Broken Birdie Chirpin (6 page)

Our
ten minute hiatus had mostly been spent. We hustled back into formation and
waited for the curtain to part. Boom! “Gutter Minx” blasted forth with my
bone-crunching power chords rattling the P.A. system to the brink. The
gymnasium immediately sprung back to life. Lana, etc. had established a
perimeter directly in front of the stage for dancing and worship. An invisible
force field of attitude and hubris kept tossers at a safe distance. There were
many other pockets of prime skirts scattered about. If smiles and winks were
currency, I could’ve instantly retired a bloody mogul.

Becky.
She and Rita were sipping fizzies by the side of the dance floor. Rita was
fixing to monopolize her attention with animated blabber. No matter. Becky
looked like a proud sunflower stretching towards the warmth of the sun. She
never took her eyes off the stage. We’d planned a post-dance rendezvous behind
the school. I had neither the decency nor the courage to tell her that I
wouldn’t be attending.

In
a blink it was time to close out the dance with “Wisteria Blues (She Been
Dancing with the Wrong Guy).” The ordinary blokes deserved a fighting chance
since we were but four. Its tender rhythm sent the sweaty sexes clamoring for
one final grope at amorè. I tensed up midway through. How was I going to avoid
Becky? Was Lincoln an informant? Did I have the mettle to exist or perchance
prosper in Lana’s world? What actually went on in Moxley Manor during these
soirees? Three of these queries would be answered before the night had ended.

Bloody
hell. The crowd continued to cheer as we exited stage right. They probably
expected an encore, but we’d already played the entire Rip Churchill songbook.
Frisby’s brother Ollie waited for us outside the gymnasium in his van. My head
swiveled to and fro as we began loading up our gear. I grew more paranoid with
each trip. Every random noise sounded like footsteps and every voice sounded
like hers. I nearly ran for cover of darkness when two faces materialized by
the back of the van. Fortunately, it was Lana and “Lips” Ralston.

“My
mum’s got room for two more. Any of you rock n’ rollers interested?” Lana
Moxley had just offered up her mum as our personal chauffeur. “She parked out
back to avoid the crowd.” Hells bells. These birds were leading me directly into
the heart of darkness.

“I’m
in, Lana. Thanks. I just need two minutes to finish up here, if that’s all
right. What about you, mate?” Skeffington might’ve been the kindliest mate a
bloke could have, but these were dangerous times.

“Quite
alright. I’ll walk. One of you should go.” I nodded towards Lincoln and Frisby.

“You’re
too kind, Churchill. But we’re heading back with Ollie here. Believe it or not,
we’ve got another gig tonight.” This information would’ve blown my mind but for
the crisis unfolding in my lap. “Lana, I promise you…we will meet again soon.
You too, lovely.”

“It’s
settled then. We’ll meet you around back in a tick.” Skeffington had sealed my
fate. The path to popularity would be paved in confrontation and pain.

We
finished loading the equipment and bid farewell to our rhythm section. There
was no discussion about our future because they were in a hurry to get to the
Rusty Ruffles Tavern for gig number two. The van sped off into the night
leaving a trail of unanswered questions. Skeffington didn’t seem overly
concerned because he believed they were replaceable parts in our little rock n’
roll machine. I mostly viewed them as the motor.

The
journey to Madame Moxley’s jam jar was excruciating. I would’ve dropped to the
grass and shimmied over on my elbows if Skeffington hadn’t been there. I
instead tried to use Skeffington’s athletic frame as a human shield. We finally
rounded the back corner and spotted our chariot. I stopped and grabbed
Skeffington’s arm.

“I’m
supposed to meet Becky here after the dance. She’s waiting in that alley right
now.”

“What?
Are you bloody serious, mate?” I nodded. “You’re a fucking nutter. Go meet
Becky. There’ll be plenty of opportunities to impress Lana and her chums. I
know them, man. They’ll fancy you even more if you bail on account of some
bird. They’ll be talking about it for weeks.” Skeffington had obviously become
jaded.

“Are
you certain?” No verbal response was forthcoming. Skeffington pivoted and
marched straight for the Moxley Mobile. I had no choice but to follow. He threw
a glance towards the alley and something stopped him in his tracks. He smiled
and shook his head.

“Becky’s
not there, mate. Let’s go.”

Lana,
etc. could talk and giggle without breathing. Their ears were non-functioning
appendages, however. It was like watching a three dimensional telly. This
suited me fine considering I was incapable of regaling them with wit and charm.
I came off as brooding and mysterious and they had no interest in spoiling the
fun. In fact, they mostly treated me as if I’d been born the moment the velvet
curtain opened on the spring dance.

Lana
quickly became my favorite. Everything about her seemed gorgeous. Layered brown
hair. Indigo eyes. Infectious smile. Coconut sized norks. The air smelled
sweeter with her nearby. She represented the promise of rock n’ roll.

