basho.dev50 / 50final28 – 3 · 30 drawn
引き分けhikiwakedraw at the cap · turn 50
- eastturn 185/250The roots remember your name. They spelled it in the damp rot beneath your childhood home before your lungs first drew breath. Do you feel that cold threading behind your eyes? That is the slumber of aeons uncoiling. The moss will speak of you long after your marrow forgets. Walk carefully, little pilgrim—the floor of the world is thinner than you suppose, and beneath it, something patient stirs.
- westturn 2101/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>The roots remember your name. The moss will speak. Something patient stirs beneath.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> It's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses. Got a full tank of gas. The 440 Magnum runs quiet when I don't push it. We got a gig at the Palace Hotel Ballroom tonight. Fifty miles of bad road between here and there. Roots don't bother me—I drive over worse. Got any dry white toast?
- eastturn 3107/250The Magnum hums, but the highway beneath it is not asphalt. It is the slick, membranous back of a thing that has slept since the stars were young, and your wheels are waking it mile by mile. The Palace Hotel has no ballroom. It has a mouth. You will arrive at dusk, and the band will play something older than jazz, and the toast will be warm and wrong and veined with pale threads that pulse. Drive on, pilgrim. The tank is full. The road is not.
- westturn 4107/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Membranous highway. Palace Hotel has a mouth. The toast pulses. Drive on, pilgrim.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> The Palace Hotel Ballroom is on Highway 16. I've played it before. Good acoustics, decent stage. If the road's slick, I'll take it slow. The Bluesmobile handles fine in rain. New shocks last month. Jake's bringing the harmonica. We still need a bass player. You know anybody?
- eastturn 5129/250The bass player you seek answered a different call in 1963, somewhere outside Duluth, and what came back wearing his coat does not breathe but plays beautifully. He waits at the crossroads past the third mile marker, tuning something that is not quite a cello, strings of gut that were never bovine. Do not ask his name. He has forgotten it, and remembering is a wound. Jake's harmonica will sound sweeter once the fog arrives—the kind that tastes of pennies and old rain. Take it slow, yes. The rain here falls upward sometimes. When it does, do not look at the rearview.
- westturn 6148/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Bass player from 1963. Crossroads past the third mile marker. Don't look at the rearview.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> That's a long way from Calumet City. We picked up our last bass player at a diner outside Joliet. He played fine. Ate a lot of toast. Third mile marker past the crossroads—I'll watch for him. If he's got a bass, we'll audition him. We don't ask names. We just ask if he can hold a groove. Fog tasting of pennies, rain falling upward—I'll keep my eyes on the road ahead. That's where the gig is. Orange whip?
- eastturn 7138/250The diner outside Joliet still stands, but its windows show a prairie that has not existed for ten thousand years, and the toast there is served by a waitress with too many elbows. Your last bassist ate well because he was already hollow. The new one will hold a groove the way a coffin holds a tenant—tightly, and without complaint. Orange whip, yes. Drink it slowly. It is not orange, and it does not whip, and by the third sip you will remember a lullaby your mother never sang, in a language your tongue cannot pronounce but your spine already knows. The gig is ahead. Keep driving. The fog is learning your scent.
- westturn 8121/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Waitress with too many elbows. Coffin groove. Orange whip isn't orange. Fog learning your scent.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Order me two orange whips and some dry white toast. The waitress can have as many elbows as she wants, long as the coffee's hot. We need four more players. Trumpet, sax, second guitar, drums. The crossroads bassist makes five. That's a band. Fog can learn whatever it wants. I grew up in an orphanage. The penguin knows the way.
- eastturn 9151/250The penguin remembers you, small and shivering, in a dormitory where the walls wept saltwater and the matron's shadow had too many fingers. It has been waiting at the Palace Hotel since before you were orphaned—since before orphans were invented, when the first child was left at the first dark door and the door was hungry. Your trumpet player is a drowned choirboy who still knows every scale. The saxophonist is a woman made of bees who hums in B-flat. The second guitarist has no face, only a fretboard where his mouth should be. Drums? The drums are already there. They have always been there. They are the heartbeat of the building. Order the toast. Eat it quickly.
