Spit Lab

“In the 1920’s they called it a speakeasy, a place where illegal booze was sold and consumed during Prohibition. Often a doorman stood guard and required a calling card or the password for entry. In the event of a police raid he’d hold them off and signal back to the owner, who could try hiding their stash—or at least get a bribe put together.”

The small group of eight laughed and clapped. They were eclectic in all respects, including skin color, age, gender, and politics. They sat at a long Shaker table, the only piece of furniture in the room. The walls of the small apartment were unadorned by pictures or mirrors. Above the table the chandelier had been replaced by a rail of LEDs, so that the light was concentrated in the center of the room and the corners were dim.

The speaker stood at the head of the table. He was a young black man dressed in jeans and a Harvard sweatshirt. His face and body were lean, and his dark eyes intense. He sported an amazing afro. They knew him as Quotient.

“To you select spitters, welcome,” he announced. More applause followed.

“Thank you,” Quotient said. “I mean that. You’re special. You’re hand-picked. This is our speakeasy, the place we do what we want, what many might not want us to do. And what do we do? It’s all about the bars, the lyrics, and the freedom of expression. Social media’s already shutting down shit they don’t like. That’s not right. You’re not here because you agree with everything I say. I’m glad you don’t. I say let the best message win. Our motto: ‘an impenetrable fortress for invincible voices.’ I’ve been doing this shit for three years, and nobody knows who I am or where I am. Anonymity has given me power over the left, the right, anyone who opposes what I say. We’re going to live this motto and change the world. You been given the rules, but here they are again.”

He numbered the items with his hands. “New names for everyone. Your old rap life ends at this moment. Total secrecy. No internet or cellular in the Lab—phones off when you get within six blocks. That goes for smart watches and any other damned thing. Leave ‘em home. Untethered laptops are OK. Paper and pencil work, too, by the way. Everybody understand?”

A white rapper called Bad Tom broke the silence. “Yo, Q, you seen this?” He spun his opened laptop around. It was queued up to a video, labeled “Daily Presser.”

“Man, didn’t I just tell you—”

“Naw, man, I ripped this from You Tube this morning,” Tom said. “I’m not connected. I swear it’s clean. Watch.”

The video was taken from the President’s daily news conference about the current viral pandemic. A reporter was challenging the president about his cultural sensitivity.

“Mr. President, there have been reports about White House officials blaming China for the virus and calling it the ‘Kung Flu.’ Do you condone this?”

“Which officials?”

“I don’t know exactly who, but—”

“More fake news. Next question.”

The reporter persisted over the myriad of other voices vying for attention. “Sir, the mysterious but popular Catholic rapper called Quotient has published a verse that challenges your credentials as a pro-life Republican. What do you say about that?”

“A rap song? About me?”

“It’s not his first one.”

The President shrugged. “Is it good?”

She consulted her tablet. “Here’s the line, sir. He says,

‘Mister Orange, Mister Orange, about your distortion

Of this abhorrence known as abortion

Last week you chortled and said you’re a choicer

Or at least had doubts ‘bout its importance

On balance I’d say more a tight-rope performer

Damn, whore, you’ll court anybody for a quarter!

How you keep all this sordid shit sorted?’—sorry, sir, I’m just reading it.

‘So with this contortion it can’t get any worse then.

Guess we shut door on you supportin’ all those babies in danger mortal.’

It goes on, sir. Any thing you want to say about it?”

“To be honest it sounds like Doctor Seuss, but it’s catchy,” the President responded. The video froze on the last frame as he smiled broadly and shrugged.

“Nobody’s immune,” Quotient said with a grim smile. “OK, follow me.”

He led them into what was previously the bedroom but was transformed into a recording studio. “You work on your material out there, you record and mix in here. Here’s how it’s done...”

Collaborations were fine but only with other members. Nothing or no one from outside. The studio was first come, first serve for up to two hours at a time. Nobody got censored. Any personal, political, or ideological beefs were settled outside and left there. All finished raps were loaded on scrubbed thumb drives and distributed physically by non-return-labeled mail to radio stations and You Tubers. No uploads until further notice. No exceptions. Quotient already had deals with many of the top social media reactors to share income from his songs through bank accounts to which he had access. They had paid for the studio. He had assurances that similar deals were possible with the other members. Limited video production was allowed but only if faces were covered.

“On top of that, from now on I’m splitting my income,” he told them. “Half to me, half divided equally among you. I’m getting two hundred million listens a month. Individuals keep their own income and collaborations can agree on their own terms. Simple.”

He motioned them back into the main room and they resumed their places at the table.

“Finally, I can kick out any member at any time, no questions. Period. And if anyone, for any reason, tries to burn me, I’ll make it my mission in life to destroy them—their career, their life, their family. And I know how.”

From his back pocket he pulled out a miniature tape recorder and pushed PLAY. Bach’s Toccata and Fugue began. Quotient’s body swayed and bounced, and he began to rap to the music.

“Time to bring ya shit, man, cuz shit, man, what else ya gonna do, get mad?

Break ya fist bad, hittin’ it on a brick slab? Get lit wit a couple grit grams?

Face the corner and sit sad, and quit with ya lip fat? Don’t ya think that’s a bit drab?

Quotient done the ‘rithme- tic and, let me sum it forya and quick add

I’m ‘bout to take the stick back, some James Brown git back

Gonna rip dat, scab off them poli- tic hacks,

And do it all with my Catho- lick rap

Now... who’s in the Spit Lab?”

Hands went up around the table.

“It’s begun, then,” Quotient announced. “I hereby adjourn the inaugural meeting of the Spit Lab. Time to shake some shit up. An impenetrable fortress for invincible voices.”