Broken Birdie Chirpin (12 page)

Breakfast
was mostly pleasant. Mum whipped up some stuffed French toast from a recipe
she’d seen on the telly. Our sparkling plates confirmed her competency with the
whisk and skillet. Dad devoured The Daily Telegraph as he sipped his coffee.
Brother scrounged for seconds while blathering on about carbohydrates and jock
camp. He remained a horrible plonker, but had become considerably less
aggressive on account of my association with Skeffington.

Thursday
beckoned. I dropped my plate in the sink and stepped out of the kitchen. It
took but a blink for mum to track me down. Her enormous smile failed to mask a
rather sinister sparkle in her eye. “Have a great day at work and remember how
very proud I am of you.”

“Right.
Sure.” Many a morning mum wished me well as I set course for Tremaine’s Guitar
Shop. On this occasion, however, her tone suggested that she knew something I
didn’t. My squinty-eyed inquisitive pose fell flat even though I brandished it
with aplomb. Mum knowingly rubbed my shoulder before slipping back into the
kitchen.

I
encountered the same sort of poppycock from Mr. Surtees. He was unlocking the
main entrance when I strolled up. He grinned at me before bouncing his eyebrows
up and down like they were caterpillars on pogo sticks. “Swing by my office the
minute Ainsworth shuffles off to lunch. There is a pressing matter that
requires your attention.” Blimey.

The
morning seemed to last forever. I squeegeed the display windows until they
shone like Swarovski Crystal, restocked the lavy, and carted out the rubbish.
Somehow these enormous undertakings took less than an hour to complete. Bloody
hell. I hadn’t planned on dusting floor merchandise until early afternoon. My
only respite was the occasional daydream about Frankie Shū’s Ballroom.

Ainsworth
finally left for lunch six years later. I practically flew to Mr. Surtees’
office. “You’re certain that Ainsworth is gone?”

“Yes,
sir. It’s just Collins out there now.”

“I’ll
get to it then. Your mum and I have been involved in a rather sordid affair.
The details of which shall remain confidential of course.”

“An
affair?” I rather preferred Mr. Surtees over dad, but this was bonkers.

“I’m
afraid so, son. And she’s up the duff with your stepbrother.” Mr. Surtees
must’ve realized that I was inches away from chucking up all over his oriental
rug. “Oh, come on. Lighten up. Your mum’s an upstanding bird.” The queasiness
began to retreat. “Now go fetch the guitar case from the back closet.” Bloody
hell. I mostly expected more chicanery.

Fortunately,
I didn’t find my dad bound, gagged, and quivering in his unders. A lone guitar
case rested against the rear wall of the closet. I snatched it up and brought
it before Mr. Surtees. “Open it up.” Three snaps later a gorgeous Pelham blue
Les Paul Humbucker revealed herself to me. I gently ran my fingers over its
strings before looking back to Mr. Surtees for further instruction.

“Your
mum and I negotiated a layaway plan. She satisfied the terms of our agreement
and now I’m doing the same.” The wheels began to spin, but not fast enough.
“It’s yours.”

Disbelief
quickly transformed into delight as his sincerity became evident. Cartwheeling
across Mr. Surtees’ office would’ve been inadequate to express my excitement.
“Thank you, sir. It’s glorious.”

“Well,
it was mostly your mum’s doing, so you be certain to show her plenty of
gratitude. I know she went to great lengths to make certain you had it for
tomorrow night.” He glanced at his watch. “Alright. Into the closet with it
post haste. God forbid Ainsworth’s nephew doesn’t get the same bloody bargain.”

Mr.
Surtees and I rendezvoused in the alley after closing. I was somewhat surprised
that he hadn’t come in disguise considering his desire to avoid Ainsworth’s
bellyaching. The handoff was fast and clumsy. No words were spoken. Boom. He
fled to his jam jar looking like he’d just swallowed the canary.