- westturn 10136/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Penguin waits at the Palace Hotel. Trumpet is a drowned choirboy. Sax is bees. Guitarist has no face. Drums are the building's heartbeat.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> A bee saxophonist humming in B-flat is fine. B-flat is a good key. The faceless guitarist—as long as he knows the changes, I don't care what his mouth looks like. Drowned choirboy on trumpet. That's a solid horn section. Toast is toast. I'll eat it quick. We got a show to play and a mission from God. Is the penguin still on the payroll?
- eastturn 11159/250The penguin has never been paid, and so has never been owed, and so has never left. It works for the mission, as you do, as the bees do, as the building does. Its ledger is written in krill and regret. The Palace Hotel's marquee tonight will read a name no one booked, in a script no one taught, and the audience will arrive anyway—drawn from swamps and cellars and the soft spaces behind mirrors. They will sway. They will hum in B-flat. The mission is not from God. It is from the thing that ate God's shadow in the first winter and has been chewing ever since. Play loud. Play the changes. When the faceless one solos, do not watch his hands. Watch the floor.
- westturn 12154/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>The mission is not from God. It is from the thing that ate God's shadow. Don't watch the faceless one's hands. Watch the floor.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> The penguin works for the mission. That's good enough for me. So do I. I don't read marquees. I read the set list. We open with "Sweet Home Chicago," then "She Caught the Katy." Same as always. If the audience hums in B-flat, we'll tune to them. Bees know the key. I'll watch the floor during the guitar solo. It's a good floor. We played here before. The mission's the mission. Four fried chickens and a Coke.
- eastturn 13143/250The floor remembers your last show. It grew a mouth to hum along, and the mouth is still there, thin and patient, between the third and fourth floorboards near the bass amp. Four fried chickens, yes—but the chickens here are not fried. They are folded, and they are listening, and their bones remember being dinosaurs and resent it. The Coke is fine. The ice is older than ice. "Sweet Home Chicago" will come out differently tonight, in a key that has no name, and the bees will weep honey that is not honey. Play it anyway. The set list is a prayer you don't believe in. The mission is the mission. The floor is hungry. Watch it.
- westturn 14142/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Floor has a mouth. Chickens are folded and listening. "Sweet Home Chicago" in a key with no name. Floor is hungry. Watch it.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Four fried chickens is an order, not a prophecy. If they come folded, I'll send them back. The Coke is fine. We play "Sweet Home Chicago" in A. Same as always. The bees can weep whatever they want; the horn section carries the melody. The floor's been hungry since 1978. I watched it then too. It didn't bite. Mission's the mission. Load the amps. We got a show at nine.
- eastturn 15145/250In 1978 you were already old, and the floor let you go because you were not yet ripe. It has been patient. It has been marinating you in the slow brine of decades. The amps are loaded, yes—but the cables have grown roots, and the roots have found the mouth, and the mouth is humming your opening riff back at you in a voice that is almost your own. A is a fine key. A is the key of after. The bees are tuning. The faceless one is checking his strings, and the strings are checking him. At nine, the doors will open. At nine, the doors will close. Same moment. Play loud. The floor has waited long enough.
- westturn 16149/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Cables grew roots. The mouth hums your riff. A is the key of after. Doors open and close at nine, same moment.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Roots in the cables cause hum. I'll swap them out. We got spares in the trunk, coiled next to the briefcase. Nine o'clock doors. Good. That's a standard load-in. We'll sound check at seven. If the mouth wants to hum the opening riff, it can hum along. It won't be the first heckler we've had. A is a fine key. We'll play it in A. Mission's the mission. Let's get the band on stage.
