An anomaly in the sleeping young man's environment made his sleep shallow as deeper senses cast about for what was out of place.

Bacon.

The young man blinked, and sat up. He glanced at the clock; seven thirty. In the morning. He sniffed; sure enough, bacon. Swinging his legs out of bed, he rose and padded soundlessly to the bedroom door. Peeking out, he saw the blazing red hair of an attractive woman who stood at the stove with her back to him.

He grinned.

Then he blinked in confusion. Strolling out into his kitchenette living room, he cleared his throat. "Is it Wednesday or what?" he asked.

"It is Wednesday," she replied, fresh hissing rising from the pan as she turned the bacon. She wore dish washing gloves, a tee shirt, and hip hugging jeans that did justice to the curvaceous womanly shapes that filled them out.

"You still work at Doctor Medford's office, right?" he pressed on, trying to sort his morning out.

"Yes," she nodded. "But I work part time and get Wednesdays off. You've forgotten what's going on today, haven't you," she added matter-of-factly.

He froze. Flashed through dates; birthday, anniversary of first date, day she got her cat. Nothing came up. He swallowed hard, fear chilling him for a moment.

"You know me well enough," he said casually, "that there's absolutely no point in me playing for time until I remember. So you better just tell me what's special about Wednesday, September twenty fourth."

"Tandy's having auditions for her band today," the redhead said with a mischievous grin. She plucked the bacon out of the pan with tongs and laid the strips on the folded paper towels in the bowl. "I agreed to be Head Groupie." She turned and looked him over, taking in the lanky young man with tousled hair, wandering over the pajamas he slept in. "Well worth the effort of getting up to come over, I'd say," she murmured.

"Hoo. You make me feel all naked when you do that, Mary Jane Watson," the young man grinned with a shiver.

"We don't have time for me to make you all naked, Peter Parker," she replied, turning her back on him as she grinned broadly. "And I didn't make you breakfast. I just cooked bacon. Guaranteed to get any man out of bed to investigate. I know what happens to your alarm clock when it wakes you up. I don't want that to be me."

"Yeah," he sighed as he sat at the table. "We're suckers for bacon. Gimmie."

She put the bowl down on the table in front of Peter and she pulled the gloves off. "Okay. You're about to start wondering how this involves you."

"A step ahead of me all the way," he said in simulated slack-jawed awe.

"Groupies sometimes need to lift heavy things," she said with a dazzling smile. "You came to mind as someone who could be useful for hefting amps."

"I knew it," he muttered confidentially to his bacon. "She just wants me for my body."

"I stand revealed," she said playfully, leaning back with a wicked grin.

"I thought you said there wasn't time for that," he said innocently.

She chuckled. "So, how did your photo shoot go yesterday?" she asked.

"Dull!" Peter said. He grabbed a strip of bacon and folded it into his mouth. "Glamor models bore me senseless. I will never do a fashion shoot again. I'm gonna stick to taking pictures for the Planetary and maybe some freelance." He shrugged. "I'm not sure I can make it as a photographer," he sighed.

"You could at least pretend to chew the bacon," Mary Jane noted as another strip disappeared.

"Bah," Peter said.

"You are a man in serious need of a hobby," Mary Jane said thoughtfully. "Besides swinging around the city in tights righting wrongs and punishing evildoers."

"Hey," Peter said. "Watch it. You cooked me bacon, but that's not carte blanche to caricature my highly complex and sensitive lifestyle."

"Right," Mary Jane said dryly. "Anyway, I thought maybe you'd get a kick out of hanging out with the band."

"Who's Tandy got so far?" Peter asked as another strip absented itself from the bowl.

"Well, she's doing keyboards and vocals," Mary Jane said, watching the bacon vanish. "Tyrone's got guitar. She needs a couple more people, but unless there are a few rock stars in the rough there she's gonna settle for four."

"Holy cow," Peter muttered as the last of the bacon evaporated.

"And I figure they need a photographer."

"Hang on," Peter said. "Am I supposed to carry heavy things or snap pictures?"

