When No One's Watching

I

I had a band with my ex-girlfriend Sunny. Not to brag, but we were an original act, bass and banjo and ukulele, playing every kind of jazz and some pop songs too. People said we were amazing, especially Sunny, especially considering we were a little weird, especially considering no one listens to jazz. We played all the open mike nights and made an album on a borrowed laptop and posted our tunes on every social. We started practice mornings before we got out of bed, and kept it going until midnight, when the neighbors buzzed our doorbell and ran away. We had talent and tenacity and everything but luck. We got desperate. I used to say: Is it asking too much to do what you love and stick to your principles and still afford to live? One day Sunny said yes, it was, so we compromised.

We accepted a gig for people who didn’t want to hear music. But it was a gig for a lot of people, so we thought that would make up for it. We celebrated with cheap sushi and kombucha at a place overlooking the water, just outside the towers of the big company where we’d play. The light reflected upward and we wore sunglasses even while ordering and raised our voices when the sea planes flew over. We leaned our instrument cases against our chairs. Sunny had her short pale hair pulled up in clips. She wore one of my work shirts tied at the waist, jeans folded at the calf. She ate ravenously, plate after plate, while we talked.

No jazz, she said. Just regular folk rock. Nothing too weird or challenging.

She saw me raise my brow above my sunglasses.

You’re skeptical, she said. I know it. But it’s a paying gig. She lowered her glasses and looked at me directly. A paying gig! she said. Her eyes were the color of glaciers. Her hands were like ice cream.

I’m in, I said. Tell me what to do.

Sunny reached for a lump of wasabi and said, Don’t screw it up. We have a way, you know? Let’s not screw up this time.

I’m not skeptical, I said. Everybody loves folk now. Maybe I’ll get a cajon.

She laughed and rapped my knuckles with a chop stick, but before I could tell her I was serious, an enormous man bumped into our table with such force our kombucha spilled.

He didn’t stop, but in the moment after the collision, I got a look at him. He had a massive ruddy head and pony tail. He wore cargo shorts and a black t-shirt that said Programmo, ergo sum. Our waitress showed up with towels.

I guess our cases were in the way, I said.

Sunny said, It’s no excuse for slamming our table.

I poured her some water and said, We’ll probably be playing for him tomorrow.

Maybe, she replied. She reached across the table and grabbed my wrist. I loved her touch but it made me feel conspicuous in that place. She said, But who cares? I want to see if we can be the ones for once. Before it’s too late.

II

The next day Candice, a facilities manager at Venti-Tech, bought us coffee in their private mall. This was where we would play, in a seating area connected to long corridors of shops and restaurants. The mall was right on their company campus, and it had everything Venti-Tech workers might want. You could get your bike fixed there, or your hair cut. You could mail a package or buy a phone or eat cuisine from around the world. It was a pleasant place, with plenty of natural light, but there were neon signs and the low roar of human voices blending urgently.

Candice winked at the barista and passed our drinks. She explained, So you’re not here to entertain them per se, right? Your job is to create an atmosphere that lowers their blood pressure. You know what I’m saying? If they notice you, that’s a failure. They pause, you fail.

Candice glanced down at her phone, frowned, and then looked back at us with a smile. Sorry, probably blunt, but you know? Just don’t disrupt.

Candice wore what I assumed were fancy clothes, a blouse with weird cuffs and collar, tight pants, red high-heeled shoes. She had a kind of dark, fearsome Mediterranean beauty. So much energy it made me nervous. I yearned for a hit of kush and a soft bed and Charles Mingus on shuffle. But this was a paying gig, so I nodded.

Can we make them happy? Sunny asked.

Sorry? Candice replied. She narrowed her eyes as if she had trouble seeing.

Sunny clarified, If we make them happy with our music, but don’t distract them, is that okay?

After a moment, Candice shrugged, Sure. Anyway. Let me show you the nook!

