Broken Birdie Chirpin Page 6
I’d nearly cleared Dumfries Alley when a horrible screech ripped through the afternoon air. Utter exhaustion prevented me from reacting properly. It became evident, however, that I was about to be struck by a jam jar. A few short thumps later I came to a complete stop on its warm roof. I was sprawled out facedown like a starfish. Everything hurt. It didn’t seem, however, that any new pain had emerged. If anything I felt relieved to be off my feet for a bit.
“Are you alright?” Some geezer was staring at me through his bifocals. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes.” I started to ease myself off the vehicle.
“I am not sure you should be moving. I can call an ambulance.” The geezer seemed to be overreacting as he unsheathed his mobile device. The impact had been light, and I only looked miserable on account of my pre-accident heart attack.
“I’m alright. I’ve just got to get home.”
“Are you certain?” I nodded in the affirmative. “I’m very sorry. By the time I saw you and stepped on the brakes it was too late. Please let me give you a lift home?” A lucky break had just come barreling into me.
“Sure. Thanks.” He opened the door for me as if I was some sort of invalid, and I slid my sweaty arse onto the plush leather seat. The bloke was either very kindly or else terrified that I’d ring up Mr. Solicitor on account of my severe and permanent physical injuries. Either way, the marathon had reached its conclusion.
Silence prevailed during the five minute journey except for some dated rhythm and blues playing softly in the background. I appreciated that he didn’t bombard me with idle chatter. He spoke up, however, as we pulled up to my house. “Let me give you my business card in case you or your parents need to reach me. I don’t shirk responsibilities.” I glanced at it briefly as he made the handoff. Bloody hell. The chances of this particular encounter must’ve been astronomical.
“You’re Mr. Surtees from Tremaine’s Guitar Shop. I stopped by your shop on Saturday looking for work. The sales associate was horribly unpleasant. I asked to speak with you and he told me to sod off. And now you just ran me over with your car.”
“Looks like you’ve got some leverage now, eh?”
“On account of my broken back?”
“Are you some sort of junior solicitor? Well, I won’t be browbeaten by the likes of you, son. I’ve got a minotaur in a spacesuit over in Mayfair who costs more per hour than you’re worth. Nevertheless, I did run you down and I do need some assistance around the shop. Nothing posh, however.”
“I’ll do whatever.”
“What? Are you done negotiating already? In that case, I need someone to sweep, vacuum, dust, polish, etc. We’ll have to work out all of the nitty gritty of course. You still interested?”
“Right. I am.”
“Jolly. You can swing by the shop tomorrow afternoon and we’ll discuss hours, pay, expectations. Blah, blah, blah. That is, of course, if you don’t wake up a quadriplegic.”
“I’ll manage.” I hobbled through the garden like an uneven wildebeest. It was mostly done for the benefit of Mr. Surtees.
I informed dad of my employment just before supper so as to avoid any mealtime mockery from brother. The manner in which I landed the job remained shrouded in secrecy, however, because it’d be better if dad believed my skills and qualifications were the primary reasons for my success. He seemed pleasantly surprised that I’d complied with his mandate so speedily. He even granted me a reprieve from the shackles of house arrest so that I could meet with Mr. Surtees the following day. Dad genuinely hoped this opportunity represented the first stage of rehabilitation from embarrassing ne'er-do-well to upstanding citizen. His hopes would soon be dashed, however, because it became just another part of my rock n’ roll fantasy.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Skeffington had been charged with arranging a sit down with our rhythm section to discuss the future of the band. The only sliver of availability in their busy schedule was during a gig at The Cloak and Cucumber Café in Muswell Hill that evening. I’d have to sneak out through my bedroom window since I couldn’t bloody well stroll out the front door. The consequences of being discovered were unthinkable.
“There’s no other way, mate. You’re under house arrest for the next ten blooming years.” Skeffington had been indirectly being penalized by Il Duce and it irked him. He didn’t want to lose an inch of the momentum we’d gained vis-à-vis the spring dance and neither did I. That was the only reason I considered his treasonous proposal.
“Right. I’ll do it then.”
“Brilliant. Let’s try not to appear too desperate. Remember, there are other quality blokes out there who would trade their left plums to join our ranks.”
