Broken Birdie Chirpin (16 page)

Brother’s
wife, Ginger, telephoned to invite Becky and I to supper at their Chelsea flat.
I hadn’t seen nor heard from either of them since mum’s surprise birthday party
six months before. I’d downed one too many Chivas Regals before Mum called me
out for my obnoxious behavior. I stormed out of The Ledbury spouting
vulgarities at anyone within earshot. That was all before my resurgence,
however. Before Becky finally saved me from myself.

Stiff.
Torturous. Sterile. Fortunately, Ginger and Becky kept the festivities moving
along with inconsequential chatter. Brother’s chef finally served the coq au
vin and we dined mostly in silence. The mousse au chocolat provided further
shelter until the last spoonful deflated in my gob. Bloody hell. I wanted to
murder the bottle of Vinho do Porto, but that would’ve appeared rather
desperate.

Boom.
Ginger stood up from her chair rather suddenly. “Becky, why don’t we let the
boys chat for a bit. We can finish our coffee in the living room.” This was a
premeditated act of divide and conquer that made me feel manky. Becky smiled at
me knowingly as Ginger ushered her through the glass double doors. We sat in
silence for nearly two lifetimes before brother began nervously spouting off
painfully inconsequential chatter. I nodded my head frequently in a mostly
transparent effort to feign interest. Brother finally took an enormous swig of
his port and sat forward in his chair.

“This
isn’t easy for me. We’ve never really talked. The point is, well, I know that’s
all my fault.” Heavy. Had the humanity trapped deep within the iron juggernaut
finally emerged? “I’m…well…I’m…God this is so difficult. I’m sorry. There. I’m
sorry.”

“Sure.
Right. I’ve hated you forever.” I didn’t know whether to punch him on the konk
or give him a bear hug.

“I
know. But it’s not too late to start over is it? We’re brothers after all.” Mum
had squeezed us both out of her fanny of course, but we’d never been brothers.
“Ginger’s three months pregnant. You’re going to be an uncle. We want to be a
real family.” It sounded an awful lot like sincerity, but I’d been fooled
before.

“I
appreciate the gesture. Cheers on the ankle-biter and all that.” I reached across
the table and we shook hands. “I’m sorry for my part as well.”

“Water
under the bridge. Here’s to new beginnings.” He raised his glass and took
another gulp of port. “Can I share something with you?”

“Right.
Sure.” Brother disappeared into the library and emerged with a fancy laminated
folder. “What’s all this?”

“A
golden opportunity and I want to give you a chance to get in on it.” The ink on
our accord hadn’t even dried yet as the hairs on the back of my neck stood up
like porcupine quills. “We’re opening up a first class steakhouse right here in
Chelsea and we’re searching for capital from high profile investors. I want my
brother with me.”

“You’re
a bloody sociopath.” I shot up and started towards the living room. Brother
followed.

“You’ve
got it wrong. I’m only offering this to you because we’re family. It’s a peace
gesture.” Ginger and Becky looked up from their coffee. I spun around to face
him one last time.

“”No.
You’ve tried to con me with the subtlety of an insurance salesman. You’re never
going to change, man. Come on, Becky. It’s time to split.”

“But
I
love
you, little brother.” His mocking tone confirmed the ruse as
Becky and I escaped down the stairwell.

***

I
snatched the cigarette from Shirley Weller’s lips, flicked it to the pavement,
and snuffed it out with the tip of my boot. I took one step forward before
gazing into her hazel eyes like she was the fittest bird to ever set foot
inside Captain Corver’s Wine & Spirits. She inhaled deeply as she nervously
awaited my next maneuver. I smirked like a rock n’ roller with a supersonic
rocketship in my trousers before moving in for a frenchy. Her frame shivered as
our gobs collided.

A
minute later I backed off, grabbed her by the hand, and led her into the dimly
lit alley. She ruffled my hair with both hands and wantonly pulled me towards
her. Shirley Weller was awash in a lethal combination of estrogen, lager, and
desire. I remained firmly in the moment, however, because my modus operandi was
rather simple: Revenge.

We
finally stepped back inside to catch the tail end of the second act. Shirley
kept giving me the eye, but I wasn’t really interested in brother’s leavings.
I’d done just enough to make Tuesday’s dinner with the family a horrible farce.
Consequences be damned.

