Something Authentic | Story, Audio, and NFTs
Something Authentic is an NFT short story written by Joe Hannan, told by a robot, and set to random generative music sculpted by Andrew Wilkinson (aka data_wolf). Listen to Something Authentic on Apple Podcasts and Spotify., or read it below.
The crumbling leather case smelled like unwashed dog. It coughed clouds of dust into my face when I moved with the line. Ahead, some codger with a gramophone. Behind, some old bird with a Singer sewing machine. Junk. I knew it. I came with something real, something with a story, something that meant something old and important. They had storage-locker scraps.
Four more to go.
He’s up there barking under the white TV lights. Sweating. I can see the pancake makeup balling up on his forehead. Doing what it’s supposed to do, I guess. He’s barking, but it’s a little dog’s bark. A little dog’s bark for a little man. He’s a dream killer, a real SOB. All about worth. It’s worth a lot, or it’s worthless. If it’s worth something, tell me something good about it. That’s how he plays.
I’m watching him dismantle some geezer in coveralls. He came riding up on an old McCormick tractor. Fire-engine red and puffing smoke. Made my heart stop when he started it, to think of the fields it knew, the bones it turned up. Dinosaur bones.
He whined his little wheeze laugh, the little barker.
Mass-produced, he says. Thousands of these! And in better condition! Did you check eBay before you came? I mean, it’s beautiful, I’ll give you that. But, I don’t know. $5,000? That’s about it, my friend. Love what you done with it, though!
The geezer rides away, waving his hand. Farewell, goodbye! There’s only room on the seat for one or I’d join.
Three more to go.
The old bird behind me is coughing now and the codger ahead is doing the pee pirouette. The producers are cracking wise and little barker is pouring sweat. He’s in a lather, claws out and slashing. The wheel on the old lady’s Singer is turning, turning. The old man shifts from foot to foot trying to take the pressure off his bladder and the termite-eaten wood of the gramophone is creaking. I lift the case lid and it smells like my daddy’s study. I pluck a string and an A rings out on the line. The producers glare and I slap the case shut.
A Mexican’s under the lights now. He digs into the pockets of his ripped jeans and pulls out a fistful of something gold. I can tell it’s gold because the TV lights reflect gold back onto their faces.
Monedas de oro Azteca, he says. I don’t need no translator. I nearly jump the line to see for myself. Now there’s something worth seeing, a story worth telling. Hell, I’m telling you now!
Little Barker pulls in a translator from off camera. College boy. Fat. He puts down the grip and hustles over.
¿De donde?
Teotihuacan, he says. It needs no translation.
Barker perks up. Let me see ‘em.
Dales, por favor.
Barker daubs on a few drops of what can only be vinegar and the color stays. We’re all silent now. I can hear the chattering of the Singer wheel in the breeze, the squawking of the gramophone lid. Can they hear ‘em out in TV land?
Autenticas?
Solo si tu crees, the Mexican says. He palms the coins and stuffs the snarling skulls back into his jeans and smiles, winks for the camera. He kicks dirt on little barker’s boots and walks across the dusty lot to the parked cars and trucks.
Two more to go.
A leathery man clutching a framed newspaper steps into the glare of the lights. He looks from side to side, clutching the paper to his chest.
You gonna show it to me?, the barker asks.
Leathery man holds out his hands, like he just got caught by his mom stealing from the Sunday collection basket. There it is, in screaming, bold print. Gore wins.
A first edition, he says.
What do you know about newspapers?, barker asks.
I know to read ‘em. And I know this one was wrong.
You know how many others were wrong?, barker asks.
Well, I think maybe a few other national papers called it for Gore before they took it back.
Right, barker says. But you know how many New York Posts got it wrong?
Leathery man shrugs.
Thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Maybe millions. You know what makes something worth something?, barker asks. I’m so close I can see the spittle clinging to the side of his lips. You don’t see that on TV. Scarcity, the little barker says. Scarcity. This ain’t scarce, I’m afraid. Might get five dollars for it at some yard sale. But hey, maybe it’s worth something to you.
Leathery man wilts and gets shoved off camera by little barker’s handlers. They look ready to pick the rags from his bones and they shake their heads in dismay as he blows off camera.
One more to go.
The old man with the gramophone. He’s still hopping from foot to foot. Can practically see his bladder distending his pants. At least, that’s what I hope it is. I’m just praying he doesn’t fuckin’ drop it on live TV. The ornate tin bell, tarnished, is a spiderweb of filigree. Barker sizes up the codger. Just as easy as the newspaper.
It works?, barker asks.
