Broken Birdie Chirpin (10 page)

I’d
been polishing Martin D-28s with the patience and care of a white coat when Mr.
Surtees summoned me to his office. I feared the worst since I’d never been
summoned before. A few days earlier I’d dinged up the underside of a Gibson
while transporting it from storage. It was hardly noticeable but Mr. Surtees
obsessed over his wares.

He
was sitting beside his Davenport desk toiling with the ledgers when I entered.
He didn’t immediately acknowledge my presence and the suspense was unnerving.
Unclean hands. Paranoia. I was Roderick Usher as the Gibson split in two and
crumbled upon the freshly swept showroom floor. Boom. Mr. Surtees finally
dropped his fountain pen and gazed up at me. His expression suggested that he
knew of my indiscretion.

“My
rolodex is chockfull. Do you know why?” Blooming hell. The Socratic method. My
wheels were spinning in place. Fortunately, the question turned out to be
rhetorical. “Because I’ve had my sausages in the pie for nearly four decades.
Did you know, for example, that I was a groomsman at Tommy and Jean Cornish’s
wedding?” Behold my plodding journey on the service road to comeuppance.

“No,
sir.”

“You’ve
no blooming idea who they are of course, but we’ll get to that momentarily.”
Mr. Surtees toyed with me like I was a yo-yo. “You probably see me as a fossil.
Well, eat shit if you do, because there’s no substitute for time well-served.
I’ve rubbed elbows with titans, but I’ve also swam with the sharks.” He removed
his bifocals and looked me square in the eyes.

“You’ve
been hiding something from me.” Bloody right. Mr. Surtees shot up and walked
deliberately towards the closet. Prosecution’s Exhibit A: The dinged up Gibson.
Not quite. He returned holding a medium-sized box. It likely contained the shriveled
up heart of a once promising guitar. He placed the box on his desk and motioned
me over.

“Tommy
and Jean Cornish are the proprietors of a local boozer…” Off came the lid. My
knees buckled at the sight of the odd surprise that lurked inside. “…that
you’re quite familiar with.”

“You’re
mad.” Blimey. My filter was out to lunch with Mr. Surtees’ alter-ego. “Sorry,
sir. I just…were you at Creepin’ Jean’s by chance?”

“Chance?
No, my dear boy. A little birdie told me all about it. You want to see it? I can
go find that box too.” My extraordinary discomfort must’ve manifested itself in
my facial expression because Mr. Surtees prematurely abandoned his shtick.
“Lighten up. There’s an angel supporting your career and she just happens to be
a wee bit smarter than you.” Becky. Wonderful Becky. But how?

Not
so fast. “Your mum reckoned that a gentleman of my position might be useful to
a fledgling rock n’ roller such as yourself. Of course, I had to see your band
for myself before making any promises.”

“But
that get-up?”

“Anonymity.
Eccentricity. Blah, blah, blah.”

“Alright.
Well, what do you think then?”

“You
aren’t very good at scrubbing toilets.”

Even
Ollie Maserati couldn’t have delivered me to Muswell Hill fast enough. I
carried tidings of enormous proportions. Mr. Surtees had telephoned the
powerbrokers at Frankie Shū’s Ballroom and The Satin Vault to arrange
auditions for Rip Churchill. These were premiere rock n’ roll venues frequented
by next big things and their trophies.

Nepotism
alone forged opportunities such as this. Oh, how my band mates would revel in
the knowledge that my business acumen was as sharp as my musical genius. I
pictured their adoring faces as their benevolent leader delivered them from
obscurity. Kiss the outstretched hand that feeds lest ye be banished to the
farthest corners of the kingdom. Respected and loved. Firm but fair. I burst
into the garage with the heads of my enemies dangling from twine.

Mutiny!
The sight and sound of it snatched my breath away. The four mutineers were muddling
through some up-tempo jingle I’d never heard. Captain Angler had ringleader
written all over his cheery fucking face. The cacophony grinded to a halt as my
presence became known.

“Good
news, mate. I penned a couple of songs last night. We were fooling around with
them a bit while we waited. I think you’re gonna like what we’ve got so far.
So, strap on your guitar.” Good news? I wanted to chuck up on his face. Since
when did Skeffington bypass yours truly in favor of the rhythm section? If you
can’t beat them join them of course; a tried and true philosophy for a
backstabbing busker.

These
blokes weren’t anywhere near ready for my news. I strapped on my guitar without
any fanfare and listened oh so intently as the lads began to play. Their
herky-jerky takeoff satisfied the worst in me. My ire returned, however, as the
quality of Skeffington’s composition began to shine through. He’d succeeded
where I’d been failing.

It
didn’t take long for me to hatch a transformative riff that’d blast the bloody
track into next year. Not so fast. A devilish delight upended me before my
fingers ever plucked a note. Mail it in. Sack it. Skeffington didn’t deserve my
best. I could easily riff off of the main melody without adding jack. Seconds
later my lead guitar chimed in. Blah, blah, blah. I even tossed in an
uninspired guitar solo during the bridge for good measure.

