Broken Birdie Chirpin (7 page)

The
intense burning sensation felt unbearable and it wasn’t just limited to one
particular location. It started in my quads and hammies. Before long my lungs
and tootsies were ablaze. Even my eyes burned from the sweat puddles gathering
inside them. Bloody hell. The muscles in my face began to ache from the
constant grimacing and I’d only made it halfway home.

I’d
nearly cleared Dumfries Alley when a horrible screech ripped through the afternoon
air. Utter exhaustion prevented me from reacting properly. It became evident,
however, that I was about to be struck by a jam jar. A few short thumps later I
came to a complete stop on its warm roof. I was sprawled out facedown like a
starfish. Everything hurt. It didn’t seem, however, that any new pain had
emerged. If anything I felt relieved to be off my feet for a bit.

“Are
you alright?” Some geezer was staring at me through his bifocals. “Can you hear
me?”

“Yes.”
I started to ease myself off the vehicle.

“I
am not sure you should be moving. I can call an ambulance.” The geezer seemed
to be overreacting as he unsheathed his mobile device. The impact had been
light, and I only looked miserable on account of my pre-accident heart attack.

“I’m
alright. I’ve just got to get home.”

“Are
you certain?” I nodded in the affirmative. “I’m very sorry. By the time I saw
you and stepped on the brakes it was too late. Please let me give you a lift
home?” A lucky break had just come barreling into me.

“Sure.
Thanks.” He opened the door for me as if I was some sort of invalid, and I slid
my sweaty arse onto the plush leather seat. The bloke was either very kindly or
else terrified that I’d ring up Mr. Solicitor on account of my severe and
permanent physical injuries. Either way, the marathon had reached its
conclusion.

Silence
prevailed during the five minute journey except for some dated rhythm and blues
playing softly in the background. I appreciated that he didn’t bombard me with
idle chatter. He spoke up, however, as we pulled up to my house. “Let me give
you my business card in case you or your parents need to reach me. I don’t
shirk responsibilities.” I glanced at it briefly as he made the handoff. Bloody
hell. The chances of this particular encounter must’ve been astronomical.

“You’re
Mr. Surtees from Tremaine’s Guitar Shop. I stopped by your shop on Saturday
looking for work. The sales associate was horribly unpleasant. I asked to speak
with you and he told me to sod off. And now you just ran me over with your car.”

“Looks
like you’ve got some leverage now, eh?”

“On
account of my broken back?”

“Are
you some sort of junior solicitor? Well, I won’t be browbeaten by the likes of
you, son. I’ve got a minotaur in a spacesuit over in Mayfair who costs more per
hour than you’re worth. Nevertheless, I did run you down and I do need some
assistance around the shop. Nothing posh, however.”

“I’ll
do whatever.”

“What?
Are you done negotiating already? In that case, I need someone to sweep,
vacuum, dust, polish, etc. We’ll have to work out all of the nitty gritty of
course. You still interested?”

“Right.
I am.”

“Jolly.
You can swing by the shop tomorrow afternoon and we’ll discuss hours, pay,
expectations. Blah, blah, blah. That is, of course, if you don’t wake up a
quadriplegic.”

“I’ll
manage.” I hobbled through the garden like an uneven wildebeest. It was mostly
done for the benefit of Mr. Surtees.

I
informed dad of my employment just before supper so as to avoid any mealtime
mockery from brother. The manner in which I landed the job remained shrouded in
secrecy, however, because it’d be better if dad believed my skills and
qualifications were the primary reasons for my success. He seemed pleasantly
surprised that I’d complied with his mandate so speedily. He even granted me a reprieve
from the shackles of house arrest so that I could meet with Mr. Surtees the
following day. Dad genuinely hoped this opportunity represented the first stage
of rehabilitation from embarrassing ne'er-do-well to upstanding citizen. His
hopes would soon be dashed, however, because it became just another part of my
rock n’ roll fantasy.

Skeffington
had been charged with arranging a sit down with our rhythm section to discuss
the future of the band. The only sliver of availability in their busy schedule
was during a gig at The Cloak and Cucumber Café in Muswell Hill that evening.
I’d have to sneak out through my bedroom window since I couldn’t bloody well
stroll out the front door. The consequences of being discovered were
unthinkable.

“There’s
no other way, mate. You’re under house arrest for the next ten blooming years.”
Skeffington had been indirectly being penalized by Il Duce and it irked him. He
didn’t want to lose an inch of the momentum we’d gained vis-à-vis the spring
dance and neither did I. That was the only reason I considered his treasonous
proposal.

“Right.
I’ll do it then.”

“Brilliant.
Let’s try not to appear too desperate. Remember, there are other quality blokes
out there who would trade their left plums to join our ranks.”

“Name
one.”

“Donnie
Fitzgibbons.” I knew Mr. Fitzgibbons had been in Skeffington’s ear ever since
tryouts. He apparently wasn’t just a flashy attention-snaffling lead vocalist.
He could slap bass as well. Skeffington had never heard him play first hand of
course, but took it on faith alone that he was butter. I remained rather
skeptical.

