Broken Birdie Chirpin

by Tarsitano, Adam

  “Nope. And I don’t much care for his tone.” Cicero took an aggressive step towards me and wagged his finger inches away from my mug. “You’ve got no respect for your elders.”

  “Dad will smell your arse breath from ten feet away. I’m off.” I took two steps towards the street before brother shoved me back to where I’d started. Rage began bubbling inside me. I’d buried a friend some hours before and brother bloody knew it.

  “Shut up. You say a word to dad and I’ll punch you so hard you’ll need falsies.”

  “What is wrong with you? I won’t tell him…just let me be. Please. I’ve had a horrible day or don’t you bloody remember?”

  “Fine. Go on. Not a word to dad.” I didn’t move on account of extreme skepticism. Even Cicero appeared stunned. “Seriously, it’s alright. I’m sorry about your friend.” There existed a genuineness in his tone that I’d not heard before. Perhaps he actually felt something human for a change.

  “Thanks.” Three steps later I felt an enormous thud on my upper back. My body tumbled to the ground. Brother and Cicero were cackling behind me. I stood up as quickly as possible and braced myself for another assault.

  “No worries. I’m all through. We’ve got a couple more pale ales to finish. Oh, and here’s your lovely bouquet back.” I’d dropped it during my descent. Brother handed me stems sans blossoms of course. The daft expression on his arse-face triggered something primal from deep within me. I bristled, leapt towards him, and swung at his konk with all of my might. Pop. His knees buckled but he didn’t go down. The blood dripping down his upper lip left me mostly satisfied until he began pummeling me two seconds later. He stopped only because Winchcombe’s bedroom light popped on.

  Brother and Cicero fled like cockroaches. I remained motionless with my back against the soft grass. My face throbbed from the multiple punches that crashed through my mostly feeble defenses. I wanted to roll into a cocoon and hibernate until the sorrow and humiliation disappeared. Winchcombe would likely be standing on his front porch in a matter of seconds, however, so I peeled myself off his lawn and legged it for the street.

  Two thoughts bounced around my bonce at that moment: First, Nurse Becky would likely shower me with the sympathy and affection deserving of a wounded pup. I’d nearly died trying to snaffle some flowers for her after all. Second, the Count of Monte Cristo would seem like a flapping fanny fart when brother finally received his comeuppance. Sod off.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  The house was completely dark save for a porch light and a soft glow radiating from a window on the far left side of the first floor. Hopefully Becky intended it as a signal because I certainly didn’t need a bullet wound to compliment my bruised and swollen face. I reached up and lightly tapped the window with the tip of my index finger. Seconds later a silhouette emerged from behind the sheer curtains. Its shadowy hands lurched forth and slowly spread the curtains apart. I stood poised to dive headfirst into the shrubbery if necessary. Becky.

  Her eyes widened at the sight of my wounds. She slid open the window with great care before leaning forward. “What happened?” Her voice might’ve been soft but her tone was thundering.

  “I don’t want to be shot. Let’s shove off somewhere a bit safer.” Becky motioned for me to back away so she could shimmy out. This obviously wasn’t her first rodeo.

  “There’s a small park a few minutes up the street. We’ll be alone save for the tramps.” She grabbed my hand and led me across the garden. We strolled in silence until Aunt Kate’s house disappeared around the corner. “Well, who did this to you?”

  “Brother.” I relayed the entire sordid encounter all the while embellishing those particular parts that portrayed me in a mostly gallant manner. Every word seemed to ignite a fire in Becky’s guts.

  “Your brother’s probably got a plonker the size of a baby carrot.” I smiled even though it made my face hurt. “I know boys will be boys and all that, but you ought to tell your mum and dad so he doesn’t try to snuff you out in your sleep.”

  “I’d only be shooting myself in the foot. Dad would sign my rights over to the British Army or else ground me until my plums touch the floor.”

  “That’s absurd. Your face tells the entire story.”

  “You really want to know me, Becky?”

