The Tolerance Wars - 5
the real world mostly by feel
upper and lowercase version
begin at the beginning—Chapter 1
The Tolerance Wars
5.
please feel secure
“I am not going back there, I quit. I didn’t get into this to get blown up, do you hear me? I quit!”
Turned out it wasn’t a bomb, was a faulty gas line in the lab a few doors down. I’d scanned it on the sites and rang a buddy at the local rag, true stuff. Case was closed, no more questions. No one hurt, as long as nothing else happened there’d be no further investigation. And I guess no more publicity.
No, wasn’t saying closed to me neither.
“Hey, sorry if I said something stupid. But I wasn’t bustin’ into your life plans. I asked whether you’d been up to see the place yet.” What went down from here was none of mine. “What you do with the three wise guys out there is your own business, sister. I was wondering what shape your office was in. And it occurred that if someone was gonna have trouble getting it together on campus and needed a solid data pipe, I was gonna say I might be able to offer some connection. But if you’re done with the gig, no bother.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I think maybe I’m a little jittery.”
She wasn’t talking to me. Or at least not coming off anything I’d said. Wasn’t looking at me square, neither. So far the conversation was like playing in a combo over a satellite connection where grooveage is hard to come by. “You’re freaked, no worries. I’ll be here when you come down. And just to demonstrate my solid grasp of what is right in front of my nose, I’d suggest that it’s maybe kinda early to wrap my brain around the very bizarre. You might be feeling a bit of the same, dunno. Me I’m just gonna let it soak in for a few more minutes. After that, if I still don’t get it, then I’ll freak. More my style. Actually my rule is no life-changing decisions before morning coffee. I wouldn’t want to force it on anyone, though.” Come to think of it, my wordspill was way up. Not my boat, but I guess I was rattled, too. Yeah it was way too early for thinking big thoughts.
Most folks figure musicians party until dawn and sleep the day away. I don’t know about anyone else, on a gig night I try to get eight hours but most days I’m up at six. I got it from my old man. I’d seen the news when I’d switched on the connection first thing. Spent the next hour or so chasing down the story. Had just got off the line with my buddy, hadn’t had time to plug the kettle in. The bell had rung at eight.
I wasn’t totally surprised to see her.
“So am I doing anything I’m likely to be arrested for?” I’d made the brew and we were sitting in the front room. The view was from two stories up and looked down the length of the street. Spared me trying not to look across the street at someone else trying not to look back. I could even see the club at the far end of the block. Didn’t take the space for the view, but it was nice.
“I have no idea. I didn’t think I was doing anything I was likely to get blown up over, apparently I was wrong. I’m not sure what I think anymore, but I don’t think I’m involved in anything that should attract attention from the police. Ihere is nothing illegal in my work.”
“Ihat would explain the presence of our blond friend. Ihat there is nothing illegal has attracted his attention. Ihey have an eye for that sort of thing.”
“Iou think he’s a policeman?”
“I don’t know what he is, but he makes me think of security. Mall law, bouncer, bodyguard, cop, they all stand the same in a crowd, they all work the same way, and they all give off that vibe that they want things to be… secure.”
“I was feeling quite secure until you pointed him out to me.” She’d come around a little bit, was looking less wild-eyed.
I looked out at the street scene below us. The free flow of morning was on. You couldn’t predict any particular combination of events or any individual part of the scene, but you got the sense that things were moving towards something. It was the randomness of it all that would cause a security type distress down there. I kinda liked the way every day’s random made a similar pattern. Archer’s data thing had a sense of that in it. Randomness making a pattern. Maybe that had offended the sensibilities of some people who wanted to be able to say ‘please feel secure’. Why not? Every morning coffee needs a good conspiracy theory. Sweet jesus, did someone think she needed a bodyguard? Maybe being arrested wasn’t the thing to be worried about here.
“Until this very moment it hadn’t occurred to me that you’d be in a racket that needed protection. Remind me again, what exactly is it you do to pay the rent?”
“I’m a research scientist, I have several contracts I’m working on as a computational biologist. Since the first virus was done in 1984, there have been projects to do sequence analysis on the genes and proteins of all sorts of organisms. But even when the genes are sequenced and we have the model we call the genome of that organism, there is still a lot of dna material in there that appears to serve no purpose. Studies are being done on that junk dna all the time. All of that work requires comparing large numbers of complex sequences with one another. Each of the contracts I’m working on involves getting computers to do that. But none of them are dealing with anything at all dangerous.
