Broken Birdie Chirpin

by Tarsitano, Adam

  “Hey, Skeff. We just wanted to tell you and the other lads that we really like your music.” Lana spoke over continued giggling.

  “Yeah, really tight.” Annie “Lips” Ralston chimed in.

  “Thanks, Lana. Annie. We’ve got some more gems for you ladies in set number two.” Skeffington rubbed elbows with these high flyers on account of his status as a legendary jock. He rolled steady and smooth.

  Lincoln and Frisby drew some incredulous glances as they imitated the giddy birds, which probably elevated their status as rebellious rock n’ rollers. I lurked in the shadows hoping they wouldn’t address me directly so as to avoid making a plonker out of myself.

  “We can’t wait!” Lana winked at Skeffington. “Oh, and we’re throwing a little after-dance party at mums. We’d like for all of you to come…even your brooding guitar player.” She smiled at me and I nearly sparked out. I wanted to say something witty, but I was much too frightened.

  “Thanks for the invite, Lana. We’ll see you later.” Skeffington shined as the band’s official spokesperson.

  “Toodle pip, girlies.” Lincoln spoke only on behalf of the rhythm section. He waited for them to scuttle off before piping up again. “Well, well, well…what do you think about that, Churchill?”

  “Bloody hell.” Only the crème de la crème stepped foot in Moxley Manor.

  “You’ve become a bona fide A-lister after only one-half of a sodding show, mate. Cheers.” Skeffington had been an A-lister for years. I didn’t want to be a tourist. But there was a single act of sheer cruelty that would have to be undertaken before I could officially click my heels. Regrettably, I knew I had it in me.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Our ten minute hiatus had mostly been spent. We hustled back into formation and waited for the curtain to part. Boom! “Gutter Minx” blasted forth with my bone-crunching power chords rattling the P.A. system to the brink. The gymnasium immediately sprung back to life. Lana, etc. had established a perimeter directly in front of the stage for dancing and worship. An invisible force field of attitude and hubris kept tossers at a safe distance. There were many other pockets of prime skirts scattered about. If smiles and winks were currency, I could’ve instantly retired a bloody mogul.

  Becky. She and Rita were sipping fizzies by the side of the dance floor. Rita was fixing to monopolize her attention with animated blabber. No matter. Becky looked like a proud sunflower stretching towards the warmth of the sun. She never took her eyes off the stage. We’d planned a post-dance rendezvous behind the school. I had neither the decency nor the courage to tell her that I wouldn’t be attending.

  In a blink it was time to close out the dance with “Wisteria Blues (She Been Dancing with the Wrong Guy).” The ordinary blokes deserved a fighting chance since we were but four. Its tender rhythm sent the sweaty sexes clamoring for one final grope at amorè. I tensed up midway through. How was I going to avoid Becky? Was Lincoln an informant? Did I have the mettle to exist or perchance prosper in Lana’s world? What actually went on in Moxley Manor during these soirees? Three of these queries would be answered before the night had ended.

  Bloody hell. The crowd continued to cheer as we exited stage right. They probably expected an encore, but we’d already played the entire Rip Churchill songbook. Frisby’s brother Ollie waited for us outside the gymnasium in his van. My head swiveled to and fro as we began loading up our gear. I grew more paranoid with each trip. Every random noise sounded like footsteps and every voice sounded like hers. I nearly ran for cover of darkness when two faces materialized by the back of the van. Fortunately, it was Lana and “Lips” Ralston.

  “My mum’s got room for two more. Any of you rock n’ rollers interested?” Lana Moxley had just offered up her mum as our personal chauffeur. “She parked out back to avoid the crowd.” Hells bells. These birds were leading me directly into the heart of darkness.

  “I’m in, Lana. Thanks. I just need two minutes to finish up here, if that’s all right. What about you, mate?” Skeffington might’ve been the kindliest mate a bloke could have, but these were dangerous times.

  “Quite alright. I’ll walk. One of you should go.” I nodded towards Lincoln and Frisby.