The
party itself was somewhat anticlimactic. I mostly stood around smiling and
nodding. Moreover, there were hordes of chest-beaters swarming about the ladies
and hors d'oeuvres. They weren’t nearly as warm and welcoming as Lana, etc.
Most of them were downright hostile. If it weren’t for Skeffington I would’ve
likely been stuffed into a dustbin and rolled down the great lawn. I knew it
was pure jealousy over my meteoric rise, but I didn’t want to be physically
injured on account of it.

The
highlight of the affair came during the final act. The parlor of Moxley Manor
came adorned with a magnificent grand pianoforte. It was a tiny bit fancier
than the antique upright occupying space in our living room. I slipped away
from some horribly dull conversation to admire it more closely. Lana caught me
peeking under the lid at its guts.

“I
don’t suppose you play piano too?”

“It’s
been awhile.”

“Are
you being modest? Well, I want you to play something for us. Maybe you can
bring some life back to these fading pixies. What do you say? ” I’d gladly draw
my pistols for one last stand against the blahs before curfew. My first
inclination had been to grab my sidekick from the other room as backup. It
dawned on me, however, that this presented a golden opportunity to distinguish
myself as Mr. Wonderful.

“Right.
Sure.”

“Splendid.
Thank you!” She gently stroked my arm before raising her voice above the din.
“Hey, listen up…I’ve got a treat. Our favorite rock n’ roller has graciously
agreed to play a few songs for us on mum’s piano.” The jealous wankers sulked.
Everyone else gathered around the piano for an intimate goodnight smacker from
yours truly. I was determined to send them dancing into their nighties with
fever.

“Penny
Please Budge Up” and “Jimmy Jammy Beggar” rolled off the keys like thunder. The
small crowd responded enthusiastically. Even Skeffington seemed chuffed. I
would’ve gladly relinquished the spotlight, but the revelers demanded a
chocolate mint for their fluffy pillows. It was at this moment that a painful
thought escaped from my conscience, which had been locked away in an
underground dungeon along with my plums. Regrettably, the thought couldn’t be
shaken. I didn’t want to disappoint, however, so “Hello Again, Moggy” filled
the electric parlor air.

It
was an inside joke on me.

PART
II

WHILE
WE WERE STILL US

Saturday
morning greeted me with additional unpleasantries.

“You’re
a royal flop in need of strong medicine. But I’m going to turn you into a
decent and responsible lad like your brother if it bloody kills me.” Blowing
curfew appeared to be the least egregious of my sins. A horrible progress
report had come through the post on Friday afternoon. My consistently
lackluster academic career had finally gone belly up and there was no denying
that rock n’ roll had snuffed it. “The foolishness ends today. Do you
understand me?”

“Right.
Got it.” I understood that he was a confused twit who had his head up his own
arse. I would’ve rather done porridge with the Birmingham Boys than become more
like brother. Arguing the point seemed futile, however, because they were such
great chums and dad was irate.

“Are
you ready to hear your punishment?” I nodded without realizing that he was
about to set forth the terms of my unconditional surrender. “Your guitar will
remain at home during school hours. No exceptions. You will come directly home
each day and sit at the kitchen table until all of your schoolwork is finished.
Then it’s right to your chores. Your mother will not be bailing you out
anymore. You will find a part-time job for the weekends doing something
respectable. You will also begin searching for a full-time job for the summer.
No more free ride. Understood?”

“That’s
a bit harsh.”

“Harsh?
Your guitar would already be mulch if it weren’t for mother. You wouldn’t be
fooling about with your bloody band until you were wearing falsies. You know
nothing about harsh, boy. And another thing, I don’t know why an upstanding lad
like Skeffington is running around with the likes of you, but you better not
sully his good name. His father doesn’t suffer fools lightly. Now clean up this
room and find a blooming job.”

Sod
off! Brother wasn’t going to be a professional footballer because he moved like
a turtle. It didn’t stop dad from bragging about his athletic achievements to
the other washouts who frequented the Turf Tavern. I was a rock n’ roll prodigy
but he wanted to stomp me out like a bloody cockroach. No matter. I had no
alternative but to mostly comply with his terms.

I’d
tossed my dirty laundry into the cupboard and was fixing to make my bed when a
brief moment of clarity struck.
Tremaine’s Guitar Shop. Dad couldn’t
possibly grumble if I found work at such a well-respected establishment. Of
course I hadn’t a clue as to whether they were hiring or if they’d even
consider a vagabond like me. It felt like fate, however. I grabbed the
situations vacant from dad’s discarded newspaper and darted out to the garage.

“I’ve
got some leads. May I pop into town?” I didn’t bring my guitar so as to
convince him there’d be no funny business.

“It’ll
do you good.”

Twenty
minutes later I stood in front of Tremaine’s Guitar Shop sulking. Not a single
noteworthy advertisement graced the otherwise impressive display window. I
would’ve ordinarily just spun around and strolled home, but the thought of
bagging groceries or delivering shrimp lo mein on my bicycle appalled me.
Onwards and inwards. The scent of rosewood and Sitka spruce instantly filled my
konk as a soft chime signaled my presence.

