As Ye Believe

by Julianne Lee

The young crowd roared its pleasure, a white noise that jarred Steve's rock-worn eardrums. His chest heaved for breath, bare beneath the black T-shirt torn to his navel, as he lifted his guitar over his head in final salute. The show was over, thank God.

Steve was pushing thirty these days, and age crept into his joints. The guitar, a black Epiphone, weighed a ton. His sore tendons stood out in his arms and his elbows began to tremble. He swung the instrument back down and slipped the body under his right arm, balanced in his hand on the cutaway curve. Pressed to his side, it was then easier to carry. He shouted into his mike, "Thank you, Nashville, and good night! Drive careful, you guys!"

Thousands of Stephen Harley fans went nuts, and the cavernous arena echoed with shouting, whistling and stomping as The Man himself strolled away. The stage lights were killed, and the absence of baking heat was a relief. Steve threw his guitar to the back line tech who handled his instruments, then clattered down the black steps of the black stage with his band close behind.

The guys were quiet tonight. At the first of the tour they'd been loud and crazy after each show, as if it were a personal victory for each of them to have brought twenty thousand people to their feet. But that had been a long time ago, when summer was new. Nobody had the energy any more. Three more weeks and the tour would be over. Home beckoned. Steve looked forward to seeing his wife and new baby daughter. He'd only seen the kid once, at her birth last month on a one-day trip home between gigs, and still couldn't get over how perfect and beautiful she was. He'd never known he had it in him.

Roger, the production manager, fell in step on the way to the dressing room and burst into Steve's daydream,. Over the blaring post-concert tape of some old Zeppelin thing, he shouted, "Mikey called. Good news!"

Mikey, the band manager. Good news to him always meant more money. Steve's cockles warmed. "What's up?"

"The album went platinum. They just announced it today. And sales are still heavy. We're looking at, maybe, a double or triple this time."

Steve smiled with his teeth and made a fist over his head. "Yes!" It was his third platinum album, but somehow the novelty of that never wore off. He laughed and turned to the band, a shaggy bunch of real hair farmers. "You hear that, guys?" He strolled backward, his old motorcycle boots the heaviest part of his tall, lanky body. "We're platinum again!"

A cheer erupted from the guys, and a smattering of applause drifted in from some bystanding crew members and assorted guests with cloth "poseur" passes.

Steve tripped over a cable and toppled, arms waving like a windmill. The production manager and Tommy, the drummer, caught him before he could hit the concrete floor.

Roger heaved him up by his belt. "You're a goof, Stevie, you know it?"

Steve got his feet back under him and ran his fingers through his own crop of wavy, black hair. He laughed, a little embarrassed. "Yeah, man."

Then he let himself dwell on Mikey's good news. Big bucks. Really major money. He was tying into what would sell big now. Stephen Harley was a wanted man, and it felt great.

Steve, the guys, and a few hangers-on settled into the dressing room of dirty, tan cinderblock which smelled of...well...something horrible nobody could ID. It was an old, crusty building; the smell could be anything. Steve slumped in a metal folding chair in front of the lighted mirror and let his head fall back. The rest of the guys shuffled off to the showers. Roger hesitated near the door. He needed to head back out to supervise the load-out, but hung for a moment before going back to work. Steve was exhausted. He didn't blame Rog for wanting to rest.

Some guy, a driver probably, came in with a grin. "Check this out, guys, there's a bunch of whackos out there with signs and stuff, saying Rock and roll is the devil's music! They're shouting things and marching back and forth like kindergartners and they think Steve's in league with the devil or something!"

Steve sighed. "This is what I need."

"You gotta see it, man, it's a laugh and a half!"

Some others went out to the truck ramp to see the geek patrol, but Steve stayed put and lit a cigarette. He would have liked a good laugh just like anybody, but his presence out there would have caused too much excitement. He didn't need to stir things up, neither did he wish to lend credence to the crazies with the signs.

