Broken Birdie Chirpin

by Tarsitano, Adam

  “These birds are right fit and they’re really into musicians. I think we fit that bill, Churchill. Shall I count you in?” Bloody right. This sounded like a golden distraction from my songwriting troubles. Perhaps I’d even shed Becky’s ghost along the way.

  “Sure. Right. How about the incidentals?”

  “That’s the spirit. I told them we’d meet at The Picklebrough Diner in Muswell Hill at 6:30 p.m. Hamburgers and baked beans drive ladies wild after all.” I’m certain he winked on the other end of the line. “Bring you’re A+ game, Churchill. It’s going to be a bloody great time.”

  It was already 4:30 p.m. I’d have to hustle to get all dolled up and still catch the bus. I wondered if the late notice was on account of either Frisby or Cletus bailing at the last moment. Convincing myself that I’d been Lincoln’s go to guy was easy, however, since Frisby presented like an insufferable ankle-biter and Cletus remained smitten with Ms. Van Hoorn. It didn’t matter either way: Mr. Flirty Flirty was ready to soar out of his stoney lonesome.

  I scuttled into The Picklebrough Diner with lofty expectations. It didn’t take long to spot Lincoln waiving me over. He’d already cozied up to a gorgeous waif. She could’ve been a runway model with her pouty lips and almond-shaped eyes. The other lass sat with her back to me. I’d have been satisfied if she looked a quarter as attractive as her mate.

  She turned ever so smartly as I neared the table. Bloody hell. Hamburgers and baked beans were probably like kryptonite to this slender angel. Her wide and toothy smile nearly bowled me over. I smiled back nervously as I flopped into my chair. Lincoln found amusement in the awkwardness and waited an eternity before making introductions.

  “Churchill, let me introduce you to these two upstanding lasses. Maggie meet Churchill. Churchill meet Maggie. She’ll be your muse for the evening.” I fired off another uncomfortable smirk in her general direction. “And this…this is Rose.” There was more than a spoonful of sugar in his tone.

  Courtship. Lincoln and Rose carried on like old chums tipping back pints at the boozer. It was difficult not to fancy Rose. She was confident, witty, and had a delightful laugh that made me want to climb over the table and into her tiny lap. My side of the table felt like a black hole. I barely spoke and Maggie caught me staring at Rose more than once. I’d apparently been pouring salt into the ever-so-slightly-less-desirable cat’s wound. Maggie bristled. She wasn’t about to wave the white flag without taking her best shot. She leaned over with a rather seductive look on her sexy face and whispered in my ear.

  “Rose has got a massive broom handle in her knickers to go along with her teeny tiny berries.” Pop nearly squirted out my konk. Maggie cracked up. “I’m only joking of course…but she is preggo.” Her one-two combination turned the tide as my attention shifted leftward and left me wanting more.

  “Tell me about your band.” Blimey. Maggie was on a roll.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  I noticed mum in the kitchen dicing celery as I sprinted for the front door. The next bus for Muswell Hill left in fifteen minutes but this would likely be my only opportunity to chat with her alone. I paused for a moment to consider my values. Bloody hell. Mum deserved some gratitude for her role in Rip Churchill’s fortunes and I’d already let it slide.

  “Mum, I’ve only got a tick. Duty calls.” Her expression suggested that she’d been waiting rather patiently for this. “Thanks for your help with Mr. Surtees. The geezer’s right determined to see us succeed.”

  “Oh, you’re welcome, me duckie. I know what music means to you. You just keep up your end of the bargain with your father and I’ll keep being your biggest fan. Alright?”

  “Right. Sure.” Mum plowed forward for a hug and managed a quick squeeze before I squirmed away.

  “You little stinker. Someday you’re going to miss your mum’s hugs.” Mum wasn’t trying to be profound and mortality wasn’t on my radar. Her words were just background noise as I exited the kitchen. “Wait! I promised myself I wouldn’t say anything but I can’t help it. I’m working on another surprise for you. Just hang in there for a bit longer. This one’s top secret though, if you know what I mean.” I was mostly intrigued. It had to be extraordinary if she’d decided to keep it from Il Duce.

