Broken Birdie Chirpin

by Tarsitano, Adam

  BROKEN BIRDIE CHIRPIN

  A NOVEL BY ADAM G. TARSITANO

  Text copyright © 2012 Adam G. Tarsitano

  All Rights Reserved

  Dedicated to Jennifer, Isabella, Sophia, Frank and Dorothea.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  PART I

  A METEOR MADE FOR FOUR

  CHAPTER ONE

  I started writing songs at five years old. Not baby songs. Real songs. I fancied myself some sort of carbon-based satellite that received rock n’ roll signals from another dimension. I mostly wrote on the piano in those early days. Piano came easy to me. It was if I’d popped out of mum’s womb pre-wired for it. My first song "Broken Birdie Chirpin" was a bluesy homage to a wayward finch that nearly died outside my bedroom window. It made mum cry. She fancied that I might be a sensitive crooner with the heart of Eros, but it was really a bait and switch. My second song celebrated the babysitter's heart-shaped arse and come-hither strut with the subtlety of a gunshot wound.

  Other lads were riding bicycles and frolicking in dirt. I sat at an antique upright composing pop songs. The junior jocks in the neighborhood courted me for a bit until they realized that I was more swashbuckling rock n’ roller than plucky midfielder. They branded me a misfit and an outcast. I fancied those labels because I didn't want to be like those blighters. Mum worried that I’d regret foregoing an ordinary childhood in pursuit of my rock n’ roll fantasy. Fortunately, she also recognized my gift and secretly encouraged my exploration no matter how lecherous its manifestation.

  Dad and I never really got on. He was blue collars, metal lunch pails, and lager. I was butterfly necks, maguro, and Agua de Valencia. He fancied himself responsible and selfless. I’d become the soft, moody, and self-indulgent shadow of the square-shouldered Spartan he desired. He once told mum that we’d developed a workmanlike relationship over the years based on mutual respect. I’m not certain that he ever respected me. No matter. I was light years ahead of dad in most ways even at five and it burned him. He had to work bloody hard for everything he had coming. Music mostly came easy to me.

  It was much the same with brother. He used his superior size and strength to impose his brutish will on me. He punished me because I had no interest in football or racing cars. He punished me because I wouldn't play army men or marbles. He punished me because of my gift. Mum always tried to bring us together, but he was a barbarian and every inch his father's son.

  I was a horrible kindergartener. I frustrated teachers with my genius. They wanted conformity. I rebelled. They wanted order. I was chaos. I challenged authority when most sprogs nursed on its bosom. I chased skirts and stole. I pissed on bathroom floors and wore eyeliner. I refused to participate in gym class. I spit on my exams. The hierarchy viewed me as a genetic anomaly on account of brother’s glorious reputation. He’d cruised through his ABCs and 123s like a Gloster Meteor whilst I couldn’t get off the bloody runway. He won Science awards. He pleased mum and dad with his efforts. I mostly got paddled.

  Dad wouldn’t relent until I’d been broken and rebuilt in brother’s image. He made mum comb my hair and dress me up like Little Lord Fauntleroy. He made me go to church and clean up after myself. He threatened me with physical violence when I cursed. He battered me when I kicked the dog. He always stood up for brother even when brother was beating on me. It was jealousy and envy. I knew it even then. I probably wouldn't have survived if it hadn't been for mum. She listened to dad and did his bidding, but she never judged me for my sins. She painted portraits and landscapes as a teenager. The freewheeling spirit of an artiste was buried somewhere deep inside her.

  Mum bought my first six-string from a flea market for my eleventh birthday. Dad thought it was a horrible idea considering I never passed my exams. He complained that it would only encourage me to be more rebellious and self-indulgent. He argued that I would be even less likely to develop into the lad brother was. He worried that there would be no redemption. He was right. The guitar was my obsession. It was my church. It was my first addiction. I refused to be separated from it. It came to school with me. It slept with me. It was my third arm. It was my second plonker.

  Girls began to notice. They shot quizzical glances as I passed them in the hall. They wondered why I was always with guitar. They wondered why my hair was unkempt and my trousers torn. There were whispers about my sad eyes and calloused hands that emanated directly from their loins. I was dangerous and they dug it. Their own bourgeoning anatomies fueled my rock n’ roll fantasy as notebooks overflowed with new jingles. Any lingering doubts about my lot disappeared forever.

  I pulled out my guitar one spring day during lunch hour. I felt anxious. I’d never played for the sole purpose of attracting birds. I’d written a song titled "Manky Nuns" the night before. It was all glam and swagger. Girls began to gather around as soon as I strummed the first chord progression. I played hard and fast until Sister Minger grabbed me by the ear and dragged me away from the schoolyard. I never let go of my guitar until the headmaster pried it away with his big hairy hands. I felt so high that I didn’t hear a bloody word he spoke. I didn't even feel the paddle on my arse. I wouldn’t be tamed. The buzz lasted until dad got a hold of my backside later that evening. His actions and words felt forced. It was as if he’d given up on me. It was cathartic. His commoner's rage only emboldened me.