“I
want Lincoln and Frisby. If they’re too thick to want us right back, then we
can discuss alternatives, alright?”

“Fair
enough, mate.” Skeffington could be stubborn but he wasn’t daft.

That
afternoon I swung by Tremaine’s Guitar Shop for my meeting with Mr. Surtees. I
rather enjoyed strutting around the shop with my bonce held high. The tosser
who’d booted me just days before spotted me right off. His exasperation made it
clear that he knew the drill. He acknowledged my presence with a nod before
disappearing into the back. He remerged seconds later with Mr. Surtees by his
side.

Mr.
Surtees carried a calculator in one hand and a Brandy Alexander in the other.
“No props? How disappointing! A neck brace or cane would’ve been the perfect
touch. Oh, well, now I’ll have to fleece you of course.” Ten minutes later the
terms of my employment had been painstakingly negotiated. We shook hands. It
was my first and only real job.

I
carried out my afternoon sentence at the kitchen table like an angel. Supper
also seemed rather pleasant on account of my successful meeting with Mr.
Surtees. I even washed the dishes with extraordinary vigor and dried them
spot-free. I’d been riding a tsunami of goodwill. It was all for show of course
because Mephistopheles himself lurked behind the shadows plotting a dastardly
escape.

Everyone
finally began settling into their nightly groove. Mum hunkered down in her
favorite chair with a tawdry romance novel. Dad and brother plopped in front of
the telly with their lemon curd. I slipped into my bedroom and shut the door.
Escaping while the clan was wide awake constituted a high risk maneuver that
only cornered prey would attempt. Up and over: It was time to save Rip
Churchill.

Skeffington
and I arrived at The Cloak and Cucumber Café at approximately 8:45 p.m. A
mostly crunchy lady crooner was fluffing the crowd with some low-key acoustic
material. Peace is love. Free the whales. Blah, blah, blah. We settled into a
table near the stage and waited patiently for her set to conclude. Two
painfully affected songs later she disappeared from our lives forever. The buzz
within the café immediately began to increase as anticipation for the headliner
replaced lethargy.

Boom.
The dimly lit stage was suddenly awash in multi-color. A bright yellow beam
shone directly on the face of Lincoln’s bass drum. I hadn’t seen this
particular kit since the first time we met in his garage. The stenciled orange
lettering was unmistakable. We were at The Cloak and Cucumber Café to see The
Jack Slaps.

Lincoln,
Frisby, and another bloke stormed the stage moments later. Lincoln settled in
behind his drum kit, twirled his sticks, and surveyed the audience. He spotted
us almost immediately and winked warmly. Frisby machine gunned us with his
bass. It felt like we were old chums. Perhaps Becky hadn’t gotten to them yet.

The
third “Jack Slap” appeared to be their lead singer and guitarist. He had
scruffy brown hair and the early makings of a garibaldi. His wiry frame was
clad almost exclusively in denim. He strapped on a Strat and grabbed the
microphone.

“Cheers.
You lot ready for some rhythm and blues?” He received a mostly lukewarm
response. “Ooh, that’s not gonna cut it. Come on. You tossers ready for some
rhythm and blues?” The response was more robust but there were also scattered
jeers on account of his swagger. “Alright. Alright. Sod off. We’re just gonna
play bloody loud and to hell with you.” Seconds later the band made good on his
promise. Their sound was thunderous and heavy as they dropped gritty
reinterpretations of R&B standards. It was Big Bill Broonzy meets The
Animals.

Donnie
Fitzgibbons couldn’t press their bloody trousers.

We
were rock n’ roll confetti splattered across newsstands. Pouty mugs. Tight
trousers. Eyeliner. Our physical beauty was matched only by our hit-making
prowess. Platinum records. Top of the Pops. The headlines were mostly the same:
“Rip Churchill: The Crowned Heads of Rock n’ Roll.” This was the vision I kept
for my beloved band. Fortunately, Rip Churchill would someday bathe in the
grandeur of such superstardom. Regrettably, the four of us would never bathe in
it together.

Lincoln
strutted over to our table during intermission. He plopped his enormous hand on
my shoulder and sighed. “I am sorry about Becky. Who can figure birds, right?”
Becky had obviously spared him the particulars and I wasn’t about to disprove
any misconceptions. The enormity of her selfless act was mostly devoured by my
overwhelming sense of relief. Rip Churchill needn’t croak at the hands of my
shabby constitution. There was still the possibility it’d croak at the hands of
our rhythm section, however.

“Now,
I know why you lads came here tonight and I assure you you’ll have your answer
before the night is through, one way or the other. But you’re going to have to
stick around for another set first.” Lincoln wore the grin of a mischievous
sprog and I found it mostly reassuring. Skeffington figured we were being
jerked around by the help.

“Why
all the bloody cloak and dagger in The Cloak and Cucumber, mate? You’re either
in or you’re out.”

