Broken Birdie Chirpin

by Tarsitano, Adam

  ***

  Skeffington frequently basked in the adoration of football enthusiasts as the premiere jock this side of Speedwell Street. He’d been photographed for local newspapers hoisting watermelon-sized trophies over his loaf. He shared a rather lengthy and intimate relationship with exhilaration. It became obvious, however, that Rip Churchill’s performance at The Thirsty Bard topped his laundry-list of prior glories.

  He skipped to the bus stop like a school girl doing double-dutch. “We were aces tonight, mate. My head’s still buzzing. I’ve never felt so invincible.” I knew precisely what he was blathering on about. The exhilaration still coursed through my veins. Regrettably, a fruity envelope beckoned as it burned a hole in my thigh.

  Skeffington’s endorphin-induced catharsis also included a mea culpa, however. “You were spot on, mate. Lincoln and Frisby…Cletus even…they may be insufferable arses…but they’re irreplaceable.” It sounded like a mighty gesture that my ego interpreted as surrender. There was of course no surrender in that double-dealing uber-jock and he’d reemerge from his hangover with a renewed sense of purpose that would leave me quivering in my unders.

  Not so fast. It’d been an evening of staggering noise. It seemed fitting therefore that I faced my fate alone and in the silence of my bedroom. I unfurled Becky’s note as if Beelzebub himself might be lurking within its folds. I inhaled and opened my eyes.

  Fleetfoot,

  I’m still not really sure how to respond to your note. Here it goes anyway…

  First, thanks. I was reminded that you’re not a total boob. Rather, you’re just awkward and bipolar.

  Second, I would’ve enjoyed seeing the band. There’s no denying Skeffington’s enormous talent, and Lincoln’s my favorite cousin of course.

  Third, dad’s been transferred north of Derby for a spell. I’ll be over one-hundred miles away hanging curtains in our new flat by the time you read this.

  Fourth, Rita’s convinced me that you’ll always be more trouble than your worth. So, your awful timing is for the better.

  By the by, the relocation bit’s the only one that’s entirely true. Please don’t forget me when you’re top of the pops.

  Until next time,

  Becky

  P.S. Lincoln really thinks the world of you.

  P.P.S. Rita has my new address (I’m not making it easy on you!). Write me if you’re so inclined.

  Becky was gone and my chest hurt. No matter. I’d be sure to write her a luvvly-jubbly letter for every day that we were apart. Blah, blah, blah.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Chirping crickets. Mr. Sandman was on another bloody continent or else unwilling to confront the melodrama churning butter in my bonce. I thrutched about like a mackerel washed up on shore. Becky. Rip Churchill. Becky. Rip Churchill. The cadence was maddening.

  Blimey. My eyes opened on account of epiphany. Perchance I wasn’t supposed to be tucked within the warm folds of slumber’s bosoms. I spurted out of bed, flipped on the lamp, and snatched my guitar. It’d been a few weeks since I’d written a jingle. The conditions were perfect. The silence. The angst. The inevitability.

  Dad’s ire would be mighty should I wake him, so my fingers barely grazed the strings as I rummaged through various chord progressions for something novel. Every now and again I’d conjure up some melody or lyric. I usually constructed entire songs around these bricks with the ease of Bacchus. Regrettably, nothing worthy of permanence emerged. I attributed this initial lack of traction to rust.

  I miss you, Becky. I need you, Becky. I want you, Becky. Blah. Blah. Blah. It was the worst bit of derivative drivel that’d ever been squeezed out of me. The harder I pushed the more cringe inducing my efforts became. My insomnia now felt like a tightening noose as I propped my guitar back up against the wall.

  I flopped back into bed and shut my eyes. My thoughts wandered into heavily fortified outposts. What if Skeffington became a more prolific songwriter than yours truly? I’d written so many songs already that it was altogether possible that I’d reached my bloody limit. I’d never been some sort of blue collar songsmith who relied on formulas and elbow grease. That shite sounded an awful lot like work.

  Perspective. It was 2:34 a.m. and there wasn’t a drop of petrol in my tank. I’d been taxed physically, mentally, even emotionally. I fluffed my pillow and sought a comfortable groove within my well-worn mattress from whence to launch a last ditch swipe at slumber. My swashbuckling alter-ego would surely return come sunup. Seven years and dozens of reminders later it was lights out.

