Broken Birdie Chirpin (9 page)

A
blackboard covered in green chalk forewarned passersby of the night’s
revelries:

Wednesday Night at The
Thirsty Bard: Bands and Bangers!!! Featuring Martin Monday and the Tuesdays,
Bridgette Van Hoorn, and Rib Churchill. Show Starts at 7:00 p.m. Drink Specials
All Night!!!

We
were bottom of the bill and light-years away from the Royal Albert Hall. Our
charge was simply to warm up the crowd for the headliners. Rock n’ roll
fluffers. No matter. Six songs meant six chances to nick the bloody show from
the depths of obscurity and reduce The Thirsty Bard to dust.

I
surveyed the sparse crowd as I fooled about with the amplifier. Hope for the
possibility of seeing her mug amongst the scamps was painfully unavoidable, as
was the disappointment over her everlasting absence. There was no time to
dwell, however, as Martin Monday a.k.a. Martin Mundy and Bridgette Van Hoorn
invaded our space. Their stated purpose had been to introduce themselves but
they were mostly just sizing us up.      

Mundy
came off as a threatened Sussex spaniel marking his territory. He and the
Tuesdays had apparently played The Thirsty Bard a dozen times before. Blah,
blah, blah. If we’d wanted his bloody curriculum vitae we’d have placed an ad
in the situations vacant. Van Hoorn seemed less irksome but horribly jaded and
insecure nevertheless. We were the competition until proven otherwise. They
blathered on like used car salesmen until Skeffington finally got them to shove
off. He did so without offending their pedestrian sensibilities, which is more
than they deserved.

My
steely focus exorcised all thoughts of Becky and the inconsequential melodrama
as the clock struck 6:55 p.m. Rip Churchill was adrenalized and fixing to raise
the dead with our jive. It didn’t matter that most of the patrons were busy
shoveling bangers and stout down their throats without any regard for the wee
wooden stage or its scruffy inhabitants. It didn’t matter that the spryest bird
in the pub looked nearly two-hundred years young and portly, or that Mundy and
Van Hoorn were leering at us like a couple of trench coat clad perves.

It
didn’t matter that a lady-bull materialized out of the abyss only to charge at
me full bloody bore.

Rita.
Boom. A chink in my steely focus. “Looks like I ended up the courier after all.
That’s me: Royal Mail Rita.” I still fancied her a horrible drag, but perhaps
she wasn’t altogether shite. She handed me a flowery pink envelope and shook
her loaf. “It’s too bad really. Oh, well, tis what it is. See ya around.” A
moment later she returned to the slimy abyss from whence she came.

“What
was all that about, mate?”

“Come
on, Skeffington, you know Churchill’s got birds in every corner of the Kingdom.
Ain’t that right, Churchill?” I smiled reflexively at Lincoln, but curiosity
had infected me like mumps. My fingers were already peeling back the envelope.
“No distractions during work hours, remember?” Lincoln’s fatherly tone
temporarily disrupted the seduction.

My
band needed me.

It
only took thirty seconds of “Judy’s Jam Jar Jive” for Mundy’s face to betray
his thoughts. He and the Tuesdays would sound like a bloody lounge act farting
out elevator music when they tiptoed onto the stage. Up yours, you sodding
peasant. Van Hoorn’s reaction was somewhat surprising, however, as her bonce
bobbed to the reggae riddim like a mostly uncoordinated baldhead. There was no
shame in surrender.

Lights-out.
We’d stepped foot in another dimension by the time the final chords of
“Carmenita” blasted Mundy to the canvas. Nine to fivers who’d long since hung
up their butterfly necks were temporarily reliving their rock n’ roll
fantasies. Burnt out waitresses swung their arses like pear-shaped pendulums as
they gave customers the eye. Bangers got cold. Drinks got warm. Van Hoorn’s
fanny melted into her bloody chair.

“One
more, lads. Come on.” The chap in the pinstriped spacesuit wasn’t quite ready
to rejoin the earth’s gravitational pull. His sentiment ricocheted like a
pinball through the sea of yesteryear’s dreamers until The Thirsty Bard was on
the verge of meltdown. We five huddled for a moment. Our cocky grins and
heaving chests suggested there was but one course of action: douse the shawarma
with hot chili sauce. Cletus suggested “Ramses Revenge.” Brilliant. Better call
in the Territorials.

Majorca.
The weather was perfect as I shared the company of a mostly fit rock n’ roll
journalist named Graciela. I insisted she drink Sao Paolo Sambas lest she be
exiled from my entourage. She’d been commissioned to write a vignette about our
latest studio album for some Spanish rock n’ roll rag. She’d just spent the
previous hour with Skeffington, who undoubtedly regaled her with tales of
feverish songwriting, manic recording sessions, and life on the road. Blah,
blah, blah. I wasn’t about to make her job so easy peasy. 

