I sifted through the CDs on the bed, trying to peg her influences. What was Pearl really into, besides old Indian tombs, punctuality, and soundproofing? The discs left me clueless. They were hand-labeled with the names of bands I'd never heard of: Zombie Phoenix, Morgan's Army, Nervous System...
"Nervous System?" I asked.
Pearl groaned. "That's this band I was in. Bunch of Juilliard geeks and, um, me."
I glanced at Zahler: great. Not only did Pearl have lots of real gear, she also knew some real musicians, which meant she might not be too impressed with us. We weren't exactly into virtuosity - we hadn't taken any lessons since sixth grade. This jam session was going to be a bust.
"Did you guys play any gigs?" Zahler asked.
She shrugged. "We did, at their high school, mostly. But the System had no heart. Or it did, I guess, but then the heart exploded. You guys want to plug in?"
The Stratocaster soothed my nerves.
It swung from my shoulder, featherlight, lacquered back side cool against my thigh. The strings were six strands of spiderweb, with the easiest action my fingers had ever felt. I strummed a quick, unplugged E-major chord and was amazed to hear that even a three-story fall hadn't knocked the Strat out of tune.
Pearl pushed in the power button on a Marshall amp, a hulking old beast with tubes inside. (Why did a key-boardist have a guitar amp handy? Had it also fallen from the sky?) The tubes warmed up slowly, the hiss fading in like a wave breaking.
"You guys have to share this amp," Pearl apologized. "Nonoptimal, I know."
Zahler shrugged. "That's fool."
She raised an eyebrow. Zahler says fool instead of cool, which is kind of confusing. But at least he didn't mention that I'd never owned an amp, so we shared one over at his place too.
Pearl tossed us cords, and I plugged in - a sizzle-snap of connection, then the familiar hum of six open strings. I dampened five of them and plucked a low E. Zahler tuned up to it, booming through his strings one by one, setting off a little plastic chorus of CD cases shivering against one another on the bed.
The Marshall was set to 7, a volume we never dared in Zahler's room, and I hoped Pearl's egg cartons worked. Otherwise, her neighbors were going to feel us in their bones. But I was ready to risk someone calling the police. The Strat was squeaking impatiently as I slid my fingers along its neck, like it was ready too.
Finally Zahler nodded, and Pearl rubbed her hands together, sitting down at the little desk jammed between the two racks of electronics. A computer waited there, cabled to a musical keyboard, the kind with elegant black and white keys instead of the usual jumble of letters, numbers, and symbol-junk.
She rested one hand on the keys, the other on a mouse. At her double-click, dozens of lights on the towers flickered to life. "Play something."
My fingers were suddenly nervous. It was important to get these notes right, to make a solid first impression on this accidental guitar. Pearl thought that "fate" had brought us together, but that was the wrong word for it. Fate hadn't made that woman go insane. People had been edgy this whole weird summer, what with the crime wave, the rat wave, and the crazy-making heat. That was bigger than Pearl and Zahler and me.
This guitar wasn't destiny. It was just another symptom of whatever bizarre illness New York City was coming down with, something strange and unexpected, like that spout of black water on the way over.
For a moment the Strat felt awkward in my hands.
But then Zahler said, "Big Riff?"
I smiled. The Big Riff went back a long time, as long as we'd been playing. It was simple and gutsy, and we didn't bother practicing it too much anymore. But the Strat was going to make it new all over again, like playing baseball with bottle rockets.
Zahler started up. His part of the Big Riff is low and growly, his strings muffled with the flesh of his right hand, like something trying to sizzle up out of a boiling pot.
I took a slow, deep breath... then jumped in. My part's faster than his, fingers roaming in the high notes halfway up the neck. My part skitters while his churns, blowing sparks from his embers. Mine darts and mutates, keeps changing, while Zahler's stays level and even and thick, filling in all the gaps.
The Strat loved the Big Riff, sliced straight into it. Its spiderweb strings tempted my fingers faster and higher, weightless against Zahler's firmament. If the Big Riff was an army, he was the infantry, the grunts on the ground, and the Strat had turned me into orbital ninjas dropping from the sky, black pajamas under their space suits.
Pearl sat there listening, fingers flexing, mouse twitching, eyes closed. She looked ready to pounce, waiting restlessly for an opening.
We kept going for ten minutes, maybe twenty - it's hard to tell time when you're playing the Big Riff - but she never jumped in...
Finally Zahler gave a little shrug and let the Riff peter out. I followed him down, wrapping up with one last plunge from orbit, the Strat skittering into reluctant silence.
"So, what's the matter?" he asked. "You don't like it?"
Pearl sat silently for another few seconds, thinking hard.
"No, it's excellent. Exactly what I wanted." Her fingers stroked the keys absently. "But, um, it's kind of... big."
"Yeah," Zahler said. "We call it the Big Riff. Pretty fool, huh?"
"No doubt. But, uh, let me ask you something. How long have you guys been playing together?"
Zahler looked at me.
"Six years," I said. Since we were eleven, playing our nylon-string loaners from school. We'd electrified them with the mikes from his older sister's karaoke machine.
Pearl frowned. "And all that time, it's been just the two of you?"
"Um, yeah?" I admitted. Zahler was looking at me kind of embarrassed, maybe thinking, Don't tell her about the karaoke machine.
She nodded. "No wonder."
"No wonder what?" I said.
"There's no room left over."
"There's no what?"
Pearl pushed her glasses up her nose. "It's totally full up. Like a pizza with cheese, onions, pepperoni, chilies, sausage, M&M's, and bacon bits. What am I supposed to do, add the guacamole?"
Zahler made a face. "You mean it sucks."
"No. It's big and raw..." She let out a hiss through her teeth, nodding slowly. "You guys made a whole band out of two guitars, which is very lateral. But if you're going to have a real band - like, one with more than two people in it - you're going to have to strip your sound way down. We have to poke some holes in the Big Riff."