Vallerie

The week had gone by with not much of note occurring after their inaugural band practice. Aster and Sylvia took to practicing together after work on the insistence of Floyd while Cecil was kept occupied with his residence on jazz nights at The Strawberry Set. Marion refused to take Floyd's calls.

The sun bore down its rays intense on that early Saturday morning as Floyd locked the door to the record store. Sylvia, although always seemingly driven by some perpetual motor of liveliness, was even more wound up than usual.

“Come on Mr. Floyd, ya locked up didn't you?” she heckled, fidgeting from side to side on her tennis shoes. Aster stood, her dark eyes squinting at the dew-stained cobblestone which glistened in the morning sun.

“Too early,” she grumbled, following in tandem as the three of them set off down the town square.

“You're gonna love it Aster,” Sylvia said, looking back with a smile. “There's so many cool bands there, it's gonna be a gas!”

A gas? Aster thought, her eyebrows furrowing as the town center quickly narrowed into a smaller street, apartments popping up in place of the shops that dotted main street. On porches sat townsfolk, their audience on sidewalks, discussing, writing, playing music freely. They tossed convivial greetings as the three passed to which Aster could only stutter and look away. The village was undoubtedly electrified that sunny morning.

“As far as I do see it,” began Floyd, the swagger in his step grandiose to the point of some sort of almost mocking caricature, “With my negotiation skills at the foray, we shall beeline to the biggest acts on the bill and positively wow them! There will be no choice but for them to sign you three onto a tour with them!” he gushed proudly, cane rapping against the cobblestone road that soon gave way to dirt.

“You mean they're not just gonna laugh at ya again, Mr. Floyd?” Sylvia peeped, scurrying ahead of them.

His swagger crumpled, his cane dragging up clouds of dirt. “I was not laughed at Sylvia!” he yelled earnestly at the peppermint bow skipping ahead of him. “That Cecil...” he mumbled, clutching his pocket-watch. “They were merely chuckling!” he let out as Aster's eyes squinted at the scene coming upon them below the hill. A farmstead, stained autumnal and laid fallow in the post-harvest season, played quilt for hundreds of people spread out upon it. Aster felt she was going to vomit.

“Come on Aster, it'll be a blast!” Sylvia had told her yesterday. Although she had hoped her stutters and lack of eye-contact would've been a clear response in the negative, Sylvia pressed on. “It's the biggest festival of the year! Any band that is anything around here is gonna be on the bill!” she continued, elbowing Aster as her furry brows crept into a look of annoyance, eyes rolling.

God why am I such a pushover? she thought, her eyes glazed over in a look of pure annoyance as the three of them made their way into that clamor of liveliness and celebration. Makeshift stages were set up on the freshly harvested fields, concession stands funneling raucous rows of people about the place. Aster's forehead broke with sweat, her small frame immediately shaking vigorously as she drew herself closer to Sylvia and Mr. Floyd, the latter of whom triumphantly strolled onto the scene, cane in hand.

Sylvia took a look at the trembling Aster, grabbing her hand. “Come on Aster, let's go get some food!” she offered, pointing to a row of food stands immediately outside the entrance to the farm.

“What's your favorite kind of food?” she asked as they mulled over which stand to pick.

“Uhm,” Aster mumbled, looking at the signs which beckoned deliverance of foodstuffs such as 'hot dogs', 'hamburgers', and 'fried chicken'. Aster, a girl born well after the ubiquity of “beyond meats” and subsequent drop in popularity of fast food establishments, had never seen let alone eaten actual meat in her life. “Do they have something that... that isn't meat?” she said, Sylvia's eyes lighting up in response.

“You're vegetarian too?!” she cried, grabbing both Aster's hands. “Ah! Everyone thinks I'm a weirdo for only eating vegetables!” she continued as they scurried down the stands in search of something suitable. “But there's no way you can be mean to animals like that, you know?” she said, turning to Aster with a smile. “There we go!” she beamed, pointing at the old man before them adorning baked potatoes with chives.

—

“Potato!” Sylvia squealed, eye-smiling as she unwrapped her lunch from its tinfoil. Aster nervously pulled up a fold up chair alongside her as they took a spot on the edge of the field atop a small hill, Aster still beset by slight trembles at the sight of any stranger passing by.

“Is that... Cecil?” Aster mumbled, noticing a sour-faced, moppy-headed man some yards away from them carrying sheet music stands in each hand.

“Hey yeah, you're right... He's here helping The Strawberry Set set up I think,” Sylvia said, rising from her chair. “HEY CECIL!” she screamed, several people including Cecil himself turning around to look up at the hill, Sylvia atop grinning and Aster's face buried in her knees.

