CHAPTER 25
The Show at Café Independent
THE CAFÉ INDEPENDENT opening-night party was at full force. The Be-Flat Tires had completed their first set. Now, atop the platform, they were into their second. The whole room rocked with their sound. If anything, the band played better than during their first. Opening-night jitters were gone. They were playing together smoothly, listening to the grooves and beats, talking to one another, as it were, with their music. Sometimes Lugnut soloed, sometimes it was Dipstick, then it was Clutch. The music pulsed, the music soared, the music sang, the music danced.
The mice were enjoying themselves immensely. The floor was a rippling sea of bouncing, jumping, turning, wiggling, jiggling mice. Some had paws in the air. Others kept their eyes closed and moved as though in a trance. Tails waved low. Tails waved high. Some mice danced alone. Others danced in twos, threes, and even fours, paws touching, slapping, waving.
Not everyone was dancing. Some were on the side talking, telling jokes, listening, watching. Crumbs were eaten, nectar and water drunk. A few even slept.
Windshield was still at work on his mural, muttering under his breath, sending splotches of paint hither and thither, to his own immense satisfaction as well as the interest and amusement of those who took the time to watch. Foglight had found a quiet corner, where she worked on yet another poem.
As for Ragweed, after his singing debut—which was very well received—he stood on the fringes of the crowd, watching. From time to time he made his way to the security guards.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Way cool,” he heard from now one, now another of the guards. “Like, no problems.”
He examined the bolt hole upstairs and felt good about that.
He also checked the basement. Eyes closed, toes tapping, Bumper was sitting on the top step, dreamily listening to the music.
“Hey, dude, keep your eyes open,” Ragweed warned with some severity.
“I will,” returned the mouse. For a few moments after Ragweed had admonished him, Bumper did scrutinize the basement. All too quickly, however, he shifted his attention back to the music. Now and again he gave in to the temptation to close his eyes.
Ragweed, meanwhile, returned to the club upstairs, and for a while remained alone, off by a wall, watching the band perform. In particular he kept his eyes on Clutch. She was playing hard, head bobbing up and down, her face intense as her paws moved like summer lightning over the strings of her guitar, her lean, tall form vibrant with intensity.
Her fierceness fascinated Ragweed. At the same time he wasn’t sure he knew her very well at all. What he did know, however, is that he would like to know her better. Was that possible? he wondered, wishing he knew how she felt about him and about Blinker.
Maybe, he mused, Amperville was not such a bad place after all. Maybe he should stay. Yeah, he liked the Amperville scene.
It took a moment for him to realize that Clutch was now looking right at him. She winked. He grinned back. Then she beckoned him toward her. Ragweed made his way through the teeming crowd to the band.
“What’s up?” he called to her.
“Like, how about doing another number?” she shouted down to him.
“Sure,” he replied, and hoisted himself up onto the book. He stepped forward, listening to the music, letting it seep into his head. He looked at Clutch. She looked back. He had no doubt then how fond of her he was. Recalling the song of the train whistle on his ride to Amperville, he began to sing, using the long, low, mournful whistle sound.
“Been traveling loooooong,
Been traveling faaaaaaar,
Beginning to wonder just where I are.
Have gone to the mooooooon,
Have gone to the staaaaaar,
Wondering where I’m at on the calen-dar.
’Cause the world can be mean
Or the world can be nice
It all depends on where you’ve beeeeeeen.
All I know from all I’ve seeeeeeeen
Is I’ll put my hopes on the rockinnnnnng,
rooooooooolling mice!”
It was at that moment that Blinker burst through the front entry of the Café Independent. Disheveled, dirty, and exhausted, it was all he could do to stagger forward, open his mouth, and cry out, “Clutch! Silversides is coming! Save yourself.” Then he collapsed upon the floor.
The music stopped. The dancing ceased. Those nearest the prostrate Blinker backed away.
Clutch was the first to take action. She rushed over to the white mouse, knelt down, and gathered him up in her paws. “What, Blinker? What did you say?”
Blinker opened his eyes. “I’ve betrayed you. It’s Silversides and Graybar. They’re . . . coming to attack . . . through the sewer system. Make sure . . . you get away. I didn’t know what to do. Please forgive me. I love you, Clutch.” With those words, the white mouse fainted away. Slowly Clutch lowered Blinker to the ground; then she stood up on her hind legs and looked around.
“The cats are coming to attack us through the sewer system,” she said with a terrible calmness. “All you dudes be easy,” she called out. “No panic. Like, we’ve got plenty of time to escape. Head up the stairs to the bolt hole. Youngsters first.”
Then she bent down over Blinker again and nuzzled him.
The mice in the room fell utterly silent.
Ragweed stared at Clutch and Blinker. He did not know what to do. He felt like crying. He felt like screaming. But as he watched the milling mice begin to move upstairs, he felt a surge of desperate energy. What did he care now if he lived or died?
He jumped onto the platform. “No, wait!” he cried out to the mice. “You mustn’t go! Like, are you going to run away all your lives? Check it out, dudes, are you going to give in to F.E.A.R. again? Are you always going to think life means being on the defensive? Know what I’m saying, dudes? There are a lot of us! We outnumber them. We can stop them! Like, this is our time! Those who are
