Curious

Maelzel’s Exhibition was crowded for 5 p.m. on a Monday, thanks to a great turn-out from the regulars. Sam had gotten to know them over the past month, ever since Seb had agreed to let him work there in exchange for the legal minimum wage (and a San Francisco work visa). Every night had its own set, with a couple of ultras who managed to bring themselves in daily. They divided into a few cliques, and on rare occasions the cliques would intermingle.

Sam preferred Monday, because it brought together his two favourite groups: the forty-sevens, and the nostalgia-curious university students.

The “forty-sevens” were the town’s last generation of human workers. They’d gone to war with Magenta and, depending on who you asked, either lost ignominiously or struck an incredible bargain. A handful were still employed, like Seb, but many had either taken their pay-outs or gotten fired under suspicious circumstances. At any rate, they were a bunch of ancient Millennials and Gen Z who missed the way things used to be—and they loved getting drunk and talking about it.

“It’s a fucking content paste,” shouted one of the usual rabble, on one of the usual topics. Sam polished the bar and tried to pretend he wasn’t listening. “No music, no movies, no books. Just a grey paste they suckle out of the tube.”

“Don’t start, Gerry,” shouted another. “Don’t wind ‘em up. I know you saw ‘em walk in.”

A few students had wandered in, and they stood in a cluster near the door. They seemed nervous and not sure what to do now, though it impressed Sam that they seemed to all be taking out their earpieces. It was more than the so-called forty-sevens would do–for all their bluster, most of them still had Rings and used them quite a bit.

“Gerry, give the kids a break. At least they’re curious.”

“Streams they call it,” yelled Gerry. “Everything’s a stream. Stream a mood. Yeah, stream some angry sounds.”

“You’re drunk, Gerry,” Sam said as he placed a glass of water on the bar. “Don’t bully the students, we need their money.”

“They’re our huddled masses,” said the first man. His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Yearning to breathe free.”

Gerry ignored his detractors, instead turning his attention to back of the bar. “What’s that? Isn’t that where all the yen were?” The anachronistic wall of cash was gone, replaced by the somber totem they acquired on the drive up.

“It is,” Sam said. “Seb figured if anything was going to replace that, it should be this. That poster is from ruins of The Hammer itself.”

“No shit?”

“No shit, I helped him take it down myself.”

Gerry replied with a nod. “Awesome.”

“Oh, dislike,” said an incensed female voice from the last stool at the far end of the bar. She’d been there a while, Sam had noted, though hadn’t spoken to anyone or ordered anything. “Gen Z southlanders always act like their parents died in the Hammer bombing. Get over it.”

“What the fuck.” Samir gnashed his teeth. Useless anger flooded his body, and his fists clenched. “I knew people in the Hammer bombing.” As the words left his mouth a wave of guilt washed over him. This girl had no way of knowing. She’d been insensitive, but she had no way of knowing how personal she’d made things. It was harsh.

“Oh,” came her retort. “Were they one of the bombers? At least I’d respect them.” A chorus of chuckles rose up from around the bar. Never in Sam’s life had he heard anyone besmirch the Hammer bombing.

“I don’t…” Samir seethed. He didn’t know what about. His Ring was tucked into his bag, a condition of his employment, after Seb had caught him chatting on it one too many times rather than paying attention to the customers. No access to Aida to get more information, or to just drift away from all this. He stood, rooted, dumbfounded.

“Oh, leave him alone,” rasped an older woman. “Grew up in the south, won’t even know what the bloody bargain was. Will ya, kid?”

“The what?” Samir almost stopped himself, but it was too late. Groans and chuckles rumbled through the room as each took their turn with the truncheon. In his mind he fled, but his humiliation, and his employment, locked him in place.

“Woah, woah,” came an echo from afar. The unmistakable voice of Sebastian, who continued his lifelong knack for arriving just in time. “Okay, turbo. Let’s go on mute for a second.” The girl who had started this was doubled over laughing.

Seb breezed in behind the bar, his hair matted by bay air, an old brown t-shirt stretched over his rotund physique. He threw his hands in the air as an attempt to gain control of the room, his stomach slipping out from the bottom of his ancient Turk’s Revenge shirt, which still declared “GOOD VIBES ONLY” to all who observed.

“Everyone feels a different connection to past events,” Seb continued. He had manoeuvred himself between Sam and the old-timers, in what appeared to be a hope that their chaotic Millennial upbringings had left them without object permanence. “Let’s not go pissing each other off by voicing them out loud. This is a bar, not the fucking Berkeley debate club.”