  “Of course I do.” She smiled reassuringly. Bloody hell. I’d just stepped over the edge of a steep cliff in the name of bonding. I told her all about Il Duce, brother, and their exclusive fraternity. She listened intently as I recounted tales of exclusion, barbarism, and inequity. I also told her about mum, the covert support she offered for my rock n’ roll fantasy, and my wish that she’d someday offer it in the light of day. Blah, blah, blah. Freud would’ve needed a cold shower on account of this rubbish.

  We talked for hours upon hours as we sat side by side on the grass. Lincoln. Rip Churchill. God. The Kinks. My buzz was enormous because I’d never felt closer to anyone before. I finally reached out and put my arm around her shoulders. She didn’t resist so I pulled tighter. The intoxicating smell of her hair compelled me to plant a soft smacker on top of her head. Becky gazed up at me, leaned forward ever so slowly, and affectionately kissed my gob. Candy floss.

  There exists an oasis where inspiration bursts forth like black gold from the fertile loam and every odd bellbird chirps a melody worth remembering. There’s no bloody map or nautical chart that can deliver you there, but you know the instant you’ve arrived because you never ever want to depart.

  Regrettably, time marches forth without regard for personal satisfaction. Our canoodling eased to an end as dawn began to replace darkness. I assured her that there’d be letters, phone calls, even flowers. She promised to visit often. These mutual reassurances didn’t dissolve the lump in my throat as I delivered Becky safely back to the foot of Aunt Kate’s first floor window.

  “See you around, slapper.” I stared at her arse whilst she climbed back into the guestroom. She leaned out for one last peck before transforming into a silhouette once more.

  Moments later I stood alone in the damp morning air nursing a solitary thought: It was time to write some rock n’ roll.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  I eased out of bed and crept across the bedroom. I grabbed my blue jeans off the plush carpet and exited into the hallway. Bloody hell. The bedroom door squeaked rather loudly as I pulled it shut. I paused for a moment before tiptoeing to my studio. I’d dropped buckets of quid on the finest digital recorders, microphones, headphones, compressors, etc. Regrettably, those technological wonders couldn’t write a witty lyric or a catchy melody. They’d only served as a steady reminder of my ever evaporating musical genius. This particular morning felt different, however.

  I snatched my rosewood Gibson J-45 from its wall mount and sat down. She quickly fell into tune before I began fiddling around with different chord progressions. Suddenly the sounds jumping off the sounding board were fresh again. Lyrics started to grow out of the music like marigold. Irony. Double entendres. A feverish bacchanalia of glam and swagger soiled the formerly sterile walls of my studio.

  The dead end surely lurked around the next corner, waiting to put paid to my resurgence. Sod off. I emerged two hours later with the material required to reclaim my band from the clutches of Captain Skeffington and his fluffers.

  ***

  “Rose Anna Springs” was born as the sun rose above the horizon.

  Lincoln’s specter never descended from the rafters to bellow luvvly-jubbly lyrics at me from the hereafter. His elongated spectral fingers didn’t supernaturally guide mine up and down the fret board of my acoustic guitar. Regrettably, Lincoln’s own song for Rose had been lost the moment his brain died. I’d become possessed, however, by the same primordial emotion that’d inspired him to compose it in the first place. In this small way Lincoln sat smiling beside me the entire time.

  I felt the urge to play it for Rose post haste, before time mercifully ripped away the vividness of her emotions. She deserved to know
that hers wasn’t a love unrequited, and that all of her sobbing hadn’t been for naught. The exercise would be mostly cathartic for me as well since it represented the fulfillment of my fallen comrade’s request. He surely would’ve been chuffed since “Rose Anna Springs” was the finest song I’d ever written.

  I could’ve comfortably resided inside the afterglow of my creation for days. Regrettably, Mr. Surtees expected me at work in less than an hour. Mum expected me at the breakfast table in less than five minutes. Bloody hell. The bruised face that stared back at me in the mirror as I styled my hair provided a final reminder that reality always lurked right around the bend.

  Ollie Maserati died one week later. His mum and dad pulled him off the machines and he simply stopped breathing. The funeral was a private affair attended only by the closest of family and friends. Frisby. The kidney blow that sent him stumbling into the ropes had been followed by a vicious haymaker to the jaw that sent him straight to the canvas. I hoped he might find the strength to jump back in the ring again someday soon, but I feared the worst.