  The next few days were horribly pedestrian. Rip Churchill remained on hiatus while Skeffington sweat buckets in some summer league football tournament in Bolton. Fortunately, we still had three nights to rehearse for our upcoming performance at Creepin’ Jean’s. It may’ve been just another no frills stop on the “Low Hanging Fruit Tour” but the anticipation felt like murder.

  I’d dismissed my writer’s block as a byproduct of exhaustion, but was unwilling to put my theory to the test for fear of reoccurrence. Keeping busy was mostly weak medicine. I worked during the afternoons and occupied my evenings with chores and other ordinary pursuits. Time practically stood still as I slogged through the funny papers, confounded myself with crossword puzzles, and doodled. At least the house was quiet on account of brother returning from jock camp every night with one foot in the grave.

  Becky frequently infiltrated my psyche despite my best efforts. I’d been so careless that it made me feel manky. I even wrote her a letter, but it read like a blooming obituary. There was really no point anyway with her being on another bloody continent and all. She’d probably already been seduced with fizzies and toffee by some macho plonker from Six Pack Avenue. I’d become but an inconsequential footnote in the chronicles of her youthful indiscretions. Perhaps the time to trade in Becky’s ghost for a sportier model was upon me. Bloody hell. There’d be no more tears in my herbal tea.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  An odd duck sat at the table directly in front of the stage. His gray poodle-like mane protruded forth in most directions as did his steel-wool beard. His konk was bulbous. His tweed sport coat might’ve been nicked from a vagrant on the way over. He wasn’t without quid, however, as he sucked down brown liquor with aplomb. His young waitress fawned over him like he was a bloody geezer of interest.

  He observed our performance at Creepin’ Jean’s with a profound intentness. His crinkly expressions were more akin to inquisitive academic than rock n’ roll buff. It seemed odd, therefore, when he enthusiastically joined the other patrons in demanding that we unload another jingle. Twas also odd that he disappeared before the headliners ever took the stage. That there was something eerily familiar about him was the oddest thing of all, however.

  We didn’t stick around to catch The Gorgeous Gorgons, who were billed as “progressive rock meets your sister.” It wasn’t really our cup of tea and Ollie had offered us a ride home. I’d noticed Bridgette Van Hoorn in the crowd but didn’t give it two shakes. She’d obviously become a groupie and I appreciated her loyalty. It was only when I saw her and Cletus carrying on like school girls as the rest of us loaded up the van that I caught on. They’d apparently been sweet and salty ever since The Thirsty Bard. Horses for courses.

  The rollercoaster ride homeward left me with horrible nausea and a greater sense of purpose. I’d not known it until we were swerving through back streets at warp speeds that Ollie had a disturbing alias: “Ollie Maserati.” He’d earned it mostly on account of his lead foot and tunnel vision. Skeffington was seething and would’ve commandeered the vehicle but for his nonexistent sea legs. The others roared with laughter, which only made matters worse. Skeffington finally demanded that Ollie pullover and after a few more torturous maneuvers Ollie Maserati obliged.

  “Come on, mate.” It seemed like a tossup until Skeffington struck a fatherly tone. “Don’t be a fool.” Blimey. I leapt out of the van notwithstanding the risk of being chastised by the peanut gallery.


  “Look…they’re holding hands.” Frisby’s jibe was the last I heard before the van door slammed shut.

  Skeffington flipped them the bird as they peeled off into the night. “Buggering hell. We’re never riding with those mutts again, alright?” Aye, aye, Captain Skeffington. “The bus is murderous but it’s bloody safe, mate.”

  We both would’ve settled for the relative luxury of public transportation at that moment. Regrettably, walking the four-hundred miles was our only alternative. Skeffington of course had the plums to suggest that we jog it so as to avoid blowing curfew. Up yours. The ambitious bugger never knew when to quit.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I’d been polishing Martin D-28s with the patience and care of a white coat when Mr. Surtees summoned me to his office. I feared the worst since I’d never been summoned before. A few days earlier I’d dinged up the underside of a Gibson while transporting it from storage. It was hardly noticeable but Mr. Surtees obsessed over his wares.