  Brother continued to impress the establishment. He was making As. He was a ferocious jock. He even earned pocket money working as a newspaper delivery boy for the local press in his spare time. I continued to impress everyone else
. I played rollicking after-hours shows behind the school building that attracted hordes of tottys. My songs were loud and my trousers tight. Regrettably, I’d been a misfit for so long that communicating with these lovelies felt like Chinese water torture. It was mostly for the best because they were all prudes and I had no fuzz on my bullocks.

  Flash forward. The socially awkward prepubescent rock n’ roller blossomed into a socially inept teenage rock n’ roller. I was increasingly like an animal in the zoo. Birds were fascinated by the way I moved and the sounds that burst forth when I opened my gob. Danger! Don’t Feed the Animals! They didn’t know that these warning signs were solely there for my own protection, or that the door to my cage had been unlocked all along. No matter. It’d take a heroine with the strength of Minerva to pry apart these imaginary titanium bars.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Becky was my first girlfriend. She popped up at a half-dozen of my schoolyard shows with the determination of an insurance salesman and the face of a fallen angel. I fancied her but always scurried off to avoid making a plonker out of myself. It made her even more desirous. I finally gave her the eye during a mostly blistering performance just to let her know that I cared. She cornered me at the back of the school building after the show. I reckoned that I’d spark out long before she started tearing me to pieces.

  "I like your songs.”

  "Thanks."

  "And you're a right fit bloke, aren't you?"

  "Right."

  "I can tell you've never been properly kissed though."

  "I've been snogging since I was nine. Haven't you heard?"

  "Oh, so you're a real slapper, eh? Well, show me what you got, slapper." Her hands landed on her hips as she challenged my faux credentials with a brazen disregard for decorum. Legging it for the streets seemed like the best option but I wouldn’t have had a bloody chance. She was twice my size and three times faster. “That’s what I figured.” She extended her hand towards me. “I’m Becky.”

  Handshakes were for bankers and barristers so there couldn’t possibly be any danger in it. Blimey. A wave of electricity spread through me the moment our hands touched. I was mostly convinced she felt it too on account of the goose pimples running up her arm. Our friendly handshake simply wouldn’t suffice no matter how nervous I might’ve been. “I’d like to show you what I’ve got after all.” Bold words from wounded and cornered prey.

  “I suppose that would be alright, slapper. Just a quick one though.” Her lips pursed ever so slightly as she pulled me in. It was time to negotiate the terms of my surrender. I moistened my lips and met her somewhere in the middle. Bloody hell. If rock n’ roll was the Tanqueray then Becky’s mouth was the tall glass, tonic, rocks, slice of lime, and stirrer.

  "Wow…you are aces, aren’t you?” I responded with a wink as her compliment awakened the Sir Walter Raleigh within me. There was no time for chit-chat because my tongue had already set sail for the new world. We exchanged one frenchy after another for nearly an hour before she finally pulled away. "I’d better shove off before mum comes looking for me." She made a pouty face, twirled around, and strutted forth.

  "Wait...are you my girl now?"

  "Of course. See you tomorrow." She blew one final kiss before disappearing around the corner.

  Thoughts of Becky's soft lips and nimble tongue consumed me as I floated homeward. It didn't matter that brother tossed his football directly at my bonce when I reached the garden or that dad laughed. I barely heard mum inquire about my day. I darted directly to the solitude of my bedroom and captured the entire glorious experience in melody. Five songs were born in less than an hour, including "Boomtown Becky" and "Hello Again, Moggy." I probably could've knocked off a half-dozen more but mum started shouting about Yorkshire Pudding.

  The usual torturous scene awaited me at supper. Dad was getting mullered while brother rambled on about how he had it all sussed out. Mum politely took it all in. Most nights I felt like an inmate at Brixton, but this particular night was different. I fantasized about my next encounter with Becky to the exclusion of their tedious chin wagging. Regrettably, Mum ruined it for me with her motherly instincts and good intentions.

  "You're looking awfully cheery this evening, me duckie." Blimey. Twas open season as Mum firmly attached a bulls-eye to my arse. I shrugged my shoulders and stuffed my face with roast beef. "Come on. You're grinning from ear to ear.”

  "Looks to me like he’s up to something." Dad chimed in before swigging his pint. The window had been cracked just enough to let brother climb right through.

  "He's probably thinking about some bloke he fancies." Brother was as original as he was kind. I slammed my napkin on the supper table and shot up. These meddlesome plonkers weren’t going to ruin the greatest day of my life. "Nobody excused you from the table. Dad, you’d better do something. He's off his trolley."