  Forty minutes later I burst through Lincoln’s garage door like a desperado toddling into The Gut Warmer Groggery. Adrenaline oozed from every pore as I readied myself for the big announcement. It was time to temporarily recapture the crown as de facto Grand Poobah of the outfit. Not so fast. I froze as my brain processed that which my eyes had allegedly witnessed. We’d once again been infiltrated by outsiders. Lincoln’s principles had folded in the face of a twig-like looker named Rose. Fortunately, her mostly debauched bestest came to rock n’ roll as well.

  Lincoln zipped towards me as if he owed some sort of explanation. His enormous mitt engulfed my shoulder and guided me to the corner. “I know what you’re thinking, Churchill, and you’re right. I’m a bloody hypocrite. It’s just that I really like Rose and you hit it off with Maggie, so I figured it’d be alright.”

  “You figured right.” This was a classic kill two birds with one stone opportunity: Reclaim my band and set Maggie’s draws on fire. Boom. “Now let’s get back to the others because I’ve got news to drop.” I engaged Maggie in a fist bump/finger explosion combo before raising my voice above the din.

  Fast forward five minutes. We were tearing through “My Little Refugee Girl” with reckless abandon. My feral riff transformed Skeffington’s ditty into a five-thousand stone lorry barreling down the motorway. He was arse over elbow as he crushed the vocals. We hammered away on our instruments with an equally crushing vim and vigor. No bloody mercy. Rose and Maggie had long been reduced to two teeny tiny puddles on the garage floor.

  I proudly surveyed my band as we chugged towards the finish line. Skeffington. Lincoln. Cletus. Frisby. These brilliant upstarts were my brothers for better or worse, and I loved them. To hell with triviality and egos. Rip Churchill was forever.

  Silly fool. Someday you’re going to miss your mum’s hugs.

  PART III

  THE KICKER

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The buzzer in my Kensington flat sounded as I poured myself a glass of Chateau Margaux. The interruption was rather disconcerting considering my overwhelming desire to unwind. Relentless touring, recording, and promotion had turned my rock n’ roll fantasy into bloody work after all. My first inclination was to ignore it, but I’d given the doorman explicit instructions not to buzz me unless faced with absolutely no alternative. Something foul might’ve been afoot. I gulped my wine before heading to the callbox.

  “What?”

  “Sir, I’m sorry for disturbing you. I tried to sort it out, sir. This gentleman simply won’t take no for an answer. He insists that he’s an old chum and that you’d be irate if I sent him on his way.” Blimey. The identity of my visitor became immediately apparent. He’d pop onto the scene every now and again with the same heartbreaking modus operandi: beg and plead for a second chance. “What shall I do, sir?”

  “Let him up.” I wished that my Chateau Margaux was a Chivas Regal as I chugged it down. His presence in my living room would surely dredge up painful memories. Moreover, I’d have to send him away in bloody shambles even if he didn’t deserve it.

  I paced about in anticipation of his arrival. The elevator chimed off in the distance. Seconds separated us. Knock. Knock.

  Frisby was rapping at my door.

  ***

  Frankie Shū’s Ballroom. Brick façade. Two enormous black tinted windows plastered with flyers from hundreds of rock n’ roll shows. Gaudy pink and green neon sign beckoning would-be hipsters to the red imperial doors. It was as though the Gods of rock n’ roll had devoured all forms of rock n’ roll stylee and then chucked up in the middle of Camden Town.

  We waited on the sidewalk for what felt like forty years. “Come on, man. Give it another bloody knock.” Ollie Maserati grew prickly as he sat in h
is van with the motor rumbling. Frisby plopped down his bass guitar case, grabbed the ring on the golden lion knocker, and rapped mightily.

  “That’s enough, mate. We don’t want to piss them off now.” Skeffington tossed a stern glance back towards Ollie. “Right?”

  “Oh, you’re right. Better you stand there looking like a bunch of tossers.” Blimey. Nerves were manifesting themselves in ugly ways and Skeffington wasn’t about to back down.

  “Why don’t you practice your parallel parking while we sort this out.” Twas a verbal roundhouse to Ollie Maserati’s ego. No matter. Their row grinded to a halt as sounds of life echoed from the depths of Frankie Shū’s Ballroom.

  “Mind your manners, Skeffington. We don’t want them thinking we’re bloody barbarians now, right?” Lincoln couldn’t help himself but Skeffington smiled anyway.

