Broken Birdie Chirpin

by Tarsitano, Adam

  Cheap thrills were too easy to come by. I desperately wanted to ruin something. Donnie was an easy target because I loathed him anyway. “Do you know that I don’t even want this toad in my bloody band?” I spat in the face of the pink-haired cocktail waitress who’d been entertaining Donnie prior to my arrival. “He gets to stay in my band because I get outvoted every month.” I turned my gaze directly to Donnie. “I’d be really bloody embarrassed if I were him.”

  Donnie placed his cocktail on the bar and rolled up his sleeves. This poseur was fixing to watch me bleed. Shogun swiftly emerged from the whiskey haze, however, to escort me across the lounge. Horrible vulgarities about Donnie and his mum spewed forth as partygoers looked on in amusement. My cocktails were summarily confiscated and replaced with ice water. I was apparently inches away from being extricated from my own bloody party. Sod off. These tossers would have no such pleasure. I’d escaped before and I could do it again.

  Downtown. Bright lights. Jam jars. I caught my second wind riding the electricity of Saturday night in Soho. “Ziggy Stardust” thumped out of a local boozer as some patrons hit the pavement. I slipped inside hoping to be entertained. My celebrity didn’t go unnoticed and I rewarded their affection with martinis and firewater. Witty. Charming. Flirtatious. I regaled the hoi polloi with tales of yesteryear as I graciously posed for dozens of photographs.

  Twas a sharp decline. The lights were flickering. Even my hollow leg buckled under the weight of this binge. Unfamiliar faces from the crowd offered help, but what did they really want?

  Their alien hands invaded my space. Where was Shogun or Skeffington? I tumbled onto my arse as the entrance moved farther away. Darkness.

  Then came an oddly familiar voice that reconnected the circuits if only for a moment: “Come on now. Let’s get you off to bed.”

  Bloody hell. These were hardly the circumstances I’d imagined, but I instinctively reached into my trouser pocket and pulled out my wallet. The inner-most flap contained a delicate folded napkin with some faded scribbling on top. I placed it in the palm of her hand. She unfolded it as a sparkle of recognition flitted across her thunderstruck eyes.

  “It’s never been worth it.”

  “I know, slapper.” Her simple words ushered me into oblivion.

  ***

  I shut my eyes amidst the glorious roar of Rip Churchill as we approached the last chorus of “Carmenita.” We’d spent the previous two hours ripping through our set list for Frankie Shū’s Ballroom. It felt like we’d been barreling down Cautley Spout whilst two finger saluting all comers. I would’ve spent the next two hours ripping through it again had it not been for bus schedules, curfews, and alarm clocks.

  We’d agreed to take Thursday night off to recharge the batteries before Friday’s performance. This was our final rehearsal and spirits had never been higher. We chin wagged about the future as we crashed down from our rock n’ roll high. “I’m telling you, it’s time to drop quid on studio time. We’re gonna need something to toss around at our shows.” I was chuffed that Cletus brought it up since I’d been thinking about it for weeks.

  “We can probably get a couple of days inside Chuck Magoon’s basement for a decent price.” Lincoln was obviously acquainted with some of the local sound merchants. “He’s got a tin ear, but his equipment is topnotch.”

  “Let’s just do it. I’ve got a sweat sock full of bills.”

  “You’d let us use some of your toilet scrubbing earnings? You’re a bloody saint, Churchill.” Lincoln grinned. “I’m thoroughly inspired. I’ll even smash open Frisby’s piggybank for the occasion.”

  “I’ll give you the two pence I dropped in her last Christmas, but you leave piggy alone.”

  “We may not need Frisby’s dowry if we keep capitalizing on opportunities and getting some real exposure.”

  “Right…but even as bloody talented as we are, Skeffington, and I mean bloody talented…a record deal isn’t going to happen overnight.” Lincoln had been at it longer than any of us of course.

  “Well, one thing we’ve got is time, mates.” Blah, blah, blah. “But I’ll throw in my share if that’s the desired course.” Brilliant. The old fart had come through once again.

  Fifteen minutes later Skeffington and I were fixing to catch the bus back to reality. Lincoln pulled me aside as I snatched up my guitar case. “Don’t forget. Next week we start working on our side project.”

  “Do you have anything down on paper yet? Because I could start fooling around with it tonight.”