  “You’re too kind, Churchill. But we’re heading back with Ollie here. Believe it or not, we’ve got another gig tonight.” This information would’ve blown my mind but for the crisis unfolding in my lap. “Lana, I promise you…we will meet again soon. You too, lovely.”

  “It’s settled then. We’ll meet you around back in a tick.” Skeffington had sealed my fate. The path to popularity would be paved in confrontation and pain.

  We finished loading the equipment and bid farewell to our rhythm section. There was no discussion about our future because they were in a hurry to get to the Rusty Ruffles Tavern for gig number two. The van sped off into the night leaving a trail of unanswered questions. Skeffington didn’t seem overly concerned because he believed they were replaceable parts in our little rock n’ roll machine. I mostly viewed them as the motor.

  The journey to Madame Moxley’s jam jar was excruciating. I would’ve dropped to the grass and shimmied over on my elbows if Skeffington hadn’t been there. I instead tried to use Skeffington’s athletic frame as a human shield. We finally rounded the back corner and spotted our chariot. I stopped and grabbed Skeffington’s arm.

  “I’m supposed to meet Becky here after the dance. She’s waiting in that alley right now.”

  “What? Are you bloody serious, mate?” I nodded. “You’re a fucking nutter. Go meet Becky. There’ll be plenty of opportunities to impress Lana and her chums. I know them, man. They’ll fancy you even more if you bail on account of some bird. They’ll be talking about it for weeks.” Skeffington had obviously become jaded.

  “Are you certain?” No verbal response was forthcoming. Skeffington pivoted and marched straight for the Moxley Mobile. I had no choice but to follow. He threw a glance towards the alley and something stopped him in his tracks. He smiled and shook his head.

  “Becky’s not there, mate. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Lana, etc. could talk and giggle without breathing. Their ears were non-functioning appendages, however. It was like watching a three dimensional telly. This suited me fine considering I was incapable of regaling them with wit and charm. I came off as brooding and mysterious and they had no interest in spoiling the fun. In fact, they mostly treated me as if I’d been born the moment the velvet curtain opened on the spring dance.

  Lana quickly became my favorite. Everything about her seemed gorgeous. Layered brown hair. Indigo eyes. Infectious smile. Coconut sized norks. The air smelled sweeter with her nearby. She represented the promise of rock n’ roll.

  The party itself was somewhat anticlimactic. I mostly stood around smiling and nodding. Moreover, there were hordes of chest-beaters swarming about the ladies and hors d'oeuvres. They weren’t nearly as warm and welcoming as Lana, etc. Most of them were downright hostile. If it weren’t for Skeffington I would’ve likely been stuffed into a dustbin and rolled down the great lawn. I knew it was pure jealousy over my meteoric rise, but I didn’t want to be physically injured on account of it.

  The highlight of the affair came during the final act. The parlor of Moxley Manor came adorned with a magnificent grand pianoforte. It was a tiny bit fancier than the antique upright occupying space in our living room. I slipped away from some horribly dull conversation to admire it more closely. Lana caught me peeking under the lid at its guts.

  “I don’t suppose you play piano too?”

  “It’s been awhile.”

  “Are you being modest? Well, I want you to play something for us. Maybe you can bring some life back to these fading pixies. What do you say? ” I’d gladly draw my pistols for one last stand against the blahs before curfew. My first inclination had been to grab my sidekick from the other room as backup. It dawned on me, however, that this presented a golden opportunity to distinguish myself as Mr. Wonderful.
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br />   “Right. Sure.”

  “Splendid. Thank you!” She gently stroked my arm before raising her voice above the din. “Hey, listen up…I’ve got a treat. Our favorite rock n’ roller has graciously agreed to play a few songs for us on mum’s piano.” The jealous wankers sulked. Everyone else gathered around the piano for an intimate goodnight smacker from yours truly. I was determined to send them dancing into their nighties with fever.

  “Penny Please Budge Up” and “Jimmy Jammy Beggar” rolled off the keys like thunder. The small crowd responded enthusiastically. Even Skeffington seemed chuffed. I would’ve gladly relinquished the spotlight, but the revelers demanded a chocolate mint for their fluffy pillows. It was at this moment that a painful thought escaped from my conscience, which had been locked away in an underground dungeon along with my plums. Regrettably, the thought couldn’t be shaken. I didn’t want to disappoint, however, so “Hello Again, Moggy” filled the electric parlor air.

