The Saving of Benjamin Chambers (The Uni Files) (2 page)

The Exchange

We live in Islington, not too shoddy for a band that has yet to record a single track and relies solely on ad-hoc gigs. However, I don’t like it too much around the area we live. It’s just too much like London.

Yes, I know I live in London, but even in this small, lightly upmarket village it feels like I am in a constant whirlwind of activity that I can’t break free from. It is impossible to breathe in this town, impossible to catch a lungful of fresh air. It is also impossible to walk down the road without someone bumping into you, or stamping on your toes, or shouting at you whilst smelling of piss and all things bad.

I prefer it down south, not quite as far south as my real home in Dorset, but at least south of London.

Putney is always a good choice. It is just a high street, straight up, straight down, and one small shopping centre with a Waitrose and a Waterstones—shops I can just about cope with. Hopefully I will be able to get everything at Waitrose and kill it in an hour.

Another good thing about Putney is that it has a great array of pubs I can sit myself in while I contemplate the decisions I have to make today.

One hour later I am strolling down the high street. It’s started snowing quite hard and my Converse slip in an alarming manner on the mushy ice as I negotiate around the mass of shoppers. People have umbrellas up for snow. I find that a little weird. Are they scared the star-shaped flakes are going to stab them in the eye?

I duck into The Exchange shopping centre, negotiate around the giant Christmas tree and hoards of hyper children waiting to see Santa before having a stroll around Waterstones. I manage to pick up five books for myself but not much for anyone else.

Not the best start to my Christmas shopping endeavours. Now Mum, what would she like?

I am fiercely overprotective of my mum. I know it is sappy and not at all cool, but I have been since I was a toddler. Something about me feeling that I had to be the man of the house and make up for my crap absent father. Three years old and thinking you are the man of the house.
What a dick
.

I met Dave a year or so later at the start of school and he used to love coming to ours because we always thought we were in charge. We weren’t obviously. Mum was. In charge with an iron fist.

She gave Dave his first smacked arse when he was six. He still talks about it now. The smack that’d changed his life and taught him to have respect, or some drivel like that. He announces it to all and sundry when he has had a few too many and is remembering ‘the good times.’ He has two brothers and they are complete arseholes, so maybe Mum did do the right thing when she gave him an unexpected hiding for putting salt into the sugar bowl.

Obviously when we got older and started messing about with guitars and drum kits Mum did not really want us around the house anymore, something about us being too loud, too messy, and too smelly, but by that point Dave had another reason to come around. My sister Rose. It did not end well. She now hates his guts and he, well, I think he is still in love with her, not that he would ever admit to it.

I know Dave was bluffing about the Christmas shopping this morning. I saw him sneak in two weeks ago with a carrier bag that he hid in his top drawer. I looked, obviously, who wouldn’t? In the bag was a big box of my mum’s favourite perfume, because he is fully expecting to come and spend Christmas with us tomorrow, and why wouldn’t he? He has been a fixture around the table forever, but I am not sure that tomorrow he will want to. Not when later on today I tell him that I want to quit the dreams that we made together.

Now Mum, what on earth can I get her? Thanks to Dave being a complete kiss arse, perfume is out of the window.

Shopping done, I have dashed about looking like your typical panic-stricken, pre-Christmas male panic-buyer. I have purchased everything I could lay my hands on in a varied selection of shops. I have bought random scarves, earrings, bread-makers, toys, and even more books. I’ll sort out who gets what a little later when I wrap it all. I am sure I have something for everyone.

I just have enough time to pop into the local music shop to have a look at some stuff for fun before I meet Dave and the others at our local for our little ‘chat.’

The shop is just how I remember it, which makes me think they may not have sold a huge amount of stock since I was last here months ago.

The guy that owns it is a complete legend, used to be part of a mega rock band but then inexplicably one day he quit and never played live or released another track again. I would love to ask him why but then I don’t want to look like a stalker.

“Can I help you, sonny?” he asks. He is massive, both tall and wide, and is wedged behind the narrow till area.

“Just browsing at the moment,” I say with a nervous smile. I have a serious case of nerves talking to this guy. I want to be him, but maybe not quite so wide around the middle.

“Sure, no worries,” he says before looking back down at a music magazine on the counter.

I wander over to the guitar section, my real reason for coming. Hidden near the back in a corner, looking like it does not really want to be sold, is a Gibson so beautiful I am almost too scared to touch it.

Almost, but not quite.

I take the guitar in my hand and run my fingers over the strings. It is perfectly tuned, but I am not overly surprised.