“What she said about The Hammer bombing is morally indefensible,” snapped Sam. “She should be ejected.” He jabbed the air in her direction, firing his finger over Seb’s shoulder. The girl rolled her eyes.

“Hey, fuck you, kid,” shouted one of the older crowd, though Sam didn’t see which. “Go back to fucking Los Angeles.”

“The Hammer bombing didn’t even happen,” shouted someone else.

“What the fuck,” came another cry as the bar discourse teetered on the brink.

“He’s trolling!” Seb had started pouring shots of tequila. “He’s obviously messing with you. Aren’t you, Sam? Look,” Seb shouted in desperation. “He’s going to pass out some apology shots. Aren’t you, Sam?”

The girl chuckled. “Are you messing with us?” Sam could just see her unnerving smirk over the top of Seb’s shoulder.

“Hey!” Seb forced another laugh. “If we all agree he was, we all get free tequila.”

“Fine,” came the older voice from the corner. He was quickly joined by a chorus of tacit agreement from all sides. Shots were done, though limes were absent, and order was restored. Silence fell, save for some tinny rock music coming from an antique boombox in the corner.

Seb mopped up the bar, collected the glasses, and shook his head. Sam cowered in the back corner, waiting to get fired. It had come apart so fast. Had he become so out of touch that he couldn’t manage a basic bartending job?

“I’m sorry, Samir,” shouted the girl who’d instigated the whole affair. “That was mean of me to do. But you really should brush up on your Republic history. Not everyone feels the same way as you about these things. We’ve had different lives up here.”

He plunged his hands into his hair and clutched his head.

“We’ve met this girl before.” Seb gestured to Sam, then to her. She tossed her hair and gave her smirk.

“Have we?” Sam stared at her. The wheels barely turned. Without his Ring, he was useless at remembering people’s names or faces. He flipped through the dusty card file of his actual memory and remembered the name of his eighth grade social studies teacher. Mrs. Little, he whispered to himself.

“It’s what’s her face, from city hall! Blonde, tiny, troll.” Seb shook his head.

“It’s me, I wasn’t trying to hide it,” she laughed. “¿A poco no soy linda?”

“It’s you.” That same magnetic pull. Was it her voice, her eyes, the way she carried herself? Her loose clothes ensured it wasn’t some physical thing—so far as he knew she was a giant hoodie with a round face and stick legs. Though it was a rather cute face, with a pair of dimples bookending her mischievous grin. He was staring, he realised, and quickly looked away, only for his gaze to snap right back to her. Get it together, he scolded himself.

“Ay, está super lindo, ¿no?” The girl’s grin widened.

“Yeah, and he doesn’t speak Spanish,” Seb nodded.

“I’m Lydia,” she said, and thrust her hand out toward Samir. “Lydia Rosales.”

“Lydia Rosales,” Sam repeated. “Is that your real name?”

“Uh oh,” Seb said. He slapped the rag into Sam’s hands and proceeded around the bar. “He has a thing for girls with ‘rose’ in their names.”

“Easy,” Sam said.

“Is that so?” Lydia worked her way down to the stool in front of Sam. The rest of the assembled crowd had dispersed, the students and the old-timers at their respective tables.

“His ex’s last name is Rose.”

“Okay, easy,” Sam groaned. “That’s personally identifiable information.”

“Shit,” Seb said as he dropped onto the stool right next to Lydia. “Is he calling me a criminal?”

“I think he is.”

“I’m not, but, it’s technically a violation of the California Consolidated Privacy Act.”

Lydia and Seb both burst out laughing, and Sam wished he had sprinted out of the building when he had the chance.

The rest of Sam’s afternoon was spent pouring spirits and being bullied by the comedy duo of his best friend and a mean girl. It was a small mercy when the band for that evening arrived a bit early and needed Seb’s help to set up. That left a handful of punters cosied up to their pints, and one Miss Lydia Rosales.

“You’ve had your fun today,” Sam said as he poured her third whiskey sour. “At my expense, mostly.”

“Oh, but it never lasts, does it,” she replied with a mock sigh.

“You’ve finally run out of insults.”

Lydia squinted at him. “You’re pretty short.”

“We’re the same height!”

“I’m short, chulo.”

“I’m just glad we’ve moved from mocking me for where I’m from, to mocking me for my height. My teeth aren’t straight either, not sure if you noticed.”