“So that’s the work that pays the bills, while the brain stuff is what you do on your own time?”
“Something like that.” She sipped the coffee and we watched the parade for a minute. “Some of my research has received a modest amount of support from the private sector. But surely there’s no motivation for hurting anyone.”
“Well at least one of your friends would like to support you in the extravagant lifestyle to which you’d like to become accustomed. And at least one of your friends wants to warn you off.” I thought a minute more about it. “And I’d say at least one of your friends isn’t too thrilled about your choice of friends. So far nobody’s hurt anyone. That’d be a good thing to encourage.”
“So you really think it was a gas leak?”
“I have no opinion at the moment. I do know it was freaky. And I don’t seem to be satisfied that it was a coincidence. But it may well have been a gas leak.” I was pretty sure our boys could tell a bomb from a gas explosion. Mind you whether they’d call it a gas leak just to stop anyone from wondering about it, guess I couldn’t rule that out. “You think it was a bomb?”
“What I think is that someone tried to intimidate me. And they succeeded. I don’t know what caused the explosion, but given what our caller said before he left, I wouldn’t rule it out.” She’d pulled out of the shock that I’d met at the front door, but that was about as much scared kid as I’d seen in a while.
“So say it was a bomb. Would someone be trying to destroy something, or disrupt something, or just warn someone off something? Seems to me if your work is the data and the programs that manipulate it, and because presumably that all lives on a server somewhere independent of where you’re working, and since all three of your wise guys are likely savvy enough to know that, then it seems to me that if there was someone behind the explosion, they weren’t out to destroy your work. And while I wouldn’t bet the bank on it, I figure if there was someone behind the thing, even if it was a bomb, they can’t be out to kill you. Not unless they’ve got someone really lousy on the case. Good timers are cheap, security on campus is more about parking than violence, if they wanted to hurt someone they probably would have made it happen. Not that I know much about it.”
I was done my first hit, but this might be a two cup morning. “ ‘Nother one?” I tipped my mug in her direction. She nodded. I left her there at the window while I did the deed with the beans. When I returned she was still taking it in. That view will do it to you. She took her mug. “Thanks,” she smiled. Then she nodded out the window. “Everyone seems to have somewhere to go this morning.”
“It’s like that most mornings.” I settled back into the overstuffed to the side of the couch. “When the weather’s lousy it can be pretty sad. But on a sunny day it’s like the easter parade. Good turnout today.”
We both watched it for a few minutes. Figured I’d let her speak first. She did. “You think i should ignore it?”
“No, I think something exploded. And that’s a very good thing to pay attention to. I think maybe it was a message, and I’d wanna respond in a way that made some kinda sense.”
“You think i should continue my work?”
“I’d understand if you wanted me to tell you I did. Although what I think about it isn’t really so important. I’m just a musician, remember? You’re the scientist. And you’re the one with all the interest in your work. Most days I can’t draw flies.” She laughed. Almost human again, she’d figure her own way and didn’t need me leading her through something I knew nothing about. “Although maybe I don’t think I’d go right back to setting up shop in the same location.”
“No, the workspace wasn’t really all that important. I have no driving need to be working from there, it was just a port that was convenient.” She looked thoughtful for a beat. “You said you had a connection. How big?”
“Should be fast enough to deal with what you’re doing.”
“You have a residential hookup?”
“Um, no. We’re flinging about a fair bit here, so I needed a decent enough pipe to pass audio and video. My data’s elsewhere on a server attached to the mainline, and we made sure we had a clear run from here to there. It’s big enough I can have several projects running bothways, and still flash the news feeds. Funny, most folks still assume artists are low tech. I can’t figure it ‘cause I’ve been geeking since the last century.”
“That’s a substantial connection. I thought you were a musician. You told me you spent all your time sitting on your couch playing your guitar.”
“That wasn’t exactly what I said.” I remembered the conversation, we’d been talking with Tony. The scientist was asking the musician what it’s like. At one point I was talking about how a certain amount of freeform time seemed to be important to making art. I often spend that time with a guitar in my hands, playing a groove over and over until it’s in my bones. And while I’m walking through the thing that it might be, I let my thoughts go where they want to. It’s pretty cool, but I don’t get as much time at it as I’d like.
I’d had to explain how it was totally different from performing a song. It’s not technical practice. And as a listener it might seem weird, maybe even a failure by showbiz standards. But if I’m trying to explore what a performance means by walking through it in a fully attentive way then it’s a roaring success. Depends on what you’re going for. Also cool that once I’ve explored a thing I can show people what I saw, simply by walking it through again in the same attentive way. Doesn’t do just to mail it in, you gotta pay attention. It’s not something I’m good at, but some of my favourite artists turn not-performing into the most amazing thing to witness.
