The Tolerance Wars - 14
memorandum of understanding
upper and lowercase version
begin at the beginning—Chapter 1
The Tolerance Wars
14.
memorandum of understanding
Breakfast is good. Second breakfast is better. Tony joined us. So we kept the conversation light. Or at least not about wands and buttons. And hats. Of awesomeness. I knew we could tell my genius friend the singer. She was one of the most righteous people in the universe of righteousness. But why burden your friends when you don't have to? One of life's useful guidelines. Like not wearing a shirt that's louder than you are. Sometime a hat can be a burden. Of awesomeness. We all have our burdens. Just some are more awesome than others.
But Tony asked how's it going. So we told her.
Everything.
Sister took it in. Held the thought for a small moment. Then had the same question as I’d had. “You made a hat?" Then she looked at me. “Of awesomeness?"
I deadpanned, “More of a hairnet really."
Friend Archer winced. “Okay, it's a hat."
Tony was still taking it all in. “But you made it?”
“I did.”
“And why?”
“To prove that it was a waste of time. A trivial nothing that didn’t bear thinking about.”
Tony looked at me. Natural genius appreciating natural genius. Happily I’m just a guitarist. A burden less awesome.
I shrugged a small shrug in her direction. “It’s a better read than ‘It was just sitting there in the ether. Waiting to be awesome.’ Which is just plain freaky.”
Tony sat back and took in the coffee. Silence for two beats. A blue jay squeaky-hinged in the trees down at the end of the block, looking for someone with a better idea. “Sounds like what sculptors do.”
Sister blinked. “Pardon me?”
“You know. Them seeing something that’s there in the big piece of rock. Then chipping away all the stuff that’s not part of it. What they’re left with is the thing. That they saw. And now we can see it too.” She took another another hit of coffee. “Only it’s not a rock. It’s… everything.” She looked at me. “And now we can see it too.”
The other genius shrugged, “Well it was pretty obvious.”
Tony shook her head. “Not everybody can look at a massive hunk of marble and see a goddess, standing there looking at her. Just waiting to be freed.” She held her coffee in front of her, looking down into the dark brown loveliness. Not looking at our friend. “Though we all have some ability to see something specific in random things.” She took a sip and held the thought. “Pareidolia.”
Our friend blinked. “Sorry? I don’t know that word.”
Tony was my doorway to understanding these kinds of ideas. Like so many of my friends. I just let them talk. And they teach me so much. So I let them. Talk. She kept looking into her coffee. Then, “But you know the thing. Seeing something specific in a random pattern. Pareidolia.”
“Like what you can see in the clouds in the sky?”
She nodded, “Or in the wind in a field of new corn. Or in the dust in the street. Or the stars in the dark night. Pareidolia.” She took another sip. Then looked down again. “Which is different from apophenia.” We waited. Then, “Believing things are connected. Even when they’re not. Apophenia” She stayed looking down. I waited a few beats. And another.
Then, “You’re fine.” I said.
Another beat. “Today,” still looking down.
I nodded. “Today. And today is the day I get. Not tomorrow. Not yesterday. Today. I get this one day. So it’s good to make something out of it.”
That broke the spell. My favourite singer looked at me and smiled a small smile. “And so I am”.
I nodded again. And smiled a little bigger smile. “And so you are.”
Tony looked across the table at our friend, who was taking this all in, then smiled a little bigger smile too, and began. “Yesterday, upon the stair…”
Archer leaned her head to one side, then remembered the rhyme. And nodded. “I saw a man. Who wasn’t there.”
Tony’s smile got wider. “Seeing connections, where there are none—Apophenia. Seeing patterns where none exist—Pareidolia. And seeing things that no one else can see—and making it so you can see them too. That’s…”
She and I finished it off together. “… Art!” In unison. Molto vivendi. And our friend laughed. Nice to be part of a regular act.
My turn to explain. “Nobody’s allowed to join in our conversations in a meaningful way unless they have a working definition of the first two. And some kind of appreciation of the last one—even if a definition can be achingly impossible.”
Our friend shook her head and laughed. “Another lodge handshake?”
“I think of it more as a memorandum of understanding.”
But Tony was still back at the thought. “Except it wasn’t Art. That you made. It was Science. You saw something no one else could. And you made a piece of technology that would help other people see what you saw. Not art. Science. Reproducible results. Possible explanation based on observable phenomena.”
I picked it up, “Which is only a working theory. Until you can prove it.”
The actual scientist nodded. “Although even when you think your theory’s been proven, if new information suggests it, be ready to admit you might be wrong. That’s what makes it science.”
“So being a scientist means having an open mind.”
“Have you guys ever actually met a scientist?”
“Just the one,” said Tony, “and she seems nice.”
The nice one smiled. “But I’m just a single data point. There are as many different kinds of scientists as there are kinds of people. Doing it for all kinds of reasons. With all kinds of morals and ethics. Like any job. There’s good people everywhere. And there’s other people too. People not so good.”
“You mean evil scientists actually exist?”
“If you accept that people come in all types. And that some of those types aren’t so nice. And that scientists are in fact people. It would suggest that not so nice scientists might exist. And if evil is part of the range of not so nice…”
“Then there really are evil scientists?” Tony was a serious people collector. Wanted to know all the types. “Have you ever met one? Did they have a cunning plan?”
“That’s how you know they’re evil. If they have a cunning plan.” I assumed the cartoon voice, “And now, because I am so ee-vil… ”
“So if you put together everything that’s happened,” Tony ignored me as friends do and finished her thought, “and what you know about it, you might be able to figure out their cunning plan?”