  PART IV

  SONNY BOYD WHEELER

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Skeffington wanted to meet up during my lunch hour to discuss the future of our creative partnership. He refused to share the particulars during our telephone conversation despite my urging. I suspected he’d been up to some rather misguided chicanery on account of his enthusiasm.

  “Listen, mate, it’s time to get the train back on the tracks. I telephoned the manager over at Frankie Shū’s Ballroom and he’ll book us again as soon as we’re ready. I also scheduled our audition at The Satin Vault for mid-August. It gives us something to shoot for again.” These were enormous decisions made by Skeffington without my input or blessing. I might’ve been able to stomach his lack of consideration but for the next bit of rubbish that flopped forth from his gob.

  “Donnie Fitzgibbons said he can join us right off. His drummer from The Tight Fitz, Mickey Cormac, is also available.” My facial expression must’ve betrayed the horrible fury bubbling within me. “Relax, mate. They don’t have to be our permanent fix, but they’re certainly capable of keeping things together for the next few months.” Bloody hell. Skeffington was fixing to splice Rip Churchill back together as if it were Frankenstein’s monster.

  “I’ve got a sodding brilliant idea. Let’s become a cover band and rename ourselves The Tight Fitz. Do you fancy that, mate?”

  “I care just as much about all of this as you do. But I’m going to dust myself off and get back in the bloody fray as quickly as possible.”

  “Well, you are captain of the jocks, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, I see. So what’s your plan? Mope around like a fanny because the best days of your life are in the rearview? You think Lincoln would want Rip Churchill to die? It’s his legacy too.”

  “Bugger off. You don’t get to use Lincoln’s memory like that. You barely wanted him in the bloody band. No matter. Cletus would never sell out anyway. Although you’d probably be happy to replace him with Dickey Doolittle from The Tight Fitz, right?”

  “Cletus is on board. I spoke to him yesterday.” Mutiny.

  “Bloody hell. And I suppose of you’ve spoken to Frisby too. I’m certain he’s chuffed that you’ve singlehandedly replaced him with a poseur.”

  “I told you this is a short term fix, mate. If Frisby wants back in once his head’s on straight then so be it. And what do you have against Donnie, anyway? He’s a decent bloke who happens to love rock n’ roll as much as we do.”

  “Blah, blah, blah. I’m done. You and the other twonks can do whatever. But you’re not Rip Churchill, so don’t even think about it.”

  “I’ll tell you what. Give me a ring after your head’s been removed from your arse.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  I spent the early part of the afternoon fantasizing about starting my own band. We’d rise to the Top of the Pops like a bloody Skylon while Skeffington and his Disciples fluffed the headliners at The Thirsty Bard. Perhaps I’d even let Skeffington and Cletus polish my Ferrari Enzo or re-string my guitar for a tiny whiff of superstardom. Sod off.

  Regrettably, I spent the latter part of the afternoon wondering if I’d shot myself in the foot.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Maggie telephoned to invite me to a soiree hosted by her workmate, Cecilia, from the beauty salon. It was apparently an annual affair that drew hordes of would-be partygoers from all corners of London Town. Loud music. Cheap beer. I wasn’t particularly interested in selling Becky out for another go with Maggie, but the perfect opportunity to play “Rose Anna Springs” for its namesake had just flopped into my lap.

  My arrival at the supper table briefly interrupted a cheerful discussion regarding brother’s new girlfriend. That was the first I’d heard of her of course. Shirley Weller. They’d met at football camp earlier in the summer and brother finally gathered up the nerve to ask her to the movies. Bloody hell. Mum and dad gushed as if he’d just gotten engaged or something. I couldn’t help but feel terribly sorry for this misguided bird. Fortunately, I ate my beer battered haddock in relative anonymity as brother reaped the rewards of his machismo.

