CHAPTER 113 - Silver Springs

“Fame is a bee. / It has a song— / It has a sting— / Ah, too, it has a wing.”

— Emily Dickinson

West Forty-Eighth Street.

Thursday, 8 January 2009.

Work resumed on the Ark Theatre next door, while work on the Cat Annex closed in on its conclusion. Drainage was inspected, the faux-wood tiles had gone in, and all three floors smelled faintly of curing paint and plaster.

At 7 AM, Eppie brought coffee for the work crew, balancing far more cups than was possible for an arm as thin as hers. Combined with her American sweetheart face and her notoriety from a singing fish with a killer chorus, the men melted in her bubbly presence.

With gusto and gladness, the installers of NYC’s most astounding cat shelter worked their carpentry. Eppie was no interior designer. She was, however, a fine connoisseur of cat cafés on Instagram and TikTok, and so could visualise a dynamic cat-space about two decades into the future.

When she showed Juliana Vaughan the drawing, her not-mentor had remarked that it looked like a café designed by a cat, for cats, assuming said cats had unlimited budget. Eppie had exalted Vaughan’s wisdom, then ran with it.

Now that the installation had gone in, she could finally marvel at a true NYC first.

The cat shelves, done in solid wood, with replaceable wool patches velcroed into the sides, were interlinked and adorable. In 2008, the city still had its millworkers. AliExpress and custom ware from China were still considered anomalies, and the skills that made bespoke interiors for the city’s fine homemakers had yet to retire.

Her interior decorator, a fellow feline fancier called Hadley Strandt from her Vaughan connections, had been so smitten with the idea that she had pulled out all the stops. Where Eppie had envisioned something cute, such as a Japanese cat café, Strandt insisted that beige, walnut and highlights of theatre-chair carmine were the sophisticated choice, creating a continuum of the theatre itself, à la The Great Catsby.

The Ark Theatre Stray Cat Society Shelter had also received a visit from the New York City Department of Health and Mental Hygiene, which told Eppie that, no matter her favour with Mayor Holt, food and cats did not mix. What they could do was slip her a design that would pass inspection, and that’s slitting their own throat.

Eppie relented; Strandt added glass partitions to the interior decor.

The cats’ play areas would be fenced off with glass, and a two-by-two airlock would be introduced. Patrons could sit inside with the cats, then exit via the airlock with a pair of nested sliding doors to prevent any cat-astrophes, such as cats getting caught in doors or escaping.

The cat-platforms then ran the length of the café, behind glass.

The back of the annex held the café, from which patrons could observe the cats at play, and order food at their leisure.

This doubled the interior decor budget—but Eppie had Wally money—and so told Strandt to spare no expense.

Hearing her talk of budget, Strandt had then stared her down and said—

“We carve out the wall on the east side, second floor, facing the theatre’s second level lobby interior. Make it all glass. While the patrons wait in the west-wing café, they can see the cats. In the future, you can also conjoin the theatre’s internal café with the cat café.”

“How much?”

“Triple.”

Eppie tried to envision it—the sheer glory of it—and could not say no.

Then there was the final touch, the third-level attic, Eppie’s secret lair.

On paper, it was her office. The office of the director of Ark Theatre. The interior decorators had transformed the low, mean space into an airy one, with windows at each end. The ceiling, after some extensive negotiations, now went up into the rafters and was lined with blonde ash, so that the place looked like the interior of an upside-down yacht. Cupboards were built into the spacious left wall.

When pressed, a spring popped a line of them open, and a futon rolled out on castor wheels on a triple-panel of tatami.

In total, there were three such installations.

“Why?” Eppie asked.

“The futons are singles…” Strandt winked. “You might need more.”

For the cats? Eppie wondered. Cats like futons, right?

Downstairs, the shelter was inspected and ready. The reception desk was the only thing still at the millworkers’. In the end, everything had been styled to resemble a part of the theatre next door, from materials to colour, to wood furnishings.

It was a truly decadent cat shelter.

Three weeks, Strandt told her. Three weeks and about six inspections later, the cats would be moving in.

I should… Eppie walked the rounds again, sipping her coffee. Originally, she had intended the second level for artists’ displays. Now, it was for cats. Yet… was that such a step backwards?

Looking at the blank walls of the café made to match the theatre, Eppie felt struck by a sudden, unstoppable bout of inspiration.

She should sell paintings here.

The Meower Lisa.

If the address bar doesn't say , you're looking at an unauthorised copy of someone's work.

The Purrsistence of Memory

Puss with a Pearl Earring

The Birth of Feline-us (in a half-shell)

American Gothicat

The Meow (by Catvard Meownch)

Whisker’s Mother

Nightpaws.