So he stayed and joked to the press about how the PMRC had boosted his sales by requesting warning stickers on his albums. Now the kids would know which albums their parents didn't want them to buy.

But eyes went dull. He had the feeling he was talking to people who had no grasp of who he was or what his work was like. As if none of the local rock writers would know rock and roll if it reached up and bit them on the butt. It disgusted him. Welcome to Music City, where they make all kinds of music: country and western!

After the informal meet'n'greet, Steve retired to the mildewy shower where he soaped himself down and fantasized about his wife for a while. Staying faithful to Kerry was a drag and a totally new concept to him, only made possible by the knowledge that contracting a disease out here could kill his wife. Before his marriage he'd jumped enough girls to fill the Rose Bowl, and had never had the least concern for his own health. But now, forget his own life; hurting his wife was unthinkable and letting his daughter grow up without him was not part of the plan.

As he scrubbed down he thought of the whackos outside. Devil's music. What a laugh. There was nothing Satanist about this guy. Sure, he wrote about sex a lot. He liked sex. Lots of people liked sex. Except, maybe, whackos from Nashville.

Out of the shower, he toweled down and pulled on some clean jeans and a fresh, whole T-shirt, new tube socks, and old motorcycle boots. Then he went back to the anteroom and announced he was ready to go to the bus.

"No, man, those nut cases are still out there with their signs." Roger looked very busy and very tired, and his workday still had a couple of hours left in it. The rest of the people lounging around seemed to be in his way.

"Screw the crazies."

"No, thanks. I haven't had my rabies shots."

The room chuckled. Steve giggled at the bizarre notion of making it with a wild-eyed Tennessee housewife. "Let's go. I'm not in the mood for hiding tonight." He picked up his wristwatch from the dressing table and strapped it to his arm.

The driver of the band bus, a big guy who doubled as body guard on these occasions, escorted Steve and Tommy, the only two band members left inside the building. The rest were out on the bus already, probably having a great old time watching the show on the sidewalk. Roger went with the three for extra security. Sometimes the dash from the building to the bus was tricky.

Steve kept his head down as they exited the panic-barred pedestrian door. It was late. Most of the curious had gone home, and downtown Nashville was mostly quiet and empty. Only a few die-hard fans cluttered the truck ramp where the band bus was pulled as close to the door as it could get. The crew bus waited nearby on the street, its generator hum echoing from the surrounding skyscrapers.

Floodlights put a stark contrast on everything. The world was black and white--mostly black. Amidst the dozen or so faces that were thrilled to see him were the white, strained faces of about seven women carrying signs.

Steve had seen this sort of thing before, but the indignant glares and vile anger always surprised him. How could anybody get so worked up over a bunch of songs?

One woman stepped forward. "That man is from hell! He come straight from the devil to corrupt our society!" Her blonde hair was straight and curled under, and her thirtyish, too plump face trembled with rage. She wore brown lipstick on what appeared to be no more than a lipless gash in her face. A very active gash. She went on and on about her low opinion of Steve, a man she didn't know and had never seen before tonight.

This was no fun. Ten years ago he might have shouted back at her and had a fine time razzing the daffy broad, but now he had neither the energy nor the interest for it. He followed the bus driver through the knot of people near the Silver Eagle tour bus. He couldn't wait to crawl into a bunk and leave the world behind for a while.

The bat with no lips elbowed her way through the clutch of teenagers and snarled, "I hope you don't have children!" Roger moved to straight-arm her. She only snarled louder. "I hope your children all die! This world doesn't want more like you!"

A burst of flaming rage roared in Steve's brain. The kid was his pride. She could say what she wanted about Stephen Harley, but his daughter was not to be touched. He was finally moved to respond. "Fuck off, bitch!"

"You're evil! And your spawn as well!"

Roger began to shove her back, and the other two urged Steve toward the bus. He was royally pissed now. Rage swelled and curdled within him. His skin began to vibrate with hatred that made his hair stand up as if tiny sparks snapped across his head.