  “No, Churchill, it’s all up here.” He tapped the front of his bonce with his index finger. “Safe and secure.”

  “Alright. Next week then. Hopefully we’ll come up with something worthy of Rose.” Lincoln gave me an affectionate tap on the shoulder with his enormous mitt before ruining the moment.

  “Remember, if you don’t come through…I can always ask Skeffington for help.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Breakfast was mostly pleasant. Mum whipped up some stuffed French toast from a recipe she’d seen on the telly. Our sparkling plates confirmed her competency with the whisk and skillet. Dad devoured The Daily Telegraph as he sipped his coffee. Brother scrounged for seconds while blathering on about carbohydrates and jock camp. He remained a horrible plonker, but had become considerably less aggressive on account of my association with Skeffington.

  Thursday beckoned. I dropped my plate in the sink and stepped out of the kitchen. It took but a blink for mum to track me down. Her enormous smile failed to mask a rather sinister sparkle in her eye. “Have a great day at work and remember how very proud I am of you.”

  “Right. Sure.” Many a morning mum wished me well as I set course for Tremaine’s Guitar Shop. On this occasion, however, her tone suggested that she knew something I didn’t. My squinty-eyed inquisitive pose fell flat even though I brandished it with aplomb. Mum knowingly rubbed my shoulder before slipping back into the kitchen.

  I encountered the same sort of poppycock from Mr. Surtees. He was unlocking the main entrance when I strolled up. He grinned at me before bouncing his eyebrows up and down like they were caterpillars on pogo sticks. “Swing by my office the minute Ainsworth shuffles off to lunch. There is a pressing matter that requires your attention.” Blimey.

  The morning seemed to last forever. I squeegeed the display windows until they shone like Swarovski Crystal, restocked the lavy, and carted out the rubbish. Somehow these enormous undertakings took less than an hour to complete. Bloody hell. I hadn’t planned on dusting floor merchandise until early afternoon. My only respite was the occasional daydream about Frankie Shū’s Ballroom.

  Ainsworth finally left for lunch six years later. I practically flew to Mr. Surtees’ office. “You’re certain that Ainsworth is gone?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s just Collins out there now.”

  “I’ll get to it then. Your mum and I have been involved in a rather sordid affair. The details of which shall remain confidential of course.”

  “An affair?” I rather preferred Mr. Surtees over dad, but this was bonkers.

  “I’m afraid so, son. And she’s up the duff with your stepbrother.” Mr. Surtees must’ve realized that I was inches away from chucking up all over his oriental rug. “Oh, come on. Lighten up. Your mum’s an upstanding bird.” The queasiness began to retreat. “Now go fetch the guitar case from the back closet.” Bloody hell. I mostly expected more chicanery.

  Fortunately, I didn’t find my dad bound, gagged, and quivering in his unders. A lone guitar case rested against the rear wall of the closet. I snatched it up and brought it before Mr. Surtees. “Open it up.” Three snaps later a gorgeous Pelham blue Les Paul Humbucker revealed herself to me. I gently ran my fingers over its strings before looking back to Mr. Surtees for further instruction.

  “Your mum and I negotiated a layaway plan. She satisfied the terms of our agreement and now I’m doing the same.” The wheels began to spin, but not fast enough. “It’s yours.”

  Disbel
ief quickly transformed into delight as his sincerity became evident. Cartwheeling across Mr. Surtees’ office would’ve been inadequate to express my excitement. “Thank you, sir. It’s glorious.”

  “Well, it was mostly your mum’s doing, so you be certain to show her plenty of gratitude. I know she went to great lengths to make certain you had it for tomorrow night.” He glanced at his watch. “Alright. Into the closet with it post haste. God forbid Ainsworth’s nephew doesn’t get the same bloody bargain.”

  Mr. Surtees and I rendezvoused in the alley after closing. I was somewhat surprised that he hadn’t come in disguise considering his desire to avoid Ainsworth’s bellyaching. The handoff was fast and clumsy. No words were spoken. Boom. He fled to his jam jar looking like he’d just swallowed the canary.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The Re-Rans were scheduled to take the stage at 9:00 p.m. with Rip Churchill to follow promptly at 10:15 p.m. Our plan was to meet outside Frankie Shū’s Ballroom at 8:00 p.m. We’d unload our equipment and still have plenty of time to luxuriate in the electricity of the moment.

