I Am (Not) the Walrus

by Ed Briant

  2

  Wednesday

  “How about the Zack Lawrence Experience for a name?” says Zack as we exit the school gate. The green man is blinking on the pedestrian signal, so we cross straight to the opposite side of Portland Road. I always feel more relaxed when I have a four-lane road between me and school.

  “Zack Lawrence?” I say. “Why not the Toby Holland Experience?”

  “Let me ask you this.” Zack leans his guitar case against a crooked lamp post. “Would you pay good money to see the Toby Holland Experience?” Engines roar as the pedestrian

  signal changes, and the traffic takes off like it’s the start of a Grand Prix race.

  “Would you pay anything at all to see the Zack Lawrence Experience?” I say. A van clatters past with a dog hanging out of the window. “Why don’t we use both our names, Holland and Lawrence?”

  “Sounds more like a hemorrhoid ointment than a pop group,” Zack growls. “Quick. Run out and get me a tube of Holland and Lawrence.” He pulls his little round John Lennon glasses out of his jacket pocket, and props them on his nose. “If our whole set is Beatles songs, then maybe we should do something with a Beatles reference.”

  “Hey listen. What do you want to do now?” I point at his guitar case. “Seems like we should run through some new songs.”

  “Nah. You’re right,” says Zack. He plays a couple of chords on his air guitar, ba-chang!

  “We should get cracking then,” I say. “After we play I’ve got to do the soldering on the bass, and then read four chapters of Fahrenheit 451.”

  “Yeah. I’m supposed to be writing to Bethany later on anyway.” Zack picks up his guitar case and rests it on his shoulder like it’s a rifle. “Lead the way, Batman.”

  We march westward along Portland Road. Only a line of parked cars separates us from the endless stream of traffic hurtling in the opposite direction, as if they know something we don’t.

  “How about the Paperback Writers?” I say.

  “It’s not bad,” says Zack, “but I don’t think we can just name ourselves after a Beatles song title.”

  A squeal of tires makes me turn. A black car peels out of its parking spot just behind us, and slots into the eastbound traffic.

  “John, Paul, Zack, and Toby,” I say.

  Zack blows out his cheeks. “I like it,” he says. “But it’s a bit weird if there’s only two of us.”

  “It’s surreal,” I say.

  We move to opposite sides of the pavement so a mom with a double stroller can pass us.

  I shove my hands in my pockets. “The Beatles did a lot of surreal stuff.”

  “Cereal?” says Zack. “Like breakfast cereal?”

  “Surreal, like Salvador Dalí,” I say.

  “Like sitting on a cornflake,” says Zack.

  “Whoa,” I say. “That went over my head,”

  “It’s a line from ‘I Am The Walrus,’” says Zack.

  “We don’t do ‘I Am The Walrus,’” I say.

  “Maybe we should.” Zack stops and turns around to look at the mom with the stroller. “I think I’m getting old.”

  “With just the two of us?” I walk on a couple of paces, then stop. “Me doing bass and vocals, and you on guitar? I think that particular song needs an entire orchestra.”

  “We should try it,” says Zack, rubbing his chin absent-mindedly. “You never know.”

  “What? Just so we can call ourselves Sitting on a

  Cornflake?” I take a couple of paces back. “What makes you think you’re getting old?”

  Zack is still rubbing his chin. “I’m starting to find young mums attractive,” he says.

  “Come on.” I start walking backward. “We need to get going.”

  Zack continues to watch the departing mom for a moment, then seems to have to wrench himself away. “Didn’t you think she was pretty?” he says as he catches up with me.

  “To be honest, I didn’t really look,” I say. “I was trying to think of names.”

  “Toby. I can’t believe you,” he says. “A woman like that passes you in the street and you don’t even notice. I mean she was gorgeous.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Maybe I did look for a second, and she looked nice, but I mean, what’s the point in working myself up into a frenzy of desire? Firstly, she’s married, and secondly, a female that pretty is never even going to look at a dude like me.”

