David Gill<\/p>\n
The man wasn\u2019t sure what to expect as the transom machine began to hum. Inside the portal, the man could see a kind of shimmering and lots of delicate hardware moving nimbly around a glowing ellipsoid at the center. He heard a change in the machine\u2019s sound, a drop in pitch, and the shimmer began to fade. In the shimmer\u2019s place, sat a slender young man dressed in a purple velour jumpsuit, oversized sneakers with the laces undone, an unkempt afro, with a black stratocaster slung over his arm.<\/p>\n
The partition evaporated and the man, now nervous as company was rare in his quarters, managed to say, \u201cHey.\u201d<\/p>\n
The guitarist in the machine responded, \u201cHey.\u201d And he moved his head in a way that the man recognized instantly from watching hours of concert footage.<\/p>\n
Suddenly the man smelled the guitarist: intense and earthy, it stung the man\u2019s nose, and yet he found it pleasant — familiar.<\/p>\n
The guitarist rose from his stool and entered the man\u2019s quarters. \u201cSo this is your crib? Far out, man.\u201d<\/p>\n
The man responded, nervously, as if he were being interrogated by a patrolman at a checkpoint. \u201cYes. I\u2019m sorry for the mess. I don\u2019t have many people over.\u201d<\/p>\n
The guitarist spotted the man\u2019s gear, a stack of amplifiers set against the wall. Now he was excited. \u201cHey man, let\u2019s jam!\u201d And with that the guitarist headed towards the amps, extending a long cord in his hand, ready to plug in.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s too late to play…neighbors.\u201d The man said gesturing vaguely at the walls and ceiling of his cramped room.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy\u2019d you bring me over if we can\u2019t jam?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI never even thought about it. I guess I just wanted to see if you were, you know,\u201d the man paused, \u201creal.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cListen, cat, you know I ain\u2019t real, what you wanted to know was, how real am I. And you\u2019re only gonna find that out if we jam.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut I want to know what it feels like, to play like that. Can\u2019t you tell me?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMan, you can already hear how it feels, that\u2019s the blues. Problem is you don\u2019t got nothing to be blue about, sitting around in this a-<\/em>part-ment<\/em>.\u201d The guitarist mockingly overstressed the syllables in the last word. After a moment the guitarist said, \u201cYou don\u2019t have a lady, do you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou ever had one?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s not the same now; there\u2019s a registration process. I\u2019d really rather not.\u201d<\/p>\n This seemed to interest the guitarist. His eyebrows rose, again, in a way the man recognized from a thousand black-and-white photos. \u201cWhat\u2019s it like now?\u201d the guitarist asked. \u201cHow do you reg<\/em>-is-ter<\/em>?\u201d Again he overstressed the syllables, this time putting air quotes around the last word.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, you have to have a good computer,\u201d the man said, \u201cand I don\u2019t make enough money to buy one. Slower computers are limited to certain tracts of the net, mostly burnouts, enfeebled, or destitute. No one you\u2019d want to meet.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t be so sure,\u201d the guitarist said slyly.<\/p>\n The transom machine emitted a pleasant tone, indicating the visit had two remaining minutes unless the man had more money to deposit, but he needed to eat.<\/p>\n \u201cSo where do you go next?\u201d the man asked, at a loss.<\/p>\n \u201cNo idea, but I hope they\u2019re ready to jam,\u201d the guitarist said pointedly.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, right.\u201d The man looked down.<\/p>\n \u201cListen to the records, you can hear how it feels, and look inside yasef right now, you can feel it, can\u2019t ya?\u201d<\/p>\n The man sort of checked his insides, his guts, his heart. Nothing.<\/p>\n With that realization, the guitarist dematerialized in a dazzling shimmer, leaving only a funky smell.<\/p>\n DAVID GILL<\/strong> teaches writing and literature at San Francisco State University where he specializes in the life and work of Philip K. Dick. He blogs all things Dickian at totaldickhead.blogspot.com and spent last summer helping annotate Dick\u2019s religious notes published as The Exegesis of Philip K. Dick<\/em> by Houghton Mifflin. David lives in Oakland with kids, cats, and guitars.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" David Gill The man wasn\u2019t sure what to expect as the transom machine began to hum. Inside the portal, the man could see a kind of shimmering and lots of delicate hardware moving nimbly around a glowing ellipsoid at the … Continue reading