Beyond Paradise

The three of them wound their way through the gathering crowd of pedestrians, back toward the main street and then down a side street to the right. The band Billie had heard playing seemed louder, closer now, and underneath the music was a steady current of voices, laughter, even animal sounds. Above the shabby buildings he could see a glow of lights illuminating the rooftops, and he watched in amazement as a red balloon floated free up above the rooftops and drifted into the night sky.

Jabril made his way easily among the people, often glancing up and waving as someone called his name in greeting. Billie followed along, with Snot at his heels, feeling more keenly with every step that he had simply slipped the bonds of sanity and was living in some surreal dream world.

They turned the last corner, and Billie's eyes widened, taking in the scene ahead of them. It was a concert, but not like any he had ever seen. The stage was at the exact center of a sort of carnival, PA amps set up to direct the sound toward every corner so that the music dominated everything. The band played old-school punk, snarling South London defiance, and there was an authenticity about them that was at odds with their apparent youth.

Around the outskirts of the stage, a motley assortment of vendors--luthiers, tattoo artists, leather workers, jewelers--had set up stands to sell their goods. Wandering through the crowd, jugglers and magicians offered to demonstrate their skills, while on the furthest fringes, small tents huddled in the shadows, shrouding their occupants mysteriously from view.

He touched Jabril's shoulder. "What's the occasion?" he asked, almost shouting to be heard over the music.

"No occasion," he answered, still walking. "This is how we spend most nights, how people live here. You noticed there aren't very many stores open anymore, I guess?"

Billie nodded, recalling the bars across so many of the storefronts. "I thought maybe I was just in a bad part of town."

Jabril laughed humorlessly. "There isn't a good part, if that's what you mean. C'mon, I've got someone I want you to meet."

They threaded their way along the walkway, Billie following in the boy's footsteps and Snot padding along behind them. They stopped for a moment as Jabril leaned close to a young girl of about fourteen, dirty and thin-faced, and whispered something into her ear. He pointed toward a white canopy, where an older woman sat stirring a steaming pot, and the girl scampered away in that direction.

Finally, he led Billie to a stall set back among the others, and sitting on a folding chair at the entrance was a man of about thirty, his head shaven and his hands covered with dark stains and smudges. His skin was a tapestry of tattoos, rising out of the neck of his denim shirt and covering his neck, face, head, and arms. The colors were more vivid than any Billie had ever seen, and he couldn't help staring at them in admiration.

Jabril shook the man's hands, and they exchanged a greeting that Billie didn't understand. "Billie, I'd like you to meet Mischa, the stage manager. Mischa, this is Billie Joe. He's passing through on his way home, and needs a place to stay tonight. I thought he could stay with me and the boys, if that's okay."

Snot was nosing the big man's hand, licking his fingertips. He leaned over and scratched behind the dog's ears, never taking his eyes off Billie. "Passing through, eh?" he asked, in a thick Slavic accent. "Vell, I suppose ve're all in that boat together, in a vay. I say....yes! He can stay."

Billie breathed a sigh of relief. Jabril hadn't warned him he'd have to pass approval, but apparently he had slipped through anyway. "Thanks a lot," he said, offering his hand to shake. "I really do appreciate it."

Mischa's huge hand engulfed his, swallowing it whole. His dark eyes burned into Billie's green ones intently, and Billie felt weak for a moment, somehow, as if he were hollow and weightless. Then the big man released his grasp, and everything suddenly swam back into sharp focus.

The man turned back to Jabril. "There is truth in him, I see. That is good. But there is also anger, vhich runs deep. Ve must veigh these carefully, one against the other."

Jabril nodded his understanding. "Will you give him a chance?" he asked. "It seems to have been strong in him at one time."

Mischa looked Billie up and down, then reached again for his hand. He turned it over, studying the lines in his palm, the softened calluses on his fingertips, the veins and sinews that ran underneath the skin. "It is sleeping, I cannot say vhy. Only he knows, and the heat of his anger has clouded his sight. It vill be too dangerous for him."

