Kathe Koja
“At Fraktur,” Addam says to the sparkly young woman next to them on the chartered limobus, brown faux velvet seats, mirrored windows, the air is full of chatter and smoke. “Heard him there first.”
“Silver Landings,” the young woman nods, her earbeads gleam, her lipstick glitters. “Loving up the world!”
And Addam nods back; but they did not in fact see Mister Minos love up the world at Silver Landings, instead heard him totally by chance in that same club: stuck with a layover to kill, an aimless walk, a twilight pause on the rusting sketch of a pedestrian bridge, a pizza joint below so they grabbed a slice, saw the light blink on at the Fraktur club, went in for a lager, two lagers. Then Mister Minos played.
Afterward they stood at the bar, heart ringing like people say eardrums do, reverberating. Mister Minos appeared briefly at that bar, surrounded by fans who wanted to buy shots to drink with the DJ; Mister Minos sipped water and hardly spoke, what was there to say after those beats? then left with his smiling boyfriend.
Then they left too, back to the airport and the jitney flight, the next gig and the next, where between sets they gathered clip after clip of Mister Minos, following his work, studying his work; and have studied it ever since, in silence and intent, like a beast, a traveler; and seeing other people, other DJs even, fawn or bitch for the attention Mister Minos gets but that has less than nothing to do with any of it, what Mister Minos, Felix Perez, has accessed, or found, or been lifted into, is the place where music comes from, where it is. And nothing is more important than that, nothing could ever be more important than that . . . Influence and activation, collaboration, when they heard Mister Minos was finally, finally playing live again, at an on-site event, studio event, they knew they somehow had to get there, be there, hear it, ask him—
—and as if that wish contained the invitation, in an hour a message popped up from TeddyBare, TeddyBare saying upsetta goin 2 see mr minos i cant use my seat, know ur a fan, u want?? that seat on this bus where the road rolls bumpy and bare until it pauses at a tiny town where everyone piles out for drinks and curry sandwiches and takeout booze and “Look,” the sparkly young woman says, leaning over to show a framed-out empty platform, the blur of a building behind it, the sky, same sky outside the bus’s windows. “Look, he’s ready . . . I’m out for a smoke, want to share?”
“No thanks,” with a kind of smile, unable to smoke or make small talk, unable to think of anything but what waits at the end of this road, they have been vibrating like a struck bell ever since Fraktur and now it is time to approach Mister Minos—if he says no then it will be no but now is the day to say, Hey I’m Fuxury, Addam Foss, it doesn’t matter if you’ve ever heard me or heard of me, nothing matters except I heard you and I want to play with you, can we play sometime, oh god let’s play.