  Preparation began promptly at 5:30 p.m. as I yanked on my preferred worn-out blue jeans, faded “Tea for the Tillerman” t-shirt, and brown leather rock n’ roll boots. I topped it off with a brown leather blazer I’d purchased just for the occasion. It may’ve been impractical considering the season, but it looked awfully sharp. My rock n’ roll stylee wasn’t nearly complete, however. All ten digits began steadily working over my hair. I hadn’t bathed since Sunday so manufacturing highly stylized bed-head wasn’t difficult. A few spritzes of styling spray later and I was bloody gorgeous.

  Skeffington and I met up at the bus stop at 6:45 p.m. so as to catch the 6:55 p.m. express to Camden. We were like a couple of spinsters shuffling off to bingo night at the Oddfellows Lodge. Chirp, chirp, chirp. Skeffington finally started laughing at himself as he stammered through some tedious story about his neighbor’s overweight cocker spaniel. I’d committed a similar offense moments before so I joined in as well. We agreed that it was better to ride in silence than subject each other to more nervous prattle.

  My head buzzed as I stepped onto the concrete. Dusk had gripped London and the streets seemed to awaken a teeny tiny bit more with every step I took. The energy was intoxicating like Becky’s gob or Penelope Paddock’s arse. Glorious. The pink and green neon sign of Frankie Shū’s Ballroom finally became visible a couple of blocks away. “Good God, mate. This is really happening.” Blimey. I couldn’t of said it better myself.

  The lads were loitering around Ollie Maserati’s van when we arrived. Surprise. Surprise. Rose, Maggie, and Bridgette Van Hoorn were there too. I hadn’t seen Maggie in weeks on account of chaotic schedules and waning interest. She spent far too many evenings styling coiffures at her aunt’s beauty salon and I wasn’t quite enamored enough to be inconvenienced. Expectations? She greeted me with a tiny peck on the cheek.

  Greetings and salutations were interrupted as another van pulled up behind Ollie Maserati’s. The Re-Rans had arrived on the scene. These twenty-something hipsters were uniformly clad in black trousers, black button-down shirts, and thin red neckties. They started out friendly enough until resentment over their lot finally bubbled to the surface. “So, who do you blokes know?”

  “Your mum.” Frisby responded. We all chuckled.

  “Easy.” Their lead vocalist jumped in. “Don’t mind James. He’s just a traditionalist. You know…pay your dues and all that jazz.”

  “I’ll be sure to share that with Uncle Frankie.” Lincoln winked at Frisby to let him know he’d been one-upped.

  The Re-Rans weren’t looking for a fist fight and they’d been at it long enough to know when to quit. “Right. We’re just fooling about. Maybe if you like our set you’ll invite us to open for you again sometime.” Sod off.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The Re-Rans had started their set. They weren’t altogether horrible really. Their sound was a cross between The Police and The Police. Scattered applause sputtered forth from the twenty or so onlookers as they finished their first number. Fortunately, by the end of their second number the crowd had nearly doubled in size. There was a bit more space to fill, however, considering the ballroom held nearly five-hundred.

  Rip Churchill waited in the wings. I had a throbbing knot in my guts as I sat on a folding chair and fooled about with my unplugged Humbucker. Skeffington paced back and forth while anxiously re-reviewing the set list, song lyrics, etc. etc. I’d decided he was some sort of alien cyborg sent to earth to conquer sport, birds, and rock n’ roll. His nervous energy functioned as a hi-tech radiator designed to prevent self-combustion. No matter. He’d also been programmed to perform at the highest levels when it mattered most.

  Our rhythm section was chin wagging with the bloke who’d worn the horribly pretentious Sgt. Pepper ensemble to our audition. He was apparently the spendthrift son of a majority owner of Frankie Shū’s Ballroom. His father had him doing odds and sods to pay off his considerable debts. He seemed mostly alright save for his retro-ruffled tuxedo t-shirt. The conversation ended rather abruptly, however, as our would-be host required another pint. “Cheers, Rip Churchill. Make us all proud.” The moment of quiet that followed his departure was cruelly deceptive.

  “Dammit! Your brother done screwed up.” Lincoln tossed his bass drum case against the wall. “You bloody heard me, Frisby. I told him fifteen times to pack the right kicker.” Lincoln pointed to the front of the bass drum. Blimey. “The Jack Slaps” was stenciled across its black-face in bold orange letters. “It must be some sort of joke…but no one’s bloody laughing.”

