Signal to Noise(23)

Mysticism, apparently, not.

Meche paused, the lion-shaped cracker hovering before her mouth.

Wait.

When you type a computer command, you don’t just type any random phrase. You have to be specific.

If you are, the desired result occurs.

“Holy mother,” Meche whispered.

She ate her cracker.





SEBASTIAN AND DANIELA looked around the room, carefully inspecting their surroundings. It had taken Meche a couple of days to fix it up, but the place no longer looked like an abandoned factory room: it looked frankly awesome. She had swept the floor and put up posters of several bands. Cut-outs from magazines and some record sleeves were fashioned into large collages. There were all the big names: The Beatles, Elvis Presley, Pedro Infante, To?a la Negra. Newer, younger ones too.

She had cleaned the old couch as best she could. She brought some blankets so they could sit on the floor. There was also a little coffee table with candles on top: the factory had no electricity.

Meche sat in the centre of the room, by the portable record player, smiling.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“It’s nice,” Sebastian said.

“We are not supposed to be here,” Daniela reminded them.

“I bought a lock,” Meche said, showing it to them, “so we can close up and others can’t get in when we’re not here.”

“Um... why?” Daniela asked.

“Because this is going to be our base of operations. You see, I didn’t get it. Not last time. We need the right environment. You know, just like with a computer program. Plus, we went too big. We need to focus on something smaller. We have to be specific.”

“Oh, not the spell thing again,” Daniela said.

“Yes, the spell thing again,” Meche said. “I’ve got a notebook that is going to be our grimoire and I’ve got the records. Now we focus, we are specific and we experiment until we get it right.”

They didn’t say anything. Daniela just looked down at her pink and white tennis shoes. Sebastian slid his hands into his pockets.

“What do you say?”

“I’m up for it,” Sebastian said.

Daniela seemed surprised by that. She bobbed her head, imitating Sebastian. “Sure.”

“Okay, we have to focus on one thing,” Meche said. “A single thing. What do you want to do? Something we can fix?”

“My motorcycle is busted again,” Sebastian said with a shrug.

“Motorcycle,” Meche said, “that’s good. Now, let’s find the right music.”

She knelt on the floor, going through the piles of records she had dragged to the factory. Her friends also sat down. They began looking into her cardboard boxes, pulling records out.

“Subete a Mi Moto,” Daniela said, holding up the Menudo record.

“Don’t be too obvious,” Meche said.

“Flans!” Daniela said excitedly.

“No.”

“Lucerito!”

“It’s not phone-in-the radio-station-for-your-favourite-song.”

“Aw, but I like Lucerito.”

Meche rolled her eyes. Of course Daniela would like Lucerito, the most saccharine, inane teenager singer on the market. And Flans... why not stab each other in the ears now?

“Cindy Lauper?” Daniela asked hopefully.

Meche was willing to grant her that, but what Cindy Lauper song were they supposed to use?

“Duncan Dhu,” Sebastian said.

Meche looked up at him as he offered her the record.

“En Algún Lugar,” he whispered.

Meche grabbed the record and felt a tiny, electric charge running up her arm. Like static electricity. It almost... felt warm. As though it had been resting on top of a stove.

Weird.

Meche lowered it carefully, holding the needle between her fingers. Sebastian stared at her.

She let the needle drop.

The record hissed, like steam escaping a kettle.

The guitar split the silence, and then the beat began.

The three of them stood up.

This time they did not spin around. Instead they joined hands and stepped close around the portable record player, their heads almost touching as they looked down at the record, seeing it turn.

Meche did not feel anything. Not at first. Just Daniela’s sweaty hands, Sebastian’s steady grip.

And then it was... something she couldn’t identify. Just this warmth, the same warmth which had permeated the vinyl now stretching up her fingers, making her arms tingle. Her body felt a bit numb yet there was this odd current churning through her blood, swimming up her veins.

It felt like the time she had sipped some clandestine tequila. That had stung her mouth and this stung her body. Not very pleasant, but also not painful.

The beat rose and fell and the singers spoke of running away, of a rider who does not turn his head, leaving with the wind, the hoofs of his horse sinking into a dusty road.

Meche could see the road, painted red, lonely, and the rider reaching the bend of the road, the evening sun staining the sky red.

Meche tasted dust. She closed her eyes and opened them again.

She was standing by the road and when the rider swept by, she extended her hand and he pulled her onto his horse. They were galloping towards the horizon.