Double Twist
Part XV: Matriculation
Chapter 182
“Our masters have not heard the people’s voice for generations and it is much, much louder than they care to remember.”
—Alan Moore, V for Vendetta
29 DECEMBER 2021
If it’s Wednesday, this must be Fresno. If we do any more tours, I hope they give us a little more time between stops. Last night’s performance in San Francisco was depressing. The audience was more locals than National Service and had little invested in the politics of the situation. Most of the National Service Corps members who attended were brought in from the north across the bridge. I was told many came from the vineyards and citrus orchards. Grapes. What the fuck are National Service personnel doing picking grapes for wineries?
It used to be done by migrants, that’s what. On average, a picker can harvest between one and two tons of grapes a day. That’s hard, backbreaking work. No one goes into an employment agency and chooses to apply for a job picking grapes. The harvest finally ended a couple of weeks ago and the workers are being shuttled into orchards where orange and citrus harvests are just starting.
Without the National Service slave labor, California fruits and vegetables would rot in the fields and the grocery stores would be empty. We sure aren’t importing fruit and vegetables from Mexico!
We didn’t have questions and answers after the show because there was no live stream, but Dr. D suggested that we might want to plan on my little speech and encore after each performance. It felt a little flat but we got applause from the 3,000 who attended. Then we got on our bus and drove the 200 miles to Fresno during the night. We just slept on the bus until it started getting light out.
If we didn’t need showers and a decent nap, we’d just stay on the bus but Em says we have a couple of rooms in the Day’s Inn here so we can lounge and get cleaned up before tonight’s performance. I see Livy and Nanette are ready to run. It’s time to see what Fresno looks like by foot.
“Jacob, Dr. D wants to have dinner with you,” Donna said.
“I didn’t know she stayed after the first show,” I said. She’d spoken to me after the show and then disappeared. I hadn’t seen any sign of her since then. Of course, our routine was to simply board the bus after a show and move to the next location, sleep as much as we could, then get cleaned up to perform again. Somehow, our clothes were getting cleaned so they were fresh before each show. I didn’t know how that was being accomplished. Em always checked to be sure our laundry bags were properly tagged and picked up.
“She’s following closely,” Donna said. “I’m concerned that she wants to meet with you without any of the rest of the pod. She’s invited us all to dinner but wants to sit with you at a separate table so you can talk.”
“Sounds like she wants to fine tune the message,” I said. “Or pull the plug on it. What kind of timing do we have?”
“Early enough so we aren’t overstuffed by the time we go on at ten-thirty,” Donna said. “We might miss the first act tonight.”
“How do you like touring?” Dr. D asked when we were seated at our table. On the other side of the restaurant, I could see my girlfriends all at a large table.
“It’s tiring,” I said. “I think I’d be okay with it if we were performing every other day instead of in a new location every night.”
“This is an unusual tour. Everyone in all three acts and the stage crew are showing signs of wear. We’re just trying to make sure you all eat well and get some rest,” she said. “How did you manage to get local photos for your slide show last night?”
“We went for a run when we woke up yesterday and saw workers already in the fields at sunrise. When I got back, Em arranged a car for me so we could tour the almond orchards. The rice fields were an unexpected bonus and we got to watch one being flooded.”
“I’ve collected a number of images for you from the local area east of LA and on south. You might not need many of them as the first images you showed the commission were taken in this area. But I wanted to be sure you knew the conditions you described are still very much the same. There is a constant turnover of harvest and plant in the vegetable crops here and as we move down toward San Diego. I understand your sister started her service on a field to table delivery route near San Diego.”
“Yes. I didn’t get to ride with her down here like I did when she was transferred to Kansas. I’ll look through the new pictures but you have to know this makes me really mad. My friend has been working these fields for a year now. Her girlfriend who managed to reach her is the only thing keeping her alive,” I said, getting a little heated up. I wanted to spend some time tomorrow trying to find Leslie and Celia if I could.
“I’m going to ask you one small favor,” Dr. D said. “Please don’t say ‘Right fucking now,’ during the show tonight. Let me just say that change is coming rapidly and you’ll hear more about it Saturday. We don’t want to start a general strike the night before.” I nodded. I’d dropped an f-bomb the first night but had managed to eliminate that the past two nights. I did need to keep control of my tongue.
