Chapter 3: The Strawberry Set

Aster stood frozen, in total disbelief of the bustling plaza before her. Cars sped by the strip of park that separated the fountain from the street proper, their ruckus marrying with the buskers in the park to fill the area with a sense of life and commotion she'd never before experienced. Their exhaust billowed forth through the trees causing her a fit of coughing, her lungs virgin to petrol.

“Holy shit,” she wheezed, in the total throes of shock. What she saw was indiscernible from reality— every detail was so properly accounted for, every sense so perfectly and believably represented. Aster was no stranger to virtual reality— it had become the dominant mode of gaming and interaction in 2066, but this existed on an entirely different level.

A bitter winter wind blew through the park, sending a chill throughout Aster's ill-dressed self. She shivered violently, and set off with dazed steps in search of warmth.

Her thoughts dwelled on the Eden device.

“I used it,” she mumbled, ambling across the street. A horrific knot of malaise and dread was forming in her stomach. She was aware the line had been crossed.

A litany of questions plagued her shock-addled mind— Was usage of the device detectable? What was it currently simulating? What was going to happen when she left the simulation?

The latter thought led her to a realization that turned her blood cold.

She blinked, attempting to produce an AR screen. Nothing appeared.

Her stomach wretched in agony as she tried several more times, each unsuccessful.

Her eyes welled with tears. What the fuck? How am I supposed to get out then? she thought in horror.

Where the fuck am I supposed to go?

Her mind raced every which way as the world unfurled itself upon her as she continued to wander, her eyes locked and completely entranced on every singular thing as she made her way down the street. Every manner of antique garb or device she had only ever seen or read about in history books was now before her in unmistakably life-like detail. Little by little, her mind was relieved from its worry, if only temporarily, by her immense curiosity.

This has to be the sixties, right? She wondered, her eyes darting to everyone and everything she came across. Aster, a life-long fan of psychedelic rock, knew the trappings of the period like the back of her hand. It wasn't long before she passed the front of a television shop which made it clear.

She stopped, transfixed by the cathode-tube powered relics that bared hardly any resemblance to the holographic wall-projections that she was familiar with.

And now for your week in news, this first week of November, 1965, a talking head on one of the televisions announced.

Aster's world went silent.

Nineteen— sixty-five? she marveled, staggering back from the shop window.

It was in that moment that the situation became fully impressed upon Aster. Regardless of the dread that haunted her heart in using the device it was now stunningly clear to her that she was in the land of her dreams.

Her heart jumped with renewed vigor and urgency as she looked around, eagerly taking in her environment.

A couple of well-dressed men passed her, waxing on about how “this” performance wasn't bound to be as good since “they went electric”. A group of young girls followed in far noisier fashion, debating which one one of “them” was certainly the cutest and most suited for marriage. Aster was taken by their infectious excitement as she listened in, her eyes trailing them to their destination.

There, at the far end of the street was a large gathering of people piling into an old, brick laden bar. Wrought cast-iron signage and furnishings adorned the front of the building, a place the twisted iron lettering declared as “The Strawberry Set”. They funneled down its steps into a basement, the excited pitch of their conversation audible to even Aster who stood down the street. In that moment she was assuaged with a warmth which she had never felt before in her life. A total and pure comfort which melted every worry away into a sheet of bliss which laid upon her like the warmest blanket in that chilly winter town. For Aster had found it, she realized. The oasis of her worn heart— a live concert.

“Five dollars,” a man outside the door demanded of the first in line. They paid and were let in, moving Aster further up the queue she suddenly found herself in. Her heart jumped into her throat. She'd rarely seen physical money, much less ever used it. She fumbled through her person, hoping in the off chance that she had been given something. Her pockets were empty.

Her mind went blank as she fumbled through them again in desperation. Ahead of her the line continued to shrink, funneling down the brick steps into the bar's cellar while behind her more and more people began to line up. He's going to look at me like a fucking idiot, she thought, trying her best not to add crying in public to her list of worries.

Her body began trembling, the twin beasts of nausea and welling tears making themselves present in her gut. “Five dollars,” he once again demanded, this time to Aster, looking down at her from the bar stool which he perched upon. The very center of her soul was under siege by the white hot heat of the people in line's acknowledgment of her faux pas, she could tell. She tried desperately to stutter an apology in lieu of vomiting before she was cut off by a man behind her.

“It's no worry miss, I can cover for you!” the man declared in a prim falsetto, handing the doorkeeper a ten dollar bill. The jolly-faced middle-aged man looked as though he had wandered in from a different time himself— a powdered white wig hung snug atop his head, contrasting in smart fashion with the blueish-black petticoat he kept tightly wrapped around him.

People back then were this fancy? she marveled as he led her down the steps and into a large, dimly lit cellar. The smell of sweat and a burning rankness hung heavy from the high-vault ceilings of the venue, the air absolutely alive with the energy of the precious lives conjoined within it. Cold bottles of beer clattered against wooden counters as they passed around, cigarettes puffing high as far as the crowd could be seen. The clamor of discussion was so whole and enveloping it presented the room as one unified voice, occasionally pierced by the ear-shattering shrieks of teenage girls.

With great hesitance, and an even greater bout of excitement-fueled adrenaline Aster made her way to the back of the venue, where the crowd condensed. Those orange eyes twinkled like a playful ember as they fell upon the dimly lit stage, awash in cigarette smoke and humanity. Aster felt she held God in her veins.

The atmosphere's raucous pitch only seemed to be increasing in fervor, as people swayed to and fro upon one another as each tried to score a better scope of the small stage, whereupon a sketchy looking group of men were taking their positions.

