorrowful, regretful, pathetic, and guilty without changing anything.
Frosty turned to Kudzu. There was the big golden smile again. Another miracle turn around. Everyone stood then and the small building exploded with applause.
Exhausted and spent, Heartland declined to grab dinner with them. He signed the contracts and Kudzu gave him an much bigger check than he expected. The 'Gator looked ancient now, the marathon studio sessions had taken quite a toll, and he barely had the energy to put the check in his wallet. Humbled and embarrassed, Jonny Heartland asked for a ride. He’d missed the last bus home.
One of the three limos made the loop to the other side of town while the other two went straight to the night club. Frosty, Kudzu, Mimic and Bling Bling stared at the old 'Gator. During the 15 minute ride, Heartland seemed to age to 100. His dentures dropped out of alignment as he snored away. His short arms trembled in his sleep. In the passing street lights, Frosty noted that the elderly man’s claws were all shattered and split. His home address turned out to be a third floor walk-up in a tinderbox of a building. The three normal sized Repts and the Dog chauffeur carried the sleeping old man into his room. The refrigerator was empty except for a can of raccoon food.
They did not find a pet 'coon in the apartment.
“That could be us one day,” Frosty said to all of them on the way to the club Lady Pink had recommended. He looked at Kudzu, who had looked haunted realizing how very badly the ancient performer was doing. Frosty had savored that look, but already his brother had shaken it off. All it had taken was sending the Dog out to the nearest store and stocking the place with food to ease his guilt.
Kudzu smiled again. “Not me, I plan to die young and leave a pretty corpse.”
Frosty chuckled. “We should probably knock you off soon then before you get any uglier.”
Everyone laughed, except the driver and Bling Bling. He sat there sullen and annoyed. Finally, he appealed to Kudzu. “Big guy, we aren’t really going to use that last song, are we? I know you feel sorry for the old man, but… it just doesn’t fit the rest of the songs we did.”
Kudzu stared back at young rapper. Frosty knew he didn’t like Bling Bling’s attitude. He wished he could see his brother’s coloring just then. With only the passing streetlights, the depth of Kudzu’s mood was hidden from him. Bling Bling went to say more, but Kudzu cut him off. “Let’s wait and see what we got at the big mixing table when we get back to New Amsterdam.” His voice reminded them all that he was the boss.
At the club, they entered with a lot of bravado and splash, calling more attention to themselves that Frosty was comfortable with. The packed scene bellowed “George!” Drinks were held high in salute. The house DJ played Kudzu’s more controversial songs, The Cold War. The patrons were all Repts. They danced with their tails in the air. Their arms pumping in time with the beat.
Frosty was still too much a Chromatic to be comfortable in a scene like this, but he mixed a little. He shook hands and tried not to step on anyone’s tail. He was more interested in the scene than making a scene. He studied it; best research available. Frosty allowed himself to fade into the background.
He watched Kudzu smiling, showing off his gilded smile and chest to a thong of female Repts gathered about him several feet thick. His fame, his wealth, and his power all attracting his admirers. What were these whores to him? Or more importantly, what were these women to their families? What was Kudzu destroying with his temptations? Did the big guy even care?
No, Frosty decided, his brother was oblivious to all but himself and his art. His craft.
He watched Mimic for awhile. The Box Turtle had limited himself to merely two women, as he often did. He’d had fame most of his life and it had apparently warped his moral compass as well. But then he had never achieved fame as an artist as the infamous Saint George had. As victim, yes. As a performer, yes. As a novelty act, yes. Yet, not as a star. He caught Frosty watching him and his eyes went deep, and he looked exposed, like an deer recognizing a hunter for what he was. Their glances locked and for a moment, Mimic looked lost.
Frosty gave him a smile and raised his mineral water to him. Mimic smiled back. For a moment, he looked innocent before turned back to his girls, rejoining their conversation.
Frosty caught sight of Bling Bling. The Anole’s mood seemed to have improved. He’d narrowed in on Dr. Ice and together they sneaked out a side door, casually.
Nobody noticed.
Frosty Pine awoke the next day to a sense of deja vu, as warm hands and a wet tongue fondled his right foot. Incredulous, the slim Bearded Dragon sat up. Sweet Ginger gave him a hungry suggestive look from between his own claws. He shook her off, careful not to poke her eyes out or something. “Bling-Bling!” he bellowed as he wiped the saliva off. Bling Bling did not swoop in immediately, so he bellowed again. Another Anole, this one sea green and using the name Knight Moves, showed up with one of their security guards. By this time, the fox was kissing and fondling his crest. “Bounce this Bitch,” he ordered the guard.
The guard scooped her up much the way Bling Bling had yesterday morning. She laughed like a mad woman and waved good bye. At least, she was enjoying the ride.
Frosty turned to Knight, “Bling Bling has got to stop bringing these crazy whores in here.”
The singer shrugged. “Actually, we thought she was with you. Besides, BB didn’t make it back last night.”
Frosty stopped cleaning himself and looked at the bed sheet, surprised at the amount of hairs on it. On the whole bed, actually. Am I really that much of a sound sleeper? He felt incredibly uneasy, as if there was something he should know or do.
Realizing that the back-up singer was waiting for a response, and uncertain of the question, Frosty gave a halfhearted, “Hmph.” Then he realized that he was hung-over. Somebody must have slipped me something. It was probably that gold-digging Fox with the foot fixation. He almost didn’t hear Knight say that he’d tried calling Bling-Bling’s cell phone.
“That damned fool is just pissed that he’s not getting his own way with his first release.” Frosty said dismissively. “He’ll be back with an agent by lunch, you’ll see.”
The Anole wanted to say more but seemed indecisive, so Frosty saved him the trouble by staggering off to take a shower. He really hated mornings.
He went through his morning ablutions in the locked privacy of the bathroom, taking the now familiar shortcuts and trying not to think about his hang-over. He didn’t drink. But people do have blackouts when they drink, he thought as he re-attached his little badges. Sometimes.
A terrible guilt swept up through him and his tail began thumping on the floor so hard it hurt. “No,” he whispered. “This is just free-floating anxiety. Not guilt. Not guilt.”
When he looked in the mirror, he noticed that his Tzitzis were all out of order. He barely remembered putting them on. “OK,” he told the mirror. “Now, I feel a little guilty.” He took them all off and put them back on in the proper order.
“I’m losing myself,” he told his reflection. “This isn’t my life. I’m not supposed to be here.”
“You got that right,” a voice from beyond the door growled. “Other people need to take a dump, you know.”
Dr. Ice. Frosty closed his eyes and gathered himself. I’m nothing like Dr. Ice.
to be continued