Basement Ragtime
?Hurry or you're going to be late for school, Randy!? Mrs. Stine called from the foyer of their home, the schoolbus already coming down the street in the distance.
?I'm coming, Mom! Jeez!!? Randy shouted from his room with an evident air of anger.
?Randall Llewelyn Stine! Don't talk to your mother that way!? she shouted right back at him, smirking and shaking her head before heading to the master bedroom to finish putting her earrings on.
?Danny! You had better tell your son to treat the person who pays for his lunch every day a little better than he's doing right now!? she could be heard continuing in-front of her vanity mirror.
?Randy! Knock off the attitude, buddy,? Randy's father, Daniel Henderson Stine of the infamous rock band Human Week, said with some extra authority towards his son from across the house where he was still in the master bathroom.
Randy sighed in his bedroom at their double-teaming, lifelessly lugging himself down the stairs to the first floor and picked up his backpack that was waiting for him there. Every school day started like this: he'd come down the stairs, pick up his backpack, and walk through his father's self-indulging walk of fame he'd turned their foyer into. Awards and pictures and more pictures of him receiving the awards took up every minute space of shelf and wall there was and all that was missing was an award for having so many awards and pictures of them!
Randy hated so much because of his father's job as a musician. He hated his music and he hated his band when they came around for cookouts and get-togethers, and he even loathed the whole genre simply because it reminded him of his father and all this endless prattling on about himself. The sooner he could get to school, the better. He slipped his arm through the strap of his backpack so he wouldn't have to worry about holding it so much anymore, but before he could get his second arm through, a strange noise came from down the hall.
It was soft and barely audible, but just loud enough to draw his brows nearer together and pique his curiosity. He didn't even notice, but his right foot had lifted and started in the direction of the hall. His foot planted silently down, and he took a second, slow and creeping step as if he was trying not to startle the sound and cause it to flee. Just what could it be? What was this strange sound or was it anything at all? His ear turned to the hall as something faintly musical could be discerned with just his three steps toward it, pointing him to the door to the basement, and that was when his best friend, Axel, poked his head in the door.
?Good morning Mrs. Stine, Mr. Stine! Come on, Randy. We're gonna miss the bus,? he yelled with urgency to his best friend, this getting him on his way finally and not the maternal advice of Mrs. Stine herself. He always listened to his friends more than he did her, but she didn't mind really. She still loved him more than life itself, and she couldn't help reminding him, especially in-front of his friends.
?Good morning, Alex,? Mr. Stine said, calling the boy by the name that any adult did, and he absolutely hated it. ?I'm off too, Honey. We're working on the new album today.? He kissed his wife and she kissed him back, telling him not to forget his keys hanging on a coat hanger peg before he left through the garage door. After he'd gone, she was catching her son going out the door, and just in the nick of time to stick some sappy motherly love onto him.
?Have a good day at school today, Randy... I love you.?
Randy hung his head back with his mouth hung open like a zombie, sarcastically appreciative of his mother's not making this morning any easier than it already was so far. The smile on Axel's face wasn't about to offer any improvements either, so he stopped him right there.
?Don't even,? he said.
?What?? Axel smiled, and very brightly. ?I didn't say anything.?
?Uh-huh,? Randy said, onto his game, before initiating their walk down the front sidewalk and to the end of his driveway.
?What's the matter, Randy? Life with a rock star dad and a mom that hot can't be so bad!? Axel couldn't impart his help upon his friend and keep a straight face at the same time, but Randy soon helped with that with a strong punch to the arm.
?Not even first period yet and you're already on my nerves!? he shouted at him, making onto the street with them as the headed down for the stop sign where a few of the other neighborhood teens were already waiting.
Axel chuckled quietly while rubbing his arm where he was punched while Randy paused to try and overcome his early morning aggravation. He sighed and stopped next to his mailbox and looked back thoughtfully at his house, thinking back on that strange and musical noise he heard or he thought he heard. It seemed the longer he gazed at its windows, the more the ghost of that sound ceased being a recent memory and nearly became something he thought he was hearing all over again. He snapped himself out of it when Axel called to him again, reaffirming his straps on his shoulders and continuing on to the bus stop.
It was an ordinary-enough day at school. He took a test, watched a film in one of his classes, and played a multiplayer game on his PC with the rest of his friends in keyboarding class. He rode the bus home, it rained all the way on his window, and the cold steel padding beneath it occasionally brushed with the side of his face while he tried to catch a few winks against on bookbag, its first practical use all day.
When he got home, he closed the door behind him and locked it with his house key. It felt creepily lonely inside when just the door had made the only noise so far since his entering. The garage door was closed, but he figured his mom was still at work since he hadn't heard her yet. No problem; not like he hadn't been home alone before.