We lugged our instruments through the mall, and it should have been a spectacle, but no one noticed. It was too crowded to put my upright bass on my shoulder, so I just hugged it and staggered forward. Sunny carried her banjo case in one hand and her uke in the other. What a welcome contrast she was to that scene! My mind wandered. I bumped into them when we stopped at the nook.

It was a space about as big as a high school gym, filled with tables and playful geometric furniture, divided by partial glass walls. TVs hung suspended in each area. To get out of the mall, you had to walk through the nook. That meant everyone who came there would walk past us, playing our music, in a non-disruptive way. Our stage was marked by a green circle on the floor with a curved green screen behind it. From tall stands, an array of cameras pointed down at the circle—at where we’d play. There must have been a hundred of them.

One-hundred and forty-four cameras, Candice clarified. Your own personal re-projection rig! RGB and depth cameras, capturing your three-dimensional show and re-projecting it to spaces just like this around the world. Bangalore, Tel Aviv, Nairobi, plus all the usual places.

She pointed out a display at the perimeter of the green circle. It had a map of the world with all these places, each indicated by a number. It tracked all the people watching.

She continued, See, you can track the viewers of your re-projection. Not a total hologram, of course. I mean, for a 360 you’d be hidden by green screen, right? Candice waved away the thought, Details! Musicians don’t care.

Why do they call it re-projection? Sunny asked.

Candice gave her a confused look.

Why isn’t it just projection? There’s no ‘re’. It’s just capturing our image and projecting it.

Candice laughed and laid a hand on Sunny’s shoulder, saying merrily, Tech-talk, am I right?!

As she left, Candice waved casually to a man in a low chair facing us, maybe twenty feet away. He responded by staring at her, and then lowered his head to type on a tiny laptop. I recognized him as the enormous man from the restaurant. Still wearing the cargo shorts but a different black t-shirt that read Gerade Thatsachen giebt es nicht, nur Interpretationen.

I pointed him out to Sunny. Told you, I said.

Whatever, she said, tuning her banjo. There are creeps everywhere. Don’t get distracted.

Later that day, we found our groove. We had worked through a set of folk-rock covers. The tunes were washed out in the noise of the space, like weak coffee with milk. Then we played one of Sunny’s originals, “While You Sleep.” We sped up the beat and it worked. The music blended with the energy of the place, adding texture without attracting attention. I could have stayed in that pocket with Sunny forever.

That first day, as we played in our green cylinder, no one paid much attention. There were times, even, when a group of them would have a conversation just a few feet away, raising their voices to be heard. They held thin computers balanced on palms so they could demonstrate a point. I could imagine our notes pouring out in measures and soothing their troubled, agitated souls. We were doing our job.

We divided the people into two groups. There were the Ants, who walked with purpose, usually in groups, often staring at screens. They gave you the impression that something important was happening, all the time. Their clothes were casual, sometimes ragged-looking, but somehow professional. You could smell soap and shampoo as they passed.

One time we were playing and a group of young Ants walked right to us, shooshed each other with a finger to the lips, and listened. Their attention was so pure, it was unnerving. I nodded and smiled, and they nodded back. Sunny jerked her head at the group of Ants, clearly motioning her desire that they move away. Once they left, she looked back at me and laughed. Disruption is failure, she hissed. We played on.

The other group were the Slugs, who seemed to have taken up residence in the nook. A typical Slug arrived late morning with a backpack and a coffee and spread out on a table or couch. They stayed for hours, and when they left it seemed more out of boredom than obligation. Often they’d pause and watch one of the TVs, which broadcast an innocuous cable news channel. Then they’d drift away.

Sunny said, They probably make enough money in one day to pay off that bass of yours.

Dude, I said. This is an Engelhardt Swingmaster. But I bet she was right. It didn’t matter to me. I was playing it now.

Candice came by at the end of our second day. She crossed the nook with long strides.

Just checking on my kids! She smiled. You guys are doing great! No comments, positive or negative. Just perfect. Her face glowed with encouragement. I think this is going to work out, she said. If you need anything, just call. Day or night. It’s never too late.

