Orfe Read Online Free Page B

the radio, somewhere, a while ago . . . They found a warehouse, in some city in Vietnam, and stacked up in it, in the warehouse, like . . . like boxes of stereos in a warehouse, or bags of flour, there were bodies. Skeletons. With tags tied to their big toes, with dog tag numbers on their toes. And I was thinking, each one of them was having a life, his own life. And I wasthinking, most of them were our age, probably.”
    â€œProbably most of them were black too,” I told her, my voice thick.
    â€œOh, shit,” Orfe said. “I never thought of that, but you’re right.”
    â€œOr Indian,” I said, making myself keep after the truth.
    I watched the top of Orfe’s head after that, making myself face the picture she had put before my mind’s eye. After a pretty long time, she asked, “How’d you like it?”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œMy performance.”
    â€œI only heard the very end.” I tried to remember my exact impressions. “Your voice is wonderful, but you must already know that. I never heard that song before.”
    â€œBecause it’s original.”
    â€œI only heard the very end,” I apologized. “So you still want to be a musician? Can you earn enough to live on, on the streets? I don’t mean that the way it sounds.”
    â€œI can. I lived a couple of years all over Europe that way. But—I just joined up with a band. The lead singer asked me, and I said okay, so—we’ve played a couple ofgigs, we’ve got one coming up, I’m thinking about asking you if you want to see it. But—”
    After a while, “But what?” I asked.
    â€œOh . . . It’s metal, and I’m not sure how you feel about metal. We’re a metal band, Jack and the Jackets—don’t say it, Enny, okay?”
    I didn’t.
    â€œAnd we’re not very good. We’re okay good but not nearly good enough. Not nearly as good as I am by myself.” She wasn’t apologizing, she was explaining. “And your opinion—what you think matters to me.”
    Orfe leaned forward to tell me about it.
    â€œThe drummer could be good, if only he’d work. I mean work, you know what I mean? Not just . . . Just because you have more talent than most people doesn’t mean you don’t have to work at it. The rest of them don’t matter, they don’t bother me, but Smiley could be really good if he’d just stop waiting around for whatever it is he expects will be given to him. Just given. Like some Christmas present from Santa, just given stark free. You know? Or if he’d stop looking for the high that will—be the angel he can ride where no drummer has ever gone before. Making him famous andrich. Or something. It makes me mad,” Orfe said.
    â€œYou haven’t changed much.”
    â€œNeither have you, really. Have you?”
    I laughed. “Not if you don’t think so.”
    â€œI don’t. Other than growing up, of course,” Orfe said. “Other than growing. I do want you to come hear us. Hear me, I mean. Would you? You want to? Do you mind pretty hard-core music?”
    I decided not to lie. “That doesn’t matter.”
    â€œI hope,” Orfe said.
    *  *  *  *  *
    Mushroom clouds in a row lined the walls of the room, shining in the dim light, fluorescent green mushroom clouds, fluorescent orange, fluorescent yellow. Small tables crowded back against the wall, across the room from the narrow wooden platform that made itself a stage by being elevated on wooden crates. Black amplifiers gleamed at the sides of the stage against a brick wall; silver microphones stood guard over the arrangement of drums and cymbals and pedals; wiring lay coiled black and shiny. I was taken to the girlfriends’ table by the door. The room was so crowded and noisy that even if I had felt any inclination to talk, it