He shrugged his backpack off at the entrance to the living room and headed to the sofa, dropping lazily on it and weakly holding the remote up, as if he already expected to be disappointed with whatever he found. The television powered on and the receiver box after it, but a little notification window at the bottom of the screen enlightened to him that the satellite was searching for a signal, and the rain-beaten pane by the front door was given a look to. Further discouragement ensued.
He wandered into the kitchen, opening the pantry and deciding whether to make a snack or start on his homework. Both involved effort, and he found himself lacking in that department this particular afternoon, so a little more brainstorming was in order, and that meant more walking around, you know, hoping inspiration would strike.
In the foyer again, right back where he started, he looked out the window and watched the rain come down on the sidewalk and road beyond and how it varied how noticeable the rain was on each platform. He prayed for the god of all things uninteresting to go ahead and take him now and end his suffering, and that was when he heard the same strange noise he heard earlier in the morning, except this time it was much, much clearer. It was music alright, but it was still too far-sounding to make out anything. He could hear that lyrics were being sung with the music, but he couldn't be sure what they were. What he could be sure of, however, was that it seemed to be coming from the basement.
The creaky, spooky basement door whined out like an evil cat the whole way to the back of the garage door next to it. It was seldom opened, and even with the light on, that sharp descent of a staircase intimidated him just as strongly as it did the day they moved in. But faced with a fate worse than death and the kind of boredom he was in right now, the answer was obvious. He flipped the light switch.
There was nothing down in the basement that should have scared him, just a bunch of underused and neglected possessions. The sled he used exactly one time was down here, and so was his bicycle that he used a little more frequently, and all of mom and dad's extra stuff that didn't fit anywhere else all had a more or less new home down here. With the light on, it wasn't as scary as he thought it was going to be. Like usual, he had made it out to be worse than it actually was, something he fell victim to quite a lot, but hopefully he would pick up the hint one of these days.
Mom's old landscape picture of a distant cottage too small to house more than one person was collecting dust against the wall, and though unrealistic, boy did it make for a pricy piece of photogenic property. He hated the picture, personally, and he wasn't the only one, his dad chiming in on his opinion too and deciding the basement-bound fate of the masterwork eyesore. Randy reached out to it with some affection for it in the end, even if it was just nostalgia. His fingers hooked the frame and pulled it to him slightly before he let it return to where it had been, wiping his now dusty fingertips off on his pants.
He looked around, this time underneath the stairs he came down and spied his grandfather's old wood crate that his father always kept around for some reason. He kept a few things in it, too, including an old rusted chain that also belonged to his grandfather and a towel that he used to wipe his hands on after they got greasy from handling any of his tools. It was a refreshing sight for Randy after all the rock and roll that was crammed down his throat every day. He wasn't sure what he expected to find around the crate, but he crawled underneath the stairs and seized it by its two grip holes in the sides and tugged it out and towards him.
Ordinary, that was all it was. But that wasn't what had Randy gawking with all the blood missing from his now pale face. Where the crate had sat, a hole was now exposed, deep, wide, and with a draft blowing from it; and last but not least, that distant music he kept hearing was discreetly coming from it.
Randy licked his lips, hesitated, and inched forward, hesitated again, and then moved the crate out of his way to inspect the hole. It was ringed with cement that was cracked but didn't look smashed as much as it did eroded. The mud that lined the interior of the hole was moist and even emitted a faint chill when he dared lower his hand partly into it. Staring down into the blackness of it, his eyes didn't reach very far. Even with the garage light on, it wasn't enough to shine very far down.
?Whoa...? he whispered down into it, and it carried a short way's.
The more Randy looked down into it, the more his curiosity compelled him, and the more that hole began to look traversable. He scooted to its edge and placed his feet in, lowering himself down slowly and muddying his clothes, but he didn't care. There was a hole in his basement that possibly led to some mystical music source; he had to get to the bottom of this, and quite literally.
The long crawl had begun, and after approximately ten minutes' time, he began doubting his strange and unusual compulsion. What could have been looked at fortuitously, one end traded light for the other, and that he wasn't left in total darkness and worked toward an end that was in sight was what kept him to the grindstone. He alternated sneakers into the muddy wall of the narrow space he was descending?ruining them worse each time he pushed them into that orange icing?and continued to slowly slide his back down. The floor of white light slowly became less bright and began to reveal itself as white tile.
He dropped down to it harshly despite planning for a softer landing. Instantly the floor became uglier by his abundance of mud crumbs and bright orange smears and reminded all to soon how out of place his presence felt here. There were numerous indifferent chairs lining the walls and creating lines of their own back to back in the spacious area. Everything was tidy, everything was fanciful and inviting, but not a sign of life was in sight.