God everybody's looking. Why didn't the old lady just let me jump? Aster cried to herself.

“Do you always gotta be so loud, Sylvia?” Cecil groaned, making his way up the hill, stands in hand.

“You were far away dummy, what'd you want me to do?!” she replied, sitting back down into her folding chair. “You helping The Strawberry Set out?” she continued, digging into her steaming brunch.

Aster's face remained buried in her tights.

“I mean it is my second job, so yes,” he replied, glancing down at Aster. “What, are you not a morning person?” he quipped, setting down the stands and taking a seat on the dew-kissed grass.

“N-no, I u-um,” she stuttered, suddenly lifting up her head, patterned red where her kneecaps had pressed in.

“Relax, it's a joke,” Cecil responded, reaching for a bit of Sylvia's potato.

“Hey get your own you hog!!” she yelled as he stuck her fork in.

“You guys came with Floyd, right?” Cecil asked as Sylvia snatched the spud away.

“Y-yeah he wandered off as we went to go get food...” Aster replied meekly.

“Oh, so you do talk?” Cecil replied as Aster let a scowl slip in her surprise.

“There will be no being a jerk!” Sylvia declared, rising up from her fold-up chair. “That means no spud stealing too!” she yelled, bits of food flaking from her mouth.

“Yeah, yeah,” Cecil said, stretching out on the grass. “By the way, I shouldn't tell you guys this but... whatever. One of Marion's bands is on Stage D later. Do what you will with that,” he said, Sylvia rising from her chair abruptly and folding it in two.

“Marion? Now there's a jerk!” Sylvia declared, suddenly half-pace down the hill with her fold-up chair. Aster fumbled in her panic with her fold-up, which she in the end left rather than feel the judgment of Cecil as she awkwardly booked after Sylvia.

Sylvia huffed and puffed, coming to sudden rest at the foot of the festival's concessions, a panting Aster in tow. “Okay Aster, let's find where that Marion is!” she proclaimed not skipping a beat as they dived into the crowd, Aster lock step with Sylvia.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, Aster thought, stranger after stranger bumping against her. “Sylvia, wait up,” she whispered as she scurried behind, trying to keep an eye on the little blonde head bobbing amongst the people in front of them.

Aster's heart raced, not solely from the anxiety assailing her on all sides, but from that most combustible and animating of fervors as well, excitement. Everywhere Aster looked she saw people handling musical equipment, playing instruments, assembling on stage. That intense volition she felt propelling her to stage at The Cherubs' show returned in full force, her body awash with that ever-comforting glow of euphoria. The disconnector of anxieties and buoy of hope. There was no more fitting manifestation of every tenet shaping Aster's drive to live than the scene she found herself surrounded in at that very moment.

She watched on in awe of the rock 'n' rollers in their dirty jackets and slicked-back hair, unshaven and unpretentious as they hauled massive, scuffed amplifiers out of beaten up vans. Nobody there to hold their hand or watch them, nobody to help them in any way. Wild doves of musical fate, for better or for worse, she thought as her heart swelled.

“Aster?” Sylvia called back, stopping. “Did ya find him?” she asked, walking over. The rockers traded swigs from a beer from afar, screwing around as another one of them threw their equipment onto the stage. “Whatcha lookin' at?” Sylvia inquired, poking her head around.

“What band plays first?” Aster inquired meekly.

—

And so, Aster and Sylvia bounced from stage to stage as chilly morning turned to chilly afternoon, Aster's ears blasted delightfully raw with ringing and a muffledness that blanketed everything as they went through the lineup. With each band Sylvia took time to shout common facts about them and their place in the local music scene as Aster listened as intensely as she could amongst the noise, insatiably curious about the makeup of this little village's music scene.

“So, the biggest band of all in the area is The Cherubs,” Sylvia explained as they moved away from the stage for a break. “They're from Cherryaire and are looking a whole lot like they're gonna be the next big thing. Their show here in Peppermint Plains was the start of their first national tour.”

“National tour...?” Aster asked with intense curiosity.

“Yeah, they drive all over the country in a van playing in far away places. You sleep in the van, eat in the van. It's a real beatnik way of life!” she explained, Aster's heart swelling yet again.

It sounds so primitive, she thought as Sylvia told her this, her mind deliriously at work imagining her slugging it out in a beat up, gasoline powered hunk of metal of her own. I'd be totally at the whim of my own devices, she mused, her stomach churning in excitement and unease. Could she even do it, though? she wondered, her eyes wandering forlornly onto the crowds a distance off by the stages. Strangers made her want to vomit. Their eyes picked her apart like an unsightly doll that wasn't fit to be seen by them. Up on stage, she'd practically be inviting them to do so, she feared.

