Broken Birdie Chirpin

by Tarsitano, Adam

  And so a few nights later the six fittest bints this side of stardom bounced into the garage. These angels were caked in the grime of estrogen and idolatry. Sparkly smiles. Swaying hips. The scent of lip gloss and perfume instantly flavored the stale air. The extent to which they’d tarted themselves up spoke volumes about expectations. My heart thumped on account of possibility.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  We were a chiseled thoroughbred wrapped in an enormous satin bow. They were distinguished members of the ruling class clinging desperately to their final ounce of propriety. We’d just delivered six hellacious cuts to further whet their appetites. They’d just charged their batteries on adrenaline and lust while simultaneously hypnotizing us with their flirty flirty. Foreplay ended, however, as the final reverberations from “Ramses’ Revenge” cleared the crossbeams.

  There was a mostly awkward silence as we unstrapped our instruments. We were adrift in the unknown and required a steely shepherd to escort us to the next phase of our mating ritual. “You boys are really talented. I could listen all night long.” Bless her. Lana had all of our best interests at heart.

  “Yeah, don’t forget about us when you’re Top of the Pops, alright?” Alex “Rub-A-Dub” Derby and inertia.

  “Now how could we forget about a doll like you?” Score one for Cletus.

  This conversation quickly became a snowball barreling down the Alps. Scatter lest ye be consumed. I didn’t utter a word of course, but my brain worked overtime. I’d convinced myself that anyone of these lookers would’ve been a perfectly suitable substitute for Becky. Lana may’ve been the ultimate prize, but there was no shame in landing a “Lips” Ralston or “Hot Pants” Hollywell. It also crossed my mind that brother would commit hari-kari if he knew who I’d been consorting with in the evenings. Sod off.

  Divide and conquer. The festivities were becoming more intimate as Lana led her pack of she-wolves directly into our ranks. I fully expected Lana’s journey to end somewhere within Planet Skeffington’s gravitational pull. My stomach churned, however, as the focus of her indigo eyes suggested something else entirely: Lana wanted to audition for a leading role in Act I of my rock n’ roll fantasy.

  In a blink she was whispering in my ear. Her soft breath sent goose pimples spilling down my neck like dominoes. Bloody hell. “Can you be trusted?” Heavy opening salvo. Probably not, but I wasn’t above lying.

  “Sure. Of course.” Lana was either seducing me or else a horrible judge of character.

  “Let’s take a walk then. I want to tell you something.” It felt like seduction. She reached out, grabbed my mitt, and guided me towards the door.

  “Please just be sure to bring our little Churchill back whole Ms. Lana, alright?” Lincoln drew titters and some additional prattle from Frisby and Cletus. It was short-lived, however, because they each had their own soap operas to attend to.

  Lana never released my hand as we strolled through the door and into the night. She’d made all the bold moves thus far and I hoped it would continue. “I’m going to tell you my secret now, alright? Promise you won’t laugh?” Another condition. No matter. I’d bite.

  “Right. I promise.”

  “Ok…well…I’ve had a bit of a crush on you since the dance. I mean…I nearly melted when you played for us on mum’s piano. I wasn’t going to say anything about it just yet…but watching you tonight brought that feeling back.” I knew that I needed something halfway decent to say when she finally stopped to catch her breath. Nerves were settling in, however, and words were mostly elusive. “I hope I’m not screwing this up.” It sounded like genuine humility from St. Thomas’ School for Blighters’ finest bird.

  “We can snog if you’d like.” Blimey. I’d put the bloody cart before the horse.

  Lana broke stride and pulled an about-face. “Follow me.” We hustled towards the dark side of Lincoln’s garage. She stopped abruptly, pushed her back against the vinyl siding, and smiled. This was obviously an invitation for funny business. I took a deep breath and leaned in.

  The entire scene unfolded in slow-mo.

  My top lip grazed hers. The flavored lip gloss instantly aroused my senses. Strawberry. She looked so gorgeous. This wasn’t a dream. Shite. It was a sodding nightmare. Her tongue darted into my mouth like a bloody piston. There was no rhythm or rhyme. It felt like blooming sandpaper to top it off. My tongue didn’t know what to do. It was shocked and horrified. I mostly just moved it out of the way. The worst part: Lana seemed to being enjoying herself.