  “Let him be.” Dad’s interest in his Yorkshire Pudding and lager outweighed any competing desire for confrontation or the domestic discord that might follow it.

  “Can I have his desert, mum?”

  "Please be kinder to your brother, alright?" Mum's words were the last I heard before I closed my bedroom door. Her efforts were appreciated but misguided. Brother possessed the compassion of a shark with its head up a sea lion’s arse.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Literature. Blah, blah, blah. I never paid Sister Duff any mind. She was carrying on about the “Duchess and the Jeweller” and some other dim tales that the prats in class had actually read. It all seemed like such a horrible waste. I’d better things to do with my time like penning three minute rock n’ roll grenades or rendezvousing with Becky for a bit of funny business.

  My betrothed would most certainly be awaiting my arrival in the schoolyard after the bell. I considered ditching my performance so we could snog right off, but she'd have my plums in a bloody vice if I started making sacrifices prematurely. I decided to proceed as planned with one notable exception: "Hello Again, Moggy" would make its schoolyard debut. Becky would bite my arm off for some hanky panky after all that.

  Sister Duff’s forty-five minute reign of tedium finally ended as the school bell rang. I determinedly snatched my six-string and shuffled off to the yard. A handful of birds and other assorted misfits were already waiting by the bench. I slipped by without saying a word as always. A few more stragglers gathered as I tuned up. Becky had yet to surface, however, and I began to fear the worst.

  I reluctantly tore through six raucous cuts all the while searching for her face amongst the revelers. No bloody dice. My impromptu guitar solo during the bridge of “Hello Again, Moggy” was brilliant, but she’d missed it of course. Her absence felt like a roundhouse to the konk. I tossed my pick into the horde of slags to end the show and slipped into the deserted alley as they fought over it. The walk homeward became a mostly unpleasant affair.

  "Hey, slapper, why so soppy?" An unmistakable voice called out from my rear as I crossed over Cranley Gardens. Perhaps the afternoon could be salvaged after all.

  "Soppy? I'm the mutt's nuts, haven’t you heard?" Sarcasm oozed from every syllable.

  "You’re arse over elbow is what you are."

  "Where have you been?"

  "Sister Pranny locked me up. She thought I was being a rude girl, but I was just being honest. I'm here now though." She grabbed my hand and led me behind the soopy. "Prudence told me you were aces in the schoolyard today. Sister Pranny's going to be sorry." I nodded before stepping on the accelerator. Boom. We snogged each other’s lips off for the next half hour. It felt even more intense than the day before because I had the confidence of King Richard Coeurdelion. Becky finally popped up for some air. Regrettably, the expression on her cherubic face suggested the conclusion of another glorious rendezvous.

  "I’ve got to ramble, slapper. Dad will bend my ear if I'm late, especially if he's bladdered."

  "I'm not even knackered yet."

  "Keep your chin up. I'll be a right charmer tomorrow so Sister Pranny c
an't snaffle our time. I'll see you in the schoolyard." She slapped me with one last frenchy and skipped off. I studied her strut until she disappeared from view. Bloody hell. I missed her already.

  The short trip home was interrupted rather abruptly as the frequency through which I’d grown accustomed to receiving my musical inspiration suddenly changed. A tsunami of lyric and melody crashed through me unlike anything I’d conjured up since “Broken Birdie Chirpin.” There was no cynicism or misogyny, or blistering rock n’ roll chord progressions. A love song had begun sliding down the creative birthing canal and I needed to get pen to paper post haste.

  Blimey. A horrible sight greeted me at the home front. Brother and his mate Cicero were drinking pop in the garden. It took but a moment for these jackals to catch a whiff of their prey.

  "Well if it isn't your todger of a brother." Cicero was an abomination who spent an inordinate amount of time mooching off my parents’ cupboards and good will. He allegedly had a hammer for a foot, so naturally Dad loved him. "How many plonkers did you hoover at school today?"

  "Horses for courses. Pip pip." Brother always upped the ante when Cicero was around so I tried to escape quickly.

  "Not so fast." He couldn’t let an opportunity to humiliate me pass him by. "Dad told me to tell you that it was your turn to trim the hedges before Thursday night bangers."

  "Sod off. I trimmed the hedges last Thursday."

  "Sod off? That's no way to talk to the bloke who's nicked your little black notebook from under your pillow." He held it up to confirm that he wasn’t bluffing.

  "Blimey." Mum would box his ears for diddling one of my song books. Brother knew it and he was ninety-nine percent fanny. It would’ve been rather daft, however, to call his bluff whilst he had my prized possession, especially with Cicero encouraging him.

  "Better get on with it tosser." I briefly envisioned myself pruning Cicero with the hedger and it eased me into surrender like a morphine drip.

  "Right." I exchanged my guitar for clippers and trimmed hedges until Thursday night bangers.