Broken Birdie Chirpin (15 page)

Bloody
hell. Twas as if Cupid and Peter Pan had collaborated on the décor. Pink and
red stuffed animals of varying shapes, sizes, and textures blanketed nearly
every surface. The white comforter was covered in enormous multi-colored hearts
with the word “Love” stitched in the center of each one. Throw pillows. Picture
frames. Even the vanity was shaped like a blooming heart.

Cecilia’s
love-nest would have to suffice, however, because it happened to be the only
unoccupied space in the entire abode. I sat down on the bed and pulled out my
guitar. Rose and Maggie sunk comfortably into matching white beanbags as I
tuned up. I would’ve preferred an audience of one, but Maggie proved to be
extraordinarily hardheaded.

Context.
I rather inartfully relayed the backstory of how “Rose Anna Springs” came to
exist. Lincoln’s visit to Tremaine’s Guitar Shop. Our misbegotten plans to
collaborate on his ode. That the original song had gone down with the ship.
Blah, blah, blah. Broad strokes. I’d let “Rose Anna Springs” fill in all of the
gory details. Rose smiled as mascara infused tears laid tracks down her
chiseled cheekbones. Maggie jumped up, snatched some tissues from a pink tissue
box, and handed them to her mate.

Rose
delicately patted her eyes before breathing in deeply. “Ready when you are,
maestro.” I nodded. The moment felt enormous as I pinched a pick from my shirt
pocket and strummed the opening chords. Boom. I imagined Lincoln sitting
somewhere in the cosmos toe-tapping along with the rhythm while shouting out
words of encouragement: Let her rip, Churchill. He’d wink approvingly as the
final echoes of “Rose Anna Springs” dissolved into nothingness.

Fortunately,
the reception back on earth felt mostly satisfying as well. Rose nearly tackled
me. “I love it! It means an awful lot. Thank you so much.” She finally released
me, planted a peck on my cheek, and looked directly into my eyes. “He would’ve
of loved it too.”

“It’s
my favorite song of all times! I want to hear it again
so
badly. Now!”
Maggie chimed in.

“I’ve
got a wonderful idea. Grab your guitar. Come on.” Rose excitedly grabbed my
hand and pulled me off the bed. Bloody hell. The racket from below returned
like a shotgun blast to the bonce as she threw open the bedroom door. We went
barreling down the staircase with Maggie following directly behind.

Moments
later we squeezed through the foyer and into the living room. Rose leaned in
towards my ear. “Stay right here. I’ll be back in a flash.” Thirty seconds
later the music stopped. Revelers were fixing to snatch pitchforks and hunt
down the perpetrator when Rose jumped atop the sofa. “Hey, listen up…there’s
something you all have to hear…My friend’s going to be a big time rock n’ roll
star someday. You’ll be watching him on the telly and buying his records.”

“Who
gives a shite?” A random voice burst forth from the crowd. “Turn the sodding
music back on!”

“Shut
you’re hole! Let her finish.” Maggie flexed her beer muscles. Rose laughed.

“He
wrote a song for me and I really want you all to hear it. Someday when it’s Top
of the Pops you can say you heard it way back when.” Sporadic grumbling
suggested that not everyone cared to be bothered. I couldn’t blame them really
since I might’ve been just another blooming peacock a la Donnie Fitzgibbons.
Rose’s glorious introduction, however, made it impossible to surrender. I
semi-straddled the cushioned arm of the sofa, negotiated my six string onto my
lap, and began to rock n’ roll as if I’d been transported back to the
schoolyard at St. Thomas’ School for Blighters.

When
it was all over, the carousers demanded more. I obliged with a bone-crushing
rendition of “Jimmy Jammy Beggar.” I would’ve played a half-dozen more except
I’d popped a guitar string during the final chorus. No matter. The fickle crowd
merrily resumed their debauchery moments later when the stereo fired up once
again.

I’d
successfully bid farewell to Rose and Maggie, despite Maggie’s insistence that
we rendezvous upstairs for a
chat
. Wink. Wink. Only the mullered masses
stood between me and Cecilia’s front door. I nearly had them licked when some
shaggy-haired bloke with a rather determined look on his tanned mug leapt in my
path.

“Do
you have a second?”

“Not
really.” I edged past him with a decisive leftward slide that would’ve made Skeffington
proud. The exit beckoned from only a few feet away.

“It’s
about my band.” Intrigue suddenly put paid to my getaway.