“Lovely, isn’t she?” calls the guy behind the till, causing me to jump and nearly drop the damn thing.

“Yeah she is,” I agree but then I catch a glance of the price tag hanging from one of the keys and see that the price has not reduced at all. It still stands at five grand, which makes it about, ooh, five grand out of my price range.

“I recognise you, don’t I?” I turn around to check behind me to make sure the mega famous rock star gone salesman is talking to me.

“I don’t think so.”

“Sure I do. You are the lead singer from that band. I’ve seen you a few times. Now what is your name again?”

He hesitates as he thinks of the name of my band. I almost tell him but then the vain part of me wants to know if he really does recognise me.

“Sound something. Isn’t it, mate?”

I blush. It is so not cool or rock band appropriate but the fact this guy knows me means more than anything and makes all those soulless gigs slightly more worthwhile.

“Yeah, Sound Box,” I fill in.

“That’s it. You guys are great, and if you don’t mind me saying, you are a very talented young man.”

Oh my god, I feel my blush intensify. It’s just as well I am not famous. It would just be embarrassing blushing all over the place.
Oh look, there goes that Ben Chambers, bright red again. What a loser.

“Uh, thanks.”

He eyes me up and down. I wonder what he sees? I got fed up looking in the mirror a long time ago. What’s the point? Nothing ever changes. Now I just have an array of early laughter lines around my eyes, which muddle with my very annoying and completely ridiculous freckles. Whoever heard of a guy having freckles all year round? I think the freckles are probably one of the key reasons why I know I am never going to make it as a rock star. Ever seen one with wrinkly freckles? I know I haven’t.

“Fancy an impromptu session?” he asks. “You can play your friend there.” A broad smile lights his face as he motions to the Gibson still in my hand.

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. Let’s open up the doors. You never know. We may be able to drum up some business. You don’t mind playing in the cold and snow, do you?”

“Nah, not at all.”

This is how I end up playing a spontaneous gig with Big Baz, the most extraordinary guitarist I have ever heard.

Between us we gather a rather large crowd. Big Baz has to stop playing to serve them, but I carry on and it feels kind of liberating. It is the best I have played for ages but I am not sure if the sounds are coming from me or the priceless Gibson.

Some girls come in who recognise me. We have played a few gigs at the local Uni and I have to give them autographs. It is embarrassing and I blush the whole way through the experience. One of them tries to give me her number, but I manage to distract her and she forgets to actually give me the piece of paper before she walks out of the door.

As soon as the girls are outside, Baz shuts the door and locks it.

“There you go. Saved you.” He laughs and motions to the girl we can see through the door who’s just realised she is still holding the scrap of paper in her hand.

“Thanks, Baz,” I say as I reluctantly put the Gibson back.

That’s a sad moment.

“Never know, keep playing like that and you might be able to buy it one day.” He laughs.

“Yeah, one day when I am about fifty.”

“Nah, I reckon you have a break coming to you,” he assures me.

“I doubt that. I am going to quit the band today. We have got a gig tonight, which I am going play, but after that I think I need to work on a different future for myself.”

It feels weird saying my plans out loud.

I am going to quit the band that I have been in since I was fifteen years old. It’s the only thing I know.

“Really?” Baz’s surprise is evident as will be the rest of my band members later.

“Yeah, I think so.”

He blows out a lungful of air and perches on the counter. He looks at me for a moment, studying my face intently.

“Well you know what? Either way I have a feeling that you will carry on playing. Talent like yours shouldn’t be wasted. And I have a distinct feeling that one day you will be playing that Gibson, and it will all work out for the best.”

“Really?”

“Some things are just meant to be.” He shrugs.

“So why did you quit then?”

The words are out before I can stop them. I know it is rude to ask but now the question is dangling there and I really want to know the answer.

“What, you recognise me, then?” He feigns shock and fans himself.

“Yeah, of course I do. You’re a legend. I spent my teens trying to mimic how you play.”

He gives a little ‘who’d figure’ shrug.

“Well, I quit for a girl.” This is said with a slow smile that speaks louder than his words.

“A girl!”

That came out ruder than intended.

“Yep, a girl. The Girl,” he confirms.

I don’t know what to say, but from the size of the smile across his face I would say that he is still pleased with his decision twenty-odd years later.

“So you don’t regret quitting?” I push, hoping for confirmation that I am making the right choice.

“I would never regret any choice I made for her.” Baz winks at me but I don’t really understand what he is implying. Does he think I am quitting for a girl? He couldn’t be further from the truth.