“I’ll contain myself,” I snorted.
“Next, you are likely to get mobbed by the press after the show tonight and even more tomorrow night. These things are a little slow getting started but once they start moving, they are a freight train,” she said.
“What things?” I asked.
“This was in yesterday’s San Francisco Chronicle. Not front page, but significant in coming after your performance there the night before.” She handed me a copy of the Lifestyle section with a circle around a review of the Tuesday night show. It was generally favorable and didn’t give unequal space to the three acts. It had the broadcast times for our New Year’s Eve show. In all, it looked pretty innocuous.
“Apparently, they liked the show,” I said. “That’s good, right?”
“Now look at this,” she said. She turned the page to the Opinion section. “Have Marvel and Hopkins Gone Too Far?” a headline read.
“Oh, shit,” I breathed. The anonymous writer cited our act specifically and suggested we were working toward a political agenda sponsored by factions of the commission. The writer further claimed our show was tantamount to calling for a general strike by the National Service field laborers and should be considered a treasonous attempt to incite a rebellion. “What should I do?”
“I haven’t given you a should or should not on any part of your performance,” Dr. D said. “You are not in the National Service and are not under orders for this performance. I wanted you to be aware of the broader impact you are having. We didn’t expect a response like this so soon. Actually, not before the New Year’s Eve broadcast. But calling for voters to vote out anyone who opposes reform has upset the holiday plans of some professional politicians. That’s why I think you can expect some press waiting to ambush you after the show tonight.”
“And I should just be my charming self and smile?” I asked.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something to say.”
“Why are you letting me just plow in and upset people?” I asked. “I appreciate not being censored but just letting us create our program and make our speeches is more freedom than I ever expected from either the National Service or the National School. Why?”
“First, you aren’t a member of the National Service or enrolled in the National School. I know that sounds like a cop-out but it is an important distinction between your group and the other two acts. It shows that the service is not censoring its performers and personnel and that we believe in the fundamental freedoms of individuals. We won’t contradict you or try to silence you, even when we disagree. That’s an important message for us to get across. But—and I think this is even more important—we on the commission, who organized this tour, believe change is mandatory. If we don’t push the change through, we will face the very rebellion you were accused of inciting. You are making this crystal clear to the world.”
“I just hope you and the commission can keep us from being shot for treason,” I sighed.
It wasn’t quite as bad as I was prepared for. There were half a dozen news people outside the venue when we left to board our bus and the questions were innocuous.
The reporters weren’t so kind in LA.
The concert in LA was a huge success, more than in Fresno and way more successful than San Francisco. The theater was unbelievably beautiful with about 2,200 in the audience. The acoustics were phenomenal and we worked without the band shell. And the audience sat in front of us and in balconies on both sides. I had to consider it the best performance we’d delivered yet. And I was told there were no tickets sold to the public. All the audience was National Service laborers, bused in from their various camps within seventy-five miles of Los Angeles.
I made sure all my pod mates were safely on the bus before I turned to face the reporters.
“Mr. Hopkins, are you attempting to incite a rebellion?” was the first question. I was best prepared for that one and with luck it would be the worst of the questions asked.
“No,” I said. “We understand the US code to specify that anyone who incites, sets on foot, assists, or engages in any rebellion or insurrection against the authority of the United States or the laws thereof is guilty under the code. However, the mounting of political campaigns for election to public office, no matter how heated it might be, is explicitly excluded from that definition. Unionization, even of federal employees, has also been considered a right. We encourage the organization of National Service Corps members—a civilian organization—and advocate the ouster by election of all representatives and senators who oppose National Service Reform. Both are protected activities.”
“That’s treason!” another reporter shouted.
“When I declared openly a few months ago that I’d read the manual, that includes having read the constitution. You should try it. Article three, section three of the constitution carefully defines treason, stating: Treason against the United States, shall consist only in levying War against them, or in adhering to their Enemies, giving them Aid and Comfort. Mounting a political campaign to replace incompetent representatives is not included.”