  I didn’t want to offend her by tearing myself away. It also crossed my mind that she may’ve been underperforming on account of jitters. She just needed a do over to regain her form. I pulled back slowly so as to disengage for a moment. I gazed into her eyes with mock passion, smiled disingenuously, and went back in. I sincerely hoped for a miracle, but none was forthcoming. Boom. Boom. Jackhammer. A single bittersweet thought had been my only salvation. It wasn’t too late to invite Becky to our first gig.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Lincoln’s expression seemed horribly serious for a bloke who’d just snogged with “Lips” Ralston. I fancied him a quick-witted wag with a rare musical genius for rhythm, but I’d never mistaken him for the introspective sort. He pulled me aside just as Skeffington and I were about to return to reality.

  “This was an awful mistake. I’m sorry.” I mostly agreed, but only on account of my twitching tongue. Perhaps “Lips” Ralston failed to meet expectations as well, although Lincoln’s expression suggested something more meditative afoot inside his loaf. Regrettably, the last bus for beddy-bye would be rambling on in fifteen minutes, so I didn’t have time to toss on my Freud hat.

  “No harm done really.” Unless of course “Lips” Ralston was now our bloody backup singer or else full-time maraca shaker. I thrust a violent glance at my watch that went unnoticed and/or ignored.

  “Liza and I swapped germs for a bit. I was aces, Churchill.” Lincoln winked before getting solemn again. “Then it went sour. She starts inquiring about our next rehearsal and how she can’t wait to see it…how she’ll bring some cookies. I almost chucked up. You follow?”

  “Sure. Right.” His woeful experience sounded eerily similar to mine albeit for different reasons.

  “Banging me drums and horsing around. That’s the story, right? Well, I’ve been in plenty of bands, man…good blooming bands with talented blokes. But this outfit is different. You’re a genius. Even Skeffington’s part genius - don’t ever tell him I said so. This band is bloody special.”

  “You’re an enormous part of it.” I felt proud of myself for saying what I meant.

  “Thanks, Churchill.” He put his sasquatch-sized hand firmly on my shoulder and looked directly into my eyes. “Skeffington looks like he’s fixing to wet himself so I’ll get to the point. Having those birds here during our rehearsal cheapens this entire bloody thing and I don’t want to cheapen it. Not even a little. There’ll be plenty of time for skirts.”

  “I sure hope so.” I hadn’t missed the moral. I just wasn’t quite sure how to respond for lack of perspective.

  “I know I’m being melodramatic. I’m not quite certain what’s come over me really. Buggering hell! I’ll probably wake up tomorrow in the mood for cookies.” His mischievous grin suggested a return to form. “Now go catch your bus.”

  Nosy Rosy fancied himself an amateur sleuth on the ride homeward. He wanted to know what was so important that we nearly missed our ride. I didn’t fully comprehend the wisdom of Lincoln’s words, but I knew they were wise. I also knew that I wasn’t ready to cheapen them simply to indulge Skeffington’s paranoia.

  “Lincoln and I decided you’re out of the sodding band. You can take ‘Brooklyn from Bawtry’ with you.”

  “In your face, mate. Because Donnie Fitzgibbons and I’ve been writing and recording on the side for weeks. We call ourselves ‘The Tight Shitz.’”

  “That’s an odd coincidence considering we replaced you with Donnie Fitzgibbon
s’ mum, Fanny Fitzgibbons, and her watermelon-sized norks.” Our repartee continued to devolve into absurdity until my guts ached from laughter. Twas a fleeting distraction from birds, bands, and profundity while we were still us.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The rank and file were mostly euphoric as they celebrated the final day of our yearly stint in the hoosegow. Even Headmaster Moobs whistled a tune as he waddled through his victory laps. I snuck around like a red fox in Yorkshire on account of the Cornish Rex tongue hunting the halls for my gob. All of this twaddle prevented me from sorting out priority number one.

  I’d drafted an apology note for Becky on the back of a flyer for our gig at The Thirsty Bard:

  Dearest Becky,

  I’m sorry about all of the shite. I’ve been a twit. I miss you and all that. The band is incredible. It’d be tops if you could come to our show next week. I promise I won’t run off afterwards. I’ll even buy you a fizzy.