III

The enormous man sat in that chair every day, facing us. Sunny named him the King Slug because he embodied the lifestyle. He was more than six feet tall, maybe 300 pounds. His skin had a red, marbled tone that glistened sweat beneath a ragged beard. His eyes had an unsettling shallowness, the pale blue of a cheap hotel pool. Every day he wore cargo shorts, rubber gardening slippers, and t-shirts with quotes. He carried a tiny laptop and a gallon jug of yellow-colored liquid, which he chugged periodically, and then left on the floor by his seat.

On the third day, I watched him hoist himself up and march around our green circle to a coffee table. I felt him exhale on my neck as he stepped on the table and reached to change the channel on the suspended TV. I worried he might drip sweat on the mahogany of my bass. Then he worked his way through the nook, changing the channels on each TV. No one noticed, maybe because our music created a veil of noise. But when we stopped, you could hear from each TV the angry voices of a strident cable news channel. 

He repeated this every day. At night, someone from facilities turned the TVs back to innocuous cable news. The King Slug changed them back. And no one saw him do it. Sometimes people noticed later. One lanky older Ant passed through every day, shook his head with disgust, reached up, and changed the channel. But when he was gone, the King reversed it.  

On the third day, as Sunny frailed chords on her banjo, she leaned toward me to whisper, Look what he’s doing now!

The King strolled through the nook, stopping at any laptop left unattended. He thrust in a flash drive, typed intensely, and unlocked the computer. You could see him click and peer, smile briefly, and then lock it. Then he moved on. No one seemed to notice.

The King liked petty pranks too. He mixed sugar and salt. He shook cans of soda water and returned them to the fridge. We witnessed this from the confines of our green circle, under the gaze of the cameras. It affected Sunny’s performance. She’d miss an entrance, forget a lyric. I had to bring her back with an unexpected rhythm change. No one noticed these lapses, but I was concerned. We weren’t supposed to screw up.

He’s a total sociopath, Sunny said over lunch. We were celebrating our first week at the mall with Indian food.

Or a psychopath? I asked. I forget which is which.

She pointed at me with her fork. How many jerks like that are in this world?

Lots, I said. I was wiping tikka masala from my shirt.

We should report him, Sunny said. She looked out the restaurant window toward the nook.

And get fired? I asked.

Sunny’s eyes traced the path of her thoughts. She shook her head abruptly.

Not our problem, right? She pushed away her plate and laughed. I can’t finish this!

The King was in his place when we returned. As we tuned up, a group of executives approached. Two were important Ants from Venti, a man and woman. I had seen their faces on posters. The other three men were visitors, wearing suits and plastic badges. They walked right to the King, hands outstretched.

Hello there! he exclaimed with a high and cheerful voice, like how people talk to their cats. He pulled himself from his chair.

Such an honor! the executive visitors repeated, shaking hands with the King.

The Venti execs crossed their arms, nodding with satisfaction.

The King told them a story, gesturing and occasionally touching one of them affectionately. He said, So finally I go ‘Look, I guess you could add another thousand servers. Or…’ With this the King paused dramatically, hands on hips and head cocked. He continued, ‘Or… you could just design a new chip!’

He bellowed, They told me it was too late. Really?

The oldest of the visitors, greying and middle aged, poked him with a finger and said, And you designed the chip!

The King gave a little p’shaw gesture with his hand.

On their way out, the woman paused and pointed toward the TV, where the strident news channel was flashing preposterous headlines.

What’s up with that? She asked the Venti man.

He made a sour face and said, I’ll talk with facilities.

The King scanned the nook for his next move.

The first time we saw one of the King’s victims react, Sunny stopped playing. A young woman had returned to her laptop. When she opened it, for just a moment, she held a curious expression. Her eyebrows gathered and her mouth puckered, like ‘what’s going on here?’ In the next instant, she slammed her laptop closed and looked around the room as if everything had suddenly changed. She packed up hastily and left.