"Then we'll wait. Thank you for your help," Jabril replied, embracing the big man completely unselfconsciously. "Come on, let's get you settled for the night," he said to Billie, touching his elbow.

"Good to meet you, Mischa," Billie called over his shoulder as he hurried off to keep up. The smile that spread across the man's face was a hearty one, and yet Billie shivered slightly as it reminded him of the grimace of a bear.

"Best of luck to you, Mr. Billie Joe!" bellowed the bear in return.

The warehouses snuggled together one street down and one over from the festival area, and though the music still drifted through the air, it was darker and more somber here. Outside one hulking building, Jabril stopped, pulling a key from the depths of his pocket. A massive padlock secured a metal door at the side of the building, and he snapped it open with a resounding clunk.

Inside, the ceiling towered twenty feet over their heads, and the floor was stacked with huge wooden crates and boxes. Jabril snapped the big padlock on the inside lock, and then turned to Billie, indicating the sweeping interior with one hand. "Welcome to Paradise," he said wryly, and Billie cocked an eyebrow at him. Was the reference intentional, or just a coincidence?

"Wow, it's...big," he said, his voice echoing off the concrete floor. "So is this where we sleep?"

"No, our quarters are in the back, down that aisle," the boy said, pointing toward a gap in the crates. Billie found it odd how he called the area "quarters," almost the way a soldier would refer to his barracks. There didn't seem to be anything even vaguely military about the place.

They filed between the stacks, emerging into an open space dotted with sleeping bags and bunks. A soot-rimmed barrel stood at the center, filled with charred pieces of wood, and off to the side was a bank of shelves piled with clothing, shoes, and personal belongings. No one else was there, and his best guess was that they were at the festival, like everyone else.

"Here, let me pull out a cot for you," Jabril offered, reaching behind a battered door plastered with colorful band flyers. It reminded Billie of the entrance at Bollocks, and he began to realize that music was much more than just a pastime here. He helped open the cot and spread the blankets, and as he watched Jabril squirm his way into his sleeping bag, he felt the exhaustion wash through him in waves.

They lay in silence for a minute or two, Jabril shifting to get comfortable and Billie lying on his back, staring up at the dizzying heights of the ceiling. Snot had crawled under the cot, and was breathing deeply, back legs jerking and muzzle twitching in some dream of chasing a cat or squirrel.

"Hey Jabril?" Billie said quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Do you have any idea how to get out of this place?" he asked, tasting the fear that had started to creep back into his mouth, coppery and sharp.

Jabril sighed, folding his arm over his forehead. "It's hard to say. It's different for everybody."

He thought for a moment about Jabril's youth, his street-wise confidence, and tried to imagine how limited his potential must be in a place like this, wherever 'this' was. "How come you're still here?" he asked, and then wondered if he should have.

"Because I have to be," Jabril answered. "It's where I fit, you know? I wouldn't do so well where you're from."

"So you do know something about Berkeley," Billie said, a tiny smile of satisfaction lifting the corners of his mouth.

"That's not exactly where I was talking about. But yeah, I know where Berkeley is. Duh, doesn't everybody?" The boyish sarcasm lightened the air of duty and responsibility he seemed to carry with him.

"The guy in Bollocks didn't seem to. I asked him to point me to San Diego Boulevard and he said he'd never heard of it!"

"Yeah, well, some people here are almost like...like parts of the place, like they've always been here and always will."

It seemed that way to Billie, too. The bartender had a certain permanence, as if he were a fixture of the bar. Mischa, too--it seemed as if he might have always been sitting there on his chair, watching over the stage and its occupants.

"Jabril, where exactly is here?" he asked, not sure if he really wanted to know.

"It's where you make it, man. Or not. G'night," Jabril mumbled, and turned over on his side.

Billie took out his wallet, and slid out the picture he kept of Adie and the boys. He cupped it in his hand, staring into her dark, mysterious eyes and wondering if she was worried about him. He hoped not. He was worried enough for both of them.