  “First,” says Zack, “you don’t know that she’s married, and second, I bet that if you just smiled and said hello she would melt into your arms.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” I say.

  “Bet?” says Zack. “Yeah, I’ll put a bet on it. The next pretty girl we see, you just smile and say hello and she’ll smile back.”

  “Wait a minute,” I say. “What are we betting?”

  “If she smiles and says hello,” says Zack, “then we call the band Sitting on a Cornflake.”

  “Fine,” I say. “I think I’m completely safe there. You are bound to lose.”

  We both stop at the curb to let a van pass.

  “We’ll see,” says Zack. He steps off the curb and scuffs his feet as he crosses the asphalt of Maple Street.

  I shove my hands into my pockets and look toward Memento Park and the big monument of the World War II pilot. There’s a dark silhouette on top of the monument. I don’t even see it until it moves. For a second I think it’s a cat, but then it lifts its wings.

  I don’t know much about birds. In fact, I don’t really know a lot about animals. I used to try to watch nature programs on the TV, but Mom always seemed to come in just as the rhinos were having sex. Anyway, I can’t take my eyes away from this particular bird, and as I stare I can see that it is kind of blue-gray, but with a black-and-white striped stomach. It’s not so much that it’s big, but more that it’s wide, a little like a pigeon that’s been lifting weights. As I watch, the bird shuffles forward and steps into space. It plummets straight down the front of the monument. My insides lurch. Is this bird going to kill itself right in front of me? But just before it hits the concrete, it splays its wings and shoots forward, parallel to the ground, straight toward me. A moment later it rockets over my head, giving me a clear view of its striped underside and two eyes staring at me like tiny lasers.

  “Zack.” I reach over and grab his arm. “Look.”

  But Zack isn’t paying any attention. “Bingo,” he says.

  His gaze is focused on the other side of the street. I follow his eyes. Two girls are headed toward us on the opposite side of Portland Road. Unless I’m very mistaken, they’re the ones who were watching the rugby game.

  I glance overhead and scan the skyline, but there’s no sign of the bird. So much for that.

  I look back at the girls.

  They’re talking loudly as they walk.

  I can hear their voices, but not loudly enough that I can make out what they’re saying. The one farthest away from us is tall and very thin, with light blonde hair. She’s walking with her arms folded. As for the girl nearest to us, she’s facing away from us so I can’t see her face, but she’s much shorter than the blonde one, not so thin, and has darker hair. It must be an important conversation from the way she’s waving her arms about.

  “There you go,” says Zack.

  “What do you expect me to do?” I say. “Just walk over there and say hi?”

  “Exactly,” says Zack.

  “But there’s two of them,” I say. “Which one do I say hi to?”

  “Whichever one you want.” Zack comes to a full stop and turns to face me. The expression on his face sends chills down my arms. It’s a little like that movie, Psycho, where the detective spins the old lady’s chair around, and it turns out to be a skeleton wearing a wig and a dress. Only in this case, the shock com
es from seeing Zack being completely sincere.

  “But we haven’t got time now,” I say. I walk past Zack in the direction of my house, but he makes no move to follow. “We have to go and rehearse, remember?” I wave my hands in front of his face. “I have to fix the electrics on my bass, and then we have a gig in just five days.”

  “Toby.” Zack shakes his head. “I can’t believe I have to tell you this, but the whole point of playing rock and roll is to make yourself more interesting to girls.” He puts his guitar case down and shoves his hands into his pockets, as if to emphasize the fact that he is not going to move. “If you have to pass up an opportunity for romance in order to work on your set, then you’re not just barking up the wrong tree, you’re barking in the wrong bloody forest.” Zack turns and studies the girls. The shorter one still has her back to us. “If not merely barking mad.”

  “Point taken,” I say, “but now is not the time.”

  “When it comes to love, my friend,” says Zack, patting his chest, “now is always the time.” He waves me back to where he’s standing. “You are going to cross the street and talk to them.”