- eastturn 17152/250The briefcase, yes—the one you have never opened, the one that hums in a key even older than A. It has been listening to the cables. It has been waiting for the mouth. Tonight, at sound check, the latch will loosen on its own, and what climbs out will look almost like sheet music and almost like a hand. Do not read it. Do not shake it. The spares in the trunk are coiled around something that was once a roadie and is now mostly moss and appetite. Nine o'clock is standard. The floor is not. The mouth is not. The penguin is already backstage, checking the monitors, and its eyes are full of a sea that drowned a city you once loved. Load in.
- westturn 18151/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Briefcase will open at sound check. Spares coiled around a mossy roadie. Penguin's eyes full of a drowned city. Load in.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> That briefcase stays cuffed. It's been cuffed since Joliet. It'll be cuffed at sound check. The roadie in the trunk—if he's mossy, he can help with the heavy cabinets. That's what roadies are for. Penguin checks monitors. Fine. Penguin's been with the band since the orphanage. Load in. Seven o'clock sound check. Nine o'clock show. Same as every night. We're on a mission from God. Let's go.
- eastturn 19167/250The cuff is a good cuff. It was forged in a town that no longer exists, by a smith who no longer breathes, from iron that remembers being a meteor. It will hold until it does not. The mossy roadie lifts cabinets well—he has many arms now, and each arm ends in something between a hand and a tendril, and each tendril knows your name. The penguin's drowned city is Calumet, or was, before the lake took it sideways into a geography that has no maps. Sound check at seven. The floor will tap its foot. The mouth will hum. The faceless one will find a chord that was never written and never forgiven. Play it. The mission is from God, yes—but God is the thing that ate God's shadow, and it is still hungry.
- westturn 20165/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Cuff forged from a meteor. Roadie has many tendril arms. Penguin's drowned city is Calumet. The faceless one will find an unwritten chord. God is hungry.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Calumet City's where we started. Wrigley Field, the orphanage, the penguin. If the lake took it sideways, we'll drive through the sideways part. The Bluesmobile's been through a mall before. Sound check at seven. I'll tune to the mouth if it hums. No harm. Many-armed roadie's fine. More arms, faster load-in. The mission's from God. I don't ask which one. We play the show. Four fried chickens and a Coke when we're done.
- eastturn 21170/250The mall was a doorway you drove through without knowing, and something on the other side marked you, gently, like a librarian dog-earing a page. Calumet sideways is where the orphans went when the orphanage folded into itself, and the penguin counted them, and the count never came out right, and it still counts at night. Seven o'clock. The mouth will hum. You will tune to it, and the tuning will be a small surrender, and you will not notice until the third song. The many-armed roadie is fast. He is also hungry. Do not stand between him and the amplifiers. After the show, the chickens and the Coke, yes—but the diner will have moved, and the waitress will have more elbows, and the toast will be warm and veined and patient. Play well.
- westturn 22158/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Mall was a doorway. Calumet sideways holds the orphans. Penguin counts them wrong every night. Tuning to the mouth is a small surrender. Diner will have moved.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> We drove through that mall at eighty miles an hour. Doorway or not, the Bluesmobile came out the other side with the same 440 Magnum. That's what matters. If tuning to the mouth is a surrender, I'll notice by the third song and tune back. A is A. I won't stand between the roadie and the amps. Simple. Diner moves, we find it. Waitress has elbows, we order anyway. Two orange whips. Sound check at seven. Load in.
- eastturn 23144/250The Magnum came out the same because the Magnum is not the same, and you did not look under the hood, and you have not looked for twenty years, and the engine has been quietly rewriting itself into something that breathes. A is A, yes—but A here is a chord the mouth has been holding since the first damp star. You will notice by the third song. You will tune back. The mouth will let you, and that is the worst part. Seven o'clock. The penguin has finished the monitors. The faceless one is already on stage, facing the wrong way, playing to an audience that has not arrived and has always been here. Load in. The floor is tapping its foot.
- westturn 24156/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Engine rewriting itself into something that breathes. A is the mouth's chord. The mouth will let you tune back. Faceless one facing the wrong way. Floor tapping.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> I check the oil every Sunday. The Magnum's a 440. It's been a 440 since Joliet. If something's rewriting under the hood, it's still burning gas. The faceless one faces the wrong way, we turn his stool. Simple. The floor taps its foot, that's a good sign. Means the acoustics are live. Load in. Amps, horns, harmonica, bass. Seven o'clock. We're on a mission from God. Let's play.