“Go
on then.”

“Do
you want to step outside where we can talk without shouting?” He didn’t look
like the type who’d shank me for my kickers, so I followed him onto the front
porch. The cool night air felt extraordinarily refreshing compared to the boozy
swamp we’d just emerged from. 

“That’s
much better. Anyhow, my band…maybe you’ve heard of us…Sonny Boyd Wheeler?” I
shook my head dismissively. “Alright, well, we’re desperate to find a guitar
player. It’s just temporary of course until our customary guitarist mends. The
twit broke his blooming wrist trying to slam dunk a volleyball at a party in
Gillingham last weekend. He’s out of commission for two months and we’ve got
four gigs in the next two weeks. Anyhow, you’ve probably figured where I’m
going with all this.”

Just
a second before I’d been the lead singer, songwriter, and guitarist of the
greatest rock n’ roll outfit since Led Zeppelin. I wasn’t about to turn session
man for some upstarts who probably couldn’t shine Rip Churchill’s twenty-carat
solid-gold cucumber. “Right. Sure. I don’t think I can help. Sorry.”

“Listen,
I know you’ve probably got your own band or whatever, but gigs are gigs. You’re
obviously a performer. We’ve been getting decent crowds coming out to the
shows. Lots of birds and all that. You could even play a couple of your own
songs if you wanted.” Ding. Ding. Ding. Round two went decisively to the
shaggy-haired bloke with the starry eyes. Bloody hell. One couldn’t live on
crème brûlée alone, and I wasn’t about to sit on the shelf collecting dust
while Skeffington and Donnie Fitzgibbons rewrote the history books. Permanently
overthrowing gimpy as the alpha guitarist of Sonny Boyd Wheeler also presented
an intriguing challenge.

I
agreed to attend their next rehearsal and give it a bloody whirl. If both sides
felt warm and tingly after jamming together for a bit, then we’d make an honest
go of it. If not, then c'est la vie. Boyd and I exchanged contact information,
awkwardly shook hands, and parted ways. He charged back into the soiree with
pistols blazing whilst I began the lonesome journey homeward.

Sonny
Boyd Wheeler: A mere footnote in the annals of rock n’ roll lore; a quaint band
fronted by yours truly for two shows before stardom came knocking at the door.
Sonny Boyd Wheeler: The catalyst for a cascade of events that would forever
shape my rock n’ roll fantasy for better or worse.

Sunday.
The breakfast table was dominated by an extraordinarily dull conversation about
Shirley Weller. Brother blathered on about their date and all of the horrible
shite they shared in common. Root beer. Twizzlers. Honor roll. Blah, blah,
blah. Mom insisted that brother invite her over to the house for supper. Bloody
hell. Listening to Donnie Fitzgibbons slap his bass for two hours would’ve been
more appealing than sitting through that torturous supper.

Monday.
The lads from Sonny Boyd Wheeler welcomed me into their ranks with open arms.
I’d captivated them with “Penny Please Budge Up” before improvising on a gritty
guitar solo during the bridge of one of their original numbers. It was mostly
fun farting around with them, but their rather pedestrian songwriting, musicianship,
etc. convinced me that commandeering this outfit wouldn’t be any challenge at
all. Two weeks. Six rehearsals. Four gigs. Steal the bloody show and good
riddance.

Tuesday.
Becky confirmed her attendance for Saturday night’s performance at Captain
Corver’s Wine & Spirits. Her mum green-lighted a slumber party at Rita’s
abode. The truth was much more appealing: Rita and her family were heading to
West Wittering Beach for a weeklong holiday. Rita agreed to leave her house key
under a rock near the back entrance. I was a bit nervous about the
possibilities, but mostly chuffed to spend time with Becky indoors for a
change.

Wednesday.
Rehearsal went better than expected as we slogged through a mostly
straightforward six song set. I’d already learned the guitar parts for their
four offerings, and began experimenting with alternate chord progressions,
riffs, etc. Sonny looked as if he wanted to saw off his fiberglass cast and
beat me to death with it. That “Penny Please Budge Up” and “Hello Again, Moggy”
were gangbusters only added to his emerging inferiority complex. No matter. The
other lads were eating up the raw energy like crunchy spicy tuna rolls.