  I slipped out of the house about an hour later with guitar in tow. Covert maneuvers weren’t required because it was Friday night. I tried to focus on the party, but my squabble with Skeffington kept popping back into my bonce like a bloody yo-yo. Becky thought I’d done the right thing by standing my ground, but she didn’t fully understand the creative partnership that Skeffington and I shared. It wouldn’t be easy starting over and there weren’t any guarantees. The devil that you know and all that rubbish. The very thought, however, of replacing Lincoln and Frisby with Donnie and Mickey made me feel manky. Decisions. Decisions. One thing I knew for certain: Frisby deserved the decency of a telephone call before being banished into obscurity.

  Cecilia’s dwelling was unmistakable on account of the steady current of merrymakers stumbling across the garden. The thumping bass shaking its beams provided another clear indication. I suddenly felt a bit nervous. Finding Rose or Maggie in that crowd wouldn’t be easy, and to everyone else I’d look like some sort of sketchy interloper with a guitar strapped to his back. No matter. No sacrifice was too great for the sake of fulfilling my celestial mission.

  I inelegantly weaved through the beer sweat, perfume clouds, and testosterone in search of my fair associates. The dim lighting and overall bedlam made it horribly difficult to identify particular faces in the crowd. I’d slowly made my way across the living and dining rooms without any luck. Bloody hell. The kitchen was even worse as the two kegs lured in wasted birds like horseshoe magnets. I’d managed to squeeze into the den before someone rather forcefully tapped my shoulder.

  “Hey! I’m so glad you made it.” Maggie had obviously tossed back a few. “But you’re stiff as a board! You need beer now.”

  “Where’s Rose?”

  “She’s around here somewhere. Come on.” She grabbed my hand and led me back into the kitchen. “Stay right here.” The mob swallowed up her slender frame until she materialized moments later with two plastic cups filled with beer. “You’ve got some catching up to do!”

  “Right. Sure. I’d really like to find Rose.”

  “Relax. We’ll catch up with Rose later, alright?” Maggie was making this awfully difficult, especially since she looked so bloody alluring in her white tank top and denim short-shorts.

  Fortunately, Rose sprung forth from the bowels of party-central before the night turned counterproductive.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Bloody hell. Twas as if Cupid and Peter Pan had collaborated on the décor. Pink and red stuffed animals of varying shapes, sizes, and textures blanketed nearly every surface. The white comforter was covered in enormous multi-colored hearts with the word “Love” stitched in the center of each one. Throw pillows. Picture frames. Even the vanity was shaped like a blooming heart.

  Cecilia’s love-nest would have to
suffice, however, because it happened to be the only unoccupied space in the entire abode. I sat down on the bed and pulled out my guitar. Rose and Maggie sunk comfortably into matching white beanbags as I tuned up. I would’ve preferred an audience of one, but Maggie proved to be extraordinarily hardheaded.

  Context. I rather inartfully relayed the backstory of how “Rose Anna Springs” came to exist. Lincoln’s visit to Tremaine’s Guitar Shop. Our misbegotten plans to collaborate on his ode. That the original song had gone down with the ship. Blah, blah, blah. Broad strokes. I’d let “Rose Anna Springs” fill in all of the gory details. Rose smiled as mascara infused tears laid tracks down her chiseled cheekbones. Maggie jumped up, snatched some tissues from a pink tissue box, and handed them to her mate.

  Rose delicately patted her eyes before breathing in deeply. “Ready when you are, maestro.” I nodded. The moment felt enormous as I pinched a pick from my shirt pocket and strummed the opening chords. Boom. I imagined Lincoln sitting somewhere in the cosmos toe-tapping along with the rhythm while shouting out words of encouragement: Let her rip, Churchill. He’d wink approvingly as the final echoes of “Rose Anna Springs” dissolved into nothingness.

  Fortunately, the reception back on earth felt mostly satisfying as well. Rose nearly tackled me. “I love it! It means an awful lot. Thank you so much.” She finally released me, planted a peck on my cheek, and looked directly into my eyes. “He would’ve of loved it too.”

  “It’s my favorite song of all times! I want to hear it again so badly. Now!” Maggie chimed in.

  “I’ve got a wonderful idea. Grab your guitar. Come on.” Rose excitedly grabbed my hand and pulled me off the bed. Bloody hell. The racket from below returned like a shotgun blast to the bonce as she threw open the bedroom door. We went barreling down the staircase with Maggie following directly behind.