Broken Birdie Chirpin (8 page)

It’s
a scorching summer day. The sun is unusually bright. I stand alone in a field
of glorious green grass. Calm washes over me like a cool breeze. I close my
eyes and inhale deeply. Skeffington suddenly appears and is darting towards me
at full speed. I’d forgotten that we were playing an important football match
versus the Tipton Tornadoes. Skeffington passes me the rock and I am off.
Fortunately, I’m blessed with incredible ball skills. I perform some sort of
razor sharp pivot around the defender and wink at the keeper as I stick one
past his outstretched arms.

Lana,
etc. form a human pyramid on the sideline with Lana on top. They’re clad in
mostly skimpy cheerleader outfits. Three cheers for me. I try desperately to
see their knickers as they dismount but find myself lost in the sundrenched
bleachers instead. My squinting eyes rifle through the crowd. Bingo. She has
flowered into a stunning twenty-something. I’m unchanged.

She’s
sitting next to brother and Cicero. They’re carrying on like old chums. I
gallop towards her. “Did you see that? I just booted the game winner.” She
doesn’t acknowledge me. “It was bloody brilliant, didn’t you see?” No response.
“Becky, please I’m…” She finally turns, but it’s no longer Becky. It’s Aunt
Evie McQuillen. My chest hurts. “Where’s Becky? What have you lot done with her?”
They’re sniggering at me like I’m daft.

I
awoke with a start. My subconscious was less forgiving then its impetuous
counterpart.

***

The
final month of the school year suffered from acute schizophrenia. Twas a
byproduct of the byzantine life that I’d adopted. I’d become an automaton on
autopilot whilst the sun graced the sky. I’d otherwise become nocturnal. My
bedroom window had become a portal to another dimension.

Daytime
was mostly about conforming to the whims and wants of educators, parents, and
employers. The nighttime was about rock n’ roll. Some nights Skeffington and I
met under cover of darkness to compose new songs and plot our takeover of the
local music scene. Songwriting had become more of a luxury given the strain of
reality, but gems still emerged. “Common Loon”, “Puddle Jumper (But She’s
Mine)”, “Ramses’ Revenge”, and “Ramses’ Still Handsome” quickly became part of
our repertoire.

Other
nights we rehearsed in Lincoln’s garage. Hours of labor and gallons of sweat
were bartered for perfection as we rode a wave of inevitability. Every detail
was attended to from vocal harmonies to guitar solos to set lists. But this
wasn’t work in any traditional sense. We weren’t Fritzy the Fireman or Barry
the Barrister. We were ankle-biters at Christmas who received a one-hundred
percent return on every guitar lick. It felt like a never ending holiday in
Waikiki.

Lincoln
volunteered to moonlight as our manager and had already booked us in a handful
of local establishments that he referred to as the “low hanging fruit.” We’d
cut our teeth in these no-frills honkytonks before graduating to the genuine
rock n’ roll hotspots. Our initial engagement at The Thirsty Bard was less than
two weeks out. Lincoln suggested we invite Lana, etc. to our final tune-up. His
stated purpose was an objective appraisal by our potential fan base, but he
could hardly keep a straight face. Truth is he’d been chirping about those
dollybirds ever since the spring dance.

And
so a few nights later the six fittest bints this side of stardom bounced into
the garage. These angels were caked in the grime of estrogen and idolatry.
Sparkly smiles. Swaying hips. The scent of lip gloss and perfume instantly
flavored the stale air. The extent to which they’d tarted themselves up spoke
volumes about expectations. My heart thumped on account of possibility.

We
were a chiseled thoroughbred wrapped in an enormous satin bow. They were
distinguished members of the ruling class clinging desperately to their final
ounce of propriety. We’d just delivered six hellacious cuts to further whet
their appetites. They’d just charged their batteries on adrenaline and lust
while simultaneously hypnotizing us with their flirty flirty. Foreplay ended,
however, as the final reverberations from “Ramses’ Revenge” cleared the
crossbeams.

There
was a mostly awkward silence as we unstrapped our instruments. We were adrift
in the unknown and required a steely shepherd to escort us to the next phase of
our mating ritual. “You boys are really talented. I could listen all night
long.” Bless her. Lana had all of our best interests at heart.

“Yeah,
don’t forget about us when you’re Top of the Pops, alright?” Alex “Rub-A-Dub”
Derby and inertia.

“Now
how could we forget about a doll like you?” Score one for Cletus.

This
conversation quickly became a snowball barreling down the Alps. Scatter lest ye
be consumed. I didn’t utter a word of course, but my brain worked overtime. I’d
convinced myself that anyone of these lookers would’ve been a perfectly
suitable substitute for Becky. Lana may’ve been the ultimate prize, but there
was no shame in landing a “Lips” Ralston or “Hot Pants” Hollywell. It also
crossed my mind that brother would commit hari-kari if he knew who I’d been
consorting with in the evenings. Sod off.