“Who are you backing in this political campaign?”
“I think I’ve been abundantly clear on that. I don’t know names or philosophies or platforms of any politician mounting a campaign for the 2022 election. I know the National Service has evolved into something no one who voted for amendment twenty-eight ever intended. I advocate the removal from office, via election, of every candidate who opposes service reform. We are voters and we will be heard.”
There were some shouted questions about our music and our pod but mostly the interview was over. I boarded the bus and our driver started rolling. Em, thankfully, was not driving and was waiting with the rest of our pod.
“Does anyone in the pod believe we are going too far?” I asked. “We have one more performance and it will be broadcast live on cable. If anyone here feels we are overstepping or that I’m not representing your beliefs and position, let me know and I will stop spouting off.”
“Jacob,” Em said. “We’ve already talked about it. We love you. We agree with you. And we will never let go.”
I was squashed beneath the press of my twelve girlfriends. Yeah. That included Remas. I couldn’t possibly exclude her from the pod any longer. All we could do is hold together and press onward. Right at that moment, though, what was most important was to celebrate Joan’s twentieth birthday. There was a privacy screen between the driver and the rest of the tour bus. The windows were the kind that prevented anyone from seeing in, even when the interior was lit. Predictable as it sounds, by one o’clock, everyone was naked and loving on Joan.
We stayed at a Rodeway Inn in San Diego that let us into our rooms at 3:00 a.m. It was less than a mile from Viejas Arena where our final performance would be. We’d be in the room for what remained of the night and the next night after our concert. I slept until noon and then went for a run with Nanette and Livy. San Diego State University is a pretty campus, I guess. Not as spectacular as some I’ve visited. There is an old center core with white adobe buildings and it’s surrounded by modern buildings of non-descript architecture. The arena is just about center of the campus and has a huge open lawn in front of it where people gather before and after events. It was the biggest venue we’d play and configured for our performance would seat about 10,000.
Avocados, lemons, oranges, and vegetables are some of the top cash crops in this area and workers from a hundred miles around the venue would be at the show tonight.
We relaxed, mostly in our rooms, for the rest of the day. No one really had the energy for anything else. The schedule was different for this show. It would be broadcast live on a cable network, which meant we needed to start early enough that we could be finished by midnight on the East Coast. Happy New Year. I felt bad for the jazz ensemble. When they started playing at five-thirty, the audience was still arriving and filling the 10,000 seats in the arena.
Ten thousand people in an audience is a damn lot of people! Yes, we’d had 5,000 in the audience in Sacramento, but 10,000 is like twice as many! Shit. I’m turning into a teenage airhead. By the time the second act started, the arena was full. I really had to hand it to our tech crew. They practiced as hard as the performers did and got chairs and scenery into place smoothly. I’d seen shows that took forever to get from one act to the next as simple bits were incompetently moved. I had a lot of respect for these guys.
Being a basketball arena, there were four huge screens hung from the ceiling that showed what was being broadcast live. Our camera crew was working just as smoothly as the stage crew. I could see them moving on their dollies and with handhelds as the controller switched cameras from a booth at the top of the arena. It seemed like everything was running perfectly until I heard a retching sound behind me and saw Cindy throwing up in a wastebasket.
I rushed to her side and she was crying.
“Fuck me, Jacob. Please. Make it all go away!” My little stage maven was scared.
“I don’t think we have time to fuck, Piper. We need to get your face cleaned up and your makeup refreshed.” Sophie and Brittany were right beside me, fussing over her.
“There’s so many of them,” Cindy whined.
“It’s just like one of our webcasts,” I said. “Think of them as all sitting in front of their computers.”
“But the television…”
“Isn’t real. Honey, I figure if I can’t see them, they can’t see me. Who’s really going to tune in to a television broadcast on New Year’s Eve? I suppose there will be a few people in nursing homes who can’t get out. Let’s just give them a nice evening in. They probably won’t stay awake through the whole show anyway,” I said. Cindy spluttered at me. Sophie finished repairing her eye makeup that had run in streaks down her face. I leaned in close so hopefully only Cindy could hear me. “And when we’re done, I think it’s time to take you around the world.” Her eyes popped open. That was a favorite expression of Desi’s for getting oral, vaginal, and anal sex all in one session. Cindy looked down at her front.