The Great Puss off Catagawa

And…

Purry Night. Eppie edition.

In an age before AI, how many artists could be fed by the commissioned cats of Ark Theatre? Not to mention the merchandise.

Cat theatre mug.

Cat theatre placemats.

Cat theatre towels.

Cat theatre totes.

Cat theatre posters.

With every credit to their commissioned artists, and profit sharing per unit sold.

Lim’s about to lose his mind…

Eppie swooned at her own genius; she truly was the [Prophet of Profits].

The Vaughan House.

Friday, 9 January 2009.

“You will keep your room,” Vaughan had told her when Eppie informed the dame of the house that she was moving out very soon. “I don’t want you to become a stray.”

The arrangement was fine with Eppie, who bowed in thanks, then retreated to her room to consider what improvements could be made to Hair Like Mine, a song that was technically finished—and yet far from the best it could be.

[Composer] had given her an incredible foundation. Drawing from her memory of Woodstock and Glastonbury from an alternative world, she had finished the song in a matter of days. What would emerge was exactly what she had promised: something authentic, something that was a little sweet, a little sad, a little tragic.

On paper, it was a guitar ballad: four chords and a girl, and that’s why it worked.

Val could play the guitar, and Val was a girl. A very pretty girl.

But Eppie knew Hair Like Mine could be more. She lacked the skill set, but she had heard the incredible songs created over the next two decades. She knew the song could use improvements in the same way a block of otoro needed Kuromon-san’s masterful hand.

In her head, she saw a vision where a long-haired Valorie stood in the long grass in a long white dress and sang. Captured by Val’s siren’s song, a hundred thousand concertgoers would sway with the wind. But that version wasn’t just a girl and four chords.

And so, she did something Uncle Davis would hate.

She asked her dad for help.

In secret, her father wrote her a list and told her she would receive no more help for a Universal song. In it, she saw advice that only made half sense to someone like herself, someone who had made it by faking it.

A vinyl sample snare drum for the verses.

A Mellotron with layered strings.

Synth bass, lo-fi.

Long dark reverb, echo with a quarter-second delay.

Tape saturation with emulation on the master.

Dump the modern equipment for old broadcasting microphones.

Add more Mellotron until sufficiently mellowed.

She was to hold on to the list. If Universal produced a sound she did not like, then she was to show them this list and tell them it was her idea.

She took the advice, but did not say she would agree to the last part.

Stealing her father’s ideas and making them her own. What would the [System] think of that?

I want to live—not self-immolate.

After a while, she put down the guitar and thought instead about Georgia Truitt.

According to Kel’s mother, the lost voice of the Prospect Avenue years currently cleaned offices on Lexington. She wondered if the woman hummed or sang at work so that somewhere in those empty offices, some late-night clerk wondered if someone had left the radio on Blues FM.

Dr Cooper had said that he would track her down himself, though not now, not before he could offer a place in the theatre.

The theatre was not at all ready—and presently, his whole attention had shifted to Luciana Mio.

Eppie had not been present for that meeting. Cooper had said that it was between himself and her. According to Verna, he kept her posted. Cooper had taken Mio into the half-finished auditorium and put her on stage for three hours. When they finished, Mio had gone home happy, then Cooper had sat by himself in a chair, depressed.

“She remembers the fundamentals,” he had told Verna. “But we have a lot of work ahead.”

“He lied to Mio?” Eppie made a face.

“He didn’t want to frighten her off.” Verna shrugged. “It’s not a lie if she makes it.”

Of that, Eppie did not doubt.

“What do you think of the script?” Eppie asked. Dr Cooper had invited Verna to come on board as a script doctor, so that Eppie’s slapped-together script could attain some genuine Shiloh choral authenticity.

“We’ll get there,” Verna told her. “And I’ll get you your young actors too. If you can get Kel, Kelly, or Lucia, we’ll have lines running out the door.”

Eppie could say nothing else.

Her peers were all putting their lives and careers on the line.

She was as well, only her life… was a little more literal than the others.

They had about five months until the theatre could officially be opened. Five months to find her theatre troupe, to find her technical crew, to have them learn to work together. Five months to finish and polish the script, then it was a race against time until their funds ran out.

The latter was no true obstacle, but writing songs purely for the purpose of money might also get on the [System]’s nerves. Thus far, every song had saved a soul, or contributed to the restoration of faith in humanity.

Hair Like Mine would be the litmus test of profitability—after all, for Eppie, having more [Causality] outweighed every other prerogative and priority.

She boxed the guitar and slipped into bed.

Now that the initial shock was over, it was surprisingly easy to forget about the money.

Instead, her mind was filled with the fact that her theatre was five months away.

While Utah… was next week.