Divide
and conquer. The festivities were becoming more intimate as Lana led her pack
of she-wolves directly into our ranks. I fully expected Lana’s journey to end
somewhere within Planet Skeffington’s gravitational pull. My stomach churned,
however, as the focus of her indigo eyes suggested something else entirely:
Lana wanted to audition for a leading role in Act I of my rock n’ roll fantasy.

In
a blink she was whispering in my ear. Her soft breath sent goose pimples
spilling down my neck like dominoes. Bloody hell. “Can you be trusted?” Heavy
opening salvo. Probably not, but I wasn’t above lying.

“Sure.
Of course.” Lana was either seducing me or else a horrible judge of character.

“Let’s
take a walk then. I want to tell you something.” It felt like seduction. She
reached out, grabbed my mitt, and guided me towards the door.

“Please
just be sure to bring our little Churchill back whole Ms. Lana, alright?”
Lincoln drew titters and some additional prattle from Frisby and Cletus. It was
short-lived, however, because they each had their own soap operas to attend to.

Lana
never released my hand as we strolled through the door and into the night.
She’d made all the bold moves thus far and I hoped it would continue. “I’m
going to tell you my secret now, alright? Promise you won’t laugh?” Another
condition. No matter. I’d bite.

“Right.
I promise.”

“Ok…well…I’ve
had a bit of a crush on you since the dance. I mean…I nearly melted when you
played for us on mum’s piano. I wasn’t going to say anything about it just
yet…but watching you tonight brought that feeling back.” I knew that I needed
something halfway decent to say when she finally stopped to catch her breath.
Nerves were settling in, however, and words were mostly elusive. “I hope I’m
not screwing this up.” It sounded like genuine humility from St. Thomas’ School
for Blighters’ finest bird.

“We
can snog if you’d like.” Blimey. I’d put the bloody cart before the horse.

Lana
broke stride and pulled an about-face. “Follow me.” We hustled towards the dark
side of Lincoln’s garage. She stopped abruptly, pushed her back against the
vinyl siding, and smiled. This was obviously an invitation for funny business.
I took a deep breath and leaned in.

The
entire scene unfolded in slow-mo.

My
top lip grazed hers. The flavored lip gloss instantly aroused my senses.
Strawberry. She looked so gorgeous. This wasn’t a dream. Shite. It was a
sodding nightmare. Her tongue darted into my mouth like a bloody piston. There
was no rhythm or rhyme. It felt like blooming sandpaper to top it off. My tongue
didn’t know what to do. It was shocked and horrified. I mostly just moved it
out of the way. The worst part: Lana seemed to being enjoying herself.

I
didn’t want to offend her by tearing myself away. It also crossed my mind that
she may’ve been underperforming on account of jitters. She just needed a do
over to regain her form. I pulled back slowly so as to disengage for a moment.
I gazed into her eyes with mock passion, smiled disingenuously, and went back
in. I sincerely hoped for a miracle, but none was forthcoming. Boom. Boom.
Jackhammer. A single bittersweet thought had been my only salvation. It wasn’t
too late to invite Becky to our first gig.

Lincoln’s
expression seemed horribly serious for a bloke who’d just snogged with “Lips”
Ralston. I fancied him a quick-witted wag with a rare musical genius for
rhythm, but I’d never mistaken him for the introspective sort. He pulled me
aside just as Skeffington and I were about to return to reality.

“This
was an awful mistake. I’m sorry.” I mostly agreed, but only on account of my
twitching tongue. Perhaps “Lips” Ralston failed to meet expectations as well,
although Lincoln’s expression suggested something more meditative afoot inside
his loaf. Regrettably, the last bus for beddy-bye would be rambling on in
fifteen minutes, so I didn’t have time to toss on my Freud hat.

“No
harm done really.” Unless of course “Lips” Ralston was now our bloody backup
singer or else full-time maraca shaker. I thrust a violent glance at my watch
that went unnoticed and/or ignored.

“Liza
and I swapped germs for a bit. I was aces, Churchill.” Lincoln winked before
getting solemn again. “Then it went sour. She starts inquiring about our next
rehearsal and how she can’t wait to see it…how she’ll bring some cookies. I
almost chucked up. You follow?”

“Sure.
Right.” His woeful experience sounded eerily similar to mine albeit for
different reasons.

“Banging
me drums and horsing around. That’s the story, right? Well, I’ve been in plenty
of bands, man…good blooming bands with talented blokes. But this outfit is
different. You’re a genius. Even Skeffington’s part genius - don’t ever tell
him I said so. This band is bloody special.”

“You’re
an enormous part of it.” I felt proud of myself for saying what I meant.

“Thanks,
Churchill.” He put his sasquatch-sized hand firmly on my shoulder and looked
directly into my eyes. “Skeffington looks like he’s fixing to wet himself so
I’ll get to the point. Having those birds here during our rehearsal cheapens
this entire bloody thing and I don’t want to cheapen it. Not even a little.
There’ll be plenty of time for skirts.”