“Mocking! Look, Southlander isn’t mocking, it’s just your bio. You need to live your truth”

Sam turned his back and began fidgeting with bits behind the bar. He had nothing to do, but he’d learned the art of appearing busy from Seb. It’s essential to look like you’ve got a lot going on back here, he’d said, to stay out of unfortunate conversations. Sam gave each bottle on the shelf a tweak to get all the labels lined up.

“Samir!” Lydia pleaded. She put her palms on the bar and pushed herself up. “Sammmmmm.”

“Please don’t do that.” He glanced over his shoulder and saw her out of the corner of his eye.

“Do what?”

“You’ll damage the bar. It’s an antique.”

“I’ll damage the bar? With my hands?”

“They’ve got oils on them. It’s a soft wood.”

“Bullshit,” came a slurred male voice from the far end of the bar. “This bar’s varnished oak with brass inlay and a glass topper. It’ll survive a nuclear blast. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hector, don’t. I’ll stop.” Lydia flashed her roguish blue eyes at Sam. She lifted her palms off the bar and into the air as if she’d just been cornered by federal agents. “The wood is safe.”

“You can’t hurt this wood,” said the man apparently named Hector.

“I’m sorry about the antique wood, Sam,” Lydia said with a mock whimper. “Mi mal, mijo.”

Sam bit his bottom lip, and tasted a bit of blood. Her act had worn thin. “I’m working.”

“Fine!” Lydia blurted out, and waved her finger around at the back of the bar. “This, back there, that’s all part of your work. Tell me about all that.” Amidst the various posters and city-mandated licence paperwork was a small collage of photographs. A few of them were of the ruins of The Hammer, but there were others as well, mostly of cliché local landmarks: one of Coit Tower, one of the famous ‘painted ladies’ houses, one of a MUNI train.

“Oh,” Sam demurred. “I took those.”

Lydia leaned forward as best she could, given she had been banned from touching the bar. “What do you mean? Where did you take them from?”

“No, I took them. I photographed those places with my camera. Printing them was the difficult part. I scoured marketplaces for two weeks to find a photo printer that still had ink.”

“That’s so stupid. I love it.” Lydia flashed her huge grin. “Like actual photos, honest to god.” She scrutinised the whole back wall, and her face beamed with genuine curiosity. “What about that one?” She pointed. Apart from Sam’s collage she’d spotted one other, tucked away in a high corner, a Polaroid in a glass frame.

“I’m glad you asked!” Right on cue, Seb came bouncing back behind the bar. “That, my friends, is me. As a wee lad, freshman at SF State, in this very establishment.”

“What’s with the captain’s hat,” Lydia said.

“I forget,” Seb grumbled. “It’s stylish.”

“Very fun,” she said with vague amusement. “Very timelined.”

“Ask him who he’s with before he fucking explodes,” Sam said.

“Who are you…”

“It’s Rebecca Prue!” Seb threw jazz hands. “That’s right, the Rebecca Prue. You know her, you love her! CEO of Magenta, Queen of Automation, Empress of Earth.”

“Oh, right. Funny.” Lydia’s smile was small and tight, any hint of being impressed having evaporated.

Sam took more of an interest and, given his access, was able to stand up on his tip-toes and get a better look. The sight of Sebastian in his college days did give him a start. It was a powerful reminder that they’d both aged so much since they met. Rebecca Prue seemed to have fared much better. So far as Sam could tell from this photo, and from seeing her in the news and on the sides of skyscrapers, she still looked like this. Probably a result of charitable genning, he assumed. But here, captured in actual photons on Seb’s photo, she did have a genuine youthful look: silver nose ring, hair streaked with blue, slender neck poking out of a baggy black skull and crossbones hoodie which bore the letters R.I.P. Was Rebecca Prue an emo kid?

“No, see,” said Seb in a panic. “I know what you think, but it’s a real photo. Look how faded it is!” He held for applause, but none came. “I know you can make anything look like anything, but I swear to God. This was before she was famous. She’d already started Magenta, they were already getting big, but it was still early on. I knew of her because she went to state too. She was a legend on campus, you know?”

“Mmhmm.” Lydia rested her chin on her hands and stared at Seb with huge eyes. She was making every effort to show she was, in fact, listening.

“I was here for a show,” Seb continued, undeterred. “Obviously I didn’t own the place yet, I was just a student. And I saw her with her friend, so I just dove in between them and said hi, I’m at SFSU, I’m a fan. And then I got a random to take a Polaroid of us.”