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Ear-rending shrieks of the crowd announced their presence as they fully emerged, waving to a crowd which lapped against the stage like waves. They fiddled with their gear— tuning here, adjusting an amp there. Aster had never heard or seen other people play in the flesh, and so could barely contain the blistering excitement that was becoming manifest inside of her.

It was a state of mind she had never witnessed in herself before. The crowd dropped all pretense of anxiety it could give to her and in a hurried effort she began to make her way through the crowd, pushing aside screaming teen after screaming teen, determined to see this band as close as she possibly could. She reached the edge of the stage as they rang out the first chord, a C sharp flat third, which she thought was a nice choice, ushering in the song. They moved through the tune, the room turning to a fevered frenzy as the chorus closed in.

“And I'll ask to see you,” they harmonized, the girls screaming in utter hysteria as Aster was tossed side to side, her diminutive stature struggling to push back or fix her gaze upon the band for long. She shoved the teens aside, her brows furrowing in determination as her fiery persistence vaulted her through the sea of life to a spot at the front of the stage, where the crowd and amps bled into an ear-splitting roar.

She watched them transfixed and awash in sweat, her chest heaving. She was so completely captivated by the rawness and utter imperfection of the music being played before her— so unabashedly dirty and bathed in the smell of smoke and sweat that coated the cellar, that she had barely noticed she was part of this mass of humanity. Dozens of strangers encircled her, bouncing up against her body. The realization and its terrible awareness came in all at once, Moses parting the sea that was her ephemeral bliss. It occurred to her that the band themselves could possibly be looking down at her. That they could spot her. Her baggy eyes and disheveled hair on full display from the stage lights, she had no doubt of.

“No,” she stuttered to herself, her mind freezing up amidst the onslaught that was the amp's roar. Each thrust of another body against hers drove home the realization that she was trapped amongst them. “No, not fucking now. Not fucking NOW!” she cried to herself, crouching into a ball as the crowd continued to thrash her side to side. Her heart lept out of her chest at a rate that was painful, as her eyes flooded with tears.

Suddenly, a hand wrapped itself around her shoulder, her throat closing shut in response. She whirled around in terror and confusion, peering through the tears to see the jovial man from earlier. He was mouthing words to her that were lost to the cacophony that surrounded them, stolen by the most enveloping and perfectly whole loudness she had ever experienced. Aster knew it to be true, this was where she was going to die.

“Come with me!” he shouted into her ear, and began pulling her back through the crowd. Her eardrums pulsed and rang as he forded the wild expanse of people that engulfed them. Person by person they inched towards the cellar door, the noise and pandemonium that was oh so visceral and smothering finally beginning to fade.

They exited onto the street, Aster now solidly in the grasp of a panic attack. A group of beatniks strolled passed them on the cobblestone arguing the merits of a poetic refrain, lighting up a smoke as Aster gasped in between sobs.

“Miss, is everything alright?” the man asked with a deeply concerned look, handing Aster a handkerchief as she attempted to catch her breath. She wiped at her swollen eyes, trying to choke back her tears.

“Yeah, I'm fine. It was just a... a little stuffy in there,” she stuttered out in the most bold-faced awkward selling of a lie imaginable.

“Good heavens, I positively thought you were going to die! You were as white as a ghost!” he replied, chuckling. Aster frowned deeply at this and considered seriously just walking away from the man.

“Shall we get back to the concert then?” he asked, gesturing to the cellar stairs. Aster's heart sank. She wanted nothing more to do with this situation— the least of all anything to do with anymore strangers. This entire incident had left her entirely sure she was broken as far as she was concerned.

She shook her head in a negative.

“I'm such a fucking loser,” she thought, choking back tears. I couldn't even go and see a concert. Even here I'm a fucking failure, she thought in anguish, eyes welling up once again.

The man spoke up once again. “Well I am truly sorry miss, and I don't mean to make this a situation but— I put five dollars into your attendance. Not to mention five more dollars as well into the spot I currently have left vacant,” he said as he straightened out his neckerchief. Aster looked up to face him, but avoided making eye contact.

“I'm sorry. I didn't ask you to pay for me,” she stammered, her cheeks stained with fresh tears.

“Yes, but you didn't say no, did you?” he replied, leaning into the cane that she was now aware he had.

Aster choked, her heart beginning to race. She had only just arrived here, and had already found herself in a perilously aggressive situation. The man was unsatisfied, and she had no idea how to apologize. She was going to end up in prison, wasn't she?

What was prison like a hundred years ago? she wondered in terror. Prison was where those worst dredges of society were remolded, where those who would dare run counter to the greater peace were left to rot. She wouldn't survive.

A hell worse than her actuality was unfolding before her eyes she believed, something she had never even considered possible. She had succeeded in suicide she realized, though not through the means she wished. She began to sob.

“Miss! I do ask again, whatever is the matter?” he called out, handing her another handkerchief. Aster whimpered, blotting her eyes with it.

“I am not angry at all, do not worry!” he continued with a reassuring tone, though her sobbing grew only more profuse. The proper man looked around, cognizant of the ugly glances passersby were throwing him. Her crying grew louder.

“Say! How good are you with records?”

Aster looked up, her puffy eyes moving to meet his refined face.

“I'm not going to prison?” she muttered incredulously, sniffling.

“Prison?! He replied in astonishment, furrowing his brow. “Heavens no! I'm simply offering you the opportunity to pay off the ticket by working a day at my record shop tomorrow— down main street.”

Aster, her clothes drenched with sweat and freezing to the bone, merely stared in delirium at the man and uttered a single, non-answer— “Oh.”

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