Marisol's hitting the snare wrong. I can tell because I've been watching her hands for three months now and she always keeps the stick at the same angle. Today it's different. Flatter. Makes a dead sound instead of a crack.
"But I like it like that," she says. Hits it again.
We're in Linda's garage. October. Hot. The door is open but nothing's moving. Carmen is tuning her bass but not really tuning it. Just turning the pegs. Making it worse.
The Silvertone amp hums. Fifteen watts. Speaker cone has a tear in it. We've been avoiding the frequencies that make it rattle. Carmen plugs in and immediately plays the one note that makes it buzz. She holds it. The whole garage vibrates.
"That's awful," I say. She plays it again like she didn’t hear me.
Linda comes in. Her dad left for Homestead this morning. National Guard. She doesn't mention it. Picks up her guitar and starts playing. Not the Staple Singers song we've been working on. Something else. Faster. Her pick is scraping against the strings. Not music. Just attack.
October 22, 1962. President Kennedy addresses the nation at 7 PM.
"Within the past week, unmistakable evidence has established the fact that a series of offensive missile sites is now in preparation on that imprisoned island. The purpose of these bases can be none other than to provide a nuclear strike capability against the Western Hemisphere."
Marisol comes in on drums. Following Linda's tempo. But loose. The snare still sounds dead. She's hitting the floor tom harder than she needs to. The whole kit is shaking.
I don't know what to do. We don't have a song. Just Linda playing angry and Marisol following and Carmen holding that one bad note. I start singing. Not words. Just sound. Low in my throat. I make no sense but it feels good.
We play for maybe two minutes. It falls apart. Linda stops. Drops her hands.
"Let's do that again," she says.
This time I know where it's going. The shape of it. Still no words but I know when to come in. When to stop. Marisol is locked in now. Her sticks are blurring. Carmen's bass is just that one note repeated. She’s holding the bass low so she’s only moving her wrist. The rattle from the amp is part of it now.
We play it five more times. Each time tighter. Faster. My throat is killing. Linda's fingers are a little bloody..
October 23. The quarantine begins. US Navy forms a blockade 500 miles around Cuba. Soviet ships are en route.
School. Air raid drill. All of us under desks in Mrs. Morrison's class.
Practice that afternoon. We play the fast song again. Except today it's faster. Marisol counts it off at a tempo that feels impossible. We follow anyway.
My lyrics are getting shorter. Used to write verses. Now I'm just repeating phrases. Over and over. Saying it once doesn't work. You have to say it until people hear it.
October 24. Soviet ships approach the quarantine line. Defense Secretary McNamara states that US forces are prepared to enforce the blockade by any means necessary.
Linda's guitar strap breaks. The guitar drops but she catches it. Plays the rest of the song holding it against her hip. One hand on the neck. Makes her playing simpler. Just power chords. No finesse. It sounds better.
After practice her mom brings us lemonade. Stands in the doorway watching us pack up equipment. Linda sees her. They look at each other. Her mom leaves without saying anything.
Linda sits down with the guitar. Plays a chord. Lets it ring out. The sustain goes on forever. When it's gone she plays it again.
October 25. UN Security Council meets. US Ambassador Adlai Stevenson presents photographic evidence of missile sites. Soviet Ambassador Valerian Zorin refuses to answer whether missiles are present in Cuba.
"I am prepared to wait for my answer until hell freezes over."
Carmen's uncle left Cuba two years ago. Works in Miami now. She mentions this while we're setting up. Then she stops talking and plays this riff. Low. Simple. Just two notes alternating. Slower and them a little faster but not crazy. I start singing over it without thinking. Linda comes in. Then Marisol. We play it for ten minutes. Same two notes. Nobody gets bored.
October 26. Khrushchev sends a letter to Kennedy. The language is personal, urgent. He describes the weapons as a "knot" that both leaders have tied. Suggests if Kennedy assures no invasion of Cuba, the crisis can end.
My brother is home from college. Comes to the garage. Listens for one song. "That's just noise."
"I know," I say.
Half the gear we have belongs to him. He used it to play Johnnie and Jack songs. He leaves. We keep playing.
October 27. A U-2 spy plane is shot down over Cuba. The pilot, Major Rudolf Anderson, is killed. This is the closest the world comes. McNamara later states he believed invasion was imminent. In Moscow, Khrushchev drafts two letters. One conciliatory. One demanding removal of US missiles from Turkey. He sends both.
We're all aware of the date. October 27. The radio has been on all day. My mother keeps checking it between customers at the salon. Mrs. Morrison cancelled our history test. Nobody's pretending this is normal.
But we're in the garage playing. What else is there?
October 28. Khrushchev announces on Radio Moscow that he has ordered the dismantling of Soviet missiles in Cuba. The crisis ends. Kennedy will secretly agree to remove missiles from Turkey. The world does not end on October 28, 1962.
We're recording. Carmen's brother has a Wollensack reel-to-reel. Sets it up. One microphone for everything. We play the fast song. Listen back. It sounds weak.
"Play it louder," he says.
We do. Listen back. Better but wrong.
"Louder."
We play it as loud as the amps go. The tape distorts. Clips. Red lights on the meter. Carmen's brother yells that we're ruining the equipment. We listen back. That distortion. That clipping.
The crisis ends. Everyone at school is celebrating. Assembly in the gym. The Principal gives a speech about courage. I sit with Carmen and Marisol in the back. Pass notes about the next practice.
That afternoon in the garage. Linda plays the fast song. It still sounds right. The anger hasn't left..
When it ends nobody says anything. Linda's guitar is feeding back through the amp. A high whine. She doesn't turn it down. Just lets it ring.
Marisol speaks over it. "Again?"
Alone in the garage on a Tuesday. The others are busy. I'm sitting here with the guitar unplugged. Playing the chord progression from the fast song. It sounds different without electricity. Hollow.
I plug in. Turn the volume up. The hollowness disappears. Replaced by power. That's what the amp does. Takes something small and makes it loud enough to matter.
I play until my fingers go numb.
Seven songs now. None have names. We call them by feel. "The fast one." "The one with the bass riff." "The one that sounds like drilling." Names would make them something we'd have to explain.
Better to keep them unnamed.
All four of us in the garage. Late afternoon. November 1962. Hot still. Orange light through the door. We're not playing. Just sitting with our instruments.
Carmen asks if we should do the talent show.
Marisol says probably no one would understand.
Linda doesn't say anything.
Outside, someone's radio is playing the news. Something about Cuba. About inspections. About the future. We don't listen. We're thinking about tomorrow. About the next song. About the sound we're building that doesn't have a name yet.
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