“Name one.”
“Donnie Fitzgibbons.” I knew Mr. Fitzgibbons had been in Skeffington’s ear ever since tryouts. He apparently wasn’t just a flashy attention-snaffling lead vocalist. He could slap bass as well. Skeffington had never heard him play first hand of course, but took it on faith alone that he was butter. I remained rather skeptical.
“I want Lincoln and Frisby. If they’re too thick to want us right back, then we can discuss alternatives, alright?”
“Fair enough, mate.” Skeffington could be stubborn but he wasn’t daft.
That afternoon I swung by Tremaine’s Guitar Shop for my meeting with Mr. Surtees. I rather enjoyed strutting around the shop with my bonce held high. The tosser who’d booted me just days before spotted me right off. His exasperation made it clear that he knew the drill. He acknowledged my presence with a nod before disappearing into the back. He remerged seconds later with Mr. Surtees by his side.
Mr. Surtees carried a calculator in one hand and a Brandy Alexander in the other. “No props? How disappointing! A neck brace or cane would’ve been the perfect touch. Oh, well, now I’ll have to fleece you of course.” Ten minutes later the terms of my employment had been painstakingly negotiated. We shook hands. It was my first and only real job.
I carried out my afternoon sentence at the kitchen table like an angel. Supper also seemed rather pleasant on account of my successful meeting with Mr. Surtees. I even washed the dishes with extraordinary vigor and dried them spot-free. I’d been riding a tsunami of goodwill. It was all for show of course because Mephistopheles himself lurked behind the shadows plotting a dastardly escape.
Everyone finally began settling into their nightly groove. Mum hunkered down in her favorite chair with a tawdry romance novel. Dad and brother plopped in front of the telly with their lemon curd. I slipped into my bedroom and shut the door. Escaping while the clan was wide awake constituted a high risk maneuver that only cornered prey would attempt. Up and over: It was time to save Rip Churchill.
Skeffington and I arrived at The Cloak and Cucumber Café at approximately 8:45 p.m. A mostly crunchy lady crooner was fluffing the crowd with some low-key acoustic material. Peace is love. Free the whales. Blah, blah, blah. We settled into a table near the stage and waited patiently for her set to conclude. Two painfully affected songs later she disappeared from our lives forever. The buzz within the café immediately began to increase as anticipation for the headliner replaced lethargy.
Boom. The dimly lit stage was suddenly awash in multi-color. A bright yellow beam shone directly on the face of Lincoln’s bass drum. I hadn’t seen this particular kit since the first time we met in his garage. The stenciled orange lettering was unmistakable. We were at The Cloak and Cucumber Café to see The Jack Slaps.
Lincoln, Frisby, and another bloke stormed the stage moments later. Lincoln settled in behind his drum kit, twirled his sticks, and surveyed the audience. He spotted us almost immediately and winked warmly. Frisby machine gunned us with his bass. It felt like we were old chums. Perhaps Becky hadn’t gotten to them yet.
The third “Jack Slap” appeared to be their lead singer and guitarist. He had scruffy brown hair and the early makings of a garibaldi. His wiry frame was clad almost exclusively in denim. He strapped on a Strat and grabbed the microphone.
Donnie Fitzgibbons couldn’t press their bloody trousers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
We were rock n’ roll confetti splattered across newsstands. Pouty mugs. Tight trousers. Eyeliner. Our physical beauty was matched only by our hit-making prowess. Platinum records. Top of the Pops. The headlines were mostly the same: “Rip Churchill: The Crowned Heads of Rock n’ Roll.” This was the vision I kept for my beloved band. Fortunately, Rip Churchill would someday bathe in the grandeur of such superstardom. Regrettably, the four of us would never bathe in it together.
Lincoln strutted over to our table during intermission. He plopped his enormous hand on my shoulder and sighed. “I am sorry about Becky. Who can figure birds, right?” Becky had obviously spared him the particulars and I wasn’t about to disprove any misconceptions. The enormity of her selfless act was mostly devoured by my overwhelming sense of relief. Rip Churchill needn’t croak at the hands of my shabby constitution. There was still the possibility it’d croak at the hands of our rhythm section, however.