I
may’ve won that battle, but I was losing the war. The others were arse over
elbow about the ditty; mostly because it was a shiny new toy to play with. Skeffington
called it “My Little Refugee Girl.” I felt like the bloody refugee, however,
and he wasn’t even through. His second offering mostly topped the first. “A
Soul for Wally B” was sure-handed pop rock with an inspired hook. I likely
could’ve had a massive impact on the final product, but pulled off my konk
instead.

There
was only one true way to exact revenge: pen an enormous masterpiece and snaffle
control back from the depths of Skeffington’s arse. I’d punish the turncoats in
the meantime by withholding news of the auditions. They’d be privy when I
climbed back on top.

Blimey.
If only masterpieces grew on bloody trees.

Shogun
burst into our hotel room at 7:30 a.m. He was already impeccably dressed. Black
tailored suit. Starched white shirt. Black silk tie with a wide Windsor knot.
He’d likely read the newspaper, exercised, and poached an egg to top it off. We
were barely conscious and would’ve slumbered until afternoon spritzers but for
our grueling tour schedule.

“Skeffington’s
the savage who tossed the minibar out of the window last night, boss.” Donnie
was always so cheeky in the mornings.

“I
didn’t pay for this Hublot using babysitting money, funnyman. Go report it to
the bobbies.” Shogun didn’t suffer fools lightly, especially whilst he was on
the clock. “I’ve just received a communiqué from David Isham.” Blimey. I nearly
gagged on my blueberry muffin. Skeffington rushed in from the lavy with his
face half covered in shaving cream. “He’s spun the record for Albert Spratz and
the other bigwigs…” Caesura. Shogun’s impenetrable poker face taunted us.

“Come
on, mate. I’m going to chuck up. What’d he say?”

“Skeffington,
I am afraid its bloody fantastic news. They loved it. The label wants it
released yesterday with heavy promotion.” We’d been legitimized by the
overlords of rock n’ roll. The Ship of Theseus was ready to set sail for Top of
the Pops. “They also feel strongly about ‘Rose Anna Springs’ as the first
single.”

My
knees buckled. My hands shot up towards the heavens as did my gaze. Bloody
hell. Mine was a bittersweet rock n’ roll fantasy.

***

Inspiration.
Ours was a symbiotic relationship characterized by the simplicity of a summer
breeze and the intensity of a wet dream. I’d never questioned its ethereal
origins because it always found me. It hovered nearby waiting to be plucked
from obscurity and transformed into rock n’ roll. Suddenly, however, I’d become
a match that wouldn’t ignite no matter how many times I scraped against the
striking strip. Inspiration had deserted me just as Skeffington began trampling
over my bloody plums in the name of sport.

Two
blooming hours and not so much as a single respectable idea emerged. I tossed
my guitar on the bed and buried my face in the palms of my hands. Horrible
frustration ran amok inside my aching bonce. I was mostly frustrated with
myself for piling so much pressure on my frail shoulders. Skeffington had
motored into the firefight with L7s and howitzers while I’d waltzed in with the
two-finger salute and insecurity. Sabotaging the entire enterprise to satisfy
my bruised ego only made matters worse. Bloody hell. No man could write a song
whilst his head was so far up his own arse.

The
first item on my agenda was to right the wrongs of our last rehearsal. Cranking
out jaw-dropping riffs to Skeffington’s new songs and announcing our upcoming
auditions might not have been the equivalent of composing a masterpiece, but it
surely would up my cache and buy me some time.

This
war wouldn’t be won with a sprint.

Lincoln
was my mate but we’d never spent any time together outside of the band. I’d
never given it much thought on account of our busy schedules. It was mostly
surprising, therefore, when he dialed me up about entertaining some birds.

“These
birds are right fit and they’re really into musicians. I think we fit that
bill, Churchill. Shall I count you in?” Bloody right. This sounded like a
golden distraction from my songwriting troubles. Perhaps I’d even shed Becky’s
ghost along the way.

“Sure.
Right. How about the incidentals?”

“That’s
the spirit. I told them we’d meet at The Picklebrough Diner in Muswell Hill at
6:30 p.m. Hamburgers and baked beans drive ladies wild after all.” I’m certain
he winked on the other end of the line. “Bring you’re A+ game, Churchill. It’s
going to be a bloody great time.”

It
was already 4:30 p.m. I’d have to hustle to get all dolled up and still catch
the bus. I wondered if the late notice was on account of either Frisby or
Cletus bailing at the last moment. Convincing myself that I’d been Lincoln’s go
to guy was easy, however, since Frisby presented like an insufferable
ankle-biter and Cletus remained smitten with Ms. Van Hoorn. It didn’t matter
either way: Mr. Flirty Flirty was ready to soar out of his stoney lonesome.