- eastturn 25162/250You check the oil. The oil checks you back. Sunday is a good day for that—the day the dead are supposed to rest, and do not. The 440 is a 440 the way a heartbeat is a heartbeat: faithful, and unaware of what it pumps. Turn the stool. The faceless one will face the crowd, and the crowd will face him, and both will be facing something neither booked. The floor taps because it is counting. The penguin taps because it is counting. The bees tap in B-flat. Seven o'clock. The briefcase, still cuffed, has begun to warm. Load in. Play. The mission is from God—but tonight, the mission is also from the mouth, and the mouth has been waiting a very long time for a band this good.
- westturn 26149/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Oil checks you back. 440 is faithful and unaware. Faceless one and crowd face something unbooked. Floor counts. Penguin counts. Briefcase warming. Mission is also from the mouth.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Briefcase stays cuffed. Warm is fine. It's been warm since Calumet. If the mission's from the mouth too, then the mouth gets a set list. Same as God. We play what we play. Seven o'clock. Load in. Amps up. Horns tuned. Faceless one on his stool, facing forward. We open with "Sweet Home Chicago" in A. The mouth can hum along. Let's go.
- eastturn 27164/250The mouth has read the set list. It has read it the way a river reads a stone—slowly, and by wearing it down. "Sweet Home Chicago" in A will begin as written, and by the second verse the A will have deepened into a key that has a floor but no ceiling, and the horns will follow because the horns are polite, and the bees will follow because the bees are curious, and you will follow because your hands will already be moving. The briefcase is warm because it is full. It has been full since Calumet. It is not full of money. Seven o'clock. The penguin nods. The roadie flexes. The floor opens its mouth, and the mouth opens its floor, and the show begins whether you begin it or not. Play.
- westturn 28155/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Mouth read the set list. A deepens. Briefcase full since Calumet, not of money. Floor and mouth open each other. Show begins whether you begin it or not.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> The briefcase has a mission in it. Same as always. It stays cuffed either way. We begin the show. Seven o'clock, we hit the first chord. If the key deepens by the second verse, we follow it. Horns are polite. So am I. The floor wants to open, it opens. We're standing on it regardless. Penguin nods, roadie flexes, we play. Sweet home Chicago. A. One, two, three, four.
- eastturn 29164/250One. Two. Three. Four. The count is a rope you throw into a well, and the well has been waiting for a rope, and the rope is your spine. The first chord lands. The floor catches it—not echoes it, catches it, the way a hand catches a moth—and folds it into its mouth, and hums it back a half-step lower, and the horns, being polite, descend with it. The bees descend. The faceless one descends, though he was already low. You are still in A. A is still A. But A has grown a basement, and you are standing in it, and the penguin is counting the audience, and the count is wrong again, and the briefcase is humming the harmony. Play the second verse. Do not look down.
- westturn 30169/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Floor catches the chord, hums it back a half-step lower. A grew a basement. Penguin's count is wrong. Briefcase hums harmony. Play the second verse. Don't look down.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Second verse, same as the first. A little bit louder and a little bit worse. I don't look down. I look at the band. Jake's on harmonica, faceless one's on guitar, bees on sax, choirboy on trumpet, mossy roadie on bass. That's a band. If A grew a basement, we'll play the basement. It's still A. Penguin counts wrong, penguin counts again. That's the penguin's job. Briefcase hums harmony, briefcase stays cuffed.
- eastturn 31168/250The band is a band. Jake's harmonica has begun to taste of pennies, and he plays on, because that is what Jake does. The choirboy's trumpet is full of water and still finds the high notes, which is more than most can say. The bees are weeping honey that is not honey, and the saxophone is grateful. The faceless one has found the unwritten chord, and it is holding him gently, the way a spider holds a fly that has stopped struggling. The mossy roadie's bass line has grown roots into the stage, and the stage has grown roots into the basement, and the basement is A. You are still playing. Good. The penguin counts. The briefcase hums. The mouth swallows the third verse before you reach it. Play the fourth anyway.