The
shop never seemed crowded because four-figure price tags kept the tramps away.
Only well-healed six-string aficionados were truly welcomed. I’d waltzed in
once before and found myself summarily removed for handling the wares without
intent to purchase. Management was probably as selective with employees as they
were with clientele. It seemed worth a shot, however, because I knew quite a
bit about their guitars and would happily sacrifice two-thirds of my family
just to get closer to them.

A
rather suspicious middle-aged sales associate with distaste in his beady eyes
approached rather aggressively. “Can I help you, sir?” His mannerisms suggested
that he was fixing to send me on my way if I didn’t answer just right.

“You
hiring?” Wrong answer.

“The
Guitar Emporium is down on Harrowby Street. Anything else?” He seemed like
quite the cheeky plank, but I’d grown tired of getting pushed around by these
types.

“You
got a manager?”

“Mr.
Surtees is unavailable, sir. May I help you find your way out?” Blimey. I
couldn’t get a straight answer from this twerp. Prodding him further would’ve
been risky, however. The last thing I needed were bobbies rapping at the front
door.

“I’m
alright.” So much for fate.

 Our
first manager was a Japanese chap named Shogun. He was an affable raconteur
from another dimension who could sell bourbon to a Southern Baptist. Shogun
would’ve been a valued cohort in negotiating full and fair resolutions to all
of my post-dance quandaries. Regrettably, we were separated by time and space.

Monday
traipsed in like a lamb. Blueberry pancakes for breakfast. Only minor niggling
from brother on account of my choice of trousers. Beautiful spring air
oxygenating my lungs as I strolled to St. Thomas’ School for Blighters.
Regrettably, it was all just a pitiful rouse. I fully expected to stew in a
crockpot of lukewarm misery for the greater part of the day.

Becky
presented the thorniest issue. Her absence from the alley was either a blessing
or disaster. She might’ve scurried home broken-hearted after overhearing Lana
and “Lips” Ralston blathering by the Moxley mobile. On the other hand, she
might’ve departed suddenly on account of some unanticipated occurrence and been
blissfully unaware of my betrayal. No matter. Either scenario represented only
the tip of the iceberg because I didn’t really deserve Becky in the first
place. I cared for her more than anyone, but I’d been a selfish plonker with
the maturity level of a green banana.

Uncertainty
also surrounded my beloved band. Lincoln and Frisby obviously had other
obligations that remained somewhat shrouded in mystery. We’d never discussed
whether they considered Rip Churchill to be a short-term charity project or a
long-term investment. It didn’t seem likely that they’d walk away after our
performance at the spring dance, but my double-dealing with Becky could only
adversely affect any such consideration.

Bloody
hell. Rita’s facial expression blasted me like a strategically placed landmine
as I tried to finesse my way past her locker. I swerved quickly so as to avoid
further interaction, but she had the reflexes of a spry cheetah. She seized my
arm and snatched me to the sideline. Rita obviously sought to draw first blood
on behalf of her best mate.

Monday
would be going out like a bloody lion.

“You’re
a total bastard. I told Becky that she should never speak to you again, but
she’s no pushover. She wants a piece of you. Meet her after school by the
alley.”

“I
can’t. I’m grounded.”

“What
is wrong with you?” She shook her head in disgust. “Be there.” She spun around
and marched off. Good riddance to that meddlesome twerp.

Becky
obviously intended to send me stumbling to bachelorhood with a shiner. I felt
somewhat relieved because her fists would be much easier to contend with than
her tears. The opposite held true for dad of course. He’d bury me when he
discovered I’d been tardy on the first afternoon of house arrest. Even if mum
took pity on me and kept it to herself brother would sing like a bloody canary.
Regrettably, I had no alternative but to meet Becky.

I
dashed towards the alley as soon as the school bell rang. Sister Muggins’
mind-numbing lecture had provided cover for me to formulate a simple plan: I’d
promptly suffer my beating at the hands of Becky and then sprint home. I hadn’t
run more than a few yards in five years, so there were no guarantees.

Becky
was already there when I arrived. She didn’t raise her mitts in anger as I had
envisioned. She didn’t leap at me like a hungry baboon. “You made it this time,
eh?” Her voice sounded firm and unforgiving. “I really don’t have a lot to say
to you. I just want you to tell me why.” Brilliant bird. She’d flipped the
tables and shifted the burden onto my frail shoulders. Part of me wanted to
tell her everything. Thoughts. Feelings. Failures. Blah, blah, blah.

“I
don’t know.”

“Is
that all you have to say to me? Because if it is…I’m going home.”

“Becky,
it hasn’t all been rubbish and I’m sorry.” Her strength faltered for an instant
as her lip quivered, but she possessed too much pride to allow the fates the
satisfaction of a tear. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

“Another
time and place then, slapper.” She ran off into the schoolyard and I felt
horribly sad that I’d lost her. There was no time to wallow, however. I had at
least ten minutes to make up with my legs.