I
was busy reveling in the chicanery when Boyd tapped my shoulder. “Some bird
dropped this off for you.” He passed me a damp napkin with some scribbling on
top:
I
hope the giraffe was worth it. Becky.

I
frantically flipped through the telephone directory. Bloody hell. There were at
least ten million listings for “Brown” in London alone. Becky had mentioned the
street name before, but I couldn’t remember it. I searched line by line with my
index finger hoping something might pop out. I was fixing to toss the directory
across the blooming bar when my finger finally located a match: Richard and
Rhonda Brown, 28 Dalton Bend, Downtown Hell, London, UK.

I
hustled back over to the others. “It’s been a real pleasure. Thanks for the
pints and all that. I’ve got to blow.” I winked at Shirley for good measure
before disappearing into the night. Brother was going to get his comeuppance
even if all else around me turned to shite.

Twenty-five
minutes later I leapt out of a gypsy cab in front of Rita’s abode hoping to
explain away my indiscretions. Relentless doorbell ringing didn’t work.
Thunderous rapping likewise failed. I shouted mea culpas from the rear patio
until my jaw hurt. Nothing. Perhaps I’d come calling on an empty house. Becky
could’ve easily been halfway to Derby whilst I pissed off Rita’s neighbors for
naught. No matter. I flopped into a green metal lawn chair and began blubbering
like a sprog. Cheers. I’d presided over the destruction of everything
worthwhile in my miserable life.

It
was nearly midnight by the time I’d ripped off my frilly knickers. I stood up,
grabbed my guitar, and marched towards the street. Becky would surely emerge
from the front door with her angel wings and save me one last time, even if I
didn’t deserve it. Maybe not.

I
spent the remainder of the weekend in a nearly catatonic state. The enormity of
the events of the last few month had finally caught up with me. I’d begun the
school year a mysterious hermit with nothing but a guitar and an enormous chip
on my shoulder. In the blink of an eye my rock n’ roll fantasy came rapping at
the door to deliver me from obscurity. Becky. Skeffington. Rip Churchill.
Lincoln. Somehow I’d taken each of them for granted. Somehow I’d ended up right
back where I’d started.

The
rest of the kingdom slept whilst I fantasized about travelling back into
yesteryear to vanquish my many regrets. I rewrote the script scene by bloody
scene until melodrama transformed into romcom. The defining moments played out
on the ceiling of my bedroom as if my psyche had become a high-definition film
projector:

“Wisteria
Blues (She Been Dancing with the Wrong Guy)” dissipates into the heavy
gymnasium air. Lana, etc. are lined up like bowling pins under the flashing
neon exit sign, but I’m a gutter ball rolling towards relative obscurity.
Moments later Becky’s proud eyes light up as I storm the alley and embrace her
with the force of a tsunami. “Thank you for being you, gorgeous.” She wonders
what’s come over me as I refuse to let go. We’ve already planned our nuptials
by the time she scampers off into the night.

Scene
two. I stop Lincoln in his tracks. “The kicker’s just a prop. You’re our bloody
anchor and we need you here.” Lincoln winks. He knows I’m the leader of this
outfit for a reason. Ollie calls him a fanny as he deposits his keys back into
the pocket of his cargo shorts. No matter. We gather in a circle and stack our
mitts into a pile at its center. One…Two…Three…Rip Churchill! Frankie
Shū’s Ballroom explodes with the opening crunch of “Gutter Minx” and we
all live to rock n’ roll another day.

My
bonce miraculously finds its way out of my arsehole. I treat Skeffington as a
mate rather than some sort of Sith Lord perpetually plotting my overthrow. We
continue to write masterpieces together without all the ego sodding it up. My
paranoia dissolves because we’re in it together. Rip Churchill endures on
account of our enduring partnership.

I
inform brother that his squeeze is a two-timing slag to spare him the shame. He
beats me to death with a sledgehammer while Cicero videotapes. Sod off. I
couldn’t bloody wait for Tuesday night.

The
customary niceties had already been exchanged. “It’s unlikely that you’ll ever
be the bass player for Rip Churchill again. We’ve both got to accept it. But it
doesn’t have to be all or nothing.”