Randy rose and found himself unable to unglue his eyes from the rich lobby area. It was so furnished and was of such an enormous size that he had to question whether he was dreaming or not. He suspected he might have fallen down the hole and hit his head or fallen down the stairs even before that, but there was no way of knowing without further investigation. His back cold with wet mud and his shoes fully caked in the mucky mess, he headed to the foggy glass divide where the lobby's only door resided.
Against it, silhouettes of persons moving only slightly could be made out; whether those human-like shadows were in-fact living beings, however, remained to be seen. Knocking on the door wouldn't benefit him in the slightest. He didn't know where he was, and he didn't know who he was with. He was going to look out for himself, and he was going to need the element of surprise. He turned the door handle and tried not to make any noise, succeeding, and trying next to open it with the same success.
Behind the ominous door was the source of all the noise that had guided him here like a sailor lured to shipwreck by sirens. No further filters now contributed to its strangeness, and it was raw and unbridled. It was his father's music, and more specifically?despite wishing he didn't know it so well?it was the first song that had put him on the billboards. Inside, a number of distinguished-looking fellows sat with concentrated looks on their faces, assessing these sounds playing through their speakers to them. When Randy entered, they looked at him, and the one at the soundboard hit a switch stopping play of the song.
?Well come in, Randy. Don't keep us waiting. You're not our only client today, you know,? the man seated at the furthermost soundboard said, chubby and contentedly so with thick-rimmed round spectacles. He was an older man, but only so that it made him look experienced and did not detract from his image in the least. Next to him was another older gentleman, thinner, older, and similarly wise in appearance. He spoke up next.
?He looks just like his father. If that's any indication, we've got our work cut out for us again,? he said, sighing.
?What?? Randy asked. ?What... is this place? Who are you all??
Around little Randy, the three other men excluding the two that had already spoken to him began to grin knowingly, in on the joke that Randy was very much outside on. Creepily, a growing laughter spread amongst them but was thankfully halted by one of their own.
?You've got a lot of questions, obviously, and since we don't have all the time in the world, we'll stop acting like the omnipotent a*sholes that live in the magic hole under your basement and give you the answers you'd like,? the bespestacled one said more to his own company rather than to the boy, and they were forced to put on their professional faces once more.
?Don't you ever wonder how your daddy got rich and famous in a rock and roll band when he sings so badly at breakfast table?? the man beside the bespectacled one asked, grinning.
?Who do you think made him sound so good?? one of the fine-suited men by the door with Randy asked, leaning on the edge of his chair to ask more creepily his question.
?We're the Signers, Randy. We were the ones responsible for every freak rise to fame in the music industry: Gwen Stefani... Fuel, Jessica Simpson, Coldplay, Michael Buble... and your father... we have had a hand in them all, and when we sign you, Randy, you will never have to worry about another thing as long as you live-? the bespectacled man informed, ever-bearing his unmistakable resemblance to the Buggles singer as the stipulations of this wild claim were explained by the man seated next to him.
?As long as you don't do anything crazy, like use your pop idol godhood we will bestow you with for evil... or switch genre alignments suddenly or drastically. We can only control the industry as long as it isn't too unbelievable, and making a reggae pop album after a post-grunge record could throw the universal laws out of balance completely and bring about the end of the world as we know it.? The man steepled his fingers in-front of his lips, unblinking in his stare to the boy to get across the gravitas of this most profound responsibility.
?Just... know that we'll be watching you from this point on, Randy. Try and have fun with it, chart some number one hits, make some money, donate to a few charities, speak nothing of us, and when your career is meant to end, we will let you know... one way or another, we will let you know.? The bespectacled Signer smiled and nodded his head towards the recording booth, wheeling over to the controls on his swivel chair.
Randy listened to all this, ready to dismiss the lot of them until he remembered he had just climbed down an infinitely long burrow beneath the stairs in his basement and somehow crossed dimensions into this place. Knowing that strongly influenced his response to their proposal. He swallowed hard, selecting his direction before the words that would assemble around it. He looked around the place, noticing and admiring the framed gold records that decorated the walls. When he looked back at the men, he looked composed and serious, disbelieving and yet ready to believe.
?I just have to ask one question,? he began. ?Are you guys... aliens??
There was a pause from the Signers, looking amongst one another before they turned back to the boy and smiled, some of them laughing at another joke Randy was going to be left out of. The couch-lounging Signers reaffirmed their comfortable positions, crossing their legs and lying their wrists over their knees, and the bespectacled Signer rubbed his hands together eagerly in-front of the soundboard while Randy was guided into the recording booth and shown his recording headphones.
?Now then! Let's create another Bieber!!?