Bloody
hell. The scheming Spaniard went straight for the jugular with her espada
ropera. She tossed around names that stung like a man o’ war as she attempted
to unearth the sarcophagi of our pre-fame carcasses. I placed my Agua de
Valencia on the cabana table and removed my sunglasses.

“If
you want to ask me about the drivel I pumped out for the new record or the
dynamics of my professional relationship with Skeffington you go right ahead.”
I reequipped my sunglasses and sipped my cocktail. “That ‘drivel’ bit’s off the
record.”

“Why
don’t you and Donnie get along?” I’d never have plied her with umbrella drinks
if I knew she was the Iberian Peninsula’s Woodward and Bernstein. I ignored her
in the hopes she’d sell out and change the bloody subject. “I think it’s
because you resent Skeffington.” She obviously brought a scalpel and her
annotated copy of The Interpretation of Dreams.

***

Skeffington
frequently basked in the adoration of football enthusiasts as the premiere jock
this side of Speedwell Street. He’d been photographed for local newspapers
hoisting watermelon-sized trophies over his loaf. He shared a rather lengthy
and intimate relationship with exhilaration. It became obvious, however, that
Rip Churchill’s performance at The Thirsty Bard topped his laundry-list of
prior glories.

He
skipped to the bus stop like a school girl doing double-dutch. “We were aces
tonight, mate. My head’s still buzzing. I’ve never felt so invincible.” I knew
precisely what he was blathering on about. The exhilaration still coursed
through my veins. Regrettably, a fruity envelope beckoned as it burned a hole
in my thigh.

Skeffington’s
endorphin-induced catharsis also included a mea culpa, however. “You were spot
on, mate. Lincoln and Frisby…Cletus even…they may be insufferable arses…but
they’re irreplaceable.” It sounded like a mighty gesture that my ego
interpreted as surrender. There was of course no surrender in that
double-dealing uber-jock and he’d reemerge from his hangover with a renewed
sense of purpose that would leave me quivering in my unders.

Not
so fast. It’d been an evening of staggering noise. It seemed fitting therefore
that I faced my fate alone and in the silence of my bedroom. I unfurled Becky’s
note as if Beelzebub himself might be lurking within its folds. I inhaled and
opened my eyes.

Fleetfoot,

I’m still not really
sure how to respond to your note. Here it goes anyway…

First, thanks. I was
reminded that you’re not a total boob. Rather, you’re just awkward and bipolar.

Second, I would’ve
enjoyed seeing the band. There’s no denying Skeffington’s enormous talent, and
Lincoln’s my favorite cousin of course.

Third, dad’s been
transferred north of Derby for a spell. I’ll be over one-hundred miles away
hanging curtains in our new flat by the time you read this.

Fourth, Rita’s
convinced me that you’ll always be more trouble than your worth. So, your awful
timing is for the better.

By the by, the
relocation bit’s the only one that’s entirely true. Please don’t forget me when
you’re top of the pops.

Until next time,

Becky

P.S. Lincoln really
thinks the world of you.

P.P.S. Rita has my new
address (I’m not making it easy on you!). Write me if you’re so inclined.

Becky
was gone and my chest hurt. No matter. I’d be sure to write her a luvvly-jubbly
letter for every day that we were apart. Blah, blah, blah.

Chirping
crickets. Mr. Sandman was on another bloody continent or else unwilling to
confront the melodrama churning butter in my bonce. I thrutched about like a
mackerel washed up on shore. Becky. Rip Churchill. Becky. Rip Churchill. The
cadence was maddening.

Blimey.
My eyes opened on account of epiphany. Perchance I wasn’t supposed to be tucked
within the warm folds of slumber’s bosoms. I spurted out of bed, flipped on the
lamp, and snatched my guitar. It’d been a few weeks since I’d written a jingle.
The conditions were perfect. The silence. The angst. The inevitability.

Dad’s
ire would be mighty should I wake him, so my fingers barely grazed the strings
as I rummaged through various chord progressions for something novel. Every now
and again I’d conjure up some melody or lyric. I usually constructed entire
songs around these bricks with the ease of Bacchus. Regrettably, nothing worthy
of permanence emerged. I attributed this initial lack of traction to rust.

I
miss you, Becky. I need you, Becky. I want you, Becky. Blah. Blah. Blah. It was
the worst bit of derivative drivel that’d ever been squeezed out of me. The
harder I pushed the more cringe inducing my efforts became. My insomnia now felt
like a tightening noose as I propped my guitar back up against the wall.