“What
does that mean exactly?” Hard living had long ago snaffled away his
lightheartedness. Survival became much more important.

“I
want you to join us on the upcoming tour as part of our crew. I’ll pay you out
of my own bloody share if I must. What do you think?”

“Are
you serious? I’d bloody love it.” I could feel his gratitude seeping through
the telephone receiver. It was the long overdue break he needed to turn it all
around.

“I’m
sorry it’s taken so long, Frisby.”

“Better
late than never, Churchill.” Nobody had called me Churchill since before
Lincoln’s tragic demise all those years before. Perhaps things would never be
the same, but that didn’t mean they needed to stay broken. “I won’t let you
down.”

“I
know that, brother.”

***

The
catharsis that followed my weekend long funk prompted yours truly to patch some
of the more prominent holes in the hull of my sinking ship. I wrote Becky a
mostly earnest farewell note during my lunch break on Monday. I simply couldn’t
allow my foolish exploits be the last word on our association.

Dearest Becky,

I’m a complete fucking
disaster. You obviously deserve better. Someday I might be worthy of your
affections. Perhaps then we can be part of each other’s rock n’ roll fantasies.
You’re the best, Becky, and I shall never forget you or the things you’ve done
for me.

Please don’t write back
because I’m still just a twit.

Always,

Me

The
initial draft set forth a mostly honest explanation for the scandalous events
at Captain Corver’s Wine & Spirits, but I’d decided it was too
self-serving. Vengeance probably wasn’t the best excuse for snogging with
another bird anyway. I dropped the note in the post on Monday afternoon with a
heavy heart.

I
left a handful of messages on Frisby’s mobile but received no response. I
finally called the landline and his mum answered. She was all doom and gloom as
Frisby had apparently stormed off the weekend before and neglected to return.
She feared for his well-being, especially since he’d been washing down
anti-depressants with brown liquor. Bloody hell. I certainly wasn’t capable of
dragging anybody away from the brink of self-destruction, but I left one final
urgent message on his mobile for good measure. Rip Churchill needs you. It’s
not too late. Blah, blah, blah.

I
also wanted to telephone Skeffington to sort out our differences, without
appearing too desperate. My preference would’ve been to approach him with
Frisby by my side, brandishing his bass guitar like a bloody howitzer.
Regrettably, Frisby remained MIA. That left only one other bloke with the
gravitas necessary to wrangle me up some much needed leverage: Mr. Denim
himself.

“When
are you coming back? It’s not the same without you.”

The
warmth of Cletus’ words eluded me on account of paranoia. “So you’ve been
practicing with the new lineup then?”

“We’ve
had a few rehearsals. But we’re really in a holding pattern. Nobody wants to do
gigs without you.”

“Nobody,
eh? What about Donnie and Mickey?”

“What
about em?”

“Are
they worth a damn?”

“Listen,
they’re not Lincoln and Frisby, man. But that ship has sailed, right? Lincoln’s
gone. Frisby’s gone bonkers.”

“Have
you heard from Frisby? I’ve called him twenty times, but he won’t respond. I
want him back in the bloody band as of yesterday.”

“Slow
down.” His tone became rather grave. “I just want him back on terra firma.
You’ve no idea the shape he’s in. I saw him the other night. He’s living with
one of Ollie’s mates in Crouch End. Real dive. He invited me over just to
borrow some quid. I tried to get him to go home, but he wouldn’t bite.”

“Bloody
hell. How can you just go on playing without him, especially with The Tight
Fitz fattening up your ranks?”

“Sod
off. I miss my mates every day. I’ve known Lincoln since I was six years old.
Frisby? We’ve been bandmates for as long as I’ve been playing the guitar.
You’ve known them for what? A few bloody months? Don’t insult me with that
shite, alright?”

“Right.
Sure. I just…”

“They’re
not coming back. Suck it up, make nice with Skeffington, and let’s see how far
Rip Churchill can go.”

New
holes had sprouted along the hull of my ship faster than I could patch up the
old ones. The deserted island upon which I’d sought refuge seemed to be
shrinking. A dinghy and a lifejacket had just washed up on its narrow shore
courtesy of Cletus. Regrettably, two words spray painted in blood red on the
dinghy’s side caught my eye:
Sell Out.