“Nobody’s ever going to believe this,” Sam said.

“I don’t believe it,” Lydia confirmed. “Sorry.”

“What!” Seb was aghast. “You doubters. This vibe is unbelievable. I was there! Plus, everyone knows Rebecca Prue has had a gen-block since like, day fucking zero. You cannot make photos of her. It’s not doable!”

“Meh.” Lydia shrugged. “Can I see it up close?”

“Of course not.” Seb shook his head. “It’s screwed to the wall on all four corners. It’s too precious to just pass around to a bunch of drunks for analysis.”

While Seb and Lydia bickered, Sam had instead become obsessed. The colours of the photo, combined with its age, made it feel like it was taken in the far-flung past. You could’ve convinced him it was from before he was born. The giveaway, if there was one, would be their hands: all three of them were clutching mobile phones. Rebecca, Seb, and… who was the third person? “Who’s she with?”

“Oh, I forget.” Seb relished the chance to talk about the photo as if it was real. “They were going the full ten rounds, though. I remember they kept fighting after this was taken.”

“She does look pissed. The other one.” He pointed at the mystery person. She looked to be around the same age as Rebecca. She was Black, her dark hair in twists flowing past her shoulders, her frayed denim jacket covered in pins and buttons too small to make out in the photo. Her smile was forced, which made sense given the context of Seb shoving in between them like an obnoxious groupie.

“Don’t project onto her,” Lydia said. “You don’t know.”

“Well, he just told us she was.”

“Whatever. It’s fake, anyway.”

“It’s not fake!”

“This was the whole point,” chimed in the old man once again. “Magenta did all this on purpose, you know. Don’t want us to ever know what’s real or fake.”

“Think so, Skip?” Lydia drifted over toward the old man. “Why would they do that?”

“Don’t rightly know,” he replied. “They did a good job, though. The three of you carrying on like this.” He adjusted his trucker cap, which had the name of a union stitched into the front, and finished off his bourbon.

The crowd was decently sized by the time 9 p.m. rolled around, which was a relief. Gigs at Maelzel’s had started to become a bit less full, and recently they’d had one that was just a handful of regulars and the bar staff. The band had still put on a hell of a show, but the air of embarrassment was palpable among both them and the staff. It hit the staff especially hard, as Seb and his mates did their best to pitch the club as the last, best hope for live music in San Francisco. If we’re the only place to see live music anywhere in the city, Seb had said that night, and we can’t even fill the place half-way, maybe we’re too late to save it.

Tonight had drawn the usual mix of hardcore fans, old-timers with tinnitus who would see anything so long as it’s live, curious students who could barely fathom the concept, and the romantic partners of all the band’s members. The staff dragged all the tables into the back room, then gathered behind the bar to make room for whatever needed to happen. Even if the music called for it, the art of moshing or even dancing had mostly been lost to the ages. In those rare cases where it was a proper “mosh band” you might encounter it, and Sam properly enjoyed those nights, though he never got involved. Otherwise, if someone did by chance try to start pushing and shoving, or if a few friends tried to form a pit, heaven forfend, the backlash from the younger crowd was swift and hostile. On one side of the argument you’d have someone — usually a man and usually in their forties or fifties — completely baffled by the response. On the other, you’d have a twenty-something insisting that you phone the police and support their assault charges. It meant on those nights Sam and Seb had to make the rounds gaining consent from everyone, on behalf of everyone else. He counted his blessings that tonight was not one of those nights.

With everyone having assumed their positions in front of the stage, and the band having given the thumbs up from their position just off to the side of said stage, Sam reached under the counter and flicked a few switches. The house lights shut off, the “party purples” came on, and it was show time. Two women, both in bright green wigs, strode out to the stage with a smattering of applause from the few audience members who had done this before and therefore knew you should applaud. The taller of the two stood behind the microphone, antique electric guitar slung around her. The other slipped behind the drum kit, which also looked as if it had seen better days.

“San Francisco!” The singer screamed into the microphone, which sent a piercing screech into the room. Seb, at his post behind the mixing desk, did his usual panic and dialled it in. “Hello! Thank you so much for coming to see us tonight! I’m Chai, and that is Orbis on the drums.” Orbis gave a quick, expressionless wave. “We’re so excited to play for you tonight. We’ve never done this before. I just want to say thanks to Sebastian for inviting us here. We think this is such a clean movement you’ve clipped, letting people come here and live stream directly to the chat like this. It really timelines us in such a raw, such a visceral way.”