With his left hand he pointed his personal and little fingers at her face in the sign known as the Evil Eye, and spat the word. "DIE!" Just then he really wished she would, and wished he really were in league with the devil.

She gasped. Her eyes went wide, and Steve sneered at the bad acting. Where do they get these people, anyway?

But she dropped her sign and clutched her chest. Her fingers then went to her throat. The thin, brown lips gaped and gurgled, opening and closing like a dying fish. She began to turn purple under the stark floodlights, then collapsed.

Roger caught her and set her on the ground. Some of the kids standing around laughed a little, but that died and everyone was quiet. Even the rest of the sign carriers had hushed.

Steve took a step forward. "Rog? She okay?"

Roger's voice was high and panicky. "She's dead, Steve."

A girl screamed.

Steve took another step. "Don't shit me, Rog."

Roger said, to no one in particular, "Get him outta here. I'll catch up with you guys in St. Louis."

"Roger," Steve pulled on Roger's shirt and shoved him aside for a look at the woman. Her face was blackened and blood had run from her nose. It stood in her eyes, pools that rimmed them in hellish red. Steve's stomach turned and his heart began to skip along like a speed-metal bass line. "Holy shit."

People with signs began to scream at him. That he'd done it. He'd killed the woman. Roger yelled at him to get on the goddamn bus. Big hands hauled on him and he stumbled backward toward the open door. Accusations assaulted him and set up echoes in his numbed brain.

He screamed, "I didn't do it! It wasn't me! It was her own fucking fault!" He tried to make a dive for the body but his people held him back and half-carried him to the bus. He kept screaming, "It wasn't me! Not me, man!" He wished the woman would get up and snarl at him some more.

Tommy and the driver got him to the front lounge of the bus. The rest of the band members were standing over the couch and staring out the tinted window at the milling crowd surrounding the dead woman. Steve shoved between them and stared out. He thought he would vomit. He'd never seen a dead body before, let alone one that had dropped dead at his command.

The rhythm guitarist said, his voice low and respectful, "Um, Steve, about that raise...never mind. Sir."

A tense chuckle riffled through the front lounge. The driver started up the bus and the guys all took seats as the engine came to with a muted rumble. Tommy said, "Gee, maybe they're right."

Steve barely heard. A heat was rising in him as he stared at the dead woman. He turned and said, "What?"

"I mean, she believed you were the devil, or something, right? She believed it, and it killed her. If believing makes it so, maybe she was right."

Steve turned back to the window and watched the crowd on the sidewalk recede. "She believed I was in league with the devil." When he realized what he'd said, he turned to Tommy. "Shut up, man."

The bus turned the corner behind some trees and Steve screwed his eyes shut. "Stupid bitch. Stupid bloody bitch!" He turned and sat on the couch as the heat in him spread. He tried to make it stop, but it went all through him like the irritating burning of hot pepper. His hands were shaking, and he pressed them between his knees.

There was no telling what had killed that woman, but he sure looked good for it. He examined his left hand, turned it this way and that, and made the sign again.

Everybody on the opposite couch dove from the line of fire. Steve stared at them and didn't know whether to laugh or cry. They stared back, with nary a smile between them.

A weird feeling crept up on him. He'd just killed a woman and would get away scott free. He'd removed an enemy from his path with a single word--an enemy who might have hurt his daughter, given the chance--and there would be no retribution for it that could truly harm him. He hadn't touched the dingbat. He had witnesses.

A feeling of strength seeped through his body. Slowly the nasty fire turned to power. The aches in his joints went away. Fatigue left. He began to feel good, the way he had as a teenager. He began to imagine a world without people who were nasty to him. He thought of the joy of being able to eliminate all those who would oppose him.

His voice was low. Thoughtful. "Well, if she was right, I bet she and her friends are sorry now they let me know about it."

©1992 Julianne Lee