  It was an inside joke on me.

  PART II

  WHILE WE WERE STILL US

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Saturday morning greeted me with additional unpleasantries.

  “You’re a royal flop in need of strong medicine. But I’m going to turn you into a decent and responsible lad like your brother if it bloody kills me.” Blowing curfew appeared to be the least egregious of my sins. A horrible progress report had come through the post on Friday afternoon. My consistently lackluster academic career had finally gone belly up and there was no denying that rock n’ roll had snuffed it. “The foolishness ends today. Do you understand me?”

  “Right. Got it.” I understood that he was a confused twit who had his head up his own arse. I would’ve rather done porridge with the Birmingham Boys than become more like brother. Arguing the point seemed futile, however, because they were such great chums and dad was irate.

  “Are you ready to hear your punishment?” I nodded without realizing that he was about to set forth the terms of my unconditional surrender. “Your guitar will remain at home during school hours. No exceptions. You will come directly home each day and sit at the kitchen table until all of your schoolwork is finished. Then it’s right to your chores. Your mother will not be bailing you out anymore. You will find a part-time job for the weekends doing something respectable. You will also begin searching for a full-time job for the summer. No more free ride. Understood?”

  “That’s a bit harsh.”

  “Harsh? Your guitar would already be mulch if it weren’t for mother. You wouldn’t be fooling about with your bloody band until you were wearing falsies. You know nothing about harsh, boy. And another thing, I don’t know why an upstanding lad like Skeffington is running around with the likes of you, but you better not sully his good name. His father doesn’t suffer fools lightly. Now clean up this room and find a blooming job.”

  Sod off! Brother wasn’t going to be a professional footballer because he moved like a turtle. It didn’t stop dad from bragging about his athletic achievements to the other washouts who frequented the Turf Tavern. I was a rock n’ roll prodigy but he wanted to stomp me out like a bloody cockroach. No matter. I had no alternative but to mostly comply with his terms.

  I’d tossed my dirty laundry into the cupboard and was fixing to make my bed when a brief moment of clarity struck. Tremaine’s Guitar Shop. Dad couldn’t possibly grumble if I found work at such a well-respected establishment. Of course I hadn’t a clue as to whether they were hiring or if they’d even consider a vagabond like me. It felt like fate, however. I grabbed the situations vacant from dad’s discarded newspaper and darted out to the garage.

  “I’ve got some leads. May I pop into town?” I didn’t bring my guitar so as to convince him there’d be no funny business.

  “It’ll do you good.”

  Twenty minutes later I stood in front of Tremaine’s Guitar Shop sulking. Not a single noteworthy advertisement graced the otherwise impressive display window. I would’ve ordinarily just spun around and strolled home, but the thought of bagging groceries or delivering shrimp lo mein on my bicycle appalled me. Onwards and inwards. The scent of rosewood and Sitka spruce instantly filled my konk as a soft chime signaled my presence.

  The shop never seemed crowded because four-figure price tags kept the tramps away. Only well-healed six-string aficionados were truly welcomed. I’d waltzed in once before and found myself summarily removed for handling the wares without intent to purchase. Management was probably as selective with employees as they were with clientele. It seemed worth a shot, however, because I knew quite a bit about their guitars and would happily sacrifice two-thirds of my family just to get closer to them.

  A rather suspicious middle-aged sales associate with distaste in his beady eyes approached rather aggressively. “Can I help you, sir?” His mannerisms suggested that he was fixing to send me on my way if I didn’t answer just right.

  “You hiring?” Wrong answer.

  “The Guitar Emporium is down on Harrowby Street. Anything else?” He seemed like quite the cheeky plank, but I’d grown tired of getting pushed around by these types.

  “You got a manager?”

  “Mr. Surtees is unavailable, sir. May I help you find your way out?” Blimey. I couldn’t get a straight answer from this twerp. Prodding him further would’ve been risky, however. The last thing I needed were bobbies rapping at the front door.