  He was sitting beside his Davenport desk toiling with the ledgers when I entered. He didn’t immediately acknowledge my presence and the suspense was unnerving. Unclean hands. Paranoia. I was Roderick Usher as the Gibson split in two and crumbled upon the freshly swept showroom floor. Boom. Mr. Surtees finally dropped his fountain pen and gazed up at me. His expression suggested that he knew of my indiscretion.

  “My rolodex is chockfull. Do you know why?” Blooming hell. The Socratic method. My wheels were spinning in place. Fortunately, the question turned out to be rhetorical. “Because I’ve had my sausages in the pie for nearly four decades. Did you know, for example, that I was a groomsman at Tommy and Jean Cornish’s wedding?” Behold my plodding journey on the service road to comeuppance.

  “No, sir.”

  “You’ve no blooming idea who they are of course, but we’ll get to that momentarily.” Mr. Surtees toyed with me like I was a yo-yo. “You probably see me as a fossil. Well, eat shit if you do, because there’s no substitute for time well-served. I’ve rubbed elbows with titans, but I’ve also swam with the sharks.” He removed his bifocals and looked me square in the eyes.

  “You’ve been hiding something from me.” Bloody right. Mr. Surtees shot up and walked deliberately towards the closet. Prosecution’s Exhibit A: The dinged up Gibson. Not quite. He returned holding a medium-sized box. It likely contained the shriveled up heart of a once promising guitar. He placed the box on his desk and motioned me over.

  “Tommy and Jean Cornish are the proprietors of a local boozer…” Off came the lid. My knees buckled at the sight of the odd surprise that lurked inside. “…that you’re quite familiar with.”

  “You’re mad.” Blimey. My filter was out to lunch with Mr. Surtees’ alter-ego. “Sorry, sir. I just…were you at Creepin’ Jean’s by chance?”

  “Chance? No, my dear boy. A little birdie told me all about it. You want to see it? I can go find that box too.” My extraordinary discomfort must’ve manifested itself in my facial expression because Mr. Surtees prematurely abandoned his shtick. “Lighten up. There’s an angel supporting your career and she just happens to be a wee bit smarter than you.” Becky. Wonderful Becky. But how?

  Not so fast. “Your mum reckoned that a gentleman of my position might be useful to a fledgling rock n’ roller such as yourself. Of course, I had to see your band for myself before making any promises.”

  “But that get-up?”

  “Anonymity. Eccentricity. Blah, blah, blah.”

  “Alright. Well, what do you think then?”

  “You aren’t very good at scrubbing toilets.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Even Ollie Maserati couldn’t have delivered me to Muswell Hill fast enough. I carried tidings of enormous proportions. Mr. Surtees had telephoned the powerbrokers at Frankie Shū’s Ballroom and The Satin Vault to arrange auditions for Rip Churchill. These were premiere rock n’ roll venues frequented by next big things and their trophies.

  Nepotism alone forged opportunities such as this. Oh, how my band mates would revel in the knowledge that my business acumen was as sharp as my musical genius. I pictured their adoring faces as their benevolent leader delivered them from obscurity. Kiss the outstretched hand that feeds lest ye be banished to the farthest corners of the kingdom. Respected and loved. Firm but fair. I burst into the garage with the heads of my enemies dangling from twine.

  Mutiny! The sight and sound of it snatched my breath away. The four mutineers were muddling through some up-tempo jingle I’d never heard. Captain Angler had ringleader written all over his cheery fucking face. The cacophony grinded to a halt as my presence became known.

  “Good news, mate. I penned a couple of songs last night. We were fooling around with them a bit while we waited. I think you’re gonna like what we’ve got so far. So, strap on your guitar.” Good news? I wanted to chuck up on his face. Since when did Skeffington bypass yours truly in favor of the rhythm section? If you can’t beat them join them of course; a tried and true philosophy for a backstabbing busker.

  These blokes weren’t anywhere near ready for my news. I strapped on my guitar without any fanfare and listened oh so intently as the lads began to play. Their herky-jerky takeoff satisfied the worst in me. My ire returned, however, as the quality of Skeffington’s composition began to shine through. He’d succeeded where I’d been failing.