I can’t imagine that. I can’t imagine finding some girl who would make me want to change everything. I actually want to get away from girls.

“I’d better go. I am going to be late.” I glance at my battered old watch, which confirms that I am going to be late.

“Sure, have a great evening and I know we will meet again. I’ll try not to sell your guitar.” He turns the latch of the door to let me out.

“Well, at that price if someone wants to buy it I think you should definitely sell it. You could take your wife on holiday.”

“Yeah, I could.” He laughs, “But at least you have earned me some money today, so all is not lost.”

I give his hand a firm shake as I leave, picking up my shopping bags on the way.

As I slide my way back down the high street, I have a spring in my step I have not had for a long while.

Tonight may be my last gig with Sound Box, but the way I am feeling right now, I could be going out with a bang.

Borough Market

It’s four in the afternoon. We have to be at the venue for tonight’s gig and set up by seven. According to my bandmates there is no chance I am getting out of tonight. Having a terrible hangover is not acceptable as a valid excuse. So I am playing the gig, my last, assuming this conversation goes to plan.

It’s time for the show down.

Well actually I have already made my announcement and now the others are just staring at me, mouths hanging open over their pints of beer.

Dave pings one of his dreadlocks back and glares at me. Mondeo Man is trying to decide if I have gotten my dates confused and I am thinking that Christmas is April Fool’s Day. Trav is just opening and closing his mouth.

It would be quite funny if I did not feel like the world’s biggest wanker for doing this to them the day before Christmas.

“What, so, like, you are quitting for good?” Mondeo Man’s tone is slightly sceptical.

I don’t blame him. This is not the first time I have said this. I say it about every two years; every two years when the frustrations become too much and I suddenly have a yearning to do anything other than what I do, which is, well nothing apart from fuck about with a guitar.

“Yeah, he is.” Dave looks at me coolly but not seemingly bothered by huge announcement.

That’s a bit weird. I was expecting him to be the one making the fuss.

“Can’t you just give us another year? Liam says we are getting a lot of attention at the moment.” Trav peers at me through his floppy, sandy fringe, which he refuses to push out of his eyes.

About seven years ago we got used to him walking around with his head at a funny angle as he tried to see where he was going from beneath his hair. People who are not acquainted with him and
the hair
still look at him a bit odd, like he maybe he is just ever so slightly special, and I don’t mean in a ‘you’re special to me’ way.

Liam is our manager, but he is not here at the moment, which is one of the key reasons I am doing my little announcement now.

Every time before I have tried to leave, Liam always comes up with a reason for me to stay that I am unable to say no to. I am sure he will still have something to say later.

This is my opportunity and I don’t want to miss it.

“Listen guys, it’s not personal. I love you like brothers.”

I truly do. I have lived with these guys my entire adult life so far, but it is the ‘so far’ that makes me know this is the right thing for me.

There is something else out there, I just know it. It is there, waiting for me. Waiting for me to stop messing about with guitars and take life a little more seriously.

“Let him go.” Dave takes a deep sip of his beer and waves his hand dismissively in my direction.

“What?” Mondeo Man asks in shock. “Without a guilt trip?”

This makes us all laugh into our pints.

Dave is the king of guilt trips. He uses them to get us to do bad things, normally involving alcohol and anti-social behaviour.

“Is that it?” I ask.

“That’s it.”

“What do you know that I don’t?”

“That you’re not going to leave!” Dave starts to smirk into his pint.

“Oh really, and what makes you say that?”

“Because the band is the only way you meet girls, whether you like it or not!” He chuckles again clearly enjoying his own personal joke.

“Whatever,” I tell him with a roll of my eyes. “I don’t think you’re quite understanding my reason for leaving.”

“Maybe not, but I know you’ll be back. That’s if you actually go anywhere.”

“Arse.”

“Arse yourself.”

Okay, time to change the conversation or this will just spiral into one of our name-calling sessions and they can last for a while, and get more offensive the more we drink.

“So what is tonight going to be like?” I ask. “If it’s our last gig then it had better be a good one.” My fingers are still tingling from the Gibson. I want it to be a good one.

“Well they are all a bunch of banker wankers and will probably be too shit-faced to hear us,” says Dave.

“Great, can’t think why I am leaving!”

This gets a round of jeers.

“So.” Dave calls us all back around to attention. “Let’s do the standard set and then throw in some of our old classics and covers just for old time’s sake. Let’s send Ben off with a memory of the good times, hey!”

Okay.

He is up to something; I can tell. He is grinning into his pint.

“What do you know?” I ask again.

“Don’t know what you mean, mate!”

Yeah, right.