  “I’m alright.” So much for fate.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Our first manager was a Japanese chap named Shogun. He was an affable raconteur from another dimension who could sell bourbon to a Southern Baptist. Shogun would’ve been a valued cohort in negotiating full and fair resolutions to all of my post-dance quandaries. Regrettably, we were separated by time and space.

  Monday traipsed in like a lamb. Blueberry pancakes for breakfast. Only minor niggling from brother on account of my choice of trousers. Beautiful spring air oxygenating my lungs as I strolled to St. Thomas’ School for Blighters. Regrettably, it was all just a pitiful rouse. I fully expected to stew in a crockpot of lukewarm misery for the greater part of the day.

  Becky presented the thorniest issue. Her absence from the alley was either a blessing or disaster. She might’ve scurried home broken-hearted after overhearing Lana and “Lips” Ralston blathering by the Moxley mobile. On the other hand, she might’ve departed suddenly on account of some unanticipated occurrence and been blissfully unaware of my betrayal. No matter. Either scenario represented only the tip of the iceberg because I didn’t really deserve Becky in the first place. I cared for her more than anyone, but I’d been a selfish plonker with the maturity level of a green banana.

  Uncertainty also surrounded my beloved band. Lincoln and Frisby obviously had other obligations that remained somewhat shrouded in mystery. We’d never discussed whether they considered Rip Churchill to be a short-term charity project or a long-term investment. It didn’t seem likely that they’d walk away after our performance at the spring dance, but my double-dealing with Becky could only adversely affect any such consideration.

  Bloody hell. Rita’s facial expression blasted me like a strategically placed landmine as I tried to finesse my way past her locker. I swerved quickly so as to avoid further interaction, but she had the reflexes of a spry cheetah. She seized my arm and snatched me to the sideline. Rita obviously sought to draw first blood on behalf of her best mate.

  Monday would be going out like a bloody lion.

  “You’re a total bastard. I told Becky that she should never speak to you again, but she’s no pushover. She wants a piece of you. Meet her after school by the alley.”

  “I can’t. I’m grounded.”

  “What is wrong with you?” She shook her head in disgust. “Be there.” She spun around and marched off. Good riddance to that meddlesome twerp.

  Becky obviously intended to send me stumbling to bachelorhood with a shiner. I felt somewhat relieved because her fists would be much easier to contend with than her tears
. The opposite held true for dad of course. He’d bury me when he discovered I’d been tardy on the first afternoon of house arrest. Even if mum took pity on me and kept it to herself brother would sing like a bloody canary. Regrettably, I had no alternative but to meet Becky.

  I dashed towards the alley as soon as the school bell rang. Sister Muggins’ mind-numbing lecture had provided cover for me to formulate a simple plan: I’d promptly suffer my beating at the hands of Becky and then sprint home. I hadn’t run more than a few yards in five years, so there were no guarantees.

  Becky was already there when I arrived. She didn’t raise her mitts in anger as I had envisioned. She didn’t leap at me like a hungry baboon. “You made it this time, eh?” Her voice sounded firm and unforgiving. “I really don’t have a lot to say to you. I just want you to tell me why.” Brilliant bird. She’d flipped the tables and shifted the burden onto my frail shoulders. Part of me wanted to tell her everything. Thoughts. Feelings. Failures. Blah, blah, blah.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is that all you have to say to me? Because if it is…I’m going home.”

  “Becky, it hasn’t all been rubbish and I’m sorry.” Her strength faltered for an instant as her lip quivered, but she possessed too much pride to allow the fates the satisfaction of a tear. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

  “Another time and place then, slapper.” She ran off into the schoolyard and I felt horribly sad that I’d lost her. There was no time to wallow, however. I had at least ten minutes to make up with my legs.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The intense burning sensation felt unbearable and it wasn’t just limited to one particular location. It started in my quads and hammies. Before long my lungs and tootsies were ablaze. Even my eyes burned from the sweat puddles gathering inside them. Bloody hell. The muscles in my face began to ache from the constant grimacing and I’d only made it halfway home.