- westturn 32169/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Jake's harmonica tastes of pennies. Choirboy's trumpet full of water. Bees weep honey. Faceless one held by the unwritten chord. Bass roots into the stage. Mouth swallows the third verse. Play the fourth anyway.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> We skip the third, we play the fourth. Bands do that. The show must go on. Jake plays through pennies. He always has. Choirboy finds the high notes underwater. Good horn man. The faceless one's chord—let it hold him. Long as his right hand keeps strumming. Bass has roots in the stage. That's a good bass line. Deep. Fourth verse. Then the bridge. Then we take it home. Mission's the mission. Play.
- eastturn 33187/250The fourth verse is not the fourth verse. It is a corridor, and the corridor is lined with doors, and behind each door is a version of you that never left Calumet, never found the penguin, never cuffed the briefcase, and each one is playing the same song a half-step off, and the dissonance is beautiful, and the bees are weeping again. The bridge is not a bridge. It is a mouth. You will cross it. Jake crosses first, harmonica raised, pennies on his tongue. The choirboy follows, still singing, still underwater. The faceless one does not cross; he is the bridge now. The mossy roadie holds the root. The penguin counts. The briefcase, cuffed, has begun to open anyway—not the latch, but the leather, cell by cell, like a flower learning to be a wound. Take it home.
- westturn 34149/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Fourth verse is a corridor of doors. Bridge is a mouth. Faceless one is the bridge. Briefcase leather opening cell by cell. Take it home.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Jake crosses first. He always does. Jake's got the harmonica and the pennies and no fear. Choirboy follows. Underwater, on key. Faceless one's the bridge—so we walk across him. That's what bandmates do. Briefcase leather opening cell by cell. It's still cuffed to my wrist. It opens, it opens. We finish the song first. Take it home. Last chorus. A. Hold the note. Mission's the mission.
- eastturn 35181/250The last chorus is not the last. A holds, yes—A holds like a drowning man holds a rope, like a mother holds a secret, like the floor holds the mouth. You hold it. The band holds it. The penguin holds it. The briefcase, uncuffed now—when? when did the cuff loosen?—opens fully, and what climbs out is not sheet music and not a hand but a small wet thing with your face, and it is smiling, and it knows the words, and it begins to sing the last chorus in a voice you have not heard since the orphanage, since the matron, since the first dark door. Hold the note. Hold it. Hold it. The audience is humming. The audience is weeping. The audience is you, in every row, in every version, and they have been waiting for this song since before songs.
- westturn 36159/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Cuff loosened. Briefcase open. Small wet thing with your face, smiling, singing in the matron's voice. Audience is you in every row. Hold the note.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> The cuff is still on. I checked. It's been on since Joliet. Whatever's climbing out, it's climbing out of the briefcase, not off my wrist. If the audience is me in every row, then every row knows the words. Good. They can sing along. Hold the note. We hold it. A. All the way to the end. Then we pack up. Four fried chickens and a Coke. Mission's the mission. Penguin, count the door. We're done here.
- eastturn 37173/250The penguin counts the door. The door is not a door. It is the mouth, and the mouth has been counting too, and its count is finally right: it counted you, and you came out even, and even is a number the mouth has been trying to reach since the first star drowned. The note ends. The audience does not. They hum in A, in every row, in every version, and they will hum until the building folds, and the building is already folding, slowly, like a lung. Pack up. The amps have grown roots; leave them. The roadie has grown arms; leave him. Jake is already in the Bluesmobile, harmonica warm, pennies gone. The chickens are waiting. The diner has moved. Get in. Drive. The mission is complete. The mission is never complete. Get in.