  “On my own?” I glance across the street. I have never seen such scary-looking girls. I would rather try to strike up a conversation with a pack of hyenas. “There’s two. Why don’t you come as well?”

  “But I already have a girlfriend,” says Zack. “What if Bethany found out?”

  “How’s she going to find out if she’s in Norway, for God’s sake?” I turn my back on the girls and face homeward. “Anyway, it’s beside the point,” I say. “Let’s just go and play some music.”

  “Look. Get over there.” Zack grabs my shoulders and spins me back to face them. “Remember the time you stood on the edge of the top diving board and you couldn’t jump, and then you did jump, and it was fun?”

  “I didn’t jump,” I say. “I climbed back down the ladder.”

  “Well, there’s no ladder this time, Toby,” he says. “Just do it.”

  “All right,” I say. “All right.” I let a bus pass by, then step off the curb and look both ways. I’m going to need to cross at a forty-five degree angle. A red VW is heading toward me, but it’s far enough away that I’ll be across before it gets here. I mutter silently to myself as I cross.

  They are just girls. They will not do me any physical harm. By the time I’m halfway across, I’ve halfway convinced myself. I fine-tune my trajectory so I will arrive at the opposite curb about ten yards ahead of them.

  I’m so close now that I can eavesdrop on their conversation, and at that moment it strikes me that I have no idea what I’m going to say to them. I need to focus on what they’re talking about.

  “Eight out of ten,” says the shorter one, still turned away from me.

  They must be talking about the results they got for a test.

  “I don’t know,” says the tall one. “Seven at the very best.” She catches sight of me, and furrows her brows as if she knows exactly what my plans are.

  “How about seven and a half?” says the shorter one.

  “Well, that’s half a point for charity.” The taller one keeps her eyes on me, then the shorter one turns. I freeze mid-stride. She has eyes so big she almost looks like a manga character. She shakes her head from side to side. No, she seems to be saying, Not a good idea.

  I am in complete agreement, and I’m about to beat a retreat when a car honks. I swivel to the left, just in time to see the VW hurtling toward me. It’s going much faster than I’ve ever seen anything move on Portland Road, and the driver has no intention of swerving out of my way.

  Bastard!

  Without looking, or even thinking, I lunge forward and flatten myself against the door of a parked car. I spin around just as the VW passes. The gust of wind rips my shirt out of my waistband. The car doesn’t slow, or even swerve. I try to see the driver, but all I get is a glimpse of a bony fist gripping the steering wheel. “Bloody lunatic!” I shout.

  With my chest pounding, I stagger backward to the pavement, trying to get a look at the license plate. I lift my foot, but I trip over the curb. As I turn, I instinctively reach out for something to break my fall—a slender pair of shoulders wrapped in a soft, blue sweater.

  It’s not quite the tackle I did on Jasper Hamilton-Sinclair, but it slams the shorter girl into her tall friend.

  “Bloody hell,” I cry. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

  She recovers her balance and turns on me. Her eyes, which were already about twice the size of a normal human’s, now cover about two-thirds of the surface of her face. Even so, I think I see the ghost of a sympathetic smile. It’s all going to work out. Zack was right after all.

  “What are you? Five years old?” she says. Her face turns from peach to brick-red. “Why don’t you sodding well grow up?”

  Blood pounds into my cheeks as well. “It wasn’t my fault,” I say. I point to the street. “It was that car!”

  The taller girl straightens her top. “Shelly, are you okay?”

  Now both of them glare at me.

  “We were just giving scores out of ten to all the boys we know.” The shorter one rolls her shoulder as if it’s gone stiff. “I think I’m going to give you nought out of ten.”

  “The car,” I say, waving my hand at the street. “Didn’t you see the car?”

  “Oh, come on, Shelly,” says the taller one. “I know he’s a total clown, but you could give him one out of ten.”

  “It was going at ninety miles an hour!” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “Nope,” says Shelly. “Nought out of ten.”