Chai’s voice wavered as she spoke, and her foot tapped the stage at a speed that would make a hummingbird anxious. Sam couldn’t help but smile at how nervous they were. He’d seen this a hundred times when he worked at the label. Garage bands suddenly playing a label showcase, having just one song to impress Gemma, Eamon, or whomever else had been sent to watch. Three minutes to change the course of your whole life. That sort of gatekeeping was already on the way out by the time Sam had gotten into the industry, with the advent of social media. But it still existed as a sort of cheat code to bypass the whole process of finding an audience. If you had the right sound, the right image, fit the right mould, we already knew where your audience was. You just needed to convince us to put you in front of them.

“So what kind of stream is this?” Lydia whispered in Sam’s ear, from her place behind the bar next to him, where she was very much not supposed to be.

“Hey!” Sam leaned away from her. “Staff only!”

“I’m his plus one.” Lydia waved to Seb at the mixing desk across the room. Seb waved back. “See?”

“He’s not in charge behind the bar, he’s in charge of the sound mix. If they ever start playing.”

“…picked this up at a thrift store for about fifty dollars,” Chai continued, “and that meant we could finally use a real guitar…” She was talking the crowd through the whole history of their project, everything that had led to this moment. Unorthodox, Sam thought. I’d probably just play.

“So… what kind of stream…” Lydia gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“Music,” Sam laughed. “When it’s songs they’re writing from scratch, you’d just say ‘what kind of music do they play’. There’s no streaming. They’re going to play those instruments and you’ll hear it. And then when it’s over, it’s gone.”

“Okay, old man,” Lydia whispered, then blew a raspberry in his ear.

“That is, if they actually play,” Sam whispered back. “You’re supposed to just come out and start. All this talking can come later.”

“Really?” She had a bemused smile. “It’s a whole ritual, huh? Does it annoy you that they’re doing it wrong?”

“It annoys me that half of what your generation says is incomprehensible gibberish.”

Sam and Lydia both rolled their eyes. Sam started fidgeting with the bottles behind the bar again.

“Okay! Thanks everyone!” Chai had hit peak stress. “We’re going to start, I think! Orbis is going to count us in. We’re called Thunderpaws, by the way!”

Thunderpaws turned out to be an unrelenting forty-five minute assault on everyone’s senses. Erratic, wild drumming the likes of which Sam had never heard, with a flailing style that looked like Orbis might dislocate something. The lyrics veered between yelped nonsense and jarring intimacy—a raw look into the mind of someone with no concept of a structured song. It was admirable, inspiring, and completely unlistenable. Sam was floored by the audacity. They’d kept the bar open for another couple hours to let people decompress about what they’d just heard, and had a decent uptake: a handful of folks had stuck around to chat with Chai and Orbis about the experience.

“I’m thinking about getting out of here,” Lydia said. She slapped her hands down on the bar in front of Sam. “When are you off?”

“Take him,” shouted Seb. “I can handle the stragglers.”

“Great! You have your camera with you? The one you took all those with?” She gestured at his photo collage.

“I do…” Sam was scared. “Why?”

“Come with me. I want to show you something.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“What? Why?”

“Yeah,” Seb added. “Why?”

“Well, first of all, I must be twenty years older than you.”

“Twenty years?” Lydia burst out laughing. Sam was overwhelmed with the desire to crawl under a school desk and hide from her. “Qué fuerte, chulo. ¿No estas un poco delulu? How old are you?”

“How old do you think I am?”

Lydia took a deep breath. “Ick.”

Sam was desperate for more idle tasks to do, but it was a lost cause. All the alcohol was straight, all the glasses were in the dishwasher, all the bar mats were put away, all but a couple taps were unscrewed. He cursed his efficiency.

“He’s like thirty something,” Seb shouted as he coiled up some wire.

“My personal information!”

“Twenty years older, my god, chat.” Lydia sashayed in a circle. “You think I’m ten, tío?”

“He’s not used to interacting with people. Mostly talks to dops and digis. This is why I don’t let him wear his Ring while he’s working.”

Sam felt his face go hot.

“Come on!” Lydia dove in front of him, her face straight in front of his, with a massive grin. “We’re going to have so much fun. Just get your camera.”

Before he could process the extent of Sebastian’s betrayal, his bag was on his back. Lydia dragged him by the arm through the door of Maelzel’s and out into the night.