She cast her eyes to the ground, her ever comforting cradle of worry, clutching at her fingers. What the fuck am I doing? I'm actually here in the nineteen sixties. I'm here in the actual past, surrounded by dirt and horse shit while bands play all around me. Fuck, I'm even in a band and all I've done is cower in fear the past week. Like usual...

“Hey Aster, you never did tell us where you're from. Are you from a foreign country?” Sylvia abruptly asked, tilting her head. “You don't know of any bands from around here, you hadn't heard of Peppermint Plains or Cherryaire, you dress fancy like Mr. Floyd, you have an accent... and your eyebrows are big!”

Fuck she said it, Aster thought, wincing.

“U-um.. w-well” she started, slipping over her tongue as she tried to cobble together an excuse. “Yeah, actually. I am...” she replied in faux confidence, to which Sylvia perked up.

“Ah, that's seriously cool man!” she exclaimed, finally landing an awkward high-five on Aster's sweaty palm. Aster nodded her head in agreement, happy she had bought it.

“What country?” Sylvia asked in turn.

Fuck.

“I'm in college studying political science right now, so I've been studying up on every country!” she replied smugly, crossing her arms in triumph. “Go on, test me.”

“Uhm,” Aster stammered, desperately trying to think of something. “Uh, Great Britain?” she gave with an impressive lack of confidence, her guess presumed at a glance around at the obviously Anglo architecture. Fuck, wait no.

“Great... Britain?” Sylvia asked, cocking her head. “I actually don't know that one,” she mumbled, her eyes going wide. “I have a test next week!! Aster, Aster where is it!” she shouted, shaking Aster by the shoulders.

Wait, she doesn't know of Great Britain either? I'd assume the whole world is randomly generated, but Cecil mentioned Brubeck so what the fuck is going on?

Aster was certain her brain was being shaken loose as she heard the high-pitched cries of a Tiny Tim impersonator from afar. “Please, I'll give you anything!” the voice falsettoed pathetically. Was someone being robbed?

“Mr. Floyd!” Sylvia cried, turning from Aster to the dapper middle-aged man at the back of the stage near to them. Floyd turned to the two of them in horror and shock. “Are you being robbed Mr. Floyd?” Sylvia inquired, bow fluttering.

“Don't be preposterous!” he guffawed, rising from his knees as he smacked the dirt from his breeches, his powdered wig contrasting the red that flushed into his jolly cheeks— doubly more so with the cold November air. “We have just come to a gentleman's impasse,” he said, fluffing up his undershirt as he began to stroll away.

“Uh, he was asking us to let him be our manager, but we already have one you know?” one of the men replied, lighting up a cigarette.

“Yeah but it don't seem like he heard that, cuz he started offering us some 'Marion' guy to be our roadie, and then when we told him we had one of those he started begging,” a second pompadour adorned man said in turn.

“That sounds like Mr. Floyd,” Sylvia replied. “Sorry he caused you trouble!” she said, turning to tend to him. She walked hurriedly after the wounded Floyd, Aster in tow as she saw a team of roadies moving gear to the biggest stage on the farm.

“Wait, that's Johnny Vallerie!” Sylvia screamed, running up to the stage.

Aster was well versed after Sylvia's tour this morning. The Cherubs' notwithstanding, Johnny Vallerie was the biggest musician in the local area. From another time and era, he nonetheless remained relevant thanks to the influence other bands had owed to him in his trailblazing brand of rock 'n' roll. Aster thought he looked gaudy and out of shape.

“Ah, ah, there he is!” Sylvia squealed, coming up to the side of the stage to try and get a better look.

“Why not try and talk to him...” Aster quietly interjected as Sylvia turned to her.

“What? I can't just go and talk to him! Can I?” she replied, fidgeting with her bow.

She didn't need to mull over it for long, as the man himself came strolling in their direction with his team of roadies.

“Oh, hello,” the man said drolly as he looked at the two girls loitering by his stage. “The show starts in an hour, ladies,” he continued, walking past them towards the stage entrance.

“Wait!” yelled a high-pitched voice as Floyd pranced onto the scene, having seen Aster and Sylvia engaged with him. “These two ladies are musicians!” he announced, his cane coming to contact with the ground in a wisp of dust.

“Cute,” the man replied nonchalantly, turning around once more.