  Best regards,

  Me

  I didn’t have the plums to deliver it myself, so I sought the assistance of an insufferable meddler. Rita. She fancied me a loathsome shite, but time was short. I sprung forth from the shadows as she popped out of science laboratory. “Pssst, can I have a word?”

  “Oh, crap, what do you want?”

  “I need a courier. It’s mostly urgent.”

  “Are you speaking in bloody tongues? I’ve no idea what you’re blabbering on about.”

  “Rita, please give this to Becky.” I pulled the folded flyer from my trouser pocket and reached out. “Please.”

  “Are you asking me for a favor? Nervy bugger. I’d rather…” Her moral indignation suddenly transformed into impish delight. “Why don’t you just give it to her yourself?” A smug grin sprouted under the shadow of her unduly large konk. Becky was undoubtedly approaching from the rear. My first inclination had been to flick the note at Rita’s mug and leg it for the lavy. My kicks remained stationary, however, as my bonce swiveled to measure my lot. Becky was less than fifty-feet away and closing rapidly. Spasm gripped my tightening chest.

  Fleeing would be perceived as a horribly erratic measure considering she’d clearly spotted me. Thirty-feet. I was about to spark out. Be a man. Be a bloody man. Bloody hell! Lana “Prickly Pear” Moxley emerged from the depths of the corridor fixing to plunge my social prospects into Lucifer’s toilette. Retreat was no longer negotiable. Onwards, forwards, and farewell to dignity: I’d motored halfway across the abyss by the time my crumpled flyer landed DOA at Rita’s daisy roots.

  The finale of this melodrama unfolded inside my bean as I hid from humanity in a bathroom stall. Rita scoffed at my cowardice before callously foot-sweeping reconciliation into obscurity. Becky arrived seconds later curious and confused. Steer clear of Captains Courageous cause he’s a dodgy plonker. Jocks rule. Rockers drool. Blah, blah, blah.

  My inglorious foray into summer wasn’t over. Mum had prepared toad in the hole for brother and me in celebration of our respective accomplishments. Brother had of course shone like a Botswanian diamond and would enter his senior campaign vying for top honors. I’d managed not to fail any of my subjects and to keep the bowls at “Tremaine’s Guitar Shop” mostly tidy for over a month.

  Dad proudly announced over his pint of grog that he and mum had saved enough quid to send brother to some uppity camp for jocks. They were busy gleaming with pride and self-satisfaction while brother turned my way and mouthed the words “eat shit.” It’s as if he already knew my lot because moments later mum awarded the boob prize: The ever merciful overlords had commuted my spell in the clink to probation. Bloody hell. They could’ve skipped the pomp and circumstance and just handed brother my apricots.

  Cro-Magnon & Son shuffled off to the lounge shortly thereafter to riffle through brochures. I was stuck scrubbing dishes with Mata Hari, whose betrayal was inexcusable until she cracked our uncomfortable silence with panache.

  “Well, at least now you won’t have to sneak out every night.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  A blackboard covered in green chalk forewarned passersby of the night’s revelries:

  Wednesday Night at The Thirsty Bard: Bands and Bangers!!! Featuring Martin Monday and the Tuesdays, Bridgette Van Hoorn, and Rib Churchill. Show Starts at 7:00 p.m. Drink Specials All Night!!!

  We were bottom of the bill and light-years away from the Royal Albert Hall. Our charge was simply to warm up the crowd for the headliners. Rock n’ roll fluffers. No matter. Six songs meant six chances to nick the bloody show from the depths of obscurity and reduce The Thirsty Bard to dust.

  I surveyed the sparse crowd as I fooled about with the amplifier. Hope for the possibility of seeing her mug amongst the scamps was painfully unavoidable, as was the disappointment over her everlasting absence. There was no time to dwell, however, as Martin Monday a.k.a. Martin Mundy and Bridgette Van Hoorn invaded our space. Their stated purpose had been to introduce themselves but they were mostly just sizing us up.

  Mundy came off as a threatened Sussex spaniel marking his territory. He and the Tuesdays had apparently played The Thirsty Bard a dozen times before. Blah, blah, blah. If we’d wanted his bloody curriculum vitae we’d have placed an ad in the situations vacant. Van Hoorn seemed less irksome but horribly jaded and insecure nevertheless. We were the competition until proven otherwise. They blathered on like used car salesmen until Skeffington finally got them to shove off. He did so without offending their pedestrian sensibilities, which is more than they deserved.