Sunny stopped singing. She stared, mouth just open. She looked like she wanted to follow the woman out the door. I kept the bass pedaling while she recovered. I noticed the map display, all the cities around the world--no real change in numbers.

There was another victim later that day. An older man returned to his seat as he carried on an amused phone conversation. He unlocked his laptop with one hand, still talking, and then as he gathered what was on the screen, he let his phone hand drop. He shook his head, as if saying ‘oh no, not this.’ He rubbed his eyes with heels of his hands and left, just as the first woman had.

We’re talking with Candice, Sunny said as we packed up.

The nook was unusually vacant. Even the King was gone.

I said I guessed so. I wasn’t sure what we’d say.

Candice’s office overlooked well-groomed gardens. She had photos of her kids in dance and football. Behind her desk hung a poster of a woman jogging, with the slogan ‘No Limits.’

When Sunny finished her story, Candice looked at me and asked, And you witnessed this?

Well, yeah, I said. That was it.

Candice nodded. She leaned back and said, These kinds of brains, they have their quirks. Wildly overformed in some ways and sort of… lacking in others. But on the whole? I guess you’d look at the good he’s done. He shakes things up. He’s disruptive. We need that. 

Sunny laughed incredulously. For real? she asked. He’s a predator.

Candice leaned across her desk and asked, Are you saying he’s intimidating you?

Sunny narrowed her eyes. It takes a lot to intimidate me, she said. I’m asking for these other people. Your employees.

Mmm, said Candice. Well I haven’t heard any complaints. But if you’re uncomfortable at all, one iota of discomfort, I’ll call security in here right now and they’ll take your statement. She held her hand over her phone. Would you like me to do that?

Sunny gave her a look I thought might get us fired right then. No, she said. I would not like you to do that.

We left, carrying our instrument bags.

The next morning the King watched us, blandly but persistently. I looked away, focused on the music, but Sunny looked back at him with a cool fury. He got up and changed the channel, dripping sweat on my shoulder. When he was done, he paused in front of us, as if he’d forgotten something, then lifted a finger in remembrance. He found an orphaned laptop and hacked it.

Sunny got off rhythm, wailing away on her uke, not so much singing as chanting. A middle-aged woman returned to the laptop. When she opened it, she covered her mouth and let out a muffled shriek. She grabbed her things in haste and ran through a crowd at the café.

Sunny stopped playing. I kept the bass riff going. The next thing I knew, Sunny was talking from the green circle.

 Dude! she said to the King. Hey dude!

He kept his eyes on his laptop.

I’m talking to you, Sunny said. She let her arms drop, the uke suspended on its strap.

I continued the beat, hoping no one would notice. A few Slugs looked up.

What’s with you? Sunny asked, gesturing toward the King with upturned hands.

The King looked to one side, and called a greeting to a passing Ant. He snapped up his laptop and jug and trotted over to join the Ant.

Sunny stood, her palms still up, her mouth open.

Sunny! I said. Look at the display. The numbers.

Around the world, our viewers had surged. The numbers doubled, tripled. They had noticed the disruption.

Sunny looked, and shrugged. Just play, she said.

I struggled to match her frenzied pace.

IV

The next morning Candice spoke to us in her office. She said, You haven’t left me with many options. Right? I mean, have you?

Sunny sat in silence, her arms folded around the neck of her banjo case.

The silence was too awkward to bear. I said, It was just one mistake.

Sunny snapped her face toward me. It made my pulse skip and I felt nauseous.

It was, Candice said, A pretty big mistake. Now look what I have to address.

She pivoted her monitor so we could see. There was an email, a long block of text, interrupted by bullet points and pictures. Candice scrolled and scrolled. It was from the King.

A little excessive, Candice said. But he makes some points. You cost us a small fortune in productivity. The opposite of what you’re paid to do, right?

As Candice talked, Sunny stood up, grabbed her banjo and uke cases, and said to me, Let’s go. She stood at the door, waiting. She wore one of my work shirts and the knot had come loose, making her look small. I couldn’t tell if she was bluffing. I assumed she was. Sunny was always a step ahead of everyone else.