“Now, I know why you lads came here tonight and I assure you you’ll have your answer before the night is through, one way or the other. But you’re going to have to stick around for another set first.” Lincoln wore the grin of a mischievous sprog and I found it mostly reassuring. Skeffington figured we were being jerked around by the help.
“Why all the bloody cloak and dagger in The Cloak and Cucumber, mate? You’re either in or you’re out.”
“One more set. That’s all I’m asking for. What do you say, Churchill?”
I leaned over and whispered in Skeffington’s ear. If Lincoln and Frisby weren’t fully committed members of the band after the next set I’d move on. Donnie Fitzgibbons was better than doing this wild fandango in reverse or chasing something that never really existed in the first place. I was just bluffing of course but Skeffington bought it. I looked back over at Lincoln. “Sure. Right. One more set then.”
“That’s awfully clever.” Lincoln leapt from his chair and started back towards the stage before turning around again. “Oh, and ah, you troubadours ought to stay on your toes.”
The hour that followed was extraordinary and unfolded like a Kawasaki rose. The band continued to devour rhythm and blues like ravenous piranhas while Skeffington and I anxiously awaited a sign from atop the stage. It finally materialized midway through the set as the third “Jack Slap” wiped the sweat off his brow and leaned in towards the crowd.
“You lot enjoying yourselves?” Applause. Catcalls. “Uh, that’s sweet, but…well, we’re getting tired of playing for you.” Playful jeers burst forth from every corner of the café. The spectators had long since realized that the cocksure repartee was part of the show. “Wait. Buggering hell. I’ve got a bloody solution. Who here digs rock n’ roll?”
Cheers. Whistles.
“Well, we don’t do rock n’ roll. Sorry.” Hisses and boos. “Alright, calm yourselves. We’ll give it a go since you’re all so gorgeous. Oh, and I almost forgot…we’ve got some allegedly ferocious rock n’ rollers here to help us sort it out.”
Skeffington smiled and shook his bonce. “I’d sure like to meet these ferocious rock n’ rollers.” He may’ve been three-quarters killjoy, but he was ready to enjoy this ride.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Cletus. A distant outpost in a remote corner of the Twilight Zone where denim goes to die. Cletus. The third name in a three-player package deal for the very soul of Rip Churchill. Cletus. The reason we were shaking the beams of The Cloak and Cucumber Café that evening.
It was a fifteen minute firework display. Roman candles. Dahlias. Kamuros. Horsetails. Every cymbal crash. Every crunchy power chord. Every heart-pounding thump of bass guitar. Every intricately timed pluck of my lead. Bengal fire and peony. Each bloody ember vividly reflected in the dancing eyes of the audience. It had been a display of epic proportions presented by a five-piece Rip Churchill.
And so Lincoln and Frisby had shrewdly orchestrated an audition for their mate to be our rhythm guitarist. His Fender purred like a Ferrari. His stage presence was bullfighter meets Ziggy Stardust. Most importantly, Cletus freed me up to concentrate on lead guitar. Together we’d create a cascading waterfall of texture and sound. The choice seemed simple enough: Stroll forth a five-piece juggernaut ready to conquer the cosmos or bust.
Any toast to future successes would’ve been premature, however, because a jock-sized hurdle stood in the way. Skeffington suspected that Cletus would grow restless in a supporting role. Once a frontman always a frontman, and there simply wasn’t room in Rip Churchill for another enormous ego with frontman ambitions. Hello, Donnie. Cletus’ response wasn’t unexpected: There was greater upside in hitching his wagon to skilled songwriters than in continuing as top banana in a cover band. He’d make the compulsory sacrifices for a legitimate shot at the top.
Skeffington remained unwilling to commit because he’d been waltzing around his primary concern. There were two words that always occupied the back of our minds. These words weren’t just about vanity and ego. They were also about treading water in a sea of sharks and surviving a skirmish when you were outnumbered and outgunned by a margin of four to one. Skeffington didn’t really like the odds. He wanted an ally like Donnie Fitzgibbons. Creative. Control.