The producers scurry for a table and the codger sets it down. The needle creaks open like a coffin lid and the codger goes to work on the crank like an old well pump. And out comes something from the past, maybe Bessie Smith or Ma Rainey. It’s got dust and land and blood in its voice and it’s beautiful. I’m looking around and everyone just looks annoyed. Does anyone hear it? To think a slab of wax could hold all that pain in those grooves. It stones me but the little barker is unmoved.
A few thousand, he says. Great condition, I’ll give you that.
The codger looks mad enough to spit but he runs off set looking for a bathroom.
No more to go.
The producers wave me forward. From the side the set looked like a Roman ruin but up close I can see how packed it is. Outside of the lights are faces with prying eyes, waiting to see you fall to the little barker’s claws. The mandolin case is creaking and blowing dust in my eyes and I want to rub them but it’ll only make me look stoned on TV and I don’t want mom to see that.
What is it?, the little barker asks. His breath smells like tuna but his teeth are clean for the camera.
It’s all that’s left of my great-great grandad, I say. I flip open the case and show him the Gibson mandolin. Made in 1901, I say. And before you poo-poo it, let me tell you it’s story.
The little barker laughs a tuna laugh and I tell it quick as I can.
This Mandolin, you’ll hear it on The Basement Tapes. Bob Dylan’s Basement Tapes. This Mandolin, my great-great grandad—a professional boxer and vaudevillian—played it on the radio. Then he pawned it in Paterson and Levon Helm bought it on his way through after a show at the Palace on Main. The man at the pawn shop told him it’s story—owned by a boxer and singer named Charlie Costello. Then he gave it to Bobby after they made the Basement Tapes. Well, I became a roadie for Mr. Zimmerman during Rolling Thunder and one night he asked me where I was from. And well, you can guess the rest. You can hear it on Goin’ To Acapulco. And brother that’s exactly where I’m goin’ after you tell me how much it’s worth, I say. But, you already know that. You saw it on the TV.
Well, the little barker sonofabitch laughs and says, How can you prove it?
And I said, just listen to it. Ain’t no mandolin sounds like this one.
I play a few bars for him on the relic and you can smell that Woodstock basement mildew rising from inside it. It’s got a voice like Billie Holiday coming through a old tube radio. But he doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t hear anything. He just smiles for the goddamn camera.
I’m sorry, he says. Without a certificate of authenticity, it’s one among thousands.
Not you, though, I say.
#
I go out to the dusty parking lot and feel like kicking a hole in the sun. Is something worth anything if it hasn’t got any dreams in it? I don’t know and that’s probably why I’m poor.
I see the Mexican. He’s about to drive away in an immaculate, cobalt blue Impala. A ’77. I flag him down and walk over. He’s got the windows down.
Yo creo, I tell him. Yo creo.
He smiles. He’s got a few gold teeth and he studs a Marlboro between them and lights up.
¿Te gustaría ver?
Absolutamente.
He blows some smoke and puts those precious coins into my hand and I can feel the heat of an ancient sun in them. Flint knives and human sacrifices for the harvest. I can see technicolor ancient mysteries. And you know what else? I can see pride. Pride. Craftsmanship. I can hear stories—stories well told. Stories that people remember and tell and remember and tell again.
Dime, I tell ‘em. Por favor.
No señor. He says. La magia se pierde en la narración.
I hand them back and as I’m doing it, I hear the McCormick sputter to life.
That a ’50?, I call out to the old-timer driver.
Forty-six, he calls back. He lumbers toward us through the smoke. The Mexican climbs out of the Chevy and takes off his hat. He’s got his long, black hair tied up behind his head and I know now that he’s una indígena. He’s got the earth in him and he’s the kind of man who can love a tractor. I grab the mandolin and without thinking, both of us climb aboard.
I straddle the frame like a horse and the codger drives. The Mexican he stands on the side rail and holds on. I start playing Goin’ to Acapulco and the Mexican whistles a melody of his own creation. Something ancient to him and new to us. The churning knobby tires on the McCormick, they’re the rhythm section. Clack-clack-clack-crunch. Clack-clack-clack-crunch.
I can see the TV lights again and the woman with the Singer, its wheel still spinning. The little barker is undressing her. Another mass-produced nothing. He sees the tractor.
A hundred feet to go.
The producers get jumpy. The fat one who spoke Spanish whispers to his compañeros.
Seventy-five feet to go.
Little barker waves the old lady away. She exits stage right.
Fifty feet to go.
The McCormick is under the tent and people are parting like we’re pulling a plow.
Twenty-five feet to go.
The producers bolt.
Fifteen feet to go.
The cameras go under the wheels and the lens glass shatters like a cymbal crash. Clack-clack-clack-crunch. Clack-clack-clack-crunch-SPLASH.
Five feet to go.
Little barker decides what he’s seeing is real.