“I
sure hope so.” I hadn’t missed the moral. I just wasn’t quite sure how to
respond for lack of perspective.

“I
know I’m being melodramatic. I’m not quite certain what’s come over me really.
Buggering hell! I’ll probably wake up tomorrow in the mood for cookies.” His
mischievous grin suggested a return to form. “Now go catch your bus.”

Nosy
Rosy fancied himself an amateur sleuth on the ride homeward. He wanted to know
what was so important that we nearly missed our ride. I didn’t fully comprehend
the wisdom of Lincoln’s words, but I knew they were wise. I also knew that I
wasn’t ready to cheapen them simply to indulge Skeffington’s paranoia.

“Lincoln
and I decided you’re out of the sodding band. You can take ‘Brooklyn from
Bawtry’ with you.”

“In
your face, mate. Because Donnie Fitzgibbons and I’ve been writing and recording
on the side for weeks. We call ourselves ‘The Tight Shitz.’”

“That’s
an odd coincidence considering we replaced you with Donnie Fitzgibbons’ mum,
Fanny Fitzgibbons, and her watermelon-sized norks.” Our repartee continued to
devolve into absurdity until my guts ached from laughter. Twas a fleeting
distraction from birds, bands, and profundity while we were still us.

The
rank and file were mostly euphoric as they celebrated the final day of our
yearly stint in the hoosegow. Even Headmaster Moobs whistled a tune as he
waddled through his victory laps. I snuck around like a red fox in Yorkshire on
account of the Cornish Rex tongue hunting the halls for my gob. All of this
twaddle prevented me from sorting out priority number one.

I’d
drafted an apology note for Becky on the back of a flyer for our gig at The
Thirsty Bard:

Dearest Becky,

I’m sorry about all of
the shite. I’ve been a twit. I miss you and all that. The band is incredible.
It’d be tops if you could come to our show next week. I promise I won’t run off
afterwards. I’ll even buy you a fizzy.

Best regards,

Me

I
didn’t have the plums to deliver it myself, so I sought the assistance of an
insufferable meddler. Rita. She fancied me a loathsome shite, but time was
short. I sprung forth from the shadows as she popped out of science laboratory.
“Pssst, can I have a word?”

“Oh,
crap, what do you want?”

“I
need a courier. It’s mostly urgent.”

“Are
you speaking in bloody tongues? I’ve no idea what you’re blabbering on about.”

“Rita,
please give this to Becky.” I pulled the folded flyer from my trouser pocket
and reached out. “Please.”

“Are
you asking me for a favor? Nervy bugger. I’d rather…” Her moral indignation
suddenly transformed into impish delight. “Why don’t you just give it to her
yourself?” A smug grin sprouted under the shadow of her unduly large konk.
Becky was undoubtedly approaching from the rear. My first inclination had been
to flick the note at Rita’s mug and leg it for the lavy. My kicks remained
stationary, however, as my bonce swiveled to measure my lot. Becky was less
than fifty-feet away and closing rapidly. Spasm gripped my tightening chest.

Fleeing
would be perceived as a horribly erratic measure considering she’d clearly
spotted me. Thirty-feet. I was about to spark out. Be a man. Be a bloody man.
Bloody hell! Lana “Prickly Pear” Moxley emerged from the depths of the corridor
fixing to plunge my social prospects into Lucifer’s toilette. Retreat was no
longer negotiable. Onwards, forwards, and farewell to dignity: I’d motored
halfway across the abyss by the time my crumpled flyer landed DOA at Rita’s
daisy roots.

The
finale of this melodrama unfolded inside my bean as I hid from humanity in a
bathroom stall. Rita scoffed at my cowardice before callously foot-sweeping
reconciliation into obscurity. Becky arrived seconds later curious and
confused. Steer clear of Captains Courageous cause he’s a dodgy plonker. Jocks
rule. Rockers drool. Blah, blah, blah.

My
inglorious foray into summer wasn’t over. Mum had prepared toad in the hole for
brother and me in celebration of our respective accomplishments. Brother had of
course shone like a Botswanian diamond and would enter his senior campaign
vying for top honors. I’d managed not to fail any of my subjects and to keep
the bowls at “Tremaine’s Guitar Shop” mostly tidy for over a month.

Dad
proudly announced over his pint of grog that he and mum had saved enough quid
to send brother to some uppity camp for jocks. They were busy gleaming with
pride and self-satisfaction while brother turned my way and mouthed the words
“eat shit.” It’s as if he already knew my lot because moments later mum awarded
the boob prize: The ever merciful overlords had commuted my spell in the clink
to probation. Bloody hell. They could’ve skipped the pomp and circumstance and
just handed brother my apricots.

Cro-Magnon
& Son shuffled off to the lounge shortly thereafter to riffle through
brochures. I was stuck scrubbing dishes with Mata Hari, whose betrayal was
inexcusable until she cracked our uncomfortable silence with panache.

“Well,
at least now you won’t have to sneak out every night.”