  The imperial doors finally swung open revealing a geezer in black trousers and a Kinks t-shirt. “I suppose you’re here for an audition.” Skeffington responded politely in the affirmative. “Alright, sport. Set up your crap. We’ll start in ten minutes.”

  He stepped through our ranks and yanked a pack of fags from his trouser pocket. “Son-of-a…” Mr. Pleasant crumpled up the empty box and flicked it onto the pavement directly in front of me. “Make that fifteen, ladies.”

  Onwards and inwards. A narrow corridor filled with velvet ropes and queue posts emptied into a rock n’ roll Shangri-La. Dark walnut floorboards crescendoed into a glorious 20' by 12' stage. Black wrought iron V.I.P. balconies burst forth from the candy apple red sidewalls. Multicolored spotlights lined the perimeter while speakers of all sizes dangled from the vaulted ceiling like Apollo’s plums.

  “Are we underdressed?” Cletus flipped up the collar of his denim jacket as he ascended the stage.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Listen up. I’ve got a wee surprise for you lot.” Lincoln barked over the din of semi-tuned guitars as he stood atop his stool. “A touch of class for a bunch of classless buskers.” He flopped down and circled to the front of his kit, which was all set up save for a black towel covering the kick drum. “Ta daaah…” He fired off a toothy smile before yanking away the towel. A glorious and stylized rendition of our collective nom de plume burst forth from the drum’s face: Rip Churchill.

  His simple gesture sent the butterflies fluttering away into the mostly empty ballroom. Win or lose, our ride suddenly felt official. Rip Churchill was here and all that. Skeffington quit fumbling with his microphone stand and knelt down in front of the emblazoned kicker. “It’s fantastic, mate. It’s our anchor.”

  “Alright, dollybirds, let’s get on with it then.” Our luvvly-jubbly moment had been cut short by Mr. Pleasant himself as he strolled towards the stage flanked by two additional blokes: a gangly twenty-something clad in a horribly pretentious Sgt. Pepper inspired ensemble, and an impeccably dressed Asian gentlemen who I incorrectly assumed was Frankie Shū or his relation.

  I glanced at the kick drum one last time before marching to my amplifier. I dropped the volume and plucked at the 1st and 2nd strings. A few twists of the machine heads and my git-fiddle purred like an alley cat. Cletus shot me a thumbs up to signal his readiness as he backed away from his own amplifier. Our rhythm section had already fallen into line and were busy clowning about as always. Skeffington made a final adjustment to the height of his microphone stand and breathed deeply. Moments later the cackling behind me faded. The supersonic rollercoaster stood motionless at the top of the first drop. Boom. The slap of Lincoln’s sticks sent us barreling over the edge.

  Somewhere between “The Sophisticate’s Flat” and “My Little Refugee Girl” we became teeth-bearing pumas circling ill-fated caribou. Three inches of ash smoldered atop the tip of Mr. Pleasant’s cigarette while his 20 oz. latte grew cold in his lap. The gangly chap battered air drums to keep from self-combusting. Only the impeccably dressed Asian gentlemen seemed impervious to his impending doom as he coolly mobilized armies from his handheld.

  The final sturdy thrusts of “Ramses Revenge” signaled the end of our audition. High-fives and backslaps abound on account of the palpable sense that no band this side of Denmark Street rock n’ rolled any better. A pinch of anxiety crept in, however, as our would-be beaks temporarily regained control. Fortunately, the honey in Mr. Pleasant’s tone mostly tipped his hand. “Well, alright. Thank you. Can you lads hold tight for a tick while we chat?”

  Intense but indecipherable whispers echoed from the peanut gallery. We played it aloof whilst stowing our gear even though our guts churned with anticipation. The whispers finally ceased as Mr. Pleasant approached the stage. The verdict was in. “We’ve got a problem.” Buggering hell. “The headliners for this Friday night backed out because they’ve got their heads up their own arseholes. We can dust off one of our regulars, but that’s no bloody fun.” My heart thumped against my throat. “I don’t suppose you lads can be ready on such short notice?” I nearly sparked out.

  “Sir, we can definitely be ready.” Skeffington responded with the confidence of a Spartan general. “We’ve been preparing for this opportunity.”

  Mr. Pleasant tittered at his naiveté. “Don’t soil your knickers, sport. Just swing by my office after you’re all packed up and we’ll discuss the particulars.”