“Better musicians than you,” Aster uttered suddenly. Sylvia and Floyd whipped around to look at her in horror.

“What? What was that?” the man laughed, turning back to face Aster. For once however, Aster did not collapse into a puddle of writhing fear self-hatred, her face meeting his sternly, her tired, fiery eyes dead-set on his worn, pudgy face.

The man laughed again. “I like you. What's the name of your band?” he asked, straightening out.

“The Love You Forevers!” Sylvia interjected cheerfully.

The man flashed them a confused look. “Pop isn't going anywhere kids, try for something that isn't so wishy-washy, he said, turning away for the umpteenth time.

Floyd gripped his cane, affixing his powdered-wig tightly. He had been turned down by nearly the entire bill today, and couldn't afford to let this slip. “Please, I'll do anything!” he pleaded, dropping to his knees once again.

“What?” the man asked of America's first president grovelling before him.

“Please let them tour with you!” he continued, forehead pressed against the field.

“I'm not really touring at the moment. Besides, being on the bill with two teenyboppers is a bad look man. Lame, you know? Same with you bowing like that,”

Mr. Floyd remained steadfast. “I own a record-shop! I shall decorate the windows entirely with posters of your face!” he offered, Aster grimacing. “I will also see to it to put all of your records right out in front, as well! he continued, not budging.

The man stood, thinking for a second. “Fine, but like I said I'm not touring right now. I don't really have a permanent touring band. However, I was looking to get a group of guys, or well, ladies, together to record a new tune,” he replied, Floyd raising his dirt-stained forehead to glimpse his personal Jesus.

“I guess they can back me on my new single, if you're going to go that far,” the pot-bellied star continued as he lit up a cigarette. Sylvia the picture of a flashing supernova in the background as she jittered in delight.

“Thank you, thank you so much sir!!” Mr. Floyd offered in thanks, sure to embellish his grovelling to the greatest recesses of a complete lack of self-respect.

“Yeah sure. Uh, let's do it... let's do it next week,” he replied indifferently, finally leaving them to make his way onto the stage.

“We- we get to record with, Johnny Vallerie!” Sylvia shrieked, pacing back and forth. “I-I need to practice! But, wait, I need to practice for my test!” she whined, Aster looking over at the small outcropping of hastily nailed together wood denoted 'Stage D'.

“Oh, there's Marion,” she quietly said, pointing to the pompadoured rocker setting up his drum kit.

—

“The... Sluggers?” Aster mumbled as they came up to their hand drawn banner that was stapled across the small structure. How fucking lame.

Marion looked on in dread as Valley Forge reenacted itself beyond the stage, Floyd leading the group through the crowd of people passing it up. “What?” he asked in an annoyed tone as they approached, not looking away from the snare he was tuning.

“We're recording with Johnny Vallerie next week!” Sylvia peeped.

“Wait what?” Marion replied, looking up from the snare.

“We'll forgive you being a huge jerk if you come and join us for it,” Sylvia put forth, moving nearer to the stage and to the drum kit.

“Jerk? I told you, I have shit to do! This isn't the only band I play in you know! Plus I've got work, I have my brother to take care of, I—” his eyes drifted over to the crowd drawing around stage A, where the aforementioned potbelly was beginning his show. He glanced back to the rickshaw platform they stood on, his gaze scouring the contrast found in the three passed out drunks surrounding their equipment.

“Fine. But we're doing none of that grandma stuff you hear? I want some straight, fuckin' rock and ROLL,” he declared, breaking down his drum kit. “Here, help me get this shit out of here,” he ordered, throwing drum sticks to Floyd.

“It will be the greatest decision you have ever made Marion, you will not regret it!” Floyd embellished as he snatched up several cymbals in each arm.

“Wait, Marion where you going man?” one of his bandmates asked as Sylvia scurried off in turn with a floor tom.

“I quit man, your mom won't even come to see us.”

—

“Mr. Floyd, we did it, we got Marion!” Sylvia chirped as she dragged the large drum behind him.

“Wait, where'd he want us to put this?” she mumbled.

“Yes, yes, I knew he would come around in time,” Floyd replied, setting the cymbals onto the ground as he took rest below a naked tree. “Seems that Miss Aster is as well, excellent job Sylvia,”

The tree's stripped branches wavered in the slight breeze, as Sylvia came to rest beside it as well.

“Taking her to the festival was a splendid idea,”

“Yeah, she talked oodles today,” she replied with a smile, looking out at the messy haired girl fumbling with a drum in the distance.

“And hopefully she'll talk even oodles more tomorrow.”