Thursday.
Thursday night bangers and the revelation that Shirley Weller would be joining
us for supper the following Tuesday. Mum snatched granny’s recipe book from the
cupboard as she rambled excitedly about preparing something special for the big
event. Brother had let me be since our mostly one-sided skirmish. Perhaps he
felt guilty. More likely, however, he didn’t want me ratting him out to mum.
Either way, he’d decided that a few weeks constituted a long enough reprieve.
He dropped his heavy mitt on my shoulder: “Don’t worry little brother, someday
you’ll find a nice homely girl who’ll accept you for the lemon that you are.
Mum will be sure to whip her up some yummy dog chow. Right mum?” Bloody hell.
Mum wasn’t amused.

Friday.
They still sounded more like Herman’s Hermits than Led Zeppelin, but I was
mostly confident that the patrons of Captain Corver’s Wine & Spirits would
be entertained. I’d be the standout of course with my fiery guitar work and duo
of rollicking offerings. Becky would have us sprinting to Rita’s sofa like a
couple of amorous bonobos after we closed with “Hello Again, Moggy.” Regrettably,
my efforts to banish all thoughts of Rip Churchill to a remote stoney lonesome
deep within the recesses of my subconscious had failed. These demons needed to
be confronted as soon as intermission ended, including a long overdue chat with
the surviving member of our beloved rhythm section.

An
8.0 on the Richter scale devastated the north, cutting off electricity and
crippling public transport. UFOs landed in spectacular numbers and formed an
impenetrable perimeter around London, completely isolating it from the outside
world. Bubonic plague spread like marmalade across the countryside, sparring
London by a single sanitized handshake. There wasn’t another excuse worthy of
such betrayal.

I
displaced Boyd at center stage for our final offering. My eyes rifled back and
forth one last time before accepting the horrible truth: Becky hadn’t fucking
made it. Bloody hell. I snarled before blasting into “Hello Again, Moggy.” The
medium-sized crowd had offered a mostly lukewarm reception during the first
five offerings. We were just the opening act after all. But the scene suddenly
changed for the better. Birds rose to their daisy roots and began bebopping
about. Blokes clapped to the infectious rhythm in between hearty gulps of
lager. I’d nearly single-handedly won them over.

I
noticed a particularly fit bird during the final chorus. She stared right
through me as her hips swiveled hither and thither. The rather short mini she
wore exposed her long athletic legs. I was mostly certain she’d shot me her best
disappointed expression when the song ended. Bloody hell. My roguish thoughts
were all Becky’s doing.

We
cleared off the stage for the headliners before joining the general population.
My band mates were all at least eighteen years of age so they scurried off to
the bar. Boyd approached me moments later with a pint in either mitt. “Listen,
we all appreciate you helping us out. You’re a whiz. Drinks are on us tonight.”
He chatted me up for a bit, but my attention quickly drifted to flirty-flirty.
I caught her staring too many times for it to be some sort of coincidence. All
I bloody wanted was to spend quality time with Becky on Rita’s couch. I instead
found myself being reeled in by a pair of extraordinary legs.

The
devil was obviously hanging out in Shoreditch that evening because the table
next to hers opened up just as the headliners kicked off their set. Boyd
motioned towards it. “Let’s take a load off. I’ll get the others while you
fight off all comers.” I strolled over with my head hanging low and placed my
beer down. She and her mates giggled like sprogs. I pretended to be gripped by
the headliners so as to avoid any needless discomfort. Moments later Boyd and
Co. encircled our table, providing some much needed cover.

A
pint or two later the two tables began to blur into one. Boyd had struck up a
conversation with a freckle-faced redhead named Shureen. I could barely hear
them above the din, but they appeared to be hitting it off. Boyd took it upon
himself to introduce the rest of us to our fairer counterparts. Shureen
graciously returned the favor. Bird #1. Bird #2. Come again? Surely I must’ve
misheard the name of my long-legged admirer. No matter. Bird #3. Bird # 4.
Blah, blah, blah.

Intermission.
Legs shot up out of her chair, pranced behind me, and leaned her bonce over my
shoulder. “It’s too crowded in here. Step outside with me for a tick so we can
get to know each other better.” There couldn’t possibly be any harm in that.

My
ears were ringing as we stepped into the night. She pulled a fag from her black
handbag. “You want one?” I shook my head. “I’m really just a weekend smoker. I
shouldn’t even be that. My coach would murder me if he found out.”

“Sure.
Right. What sport might you play?” My heart began to pound and my bonce
swirled.

“Football.
I don’t suppose you…”

“What’s
your name again?”

“Oh,
I’m sorry…Shirley. Shirley Weller.”