I
flopped back into bed and shut my eyes. My thoughts wandered into heavily
fortified outposts. What if Skeffington became a more prolific songwriter than
yours truly? I’d written so many songs already that it was altogether possible
that I’d reached my bloody limit. I’d never been some sort of blue collar
songsmith who relied on formulas and elbow grease. That shite sounded an awful
lot like work.

Perspective.
It was 2:34 a.m. and there wasn’t a drop of petrol in my tank. I’d been taxed
physically, mentally, even emotionally. I fluffed my pillow and sought a
comfortable groove within my well-worn mattress from whence to launch a last
ditch swipe at slumber. My swashbuckling alter-ego would surely return come
sunup. Seven years and dozens of reminders later it was lights out.

The
next few days were horribly pedestrian. Rip Churchill remained on hiatus while
Skeffington sweat buckets in some summer league football tournament in Bolton.
Fortunately, we still had three nights to rehearse for our upcoming performance
at Creepin’ Jean’s. It may’ve been just another no frills stop on the “Low
Hanging Fruit Tour” but the anticipation felt like murder.

I’d
dismissed my writer’s block as a byproduct of exhaustion, but was unwilling to
put my theory to the test for fear of reoccurrence. Keeping busy was mostly
weak medicine. I worked during the afternoons and occupied my evenings with
chores and other ordinary pursuits. Time practically stood still as I slogged
through the funny papers, confounded myself with crossword puzzles, and
doodled. At least the house was quiet on account of brother returning from jock
camp every night with one foot in the grave.

Becky
frequently infiltrated my psyche despite my best efforts. I’d been so careless
that it made me feel manky. I even wrote her a letter, but it read like a
blooming obituary. There was really no point anyway with her being on another
bloody continent and all. She’d probably already been seduced with fizzies and
toffee by some macho plonker from Six Pack Avenue. I’d become but an
inconsequential footnote in the chronicles of her youthful indiscretions.
Perhaps the time to trade in Becky’s ghost for a sportier model was upon me.
Bloody hell. There’d be no more tears in my herbal tea.

An
odd duck sat at the table directly in front of the stage. His gray poodle-like
mane protruded forth in most directions as did his steel-wool beard. His konk
was bulbous. His tweed sport coat might’ve been nicked from a vagrant on the
way over. He wasn’t without quid, however, as he sucked down brown liquor with
aplomb. His young waitress fawned over him like he was a bloody geezer of
interest.

He
observed our performance at Creepin’ Jean’s with a profound intentness. His
crinkly expressions were more akin to inquisitive academic than rock n’ roll
buff. It seemed odd, therefore, when he enthusiastically joined the other
patrons in demanding that we unload another jingle. Twas also odd that he
disappeared before the headliners ever took the stage. That there was something
eerily familiar about him was the oddest thing of all, however.

We
didn’t stick around to catch The Gorgeous Gorgons, who were billed as
“progressive rock meets your sister.” It wasn’t really our cup of tea and Ollie
had offered us a ride home. I’d noticed Bridgette Van Hoorn in the crowd but
didn’t give it two shakes. She’d obviously become a groupie and I appreciated
her loyalty. It was only when I saw her and Cletus carrying on like school
girls as the rest of us loaded up the van that I caught on. They’d apparently
been sweet and salty ever since The Thirsty Bard. Horses for courses.

The
rollercoaster ride homeward left me with horrible nausea and a greater sense of
purpose. I’d not known it until we were swerving through back streets at warp
speeds that Ollie had a disturbing alias: “Ollie Maserati.” He’d earned it
mostly on account of his lead foot and tunnel vision. Skeffington was seething
and would’ve commandeered the vehicle but for his nonexistent sea legs. The
others roared with laughter, which only made matters worse. Skeffington finally
demanded that Ollie pullover and after a few more torturous maneuvers Ollie
Maserati obliged.

“Come
on, mate.” It seemed like a tossup until Skeffington struck a fatherly tone.
“Don’t be a fool.” Blimey. I leapt out of the van notwithstanding the risk of
being chastised by the peanut gallery.

“Look…they’re
holding hands.” Frisby’s jibe was the last I heard before the van door slammed
shut.

Skeffington
flipped them the bird as they peeled off into the night. “Buggering hell. We’re
never riding with those mutts again, alright?” Aye, aye, Captain Skeffington.
“The bus is murderous but it’s bloody safe, mate.”

We
both would’ve settled for the relative luxury of public transportation at that
moment. Regrettably, walking the four-hundred miles was our only alternative.
Skeffington of course had the plums to suggest that we jog it so as to avoid
blowing curfew. Up yours. The ambitious bugger never knew when to quit.