loud; everyone thinks we nonspecialists are amateurs. (Tell that to the nonspecialist currently known as Prince.) I also never show off my perfect pitch or mention the name of my high school.
His dark and gorgeous eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you don’t play guitar?”
I laughed. “I never said that. But trust me, I absolutely play keyboards. How’s tomorrow?”
“But, um, how do you even know we’d . . .” He took a breath. “I mean, like, what are your—?”
“Uh!” I interrupted. “Not that word!” If he asked me what my influences were, the whole thing was off.
He shrugged. “You know what I mean.”
I sighed through clenched teeth. How was I supposed to explain that I was in too much of a hurry to give a damn? That there were more important things to worry about? That the world didn’t have time for labels anymore?
“Look, let’s say you hated graves, okay?”
“Hated graves?”
“Yeah, detested tombs. Loathed sepulchers. Abhorred anyplace anyone was buried. Understand?”
“Why would I do that?”
I let out a groan. Mozzy was being very nonlateral all of a sudden. “Hypothetically hated graves.”
“Um, okay. I hate graves.” He put on a grave-hating face.
“Excellent. Perfect. But you’d still go to the Taj Mahal, wouldn’t you?” I spread my hands in explanatory triumph.
“Um, I’d go where?”
“The Taj Mahal! The most beautiful building in the world! You know all those Indian restaurants around the corner, the murals on the walls?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I know the one you mean: lots of arches, a pond out front, with kind of an onion on top?”
“Exactly. And gorgeous.”
“I guess. And somebody’s buried there?”
“Yeah, Moz, some old queen. It’s a total tomb. But you don’t suddenly think it’s ugly, just because of its category , do you?”
His expression changed from tomb-hating to lateral-thinking. “So, in other words . . .” Brief pause. “You don’t mind if you’re in a band that plays alternative death-metal< cypherfunk, as long as it’s the Taj Mahal of alternative death-metal cypherfunk. Right?”
“Exactly!” I cried. “You guys can worry about the category. All the death metal you want. Just be good at it.” I picked up the Stratocaster, wrapped it tighter. “How’s tomorrow? Two o’clock.”
He shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Let’s give it a shot. Maybe keyboards are what we need.”
Or maybe I am , I thought, but out loud I just told him my buzzer number, pointing across the street. “Oh, and two more questions, Moz.”
“Sure?”
“One: do you guys really play death-metal cypherfunk?”
He smiled. “Don’t worry. That was hypothetical death-metal cypherfunk.”
“Phew,” I said, trying not to notice how that little smile had made him even cuter. Now that we were going to jam together, it didn’t pay to notice things like that. “Question two: does your half a band have a name?”
He shook his head. “Nope.”
“No problem,” I said. “That’ll be the easy part.”
3. POISONBLACK
-MOZ-
The next day, Zahler and I saw our first black water.
We’d just met outside my building, on our way to Pearl’s. A gang of kids across the street was gathered around a fire hydrant, prying at it with a two-foot wrench, hoping to get some relief from the early afternoon heat. Zahler stopped to watch, like he always did when kids were doing anything more or less illegal.
“Check it out!” He grinned, pointing at a convertible coming down the street. If the hydrant erupted in the next ten seconds, the unwitting driver was going to get soaked.
“Watch your guitar,” I said. We were twenty feet away, but you never knew how much pressure was lurking in a hydrant on a hot summer day.
“It’s protected, Moz,” he said, but he stood the instrument case upright behind himself. I felt empty-handed, headed to a jam session with nothing but a few guitar picks in my pocket. My fingers
His dark and gorgeous eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you don’t play guitar?”
I laughed. “I never said that. But trust me, I absolutely play keyboards. How’s tomorrow?”
“But, um, how do you even know we’d . . .” He took a breath. “I mean, like, what are your—?”
“Uh!” I interrupted. “Not that word!” If he asked me what my influences were, the whole thing was off.
He shrugged. “You know what I mean.”
I sighed through clenched teeth. How was I supposed to explain that I was in too much of a hurry to give a damn? That there were more important things to worry about? That the world didn’t have time for labels anymore?
“Look, let’s say you hated graves, okay?”
“Hated graves?”
“Yeah, detested tombs. Loathed sepulchers. Abhorred anyplace anyone was buried. Understand?”
“Why would I do that?”
I let out a groan. Mozzy was being very nonlateral all of a sudden. “Hypothetically hated graves.”
“Um, okay. I hate graves.” He put on a grave-hating face.
“Excellent. Perfect. But you’d still go to the Taj Mahal, wouldn’t you?” I spread my hands in explanatory triumph.
“Um, I’d go where?”
“The Taj Mahal! The most beautiful building in the world! You know all those Indian restaurants around the corner, the murals on the walls?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I know the one you mean: lots of arches, a pond out front, with kind of an onion on top?”
“Exactly. And gorgeous.”
“I guess. And somebody’s buried there?”
“Yeah, Moz, some old queen. It’s a total tomb. But you don’t suddenly think it’s ugly, just because of its category , do you?”
His expression changed from tomb-hating to lateral-thinking. “So, in other words . . .” Brief pause. “You don’t mind if you’re in a band that plays alternative death-metal< cypherfunk, as long as it’s the Taj Mahal of alternative death-metal cypherfunk. Right?”
“Exactly!” I cried. “You guys can worry about the category. All the death metal you want. Just be good at it.” I picked up the Stratocaster, wrapped it tighter. “How’s tomorrow? Two o’clock.”
He shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Let’s give it a shot. Maybe keyboards are what we need.”
Or maybe I am , I thought, but out loud I just told him my buzzer number, pointing across the street. “Oh, and two more questions, Moz.”
“Sure?”
“One: do you guys really play death-metal cypherfunk?”
He smiled. “Don’t worry. That was hypothetical death-metal cypherfunk.”
“Phew,” I said, trying not to notice how that little smile had made him even cuter. Now that we were going to jam together, it didn’t pay to notice things like that. “Question two: does your half a band have a name?”
He shook his head. “Nope.”
“No problem,” I said. “That’ll be the easy part.”
3. POISONBLACK
-MOZ-
The next day, Zahler and I saw our first black water.
We’d just met outside my building, on our way to Pearl’s. A gang of kids across the street was gathered around a fire hydrant, prying at it with a two-foot wrench, hoping to get some relief from the early afternoon heat. Zahler stopped to watch, like he always did when kids were doing anything more or less illegal.
“Check it out!” He grinned, pointing at a convertible coming down the street. If the hydrant erupted in the next ten seconds, the unwitting driver was going to get soaked.
“Watch your guitar,” I said. We were twenty feet away, but you never knew how much pressure was lurking in a hydrant on a hot summer day.
“It’s protected, Moz,” he said, but he stood the instrument case upright behind himself. I felt empty-handed, headed to a jam session with nothing but a few guitar picks in my pocket. My fingers
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