“One
more set. That’s all I’m asking for. What do you say, Churchill?”

I
leaned over and whispered in Skeffington’s ear. If Lincoln and Frisby weren’t
fully committed members of the band after the next set I’d move on. Donnie
Fitzgibbons was better than doing this wild fandango in reverse or chasing
something that never really existed in the first place. I was just bluffing of
course but Skeffington bought it. I looked back over at Lincoln. “Sure. Right.
One more set then.”

“That’s
awfully clever.” Lincoln leapt from his chair and started back towards the
stage before turning around again. “Oh, and ah, you troubadours ought to stay
on your toes.”

The
hour that followed was extraordinary and unfolded like a Kawasaki rose. The
band continued to devour rhythm and blues like ravenous piranhas while
Skeffington and I anxiously awaited a sign from atop the stage. It finally
materialized midway through the set as the third “Jack Slap” wiped the sweat
off his brow and leaned in towards the crowd.

“You
lot enjoying yourselves?” Applause. Catcalls. “Uh, that’s sweet, but…well,
we’re getting tired of playing for you.” Playful jeers burst forth from every
corner of the café. The spectators had long since realized that the cocksure
repartee was part of the show. “Wait. Buggering hell. I’ve got a bloody
solution. Who here digs rock n’ roll?”

Cheers.
Whistles.

“Well,
we don’t do rock n’ roll. Sorry.” Hisses and boos. “Alright, calm yourselves.
We’ll give it a go since you’re all so gorgeous. Oh, and I almost forgot…we’ve
got some allegedly ferocious rock n’ rollers here to help us sort it out.”

Skeffington
smiled and shook his bonce. “I’d sure like to meet these ferocious rock n’
rollers.” He may’ve been three-quarters killjoy, but he was ready to enjoy this
ride.

Cletus.
A distant outpost in a remote corner of the Twilight Zone where denim goes to
die. Cletus. The third name in a three-player package deal for the very soul of
Rip Churchill. Cletus. The reason we were shaking the beams of The Cloak and
Cucumber Café that evening.

It
was a fifteen minute firework display. Roman candles. Dahlias. Kamuros.
Horsetails. Every cymbal crash. Every crunchy power chord. Every heart-pounding
thump of bass guitar. Every intricately timed pluck of my lead. Bengal fire and
peony. Each bloody ember vividly reflected in the dancing eyes of the audience.
It had been a display of epic proportions presented by a five-piece Rip
Churchill.

And
so Lincoln and Frisby had shrewdly orchestrated an audition for their mate to
be our rhythm guitarist. His Fender purred like a Ferrari. His stage presence
was bullfighter meets Ziggy Stardust. Most importantly, Cletus freed me up to
concentrate on lead guitar. Together we’d create a cascading waterfall of
texture and sound. The choice seemed simple enough: Stroll forth a five-piece
juggernaut ready to conquer the cosmos or bust.

Any
toast to future successes would’ve been premature, however, because a
jock-sized hurdle stood in the way. Skeffington suspected that Cletus would
grow restless in a supporting role. Once a frontman always a frontman, and
there simply wasn’t room in Rip Churchill for another enormous ego with frontman
ambitions. Hello, Donnie. Cletus’ response wasn’t unexpected: There was greater
upside in hitching his wagon to skilled songwriters than in continuing as top
banana in a cover band. He’d make the compulsory sacrifices for a legitimate
shot at the top.

Skeffington
remained unwilling to commit because he’d been waltzing around his primary
concern. There were two words that always occupied the back of our minds. These
words weren’t just about vanity and ego. They were also about treading water in
a sea of sharks and surviving a skirmish when you were outnumbered and
outgunned by a margin of four to one. Skeffington didn’t really like the odds.
He wanted an ally like Donnie Fitzgibbons. Creative. Control.

“Which
Rip Churchill song was your favorite tonight, mate?” It was 11:30 p.m. and
Skeffington finally cut through the shite. The impish twinkle in his eye
suggested this would be the clincher and that our collective fates hinged on
Cletus’ response. There were two distinctive selections to choose from and Cletus
hadn’t a clue as to authorship. “Carmenita” was seventy-five percent
Skeffington and captured his pop-rock sensibilities and lyrical modus operandi.
I’d crafted the bridge and main riff, but the song was classic Skeffington.
“Gutter Minx” was nearly all mine, however.

Cletus
leaned forward in his chair as a cocksure grin burst forth from the corners of
his lightly mustached gob. “That’s easy, chief…whichever one you wrote.” Witty.
Everyone at the table had a titter save for the inquisitor himself.

Skeffington
shot up like Black Arrow, booted his chair, spun round, blasted through the
café door, and strolled off into the night. It was a bloody horror show. Even
Lincoln’s chin hit the floorboards. I was fixing to curse the heavens, when the
door swung back open. A smiling jester strutted back towards us. Witty. We all
shared in the mirth this time as Skeffington extended his hand across the table
towards Cletus. “Welcome to the band.”