Free Broken Birdie Chirpin by Adam Tarsitano Page B

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.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
    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