I guess that’s maybe part of what this art thing is all about—being a witness. I know it’s probably covered in a thousand places in philosophy books, but I think we use art as a witness. Or maybe that we use the artist as witness. I could never figure whether that thought was from a philosophy book, or had more to do with the social structure that would set that up and use it, is that cultural anthropology?
Anyway, what I had been going on about was that it ain’t the artist’s job to make the art. It’s the artist’s job to be there when something is coming down—and to get it down. Whether what’s coming down is the tectonic plates of politics—moving now glacial, now explosive and devastating—or some part of life’s grand swing across the moon, it’s the artist’s job to be out there in the middle of it. And to get it down. For some folks out there it’s a chorus they’re already onto, for others it’s a headsup.
But you gotta do both. One without the other doesn’t make art. Only being there, without getting it down, is only being there. God knows many an artist has been caught in the being and not come up with the goods. When you have to be that attentive, just being there and experiencing it completely has an incredible pull. The danger is that the art won’t happen, you just won’t get to it, you’ll either be busy or dead. And if you try to get it down without having been there, somehow it’s not the real deal neither. And then how you get it down has its own deadly fascination. Kills the being there. Or at least keeps you too busy on how you’re doing it to be as attentive as you need to be to get anything meaningful across later. And too much technique can get in the way of getting it down, ends up being about the medium, no message.
Likewise, if it’s new, it’s art. If it’s reproducing it, then it’s something else. Has a different function, and a different value. Yeah, I bet there are folks who study that stuff. None of this is original thinking. When I think of that saying about science from the shoulders of giants, I sure enough see giants all around. Me, mostly I see knees.
But yeah, I’m a witness. I guess that’s what I do.
Couchtime. I’d said I don’t get as much of it as I should. Maybe that’s a good thing.
“The revolution hit in the last millennium, sister. Every player I know is wired somehow, or close enough to a spot to drop in on. We make files and swap ‘em back and forth. Buddy needs a part he sends me the roughs and I see what I can help with. Sometimes we do it together in the same space. Sometimes she’s there and I’m here. No matter. And in the end it has to be sent somewhere. And it takes a pipe to do that. Your standard home connection gets pretty tired pretty fast.”
Seems that some of her work was like monster dough, if she didn’t tend to it every once in a while it got out of hand. We figured if she needed to get to it over the next few days this would be as good a place as any. We rapped for a while longer. She hadn’t decided whether she was gonna check out the damage from the blast or take it home and try to get some sleep. I gave her a hug and sent her on her way. If I was a younger man I probably would’ve asked her to stay. I guess this is what middle age feels like.
I spent the rest of the next couple of days wrapping up projects. Mixes, no new playing, then getting them out to people. Means a lot of time in front of a computer screen. I heard Archer had gone up to campus and been told that everyone was asked to stay away from the building for a few days until they finished the insurance dealings and such. Tony said she went and hung low to get her head straight.
It’d been two days of staring at a monitor when I finally had enough and decided to hit the club for a break. When I’ve been working for that long I can’t see straight. Anything further than arms length is fuzzy as hell. I’m okay to cross the street, I wouldn’t wanna drive. And I’ve been known to ignore a buddy waving at me. Takes an hour or so and it straightens out. Meantime I’m a goof.
So I made my way downstairs to the real world mostly by feel. I unlocked the door and stepped out into the street. The early evening light was golden, made it easier to see the cars as I crossed over. I walked the length of the block smiling at anyone I passed, just in case it was someone I was supposed to recognize. Man, I hate this. I was almost there when I bumped into sparechange. I knew it was him because I was close enough to bump into him. I’d made out two people standing a couple doors down from the club. One split across the street, the other turned and bumped into me.
“Hey man. sorry I didn’t see you there.”
“No problem. I been working too hard. Can’t see a thing right now. Only tell it’s you by the musical sound of your voice.” Was partly true. I could make out his face well enough, now that I knew it was him. But I never forget the sound of a voice. I guess it comes from what I do. Was how I could tell there had been two people at first, I heard two voices. I spotted one as sparechange. I couldn’t make out the other guy’s face even though he’d stepped right in front of me, but I was pretty sure I caught the voice. It was our friend the third wise guy. The simple one. The one with the bomb.
I have got to get my eyes checked.
NEXT