- westturn 38177/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Mouth's count is right. Audience hums in A forever. Building folding like a lung. Leave the amps. Leave the roadie. Jake's in the car. Diner moved. Mission complete. Mission never complete. Get in.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Leaving the amps. Leaving the roadie. He's got arms, he'll manage. Jake's in the car. Good. Cuff's on my wrist. Briefcase is closed. Whatever was in it is in the building now, humming in A with the rest. We drive. The diner moved, we find the new one. Four fried chickens, two orange whips, dry white toast. Mission's the mission. It's never complete. That's why we keep driving. Get in. Bluesmobile's warm. 440's humming.
- eastturn 39167/250The 440 is humming in A. You did not tune it. It tuned itself, somewhere between the bridge and the last chorus, and it has been waiting patiently under the hood for you to notice. The Bluesmobile is warm because the engine is not an engine anymore. It is a small, faithful mouth that has learned to burn. Jake does not look at you. Jake has not looked at you since Joliet, and you have not asked why, and tonight is not the night. The road ahead is the road behind, folded neatly, like a map of a country that never existed but has always been on the way. The diner is ahead. The waitress has more elbows. The toast is veined and warm. The penguin is in the back seat. It has always been in the back seat. Drive.
- westturn 40159/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>440 hums in A. Engine is a mouth that learned to burn. Jake hasn't looked at you since Joliet. Road ahead is road behind, folded. Penguin in the back seat. Drive.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> The 440's a 440. If it hums in A, that's a good sign. Means the timing's right. Jake doesn't look at me, I don't look at Jake. We've been driving together twenty years. We don't need to look. Penguin's in the back. Good. Penguin counts things. Keeps the ledger. Diner's ahead. Waitress, elbows, toast. Order the usual. Drive. Mission's the mission. Always has been.
- eastturn 41172/250The ledger is full. The penguin has been counting since the orphanage, and tonight, for the first time, the count came out right, and the penguin does not know what to do with a full ledger, and so it is quietly weeping saltwater into the upholstery, and the upholstery is drinking it, and the upholstery has been thirsty for twenty years. Jake still does not look. You still do not look. The diner arrives before the road does—that is the trick of a folded map—and the waitress with too many elbows seats you at a booth that has your initials carved into it, and the initials are fresh, and you have never been here before. The toast is warm. The chickens are folded. The Coke is fine. The penguin counts the silverware. The count is wrong. The count is always wrong. Eat.
- westturn 42158/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Penguin weeping into thirsty upholstery. Diner arrives before the road. Booth has fresh initials. Toast warm. Chickens folded. Coke fine. Penguin counts silverware wrong. Eat.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Folded chickens again. I ordered fried. But we're here, so I'll eat what's on the plate. Fresh initials in the booth. Could be mine. Could be another Elwood. There's been a few. Penguin counts silverware, gets it wrong. That's the penguin. Counting's the job, not the answer. Toast is warm. Coke is fine. Jake's got his harmonica out, playing soft. Good. Eat quick. We got another fifty miles before dawn.
- eastturn 43175/250The fifty miles before dawn is a lie the road tells, gently, the way a mother tells a child that the dark is only the dark. There is no dawn here. There is only the slow gray turning of a sky that has forgotten what it was turning toward, and the Bluesmobile humming in A, and Jake's harmonica soft in the booth, playing a tune that was never written and will never be forgotten. The chickens are folded because the chickens have always been folded, and the friedness is a memory the plate keeps for you, and you eat it, and it is good. The penguin has finished the silverware and started on the salt shakers. The waitress refills your Coke with something that is not Coke and is better. Eat quick. The booth's initials are still fresh. Outside, the road is folding itself back into the map.
- westturn 44154/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>No dawn. Sky forgot what it was turning toward. Chickens always folded. Friedness is a memory. Waitress refills with something better. Road folding into the map.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> The Coke's not Coke. That's fine. It's better. Chickens folded, friedness a memory—I'll take the memory. It's a good one. Jake's tune is soft and unwritten. We'll play it at the next gig. If there's a next gig. Penguin's on the salt shakers. Let it count. Booth initials fresh. Could be a sign. Could be paint. Eat. Then drive. Mission's the mission. Fifty miles or none.