  My steely focus exorcised all thoughts of Becky and the inconsequential melodrama as the clock struck 6:55 p.m. Rip Churchill was adrenalized and fixing to raise the dead with our jive. It didn’t matter that most of the patrons were busy shoveling bangers and stout down their throats without any regard for the wee wooden stage or its scruffy inhabitants. It didn’t matter that the spryest bird in the pub looked nearly two-hundred years young and portly, or that Mundy and Van Hoorn were leering at us like a couple of trench coat clad perves.

  It didn’t matter that a lady-bull materialized out of the abyss only to charge at me full bloody bore.

  Rita. Boom. A chink in my steely focus. “Looks like I ended up the courier after all. That’s me: Royal Mail Rita.” I still fancied her a horrible drag, but perhaps she wasn’t altogether shite. She handed me a flowery pink envelope and shook her loaf. “It’s too bad really. Oh, well, tis what it is. See ya around.” A moment later she returned to the slimy abyss from whence she came.

  “What was all that about, mate?”

  “Come on, Skeffington, you know Churchill’s got birds in every corner of the Kingdom. Ain’t that right, Churchill?” I smiled reflexively at Lincoln, but curiosity had infected me like mumps. My fingers were already peeling back the envelope. “No distractions during work hours, remember?” Lincoln’s fatherly tone temporarily disrupted the seduction.

  My band needed me.

  It only took thirty seconds of “Judy’s Jam Jar Jive” for Mundy’s face to betray his thoughts. He and the Tuesdays would sound like a bloody lounge act farting out elevator music when they tiptoed onto the stage. Up yours, you sodding peasant. Van Hoorn’s reaction was somewhat surprising, however, as her bonce bobbed to the reggae riddim like a mostly uncoordinated baldhead. There was no shame in surrender.

  Lights-out. We’d stepped foot in another dimension by the time the final chords of “Carmenita” blasted Mundy to the canvas. Nine to fivers who’d long since hung up their butterfly necks were temporarily reliving their rock n’ roll fantasies. Burnt out waitresses swung their arses like pear-shaped pendulums as they gave customers the eye. Bangers got cold. Drinks got warm. Van Hoorn’s fanny melted into her bloody chair.

  “One more, lads. Come on.” The chap in the pinstriped spacesuit wasn’t quite ready to rejoin the earth’s gravitational pull. His sentiment ricocheted like a pinball through the sea of yesteryear’s dreamers until The Thirsty Bard was on the verge of meltdown. We five huddled for a moment. Our
cocky grins and heaving chests suggested there was but one course of action: douse the shawarma with hot chili sauce. Cletus suggested “Ramses Revenge.” Brilliant. Better call in the Territorials.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Majorca. The weather was perfect as I shared the company of a mostly fit rock n’ roll journalist named Graciela. I insisted she drink Sao Paolo Sambas lest she be exiled from my entourage. She’d been commissioned to write a vignette about our latest studio album for some Spanish rock n’ roll rag. She’d just spent the previous hour with Skeffington, who undoubtedly regaled her with tales of feverish songwriting, manic recording sessions, and life on the road. Blah, blah, blah. I wasn’t about to make her job so easy peasy.

  Bloody hell. The scheming Spaniard went straight for the jugular with her espada ropera. She tossed around names that stung like a man o’ war as she attempted to unearth the sarcophagi of our pre-fame carcasses. I placed my Agua de Valencia on the cabana table and removed my sunglasses.

  “If you want to ask me about the drivel I pumped out for the new record or the dynamics of my professional relationship with Skeffington you go right ahead.” I reequipped my sunglasses and sipped my cocktail. “That ‘drivel’ bit’s off the record.”

  “Why don’t you and Donnie get along?” I’d never have plied her with umbrella drinks if I knew she was the Iberian Peninsula’s Woodward and Bernstein. I ignored her in the hopes she’d sell out and change the bloody subject. “I think it’s because you resent Skeffington.” She obviously brought a scalpel and her annotated copy of The Interpretation of Dreams.