I looked back at Candice, and then back at Sunny.

Candice said cheerily, Can I assume then that you’re exercising your right to terminate our contract?

Sunny tucked in her chin and smiled. You can assume whatever you’d like, she said. Then she looked at me and raised her brow expectantly.

Candice also looked at me. She said, You, on the other hand. I don’t see any reason you should have to forfeit. You understand what we need. And that upright bass! So unique! I could easily team you with another performer.

This, I thought, was my opportunity to save things for Sunny and me. I could keep the gig going, play our songs in front of a paying audience, make enough for rent and bass payments. Maybe soon I could argue to bring Sunny back. Maybe this would blow over. Maybe the King would go away.

I don’t know how long I hesitated. But it was long enough that Sunny exhaled audibly. I had drawn the wrong conclusion. I called for her to wait. But Sunny pulled the door almost shut behind her, and through the crack she fixed her glacial eyes on me and whispered, Too late.  

Candice ignored this. She said cheerily, Sit! We’ve been meaning to book this wonderful flautist. She needs a combo. You want to try that? I can write it up in a jiffy.

V

The King returned while I was playing with the flautist, Jessica. We were in the green circle, doing a Celtic number. He studied Jessica for several seconds. Then he walked to the fridges and

shook can after can. She ignored him but I followed him with my eyes.

I had warned Jessica about the King. Don’t let this guy get you fired, I said. I want to keep the gig to get Sunny’s songs some air time, okay?

Jessica was enthusiastic and unflappable. She was tired of community concert bands. She wore floor-length dresses and when she played her eyes focused on some point far away. She wanted to meet Sunny. Maybe, if we were cool with it, she could join our band?

The King came back from the fridges, staring at Jessica periodically. He wouldn’t look at me. He brought up his jug and gulped until it was empty. I slapped my strings hard, challenging him to look, but he didn’t. I drummed on the side of the big bass like it was a bodhran, and still he ignored me. It was infuriating. I understood Sunny’s frustration. I noticed a few Slugs were watching the scene, drawn by the unusually distinctive music. Over at the coffee shop, the barista looked up. Jessica played, her gaze distant. The King stared.

He walked toward us. His eyes rose to the TV. The pace of our Celtic dance piece quickened. I slapped at the strings harder, and glared at him. Bring it on, King Slug, I glared. I’m used to being underestimated. That makes me dangerous.

He walked his usual path around us and climbed the coffee table. I felt the wet warmth of his breath. A drop of sweat fell on the satin-finished mahogany of my bass. I looked at the stain. It would always be there. The King hovered.

The rest happened slowly. I removed my hands from my bass. I gave it a shove with my thigh. It fell like a big-bodied animal mortally wounded. The noise was horrible. There was no music in it, just a blast of notes and crack of wood amplified.

The noise alarmed the King. He looked back and lost his balance. I moved to make way. Jessica followed. The King attempted to catch himself, but he stepped on the bass, which rocked violently and so he came down on his hip and shoulder, into the green circle. He released a high, childish moan. The cameras remained undisturbed and projected his image, in three dimensions, around the world.

The King struggled to get up. The flesh of his torso appeared in the natural light of the nook. He scrambled to his hands and knees, crawled from the green circle, staggered to his feet and ran. As I followed his path, I saw the display of viewers. The numbers had increased tenfold, a hundred-fold. There were scores of people watching.

I waved a hand to Jessica. Hurry! I said. Get back on the stage. We have to play now! Before they stop watching!

But it was asking too much, I guess. Three bars into the song, the numbers plummeted. Our audience returned to normal. We slowed the beat but kept playing. The Slugs looked back at their laptops. An Ant led a tour of college students. A man and woman hugged hello. Someone bit into a cookie and brushed away crumbs. When we ended the song early, no one noticed. Nothing more than the sound of the barista frothing milk.