I Am (Not) the Walrus

by Ed Briant

  “You’re already in a band?” I say.

  “Yup,” says Jasper. “We’re playing in Port Jackson on Monday night. Why don’t you come along?”

  “Oh,” says Zack. “Be really nice, but we’re playing on Monday night as well.”

  “Wait a minute,” I say, with more than a touch of trepidation. “What’s the name of your band?”

  “The Disappointed Parents,” says Jasper.

  “That makes no sense,” says Zack. He stabs a finger at Jasper. “If you’re in the Disappointed Parents, then how come we didn’t know about it?”

  “I only joined them a couple of weeks ago,” says Jasper. “Their old drummer quit.”

  “Wow,” I say. “You landed on your feet.”

  “I hope you’re washing them on a regular basis,” says Zack.

  I shove myself in front of Zack. “We’re the opening act,” I say. “The Sand Tigers.”

  “The Nowhere Men,” says Zack, resting his chin on my shoulder.

  Jasper stands up and leads us over to the door, which is behind the Volvo. “I’ll give you a ring and let you know what I find out,” he says.

  As we reach the pavement, Zack says, “I suppose you won.”

  “I won what?” I say as we march toward Norfolk Square.

  “You won the bet,” says Zack. “We made progress. I think we’ve found Julie McGuire.” He spreads his arms. “You get to choose the name of the band.”

  “The Nowhere Men,” I say. “No doubt about it.”

  “I thought you wanted to call us the Sand Tigers,” says Zack.

  “I was just testing you,” I say. “I wanted to see how much you wanted the Nowhere Men. It’s obviously the better name.”

  “Sometimes,” says Zack as we reach Norfolk Square, “you can be quite annoying.”

  23

  Monday

  Horoscope: April 19, Aquarius:

  Never the one to shy away from hard work, you will have to open up today, and allow yourself to fully experience the sunny dispositions of those around you. With that done, you will soon be able to see the generosity of spirit within yourself.

  “Dressing room is not too bad.” Zack screws his face up, then plinks through the guitar riff from the Beatles’s “Ticket To Ride,” our opening number. “As long as you inhale through your mouth.”

  “What’s that?” I can barely hear him over the din of heavy metal, which is pounding down from the auditorium upstairs.

  “I said it’s a nice dressing room if you breathe through your mouth.” Zack adjusts his guitar strap.

  “Could do with somewhere to sit down,” I yell back, “after playing rugby and then hauling amps up and down stairs for Harry.” I swivel my p-bass so it’s upright, then rest the middle of my forehead against its smooth, cool neck. “So much for the free ride to the gig.”

  “Well, there’s plenty of floor available.” Zack’s fingers dance up and down the fret board of his guitar.

  “Fantastic,” I say. “After you.”

  “It’s a nice floor,” says Zack.

  “It’s a bloody toilet,” I say. “I’m not sitting on a toilet floor.”

  “Oh, come on, Toby,” says Zack. “Don’t be such a baby. You heard what Harry said. It’s been out of use for more than a year.” He bobs and dances as he hammers away at his guitar, as if he’s trying to play through the entire thirty-minute set in thirty seconds. “Plus, it’s the ladies’. I mean it’s not like it’s the gents’. That really would be disgusting.”

  “I don’t even feel good about standing up on this floor.” My legs ache so much that I lean back against a cubicle door as I attempt to tune my bass. “Look. You can almost see the bacteria wriggling out from the gaps between the tiles. Some of them are bound to get stuck to my shoes, and then they’ll come home with me. Then they’ll wait for me to get undressed, and then they’ll pounce.”

  The coolness of the door actually feels quite nice through the fabric of my shirt in spite of the fact that armies of bubonic plague germs are now crawling across my shoulder.

  The reason I’m only trying to tune my bass and not really succeeding is due to the din pounding down from the ceiling. The crashing guitar chords come from the main act of the evening, the Disappointed Parents, who are upstairs doing their sound check right now.

  Then, with one apocalyptic eruption, the sound from upstairs ends.

  We both look up at the ceiling.

  “That’s it,” says Zack, not sounding quite so confident. “Sound check over. We go on in fifteen minutes.”

  “You ready?” I say.

  “According to Harry,” says Zack, “we have to do one very important thing.” He places his guitar back in its case. “PGP. You can’t go on without it.”

  “PGP?” I say.

  “Pre-gig-piss,” says Zack. “I have to run and use the toilet upstairs.” He points at his guitar. “You don’t need me here to tune up, do you?”

  “I’m confused,” I say. “Why do you have to go upstairs? You were the one who was just telling me that it’s okay to sit on the floor. How come you can’t use the facilities down here?”

  “We’re not allowed to use it,” says Zack. “Rules of the management. Anyway, it’s out of order.” He walks over to the door and pulls it open. “Aside from anything, it’s the ladies’.”

  “Don’t get lost,” I tell him. I stop leaning on the cubicle door, and take a glance inside.

  It’s one of those antique toilets with the cistern up by the ceiling and a chain dangling down, but it looks to be in perfect working order. I guess Zack just needed to go in search of himself for a few moments. Without taking my bass off, I negotiate my way into the cubicle and use the facilities.

  When I’m done I pull the chain. It all works perfectly, and as I watch the clean water flood back in from the cistern I get a little glow. Peeing with my bass on, I actually feel like a rock star for the first time. But the nice feeling just makes my legs even more tired.

  What the heck. I fasten my jeans back up, turn myself around, and slump back on the rim of the bowl. I let out a long breath as the blood trickles back into my calf muscles. It’s so comfortable that I lean back against the concrete wall.

  I contemplate the porcelain handle of the chain swinging in front of my face, and just let my eyes close for a moment.

  24

  Monday

  But I don’t have long to enjoy the feeling. There’s a squeak as the outer door swings open, and footsteps echo across the floor.

  “It’s out of order,” I say, thinking this is a woman who’s ignored the sign on the door. With the long neck of the bass I have to back out of the cubicle, and as I do I come face-to-face, not with a woman, but with Pork-