“I don’t have Swiss Alps,” she giggled.
“That’s okay. I’ve always wanted to explore the Appalachian foothills.”
There was a lot more applause than usual when we walked onstage behind Donna, who once again introduced our act. I looked at Cindy and Desi, then shifted my eyes to Remas, Andy, and David. They were all nodding their heads and getting focused on our first piece. Donna stepped away and I nodded to Cindy, who gave us the count and started the show. As soon as her lips touched her flute, her stage jitters disappeared. She was on and she was hot.
Since one of the four overhead screens faced the stage, I glanced up to see what we looked like. I almost lost my place in the music when I saw my own fingers moving on the strings blown up to twenty feet wide. I didn’t look up again for the rest of the night.
We closed down the show and I started my little monologue at eight-thirty-five. The show was being broadcast live in New York where the time was eleven-thirty-five. I supposed they would delay broadcast for each of the time zones.
This crowd was much more vocal during my talk. There was a point when everyone was chanting, “Recover the dream. Recover the dream.” I turned to my fellow musicians and we launched into our Mozart on Fire jam session. We still had a while to fill before the top of the hour. I didn’t know what to do when the guitarist, keyboardist, and vocalists from the jazz ensemble walked out on stage and joined right in. We just welcomed them into the jam. Then there were violinists and the entire woodwind section of the orchestra who came out and joined our jam session. We shifted focus on who was performing, pointing to one section and then another to give them the lead as the rest of us backed off, then brought up another section to give them the spotlight.
People were standing and dancing in the arena, clapping their hands, and cheering. I glanced up and saw the scene on the monitor shift to the ball in New York with a countdown clock. I faced our combined musicians and counted us down to an end just as the ball dropped. There was a huge cheer and amidst the shouted ‘Happy New Year’ that filled the arena, the chant built again.
“Recover the dream. Recover the dream.” I looked at the big screen once again and saw the words emblazoned over shooting fireworks. “We will recover the dream.”
Message delivered.
All week, we’d been performing until close to eleven-thirty at night. To be finished with the show and clearing out at nine o’clock felt insanely early. We needn’t have worried. Once we were down in the lower section of the arena where dressing rooms and locker rooms were, we found a New Year’s Reception waiting for us. It was quite a party atmosphere. Dr. D was there, of course, but I was surprised to see Governor Adamson and several other commissioners hosting the non-alcoholic bar and serving from a banquet line for all the musicians.
I was stuffing a piece of sushi in my mouth when a security person came up to me and whispered in my ear. I immediately turned and followed him to the back door. When it opened, Celia and Leslie practically fell into my arms. I nodded to the guard and he let me lead them into the reception.
“I’m so glad you could be at the performance tonight,” I said. I could hardly recognize Leslie. A year in the sun had aged her ten years—maybe twenty. Her skin was leathery and sunburned. Her hands were rough and calloused. It broke my heart. And Celia was on her way to the same condition. Her sunburn was redder—fresher. Her eyes weren’t sunken quite as deeply as Leslie’s and there was a fire still burning there, whereas Leslie’s gaze was flat.
I led the girls straight to Governor Adamson. He stared a moment before recognition set in.
“You’re the girls Jacob has talked about and showed us pictures. My God! We are doing everything we can to get you out of that situation.”
“It’s too late,” Celia said. “I don’t know who you are, but you might as well know that no one is going to the fields Monday. We’re through.” Adamson sighed.
“I understand. But by Monday, you will find you are living in a very different world. Everyone who has been six months or more in the fields will be shipped home. New housing will be arriving and medical attention.”
“No matter what you do, it can’t happen that fast,” Leslie spat. “Nothing in this country happens that fast.”
“When something appears to happen rapidly, you will find the slow work has already taken place. Are you staying with your friends tonight?” he asked. Celia looked at me and I nodded. “You should all watch the Tournament of Roses Parade before you head for the airport,” he said. “You’ll want to see the end of it.”
He left us and my pod gathered around. These were two girls who were going to get pampered and tended to for the rest of the night.
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