  It didn’t take long for me to hatch a transformative riff that’d blast the bloody track into next year. Not so fast. A devilish delight upended me before my fingers ever plucked a note. Mail it in. Sack it. Skeffington didn’t deserve my best. I could easily riff off of the main melody without adding jack. Seconds later my lead guitar chimed in. Blah, blah, blah. I even tossed in an uninspired guitar solo during the bridge for good measure.

  I may’ve won that battle, but I was losing the war. The others were arse over elbow about the ditty; mostly because it was a shiny new toy to play with. Skeffington called it “My Little Refugee Girl.” I felt like the bloody refugee, however, and he wasn’t even through. His second offering mostly topped the first. “A Soul for Wally B” was sure-handed pop rock with an inspired hook. I likely could’ve had a massive impact on the final product, but pulled off my konk instead.

  There was only one true way to exact revenge: pen an enormous masterpiece and snaffle control back from the depths of Skeffington’s arse. I’d punish the turncoats in the meantime by withholding news of the auditions. They’d be privy when I climbed back on top.

  Blimey. If only masterpieces grew on bloody trees.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Shogun burst into our hotel room at 7:30 a.m. He was already impeccably dressed. Black tailored suit. Starched white shirt. Black silk tie with a wide Windsor knot. He’d likely read the newspaper, exercised, and poached an egg to top it off. We were barely conscious and would’ve slumbered until afternoon spritzers but for our grueling tour schedule.

  “Skeffington’s the savage who tossed the minibar out of the window last night, boss.” Donnie was always so cheeky in the mornings.

  “I didn’t pay for this Hublot using babysitting money, funnyman. Go report it to the bobbies.” Shogun didn’t suffer fools lightly, especially whilst he was on the clock. “I’ve just received a communiqué from David Isham.” Blimey. I nearly gagged on my blueberry muffin. Skeffington rushed in from the lavy with his face half covered in shaving cream. “He’s spun the record for Albert Spratz and the other bigwigs…” Caesura. Shogun’s impenetrable poker face taunted us.

  “Come on, mate. I’m going to chuck up. What’d he say?”

  “Skeffington, I am afraid its bloody fantastic news. They loved it. The label wants it released yesterday with heavy promotion.” We’d been legitimized by the overlords of rock n’ roll. The Ship of Theseus was ready to set sail for Top of the Pops. “They also feel strongly about ‘Rose Anna Springs’ as the first single.”

  My knees buckled. My hands shot up towards the heavens as did my gaze. Bloody hell. Mine was a bit
tersweet rock n’ roll fantasy.

  ***

  Inspiration. Ours was a symbiotic relationship characterized by the simplicity of a summer breeze and the intensity of a wet dream. I’d never questioned its ethereal origins because it always found me. It hovered nearby waiting to be plucked from obscurity and transformed into rock n’ roll. Suddenly, however, I’d become a match that wouldn’t ignite no matter how many times I scraped against the striking strip. Inspiration had deserted me just as Skeffington began trampling over my bloody plums in the name of sport.

  Two blooming hours and not so much as a single respectable idea emerged. I tossed my guitar on the bed and buried my face in the palms of my hands. Horrible frustration ran amok inside my aching bonce. I was mostly frustrated with myself for piling so much pressure on my frail shoulders. Skeffington had motored into the firefight with L7s and howitzers while I’d waltzed in with the two-finger salute and insecurity. Sabotaging the entire enterprise to satisfy my bruised ego only made matters worse. Bloody hell. No man could write a song whilst his head was so far up his own arse.

  The first item on my agenda was to right the wrongs of our last rehearsal. Cranking out jaw-dropping riffs to Skeffington’s new songs and announcing our upcoming auditions might not have been the equivalent of composing a masterpiece, but it surely would up my cache and buy me some time.

  This war wouldn’t be won with a sprint.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Lincoln was my mate but we’d never spent any time together outside of the band. I’d never given it much thought on account of our busy schedules. It was mostly surprising, therefore, when he dialed me up about entertaining some birds.