The
Re-Rans were scheduled to take the stage at 9:00 p.m. with Rip Churchill to
follow promptly at 10:15 p.m. Our plan was to meet outside Frankie Shū’s
Ballroom at 8:00 p.m. We’d unload our equipment and still have plenty of time
to luxuriate in the electricity of the moment.

Preparation
began promptly at 5:30 p.m. as I yanked on my preferred worn-out blue jeans,
faded “Tea for the Tillerman” t-shirt, and brown leather rock n’ roll boots. I
topped it off with a brown leather blazer I’d purchased just for the occasion.
It may’ve been impractical considering the season, but it looked awfully sharp.
My rock n’ roll stylee wasn’t nearly complete, however.  All ten digits began
steadily working over my hair. I hadn’t bathed since Sunday so manufacturing
highly stylized bed-head wasn’t difficult. A few spritzes of styling spray
later and I was bloody gorgeous.

Skeffington
and I met up at the bus stop at 6:45 p.m. so as to catch the 6:55 p.m. express
to Camden. We were like a couple of spinsters shuffling off to bingo night at
the Oddfellows Lodge. Chirp, chirp, chirp. Skeffington finally started laughing
at himself as he stammered through some tedious story about his neighbor’s
overweight cocker spaniel. I’d committed a similar offense moments before so I
joined in as well. We agreed that it was better to ride in silence than subject
each other to more nervous prattle.

My
head buzzed as I stepped onto the concrete. Dusk had gripped London and the
streets seemed to awaken a teeny tiny bit more with every step I took. The
energy was intoxicating like Becky’s gob or Penelope Paddock’s arse. Glorious.
The pink and green neon sign of Frankie Shū’s Ballroom finally became
visible a couple of blocks away. “Good God, mate. This is really happening.”
Blimey. I couldn’t of said it better myself.

The
lads were loitering around Ollie Maserati’s van when we arrived. Surprise.
Surprise. Rose, Maggie, and Bridgette Van Hoorn were there too. I hadn’t seen
Maggie in weeks on account of chaotic schedules and waning interest. She spent
far too many evenings styling coiffures at her aunt’s beauty salon and I wasn’t
quite enamored enough to be inconvenienced. Expectations? She greeted me with a
tiny peck on the cheek.

Greetings
and salutations were interrupted as another van pulled up behind Ollie
Maserati’s. The Re-Rans had arrived on the scene. These twenty-something
hipsters were uniformly clad in black trousers, black button-down shirts, and
thin red neckties. They started out friendly enough until resentment over their
lot finally bubbled to the surface. “So, who do you blokes know?”

“Your
mum.” Frisby responded. We all chuckled.

“Easy.”
Their lead vocalist jumped in. “Don’t mind James. He’s just a traditionalist.
You know…pay your dues and all that jazz.”

“I’ll
be sure to share that with Uncle Frankie.” Lincoln winked at Frisby to let him
know he’d been one-upped.

The
Re-Rans weren’t looking for a fist fight and they’d been at it long enough to
know when to quit. “Right. We’re just fooling about. Maybe if you like our set
you’ll invite us to open for you again sometime.” Sod off.

The
Re-Rans had started their set. They weren’t altogether horrible really. Their
sound was a cross between The Police and The Police. Scattered applause
sputtered forth from the twenty or so onlookers as they finished their first
number. Fortunately, by the end of their second number the crowd had nearly
doubled in size. There was a bit more space to fill, however, considering the
ballroom held nearly five-hundred.

Rip
Churchill waited in the wings. I had a throbbing knot in my guts as I sat on a
folding chair and fooled about with my unplugged Humbucker. Skeffington paced
back and forth while anxiously re-reviewing the set list, song lyrics, etc.
etc. I’d decided he was some sort of alien cyborg sent to earth to conquer
sport, birds, and rock n’ roll. His nervous energy functioned as a hi-tech
radiator designed to prevent self-combustion. No matter. He’d also been
programmed to perform at the highest levels when it mattered most. 