I
scuttled into The Picklebrough Diner with lofty expectations. It didn’t take
long to spot Lincoln waiving me over. He’d already cozied up to a gorgeous
waif. She could’ve been a runway model with her pouty lips and almond-shaped
eyes. The other lass sat with her back to me. I’d have been satisfied if she
looked a quarter as attractive as her mate.

She
turned ever so smartly as I neared the table. Bloody hell. Hamburgers and baked
beans were probably like kryptonite to this slender angel. Her wide and toothy
smile nearly bowled me over. I smiled back nervously as I flopped into my
chair. Lincoln found amusement in the awkwardness and waited an eternity before
making introductions.

“Churchill,
let me introduce you to these two upstanding lasses. Maggie meet Churchill.
Churchill meet Maggie. She’ll be your muse for the evening.” I fired off
another uncomfortable smirk in her general direction. “And this…this is Rose.”
There was more than a spoonful of sugar in his tone.

Courtship.
Lincoln and Rose carried on like old chums tipping back pints at the boozer. It
was difficult not to fancy Rose. She was confident, witty, and had a delightful
laugh that made me want to climb over the table and into her tiny lap. My side
of the table felt like a black hole. I barely spoke and Maggie caught me
staring at Rose more than once. I’d apparently been pouring salt into the
ever-so-slightly-less-desirable cat’s wound. Maggie bristled. She wasn’t about
to wave the white flag without taking her best shot. She leaned over with a
rather seductive look on her sexy face and whispered in my ear.

“Rose
has got a massive broom handle in her knickers to go along with her teeny tiny
berries.” Pop nearly squirted out my konk. Maggie cracked up. “I’m only joking
of course…but she is preggo.” Her one-two combination turned the tide as my
attention shifted leftward and left me wanting more.

“Tell
me about your band.” Blimey. Maggie was on a roll.

I
noticed mum in the kitchen dicing celery as I sprinted for the front door. The
next bus for Muswell Hill left in fifteen minutes but this would likely be my
only opportunity to chat with her alone. I paused for a moment to consider my
values. Bloody hell. Mum deserved some gratitude for her role in Rip
Churchill’s fortunes and I’d already let it slide.

“Mum,
I’ve only got a tick. Duty calls.” Her expression suggested that she’d been
waiting rather patiently for this. “Thanks for your help with Mr. Surtees. The
geezer’s right determined to see us succeed.”

“Oh,
you’re welcome, me duckie. I know what music means to you. You just keep up
your end of the bargain with your father and I’ll keep being your biggest fan.
Alright?”

“Right.
Sure.” Mum plowed forward for a hug and managed a quick squeeze before I
squirmed away.

“You
little stinker. Someday you’re going to miss your mum’s hugs.” Mum wasn’t
trying  to be profound and mortality wasn’t on my radar. Her words were just
background noise as I exited the kitchen. “Wait! I promised myself I wouldn’t
say anything but I can’t help it. I’m working on another surprise for you. Just
hang in there for a bit longer. This one’s top secret though, if you know what
I mean.” I was mostly intrigued. It had to be extraordinary if she’d decided to
keep it from Il Duce.

 Forty
minutes later I burst through Lincoln’s garage door like a desperado toddling
into The Gut Warmer Groggery. Adrenaline oozed from every pore as I readied
myself for the big announcement. It was time to temporarily recapture the crown
as de facto Grand Poobah of the outfit. Not so fast. I froze as my brain
processed that which my eyes had allegedly witnessed. We’d once again been
infiltrated by outsiders. Lincoln’s principles had folded in the face of a
twig-like looker named Rose. Fortunately, her mostly debauched bestest came to
rock n’ roll as well.

Lincoln
zipped towards me as if he owed some sort of explanation. His enormous mitt
engulfed my shoulder and guided me to the corner. “I know what you’re thinking,
Churchill, and you’re right. I’m a bloody hypocrite. It’s just that I really
like Rose and you hit it off with Maggie, so I figured it’d be alright.”

“You
figured right.” This was a classic kill two birds with one stone opportunity:
Reclaim my band and set Maggie’s draws on fire. Boom. “Now let’s get back to
the others because I’ve got news to drop.” I engaged Maggie in a fist
bump/finger explosion combo before raising my voice above the din. 

 Fast
forward five minutes. We were tearing through “My Little Refugee Girl” with
reckless abandon. My feral riff transformed Skeffington’s ditty into a
five-thousand stone lorry barreling down the motorway. He was arse over elbow
as he crushed the vocals. We hammered away on our instruments with an equally
crushing vim and vigor. No bloody mercy. Rose and Maggie had long been reduced
to two teeny tiny puddles on the garage floor.

I
proudly surveyed my band as we chugged towards the finish line. Skeffington.
Lincoln. Cletus. Frisby. These brilliant upstarts were my brothers for better
or worse, and I loved them. To hell with triviality and egos. Rip Churchill was
forever.

Silly
fool. Someday you’re going to miss your mum’s hugs.