  We relished the relative ease by which we’d climbed out of obscurity and into the neon bosom of Frankie Shū’s Ballroom. Less talented bands sold the souls of their unborn ankle-biters just to sit at the table. Rip Churchill licked crème brûlée off of Sterling silver desert spoons without so much as a bloody scratch. It wasn’t our intention to stick our thumb into the eye socket of the fates, but it certainly may’ve appeared that way.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Lincoln burst through the front door of “Tremaine’s Guitar Shop” shortly after lunch. Fortunately, I’d been dusting the window display or else he would’ve likely encountered some old-world snobbery courtesy of Ainsworth. Ainsworth still managed a disapproving furrow of his jungle-brow before turning back to his customer. I pulled Lincoln into the corner so as to avoid the appearance of impropriety. He’d never visited me at work before so I wasn’t sure what to expect.

  Lincoln began blathering on about the glorious weather we’d been having and the spicy shawarma he’d eaten for lunch. I’d never seen him quite so squirmy. His idle chatter became mostly unbearable. “I’m in the middle of dusting.” I held up my ostrich feather duster as proof.

  “Alright, I’ll get on with it then.” He leaned forward for maximum discretion. “I’m in love with Rose.” He mistook the look of jealousy on my face for skepticism. “I know it’s only been a couple of weeks, man, but…”

  “Have you told her?”

  “No bloody way, Churchill. But that’s why I’m here.” Lincoln winked. The intrigue made me considerably less interested in continuing with my manual labor. I surveyed the area and was pleased to discover that Ainsworth’s customer had led him into the side showroom.

  “Go on.”

  “I’d like you to help me write a song for her…something that’ll really ring her buzzer.” Dozens of thoughts popped into my bonce, but one in particular popped the loudest. It may’ve been awfully selfish and petty considering the moment. No matter.

  “You’ve come to me instead of Skeffington?”

  “Of course.” Good answer. “So, you’ll do it, right?” Bloody hell. I couldn’t write my way out of the shallow end of a puddle at the moment, but telling him to shove off didn’t seem right either.

  “It may be easier to buy her a luvvly-jubbly greeting card and some dark chocolates…but, yeah, I’ll do it.” I wondered about the logistics of our endeavor considering I’d never known Lincoln to write a lick. “Are we going to write this one shoulder to shoulder?”

  “I’ve got some ideas floating around believe it or not.” Lincoln glanced behind me. “That geezer’s back. I’ll leave you to it.” He took a step towards the exit.

  “Wait. Has Becky as
ked about me?”

  “Do you really want to know, Churchill?”

  “Maybe not.” Lincoln left moments later amid a flurry of aggressive posturing by Ainsworth. I swiftly returned to dusting with a renewed vim and vigor so as to avoid any further pestering.

  Mr. Surtees popped into the shop shortly thereafter and summoned me to his office. His wrinkly mug beamed with pride as I informed him of our triumph at Frankie Shū’s Ballroom. He whipped up a couple of celebratory Brandy Alexanders and we conversed like old chums for the better part of an hour. His desire for even the minutest details regarding the audition suggested that he was living vicariously through yours truly. I didn’t mind because it confirmed that my life had become infinitely more interesting.

  He finally ordered me back to work so as to avoid drawing the ire of Ainsworth. I was just a bloody skivvy after all. The mop and bucket began taunting me from the back closet. Not so fast. “Oh, and do me a favor, will you? Tell your mum that her proposal sounds just fine. She’ll know precisely what that means of course.”

  “Right. Sure.” I didn’t give a rat’s arse what sort of cagey extra-curriculars these two were involved in because good things seemed to happen whenever they conspired.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Sleeplessness. Paranoia. Brown liquor. The show was a horrible blur of miscues and rock n’ roll excess. There were sporadic boos on account of sloppiness. There were sarcastic cheers when we managed to keep it together for a bit. It was a self-fulfilling prophesy. We’d become handsomely paid circus clowns and it was mostly my fault.

  The Soho Hotel. Another after party. Rip Churchill was awash in decadence as bootlickers thrived on the decay. I stumbled about with a Chivas Regal in each fist. Boom. Laugh at my spiteful barbs lest ye be banished to the dark side of the velvet curtain. Do you like my Italian leather jacket that I picked up in New York City? Blah, blah, blah.