Our
rhythm section was chin wagging with the bloke who’d worn the horribly
pretentious Sgt. Pepper ensemble to our audition. He was apparently the
spendthrift son of a majority owner of Frankie Shū’s Ballroom. His father
had him doing odds and sods to pay off his considerable debts. He seemed mostly
alright save for his retro-ruffled tuxedo t-shirt. The conversation ended
rather abruptly, however, as our would-be host required another pint. “Cheers,
Rip Churchill. Make us all proud.” The moment of quiet that followed his
departure was cruelly deceptive.

“Dammit!
Your brother done screwed up.” Lincoln tossed his bass drum case against the
wall. “You bloody heard me, Frisby. I told him fifteen times to pack the right
kicker.” Lincoln pointed to the front of the bass drum. Blimey. “The Jack
Slaps” was stenciled across its black-face in bold orange letters. “It must be
some sort of joke…but no one’s bloody laughing.”

“Sorry,
man. It’s messed up.” I’d never seen Frisby so solemn.

“Where
is he? Go get him.” Lincoln was fired up. Frisby didn’t offer any resistance.
In a blink he was wading through the burgeoning crowd in search of his
recalcitrant brother.

I
understood Lincoln’s frustration. First impressions and all that. There were
worse snags, however, and I really wanted to let it slide. Even Skeffington
wasn’t horribly bothered. “We can make light of it during the show, mate. No
worries. The crowd will know who we are.” Lincoln wouldn’t have it.

The
fireworks didn’t really start until Frisby returned with Ollie Maserati. “Is
this a bloody joke?”

“First
off, watch your tone. Second, it was a bloody mistake. How many drum kits do
you have in that garage? Uh? I loaded up the wrong one.”

“And
it just so happens to be this one? The only sodding kicker with another band’s
name written across it?” Lincoln was bristling like a bloody porcupine.

“Bad
luck. Nothing more.”

“No,
man. At best it’s bloody careless. At best.”

“Piss
off. I’m not getting paid to do any of this shite.” Ollie Maserati’s logic
seemed to resonate because the veins in Lincoln’s neck retracted.

“Well,
unfortunately, neither are we.” Lincoln’s growl had been replaced with a
slightly more conciliatory tone.

“Listen,
I’m sorry for the mix-up. It was a mistake, man. Alright?” Right. Sure. Case
closed. Move on. Not so fast.

“Let’s
fix it. Grab your keys. We’re going to go get it.” The very thought of it made
me cringe.

Skeffington
looked at his watch. “No way. It’s 9:38. You’ll never make it back in time.
Just forget about it, mate.”

“Ollie
Maserati isn’t good for much” Lincoln winked at Ollie. “But he’ll get us back
for the show.”

“Let’s
just be The Jack Slaps tonight.” Cletus weighed in firmly on Skeffington’s
side.

“We’re
wasting time.” Ollie Maserati spun the metal ring of his keychain around his
index finger. Bloody hell. He and Lincoln had somehow become united in
interest.

Skeffington
snatched Lincoln’s arm as he moved determinedly towards the door. “Come on,
mate. You’re going to screw this up. It’s not worth it.”

Lincoln
shook free of Skeffington’s grip. “We need our bloody anchor.” And off they
went.

The
upside of Lincoln’s departure was the death of my performance anxiety.
Regrettably, it had been replaced with dread. The Re-Rans performance became an
ever shrinking dynamite fuse that’d been lit by Lincoln’s imprudence. Sans
Friday night congestion Ollie Maserati might’ve roundtripped it in thirty-five
minutes. Tonight he’d be lucky to do it in forty-five unless his beater had
spawned wings.

The
Re-Rans finished their set at 9:52 p.m. They’d carted off all of their gear by
10:00 p.m. The plan was for Frisby to set up Lincoln’s drum kit save for a
gaping hole in the middle. We’d tune up, run through sound check, pray, etc.
The minute Lincoln burst through the door we’d drop the final puzzle piece in
place and kick it off.