Archer nodded. “Which is pretty much where I’m at. Going over what’s happened. And asking myself what do I know about it.”
“What do you know so far? And can we help?”
Apparently we could. So we went over it. There was some research. Someone got killed. Someone got shot at. Maybe the same person, maybe not. The lady made a hat. Some people might be interested. If they knew. Which they probably didn’t. For now.
I was getting a little lost when it came to who the players were. Or why they might be doing whatever they were doing. And I had to admit, in all my years being around some of the sketchier parts of the music scene, I hadn’t considered that hanging out with a scientist would end up being more dangerous. Not that I was gonna read too much into that. But I had already been shot at. And there'd been an explosion. And for that matter I’d been whacked. None of which may have been intended for me. But then again it might. Except the whacking. That'd been an accident. Or maybe not. Depending on how you defined accident. At least there'd been an apology for it. The rest of it no one was taking responsibility for. Might not either. Willingly. I found myself wondering, when it all goes wrong, which one of us got to say 'ruh-roh'? And can good people have cunning plans?
Yeah, that was me spacing out for a while. When I came back Archer had been filling us in on what she knew about the people around her work. I think. Tony was going over what she’d just said. Which was good, because it’s how I navigate conversations. Especially ‘figuring out what to do’ conversations. Which I guess yeah this was.
“So there's the company.” Tony was running it down like when she’s got an arrangement she needs to get straight in her mind. To get it in her bones. Come off the bridge and we’re back into the chorus to make a point. “And there’s the other folks. The ones Uncle Alex was working for. Who’re they?” Now the groove gets a little heavier like it’s got somewhere to go, “And whoever wanted him dead, are they the same people?” Then drop the groove so the thought can stand free. “And is this all about the hat? Or something else.”
“What if there isn’t a cunning plan?” My job to set up the next verse, so I hit the turnaround.
Tony picked up on it. “What if they don't know what they're doing” She looked at me. “and they're doing it anyway?”
The mark of a good arrangement, Archer easily caught the shape of it and called it back. “Something they’re trying to do. And they’re doing it badly.” Now that’s a hook.
But we had to admit we probably weren’t going to find ourselves in a position to know who had done what. Maybe they didn’t mean to shoot Uncle Alex. But then they had to do him in. Or he’d talk. Or something. Personally I took some courage from the thought that the bad guys don’t always have it goin’ on.
I guess it came down to what do we thought they might want to do. And is it okay if that happens. Or should someone get in the way somehow. Make it impossible for them to do it. Or maybe at least harder. Set aside for the moment whether that someone should be us.
In the end the players looked like: the company Archer’d been working for, which was evil enough to play office games to a savage degree but might not be into shooting people and explosions; and whoever Uncle Alex was working for, who seemed fine with explosions, and guns. And who knows but maybe their office politics is on a whole ‘nother level. Probably not a company. If they are I bet their Christmas party is murder.
Then there’s Limner. And whoever he was working for. Or with. Which apparently included Sparechange. Which I was still trying to wrap my brain around. The part that didn’t hurt. I was hoping the whacking hadn’t damaged any of my lizard brain. I had a feeling I was gonna need that. Especially if Limner kept doing his job the way he had been up to now. And if part of his job was to keep the scientist safe, how could you tell whether was he doing a bad job because there’s been a shooting and an explosion, or a good job because we were still alive? Maybe in his line of work explosions happen, being alive is what counts. There’s been nights where I thought that. Usually a new band. Somewhere in the middle of the second set.
Jo came up to our table from behind the counter. I’d noticed her take a call on the bat-phone by the till and send an ‘oh good you’re still here’ look in our direction after she hung up. She knew better than to bring more coffee though. We’d been debriefing for a while. And even I have my limits. “Heya, Marcus just called. His friend’s got a house party and the musicians cancelled. Not sure if their car broke down or they got a better offer, he wasn’t clear. Either way his buddy’s beat for tunes. Sound and lights are there, just show up and play. There’s three grand in it. More if the party goes late. You guys busy tonight?”
I looked at Tony. Private party was always better cash than most clubs could pay. It wasn’t big-city money, but if it gave our gang a chance to do what we do and stretch out the tunes in front of people. “Ask for a bit more because we’re helping out at the last minute?”
Tony thought about it, then shook her head. “No.” She looked up and smiled at Jo. Who blushed a little. I guess someone else with a crush on after hearing the singer work her magic night after night. “Marcus said it was a friend?” Jo managed to nod. “Then I think we can slide on in and help a friend.” Tony checked in with me. I was game, my turn to nod. “Could you let Marcus know we’ll be happy to be there? If you could find out what time they’d like the music to start.”
“And the dress code.”
Tony looked at me like she approved of me learning something. Finally. “And the dress code.” She looked at our friend the hat maker. “And that we’ll bring a couple of friends.” It was a statement to Jo and a question to Archer at the same time. Gotta love that kind of economy with words. Everybody nodded. “Maybe an address would be helpful. We’ll wrap up here and go round up the gang.”
So we wrapped. A note arrived with the address, just outside of town, and the suggested time for the magic to begin. Dress code was ‘just do what you do, you’ll be perfect’. Which was no help at all really. But at least I’d remembered to ask.
So. A last minute gig at a big house out in the country. With some of my favourite players. And there was an address.
Not like that one time.
NEXT