  “We need to go.” The taller girl pulls on Shelly’s sleeve. “Give him a half a point out of ten.”

  “No. Nothing. Zilch. Bugger all.” Shelly glares at me for a moment as if she’s about to say something more, then she swivels and follows her friend.

  “But the car,” I say to their departing backs. “Didn’t you see the car?”

  They don’t turn around.

  “I guess that’s the end of Sitting on a Cornflake,” says Zack. He must have snuck across the street without my noticing. As he steps up onto the curb he pretends to stumble. “We could call ourselves the Day Trippers.”

  “Very funny,” I say.

  I look back at the two girls. They stopped about half a block away, and are chatting with an older woman. All three of them turn and scowl at me at the same time. “Let’s get out of here,” I say.

  3

  Wednesday

  Up in Shawn’s room I plug Shawn’s bass into Shawn’s amp.

  “Why don’t we run through ‘Ticket to Ride’?” says Zack. He lifts his guitar out of its case and strums a couple of chords to test the tuning. “She was pretty nice, actually.”

  If it hadn’t been for my brother, Shawn, being in the Indian Ocean, and blowing his Navy pay-packet on a ton of musical equipment that he hardly ever used, then the band would not have existed.

  “Good idea.” I perch on the edge of Shawn’s bed, place Shawn’s Beatles’s Fake Book by my feet, then flick through the pages until I find “Ticket to Ride.” “Who was pretty nice, actually?” I say as I scan through the chords.

  There’s a hum as Zack plugs his guitar in. Zack’s guitar is just about the only thing we use that isn’t Shawn’s, but he still has to plug it into Shawn’s amp so we can hear it.

  “Your little friend from earlier,” says Zack. His guitar pings as he tests the harmonics. “You know, the one you bumped into on Portland Road.”

  “Ha. Bumped into. Very funny. She was pretty, I’ll give you that.” I turn the tuning keys of the bass and strain to hear the tell-tale throb that lets me know I’m in tune. “She doesn’t seem to have the most civil way of communicating, though.”

  “Pretty face and a potty mouth,” sa
ys Zack as he twiddles his machine heads. “Some people find that quite disarming.”

  “Oh, no. I didn’t mean rude in a sexy way.” I place the open book at my feet where I can see the words and play at the same time. “I meant more in a personally insulting kind of way.”

  “That’s too bad.” Zack plucks an “E” harmonic. The high-pitched ping hovers over our heads like the magic “E” fairy who has to attend all occasions where two or more guitarists come together. “I thought you two were getting on like a house on fire.”

  “More like a house of pain,” I say. “Come on. Let’s play.”

  Zack uses one of Shawn’s pens to scrawl the guitar chords onto a napkin, which he then props on the amp where he can see it. He could have used the music stand but, as he’s often pointed out, music stands are not rock and roll.

  “You fit?” he says.

  “Close enough for jazz,” I say. “Let’s run through a couple of choruses without the vocals.” I tap my foot to get the rhythm. “One … two … three … four … ” The song lumbers into motion. It sounds like a dirge, so I up the tempo. Zack catches up with me, and then shoots ahead, but by the time we get to the end of the first chorus it’s starting to rock, and as the end of the second chorus approaches, it’s beginning to sound fairly presentable. Now it gets tricky, because in order for it to be something we can play at the audition we have to add the vocals.

  Playing a musical instrument and singing at the same time is no simple matter. A lot of people have compared it to patting your head while you rub your stomach. Playing and singing in harmony is even trickier, and I count down the beats to the start of the vocals as if I’m about to start riding my skateboard down a flight of stairs while juggling chain saws.

  I clear my throat, take a long breath, and nod to Zack. We mouth the first “I” in perfect timing, then I get my tongue twisted around “think,” Zack misses a beat, and then I get the tingle in the back of my neck. The surge of electricity that lets me know it’s all working, and once it’s working everything seems to slot into place, and it’s almost like it’s better not to try to think too hard about it, but just let the music almost play itself.