  “Sorry, man. It’s messed up.” I’d never seen Frisby so solemn.

  “Where is he? Go get him.” Lincoln was fired up. Frisby didn’t offer any resistance. In a blink he was wading through the burgeoning crowd in search of his recalcitrant brother.

  I understood Lincoln’s frustration. First impressions and all that. There were worse snags, however, and I really wanted to let it slide. Even Skeffington wasn’t horribly bothered. “We can make light of it during the show, mate. No worries. The crowd will know who we are.” Lincoln wouldn’t have it.

  The fireworks didn’t really start until Frisby returned with Ollie Maserati. “Is this a bloody joke?”

  “First off, watch your tone. Second, it was a bloody mistake. How many drum kits do you have in that garage? Uh? I loaded up the wrong one.”

  “And it just so happens to be this one? The only sodding kicker with another band’s name written across it?” Lincoln was bristling like a bloody porcupine.

  “Bad luck. Nothing more.”

  “No, man. At best it’s bloody careless. At best.”

  “Piss off. I’m not getting paid to do any of this shite.” Ollie Maserati’s logic seemed to resonate because the veins in Lincoln’s neck retracted.

  “Well, unfortunately, neither are we.” Lincoln’s growl had been replaced with a slightly more conciliatory tone.

  “Listen, I’m sorry for the mix-up. It was a mistake, man. Alright?” Right. Sure. Case closed. Move on. Not so fast.

  “Let’s fix it. Grab your keys. We’re going to go get it.” The very thought of it made me cringe.

  Skeffington looked at his watch. “No way. It’s 9:38. You’ll never make it back in time. Just forget about it, mate.”

  “Ollie Maserati isn’t good for much” Lincoln winked at Ollie. “But he’ll get us back for the show.”

  “Let’s just be The Jack Slaps tonight.” Cletus weighed in firmly on Skeffington’s side.

  “We’re wasting time.” Ollie Maserati spun the metal ring of his keychain around his index finger. Bloody hell. He and Lincoln had somehow become united in interest.

  Skeffington snatched Lincoln’s arm as he moved determinedly towards the door. “Come on, mate. You’re going to screw this up. It’s not worth it.”

  Lincoln shook free of Skeffington’s grip. “We need our bloody anchor.” And off they went. />
  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The upside of Lincoln’s departure was the death of my performance anxiety. Regrettably, it had been replaced with dread. The Re-Rans performance became an ever shrinking dynamite fuse that’d been lit by Lincoln’s imprudence. Sans Friday night congestion Ollie Maserati might’ve roundtripped it in thirty-five minutes. Tonight he’d be lucky to do it in forty-five unless his beater had spawned wings.

  The Re-Rans finished their set at 9:52 p.m. They’d carted off all of their gear by 10:00 p.m. The plan was for Frisby to set up Lincoln’s drum kit save for a gaping hole in the middle. We’d tune up, run through sound check, pray, etc. The minute Lincoln burst through the door we’d drop the final puzzle piece in place and kick it off.

  A profound feeling of fear and exhilaration struck as I tiptoed onto the stage. The eyes and ears of five-hundred rock n’ roll fans hoping to be gobsmacked by Rip Churchill were firmly upon me. I might’ve momentarily forgotten about our predicament but for the pitiful mugs of my band mates. Skeffington’s greenish tint suggested he might chuck up. Our customarily carefree rhythm section seemed vacant without their kingpin.

  10:10 p.m. The side door swung open. Brilliant. They’d bloody done it. Rip Churchill’s meteoric rise had once again been blessed by the gods of rock n’ roll. Only it wasn’t Lincoln or Ollie Maserati, and a mostly disconcerted Mr. Pleasant made for a rather poor substitute. Regrettably, he’d noticed that neither our bass drum nor our drummer had made an appearance on stage. “Missing someone?” His firm tone betrayed his thoughts: Don’t piss around with our bloody business.

  Skeffington did his best to reassure him without providing any of the sordid details. It didn’t work. “You’ve got a few minutes before this crowd starts getting anxious. I don’t need to tell you what effect their anxiety will have on me. Get this resolved.” He popped a cigarette in his mouth before leaving us to gag on our misery.