"Garage bands can't afford that kind of division of labor," Mary Jane said primly. "So get dressed. I want to go in about ten minutes."

"What if I have to powder my nose?" Peter asked innocently.

"That's what the visor mirrors are for," Mary Jane replied, deadpan.

"Right. So is the acid grunge thing still in, or do I go preppie?" Peter muttered, massaging his forehead. "Music. I just can't keep up."

"Jeans and a tee shirt, Peter," Mary Jane said. "Never out of place."

"Wow," Peter said with a grin. "You may have just changed my life."

"Clock's tickin, wise guy," Mary Jane said, referencing her watch as Peter got up and padded into the bedroom.

xXx

Peter finished tightening the wingnut on the stand of the tom drum, next to the snare and under the cymbal. He straightened, dusting his hands off. "Is that the way those are supposed to go?" he asked the slouching teenager with long hair.

"Yeah," the teen nodded. "Where's the beer?"

"I, uh, don't think there's any beer," Peter said. "Go ask Tyrone." He pointed at a tall skinny black kid who was tightening the adjusted mike stand.

"So Peter," a bouncy blonde with a huge grin said as she trotted up to him, "how do you like being a groupie?"

"No shortage of heavy stuff to lift," he said with a shrug, "and I'm an expert on duct taping cords to the floor, so I guess I'm a natural." He glanced around. "There's no beer here, is there?"

"Tandy wouldn't approve," Gwen said with a stern look. "Are we ready to start the auditions for drummers?"

"I guess," Peter shrugged. "This is the first time I've set up a… trap? They call 'em traps?"

"A drum set, sure," Gwen shrugged. She picked up her clipboard off a speaker. "I've been looking for this," she said. "Ah, Tandy wanted to audition bass guitarists first. Is it one o'clock yet?"

"In about five minutes," Peter said, glancing around so he could pretend he consulted a clock.

Tandy opened the door from the house and stepped down into the spacious three car garage that was open to the pleasant September afternoon. She smiled at the group that had already begun to assemble. Her pale blonde hair was back in a ponytail, and her taut dancer's body sported a midriff baring shirt and biker shorts, white canvas shoes on her feet. "Okay, people," she said in her smooth quiet voice, a smile in her eyes. "We ready to kick this thing off?"

Mary Jane strolled in. "We got a couple people here to try for fit with the bass guitar," she said. "I've got them lined up, so if you and Tyrone want to get ready then we can start checking them out."

"Right," Tandy said. She walked over to the keyboard on a frame stand, and she flicked it on, played a few chords. Tyrone grinned at her, slung on his guitar, and jammed a couple riffs, plunked out a few chords, adjusted his strings a bit.

"Ready?" Tandy asked him.

"B-bring-g em on," he said with a grin.

"Okay, let's have the first one," Tandy said. Mary Jane made a check on her clipboard and scampered out to the driveway. Peter followed.

On the driveway there were three park benches and a few lawn chairs. About ten people were lounging around, rummaging the coolers with ice and pop and bottled water, or playing Frisbee on the palatial front lawn of the Bowen Estate.

"Todd," Mary Jane called out. "You're up."

A pudgy teenager with bad acne and a buzz cut picked up his duct taped guitar and followed Mary Jane into the garage. He had a Slipknot bumper sticker on the front of the black guitar and a Metallica logo on the back. He shuffled in and nodded to Tandy and Tyrone.

"Todd, hello," Tandy said with a nod. "You ready to make some tunes?"

"You bet," he said. "You guys do death metal, right?" he prodded, his voice thick and wheezy.

"Not so much," Tandy said with a glance at Tyrone. "I figure I'd write most of the songs, and we're sort of thinking in a more alternative pop direction."

"I'll change your minds," Todd said with a grin. He plugged into an amp, quickly tuned, then started chugging out heavy massive chords, slamming on the guitar as he jerked it up and down, grunting as he mashed out blocks of noise as he swung the neck of the guitar back and forth.

Tandy politely let him finish. "We were thinking something with a little more agility and finesse," she said. "But that can serve for backup. Let's try 'Mary Had a Little Lamb,'" she said.

"What?" Todd said, dumbfounded.

"Just try to keep up," Tandy said. She rolled out a jazzy chord, then started whirling around a syncopated tune loosely based on Mary Had a Little Lamb as Tyrone jammed along the theme. Todd snorted in disbelief, then turned and marched out of the garage.

"I don't think he'd be a good fit," Tandy said with a straight face. Tyrone giggled as he tuned his guitar; using the whammy bar on the grand finale had bent his pitch ever so slightly.

"D-definitely g-gonna n-n-need more humor f-for us," Tyrone said.

"Next victim," Mary Jane said brightly, "Anita." The guitarist slouched in, her hair under a Sox cap, wearing a Three Doors Down shirt.

"Y-you r-ready?" Tyrone said.

"D-duh," Anita said, and she snorted as she giggled.

"Next," Tandy said coldly, fixing Anita with a look.

"You haven't even heard me play!" Anita protested.

"No need," Tandy said. "Next."

"There isn't anybody else," Anita snapped. "I'm outta here."

She stormed out, and a couple others left with her.

"Nobody else here for bass guitar?" Tandy said.

Gwen checked her clipboard. "Mostly drummers," she noted. "And a violin player." Tandy, Tyrone, Mary Jane, and Peter blinked as they looked at Gwen.

"Okay," Tandy said carefully, "I guess a violin player could be cool."

"Mary Jane used to play bass guitar," Gwen said helpfully.

"Really?" Tandy said. "I didn't know!"

"That was in high school," Mary Jane said, fixing a look on Gwen. "I'm sure I don't remember how."

"You've g-got to b-be better th-than them," Tyrone said, jerking a thumb down the driveway. "C-c'mon!"

"Mary had a Little Lamb, key of G," Tandy said with a wide smile as Gwen picked up a bass guitar and handed it to Mary Jane.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Mary Jane said under her breath as she caught Peter's eye. He was grinning, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. She blushed furiously, cleared her throat, and plugged the guitar in.

She strummed chords in the background as Tandy and Tyrone had their way with the nursery rhyme, and by the end of it she was no longer bright pink, she was positively crimson.

"Y-your in!" Tyrone said triumphantly.

"Want the part?" grinned Tandy.

"Do it! Do it!" Gwen said happily.

Peter hid his smile behind his hand as he chuckled.

"I can't believe this," Mary Jane said, trying not to look thrilled. "Okay, fine," she grumped. "I'll be in your band."

"Time to get drummers. You can stay here, MJ," Gwen said. She scampered out to the driveway.

xXx

"Well, whaddya think," Mary Jane said, slinging her guitar off as the sixth applicant to be drummer in the band slouched out.

Tandy sighed and touched her fingertips to her eyes. "Hm. At least the last fellow could keep time. The two before him just couldn't keep the beat steady."

"I th-think-k the g-g-guy w-with dr-jr-jreadlocks did good," Tyrone managed.

"Not sure about the howling while he plays, though," Mary Jane said, "and he reeked of pot."

"Can you believe the first guy?" Tandy said. "He showed up to the audition high. What makes people do stuff like that?"

Peter idly listened to them as he relaxed in a lawn chair, looking out over the driveway and the handful of applicants that remained. He felt oddly at peace with himself and the world, comfortable in the chair, his responsibilities and worries in the far back of his mind.

That's because that horrible bashing stopped, snitted a distinct thought pattern in his mind that was only slightly his; the spider id, the expression of the powers that lurked beneath the placid exterior of mild-mannered Peter Parker.

He chuckled. "As you say, it stopped. Get over it."

Musn't do that again, the spider ghost whispered to him. Musn't let them hit the drums so poorly. It hurts me. It is wrong. There is no rhythm there. They are worthless.

" You are endangering my groupiehood, if you can't listen to the music. If it's too loud, you're too old."

Volume isn't the issue, grumped the spider ghost, then it subsided.

"What do you think, Peter?" Gwen said from the other side of the garage.

"Me?" Peter said, surprised. "No opinion. I'm a groupie. Me carry heavy stuff. Tape down cords." He grinned. "Snap pictures."

They returned to the conversation, and Peter relaxed again.

Let's show them, whispered the spider ghost.

"Show them what?" Peter muttered, glancing up at the endlessly blue September afternoon sky.

Show them rhythm.

"Bah," Peter said. "Let them have their band."

Peter felt no impression of words, just a general sensation of sulking. He sighed deeply. "If I do this, I get more than four hours of sleep tonight, okay?" he said to himself.

Deal.

"And we're just showboating. Just this once."

The spider ghost laughed at him as it usually did any time he said 'just this once.'

Peter stood up and casually strolled over to the drum set. His senses played over it, memorizing the tensile strength of the drum heads, the spatial relation of all the striking surfaces, the resonant pitches. He picked up the drumsticks, experimentally tapped one of the heads. Felt a shiver roll through his subconscious. The spider ghost kept track of the time by cross referencing the second increment against the moving target of his heartbeat. It could find an opening in a strobe of defense. It could swing across a city choosing anchor points and accounting for the variables of wind speed and velocity. It lived, breathed, and fed on pattern.

It was too late not to sit down.

"P.S," Peter said quietly to his spider ghost. "We're with MJ now so you can't like Tandy anymore."

If the spider ghost could have made a rude noise it would have, but Peter didn't let that kind of expression out. Instead, he let his adhesives grip and release the drumsticks. He spun them once. He had a vague feeling if he let the spider ghost taste this experience there would be no going back. But he was past the point of no return.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Ratta tatta tap. He paused as the drumbeats reverberated through the web of veins, arteries, and tangled nerves of his body. Something was waking up.

"C'mon," Peter said to Tandy and Tyrone. "Mary Had a Little Lamb. From the top." He grinned. Mary Jane's eyebrow shot up and she slung on the guitar, answering his grin. Gwen squeaked with laughter.

Tandy opened it up with a one finger rendition, then dropped into a jazzy chord, and Peter slapped at one drum and suddenly it wasn't enough. The stick spun in his hand of its own volition and whipped across three drum heads before he fully knew what was going on. Wisely, Peter took a back seat, and the spider ghost gleamed out of his eyes.

The drums held the music, teased it, stung it, wrapped around it subtly without taking over, played with the guitars and keyboard as though they were toys. Peter felt the thin heady rush that coursed through him when he was flying through the air upside down; his talents expressed themselves in the rhythm, pushing back on the world, choosing the very best openings.

They wrapped up, and all the other drummers were standing in the doorway to the garage staring at Peter. He couldn't help himself. The spider ghost wanted a drum solo.

Who was he to stop it?

The sticks rapped, bounced, and whirled across the drums, spinning and twirling and spattering impacts across all the surfaces, sending a wild wave of sound rolling out from the precisely touched instruments. His strength made it effortless, and he closed his eyes since his senses still knew where each and every instrument was. His hands whirled as his foot bounced on the pedal, thudding out the baseline. Then he massaged the cymbal with the two drumsticks, swelling up to a crescendo and then leaning back on the squat drummer stool, feeling somewhat spent.

"I th-think-k s-somebody's b-been h-holding out on us," Tyrone said, wide eyed.

"You drum like you dance, hot shot," Tandy said, somewhat awed.

Mary Jane just grinned at him and shook her head, while Gwen was slack jawed in wonder.

"You guys suck," one of the drummer applicants said in disgust. He turned and left. Several others did too, throwing their pop cans on the lawn. Two were left, wide eyed.

"Dude, you are Kenny Moon reincarnated," one said.

"Thanks guys, auditions are over, slot's filled," Gwen said, shooing at them.

"But you guys haven't picked me yet. And I'm not sure I have the time," Peter said, foundering around for reasons as his spider ghost reveled in the afterglow of the networking of sound and impact.

"You are a freelance photographer," Mary Jane said sternly, "and your girlfriend told you that you are going to be in her band, even if you rock and she sucks at this."

"I guess I can't argue with that," Peter said sheepishly.

"Well, Peter Parker," Tandy said with a grin, "Welcome to the band."