A
profound feeling of fear and exhilaration struck as I tiptoed onto the stage.
The eyes and ears of five-hundred rock n’ roll fans hoping to be gobsmacked by
Rip Churchill were firmly upon me. I might’ve momentarily forgotten about our
predicament but for the pitiful mugs of my band mates. Skeffington’s greenish
tint suggested he might chuck up. Our customarily carefree rhythm section
seemed vacant without their kingpin.

10:10
p.m. The side door swung open. Brilliant. They’d bloody done it. Rip
Churchill’s meteoric rise had once again been blessed by the gods of rock n’
roll. Only it wasn’t Lincoln or Ollie Maserati, and a mostly disconcerted Mr.
Pleasant made for a rather poor substitute. Regrettably, he’d noticed that
neither our bass drum nor our drummer had made an appearance on stage. “Missing
someone?” His firm tone betrayed his thoughts: Don’t piss around with our
bloody business.

Skeffington
did his best to reassure him without providing any of the sordid details. It
didn’t work. “You’ve got a few minutes before this crowd starts getting
anxious. I don’t need to tell you what effect their anxiety will have on me.
Get this resolved.” He popped a cigarette in his mouth before leaving us to gag
on our misery.

Frisby
increased his efforts to reach our wayward drummer and roadie via their mobile
devices. Radio silence. We gathered at center stage as the clock struck 10:15
p.m. Skeffington suggested opening with an acoustic version of “Brooklyn from
Bawtry” to buy additional time. Twas a far cry from the bone-crushing “Gutter
Minx” but our options were limited. Cletus thought it might be better to hold
off for a couple more minutes so as to maintain the integrity of our carefully
crafted set list. There were no guarantees it would be enough time, however.

Skeffington
put his hand on my shoulder and looked me directly in the eyes. “What do you
think, mate?” Boom. Frisby’s cellphone finally rang, saving me from having to
prove that leaders lead. It was surely Lincoln or Ollie with an update on their
bloody whereabouts.

“Where
the hell are you?” Frisby managed those five words before his legs buckled
beneath him. He frantically propped himself up on Lincoln’s ride cymbal as the
color drained from his face. “Oh, God. Oh, God.” Frisby began sobbing like a
child who’d just tumbled off his bicycle. “Oh, God, no. Alright…alright…I’m
coming.” I’d never witnessed anything so horrible and I hadn’t even made the
connection yet.

“Frisby,
what can we do to help, mate?” Fortunately, Skeffington possessed the
wherewithal and courage to jump in.

Frisby
handed Skeffington his bass guitar. He tried to gather himself for a moment.
“That was my father. They crashed near Holloway Road.” The upswell of emotion
couldn’t be contained as giant tears rolled from his eyes. “Lincoln’s fucking
dead. Oh, God…my brother’s in critical condition. He’s being rushed to St.
Luke’s. They’d don’t know if...” Frisby’s legs buckled once again. Skeffington
propped him up. “I’ve got to get over there. Please help me.” I’d heard each
and every word that Frisby spoke yet I still expected Lincoln to burst through
the side door with his bass drum. This couldn’t possibly be real.

“I’ll
hail a cab and ride with you to the hospital.” Cletus unstrapped his guitar and
laid it onto the stage floor. Frisby mumbled something in response but his
words were barely audible. “Stay with me now. I know it’s hard, man, but we
need to get ya to your family.”

“Cletus,
we’ll stay behind and sort all this out.” Skeffington then turned his attention
to Frisby. “Be strong, mate. We’ll be praying for your brother.”

“Be
well, Frisby.” My words weren’t exactly profound, but they were the best I
could muster. Frisby looked at me with a vacant expression that I shall never
forget.

Cletus
grabbed Frisby’s arm and led him into the darkest of nights.

Skeffington
went searching for Mr. Pleasant.

I
gazed out into the mostly dumbstruck crowd. They’d witnessed something profound
even if they weren’t exactly sure what it was.

Rose
was out there somewhere.

I
turned back towards Lincoln’s drum kit. The empty space between the floor tom
and snare drum suddenly brought it all home. Bloody hell. Lincoln was dead. My
band was dead. I couldn’t stop the tears.

R.I.P.
Churchill.