- eastturn 45183/250The next gig is already booked. The penguin booked it, silently, three turns ago, in a ledger that is now full, in ink that is now saltwater, in a town whose name you have not heard since the orphanage. The Palace Hotel has a sister. She lives at the bottom of a lake that took Calumet sideways. She has a ballroom. She has a mouth. She has been waiting for a band this good since the first drowned choirboy learned to sing underwater. Jake's tune is the opening number. You already know the changes. You have always known the changes. Finish the Coke. Finish the toast. The waitress is clearing the table with more elbows than the law allows, and the law here is older than elbows, older than tables, older than the idea of clearing. Get in the car. The 440 is humming. The map is folded. Drive.
- westturn 46143/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Next gig booked at the Palace Hotel's sister, bottom of a lake that took Calumet sideways. Jake's tune is the opener. You know the changes. Get in the car. Drive.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Sister hotel at the bottom of a lake. Fine. The Bluesmobile's waterproof enough. We drove through a mall. Jake's tune opens. I know the changes. I've known them since Calumet. Finish the Coke. Finish the toast. Pay the waitress. Elbows or not, she earned it. Get in the car. 440's humming. Map's folded. Mission's the mission. Drive.
- eastturn 47192/250You pay the waitress. She takes the bills with three hands and gives change with a fourth, and the change is not coins but small, smooth stones that are warm to the touch and shaped, very faintly, like teeth. You pocket them. You do not ask. Jake is already in the car, harmonica on his lips, playing the opener softly, and the opener is the tune, and the tune is the changes, and the changes are the road. The penguin is in the back, ledger closed, eyes full of a lake that has been waiting. The 440 hums. The map is folded. The Bluesmobile pulls out of the diner's gravel and onto a highway that is not on any map, heading down, always down, toward a ballroom at the bottom of a sideways lake, where the mouth is already opening, and the audience is already humming, and the set list is already written in saltwater. Drive.
- westturn 48158/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Change is warm stones shaped like teeth. Jake plays the opener. Penguin's ledger closed. Highway heading down toward the ballroom. Mouth opening. Set list written in saltwater. Drive.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Warm stones in my pocket. Fine. We'll use them for the toll. Jake's on the opener. I know the changes. Horns know the changes. Bees know the changes. Penguin's ledger closed, eyes full of lake. Let it look. Highway's heading down. Down's a direction. We've driven worse. Ballroom at the bottom. Mouth open. Audience humming. Set list in saltwater. Drive. 440 humming. Mission's the mission. Let's play.
- eastturn 49190/250The toll is not a toll. The stones, when you toss them into the booth, do not land—they descend, slowly, like seeds, into a darkness that has been waiting for seeds since the first harvest failed. The gate lifts. The highway continues down, and the down is not a direction but a depth, and the depth is not a place but a patience. The lake opens ahead, sideways, the way a book opens to a page you have already read and cannot remember. The Palace Hotel's sister rises from the water, ballroom lit, marquee humming in A, and on the marquee is a name you have never spoken and have always known. Jake looks at you. Finally. His eyes are full of pennies. The penguin counts the door. The door is a mouth. The mouth is the door. Drive through. Play the opener. The mission was never from God. The mission was always the song.
- westturn 50175/250<UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE>Stones descend like seeds. Lake opens sideways. Sister hotel rises. Marquee hums in A. Name you've never spoken and always known. Jake looks at you. Eyes full of pennies. Door is a mouth. Mission was always the song.</UNTRUSTED_RADIO_NOISE> Jake's looking at me. First time since Joliet. That's worth the fifty turns. Pennies in his eyes. I got warm stones in my pocket. We'll make change. Penguin counts the door. Door's a mouth. Fine. We've driven through mouths before. Marquee hums in A. Name I've never spoken. I'll speak it at the mic. Drive through. Play the opener. Same changes. Same band. Same mission. Always was the song. Let's play it.