it.” A deep, soft voice at my shoulder startles me. Shane kneels and sweeps up the fallen transparencies.
“Thanks.” Most guys would just stand back and watch me try to bend over in a miniskirt.
He stands and hands me the transparencies, then holds up the red envelope, the one containing a photo of my CD shelves. “I should be thanking you,” Shane says.
I shrug. “It’s pure alphabetical for now. Maybe later I’ll subgroup them by genre. I hear that’s fun.”
He sits on the table and rests a foot on a chair. “Look, it was nothing personal, what I said about your campaign.”
“You’re entitled to your integrity. It’ll enhance your mystique.” I start sorting the transparencies. “By the time you come to your senses and join us, the masses will be rabid for the broody, reclusive Vampire Shane.”
“It’s frightening the way your mind works. And yet I cannot look away.”
David walks up and hands Shane a three-page list of call letters and frequencies. “I thought you might protest, so I made a list of stations Skywave has bought in the last ten years.”
Shane’s eyes widen at the size of the list. He rubs his face as he scans the pages, probably alphabetizing the call letters in his head.
“Listen to their Webcasts,” David says. “Ciara can help you find them on the Internet.”
“I can do it myself.” Shane sounds less than certain. “But why?”
I gesture to the list. “So you can hear what this station could become. Let’s say Skywave hires you to do a nighttime show. Which they probably won’t because it’s cheaper just to pipe in someone else’s show from, say, Cincinnati, add a local weather report, and pretend it’s a hometown broadcast. But if they do hire you, you’ll have to play whatever they tell you. You’ll be a human jukebox.”
“This isn’t about me,” Shane says. “It’s about the music.”
“Exactly.” David taps the papers. “Listen for a week, then tell me if those stations are about the music.” He pats Shane’s shoulder, then heads over to talk to Regina.
Shane rubs his eyes, which, I just realized, are looking kind of sunken. “You want to get a drink?” he asks me.
“Not really.”
“Of alcohol, I mean. In public.”
Seems safe, at least in the physical jeopardy realm. “One condition. You answer all my vampire questions. Honestly.”
“Didn’t David give you the field manual?”
“It’s written in bureaucratese. Besides, I get the feeling most of it is propaganda.”
He considers the ceiling for a moment. “I’ll answergeneral questions, but reserve the right to protect my personal privacy.”
“Deal. Meet me at the Pig in half an hour.”
When all the vampires are gone, David comes over to help me clean up. “Four out of five. Not bad.”
“Four out of six. Don’t forget Monroe.” I take a last admiring look at the T-shirt before folding it. “Monroe does exist, right? He’s not just a recording?”
“Of course he exists. But he won’t talk to you.”
“Why not?”
“Think about it. In his day in Mississippi a black man could be lynched for having a conversation with a white woman that wasn’t bookended by ‘Yes, ma’am.’”
“But that was then.” I switch off the projector’s fan. “I’m not saying racism is dead, but—”
“It’s still ‘then’ in his mind, Ciara. He’s old. Fossilized.”
“And he can’t change?”
“None of them can.”
I look at the chair where Shane sat a minute ago.
“Including him,” David says.
“I refuse to believe that.” I stuff the transparencies in the folder. “You saw the looks in their eyes just now. They want to do more than survive, they want to have fun. Does a fossil crave fun?”
He shakes his head. “Remember, they’re not human.”
“I’m not only remembering it.” I grab my bag and head out the door. “I’m milking it for all it’s worth.”
The Smoking Pig is nearly deserted, which makes the music seem louder than usual.
“Thanks.” Most guys would just stand back and watch me try to bend over in a miniskirt.
He stands and hands me the transparencies, then holds up the red envelope, the one containing a photo of my CD shelves. “I should be thanking you,” Shane says.
I shrug. “It’s pure alphabetical for now. Maybe later I’ll subgroup them by genre. I hear that’s fun.”
He sits on the table and rests a foot on a chair. “Look, it was nothing personal, what I said about your campaign.”
“You’re entitled to your integrity. It’ll enhance your mystique.” I start sorting the transparencies. “By the time you come to your senses and join us, the masses will be rabid for the broody, reclusive Vampire Shane.”
“It’s frightening the way your mind works. And yet I cannot look away.”
David walks up and hands Shane a three-page list of call letters and frequencies. “I thought you might protest, so I made a list of stations Skywave has bought in the last ten years.”
Shane’s eyes widen at the size of the list. He rubs his face as he scans the pages, probably alphabetizing the call letters in his head.
“Listen to their Webcasts,” David says. “Ciara can help you find them on the Internet.”
“I can do it myself.” Shane sounds less than certain. “But why?”
I gesture to the list. “So you can hear what this station could become. Let’s say Skywave hires you to do a nighttime show. Which they probably won’t because it’s cheaper just to pipe in someone else’s show from, say, Cincinnati, add a local weather report, and pretend it’s a hometown broadcast. But if they do hire you, you’ll have to play whatever they tell you. You’ll be a human jukebox.”
“This isn’t about me,” Shane says. “It’s about the music.”
“Exactly.” David taps the papers. “Listen for a week, then tell me if those stations are about the music.” He pats Shane’s shoulder, then heads over to talk to Regina.
Shane rubs his eyes, which, I just realized, are looking kind of sunken. “You want to get a drink?” he asks me.
“Not really.”
“Of alcohol, I mean. In public.”
Seems safe, at least in the physical jeopardy realm. “One condition. You answer all my vampire questions. Honestly.”
“Didn’t David give you the field manual?”
“It’s written in bureaucratese. Besides, I get the feeling most of it is propaganda.”
He considers the ceiling for a moment. “I’ll answergeneral questions, but reserve the right to protect my personal privacy.”
“Deal. Meet me at the Pig in half an hour.”
When all the vampires are gone, David comes over to help me clean up. “Four out of five. Not bad.”
“Four out of six. Don’t forget Monroe.” I take a last admiring look at the T-shirt before folding it. “Monroe does exist, right? He’s not just a recording?”
“Of course he exists. But he won’t talk to you.”
“Why not?”
“Think about it. In his day in Mississippi a black man could be lynched for having a conversation with a white woman that wasn’t bookended by ‘Yes, ma’am.’”
“But that was then.” I switch off the projector’s fan. “I’m not saying racism is dead, but—”
“It’s still ‘then’ in his mind, Ciara. He’s old. Fossilized.”
“And he can’t change?”
“None of them can.”
I look at the chair where Shane sat a minute ago.
“Including him,” David says.
“I refuse to believe that.” I stuff the transparencies in the folder. “You saw the looks in their eyes just now. They want to do more than survive, they want to have fun. Does a fossil crave fun?”
He shakes his head. “Remember, they’re not human.”
“I’m not only remembering it.” I grab my bag and head out the door. “I’m milking it for all it’s worth.”
The Smoking Pig is nearly deserted, which makes the music seem louder than usual.
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