“Which Rip Churchill song was your favorite tonight, mate?” It was 11:30 p.m. and Skeffington finally cut through the shite. The impish twinkle in his eye suggested this would be the clincher and that our collective fates hinged on Cletus’ response. There were two distinctive selections to choose from and Cletus hadn’t a clue as to authorship. “Carmenita” was seventy-five percent Skeffington and captured his pop-rock sensibilities and lyrical modus operandi. I’d crafted the bridge and main riff, but the song was classic Skeffington. “Gutter Minx” was nearly all mine, however.
Cletus leaned forward in his chair as a cocksure grin burst forth from the corners of his lightly mustached gob. “That’s easy, chief…whichever one you wrote.” Witty. Everyone at the table had a titter save for the inquisitor himself.
Skeffington shot up like Black Arrow, booted his chair, spun round, blasted through the café door, and strolled off into the night. It was a bloody horror show. Even Lincoln’s chin hit the floorboards. I was fixing to curse the heavens, when the door swung back open. A smiling jester strutted back towards us. Witty. We all shared in the mirth this time as Skeffington extended his hand across the table towards Cletus. “Welcome to the band.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It’s a scorching summer day. The sun is unusually bright. I stand alone in a field of glorious green grass. Calm washes over me like a cool breeze. I close my eyes and inhale deeply. Skeffington suddenly appears and is darting towards me at full speed. I’d forgotten that we were playing an important football match versus the Tipton Tornadoes. Skeffington passes me the rock and I am off. Fortunately, I’m blessed with incredible ball skills. I perform some sort of razor sharp pivot around the defender and wink at the keeper as I stick one past his outstretched arms.
Lana, etc. form a human pyramid on the sideline with Lana on top. They’re clad in mostly skimpy cheerleader outfits. Three cheers for me. I try desperately to see their knickers as they dismount but find myself lost in the sundrenched bleachers instead. My squinting eyes rifle through the crowd. Bingo. She has flowered into a stunning twenty-something. I’m unchanged.
She’s sitting next to brother and Cicero. They’re carrying on like old ch
ums. I gallop towards her. “Did you see that? I just booted the game winner.” She doesn’t acknowledge me. “It was bloody brilliant, didn’t you see?” No response. “Becky, please I’m…” She finally turns, but it’s no longer Becky. It’s Aunt Evie McQuillen. My chest hurts. “Where’s Becky? What have you lot done with her?” They’re sniggering at me like I’m daft.
I awoke with a start. My subconscious was less forgiving then its impetuous counterpart.
***
The final month of the school year suffered from acute schizophrenia. Twas a byproduct of the byzantine life that I’d adopted. I’d become an automaton on autopilot whilst the sun graced the sky. I’d otherwise become nocturnal. My bedroom window had become a portal to another dimension.
Daytime was mostly about conforming to the whims and wants of educators, parents, and employers. The nighttime was about rock n’ roll. Some nights Skeffington and I met under cover of darkness to compose new songs and plot our takeover of the local music scene. Songwriting had become more of a luxury given the strain of reality, but gems still emerged. “Common Loon”, “Puddle Jumper (But She’s Mine)”, “Ramses’ Revenge”, and “Ramses’ Still Handsome” quickly became part of our repertoire.
Other nights we rehearsed in Lincoln’s garage. Hours of labor and gallons of sweat were bartered for perfection as we rode a wave of inevitability. Every detail was attended to from vocal harmonies to guitar solos to set lists. But this wasn’t work in any traditional sense. We weren’t Fritzy the Fireman or Barry the Barrister. We were ankle-biters at Christmas who received a one-hundred percent return on every guitar lick. It felt like a never ending holiday in Waikiki.
Lincoln volunteered to moonlight as our manager and had already booked us in a handful of local establishments that he referred to as the “low hanging fruit.” We’d cut our teeth in these no-frills honkytonks before graduating to the genuine rock n’ roll hotspots. Our initial engagement at The Thirsty Bard was less than two weeks out. Lincoln suggested we invite Lana, etc. to our final tune-up. His stated purpose was an objective appraisal by our potential fan base, but he could hardly keep a straight face. Truth is he’d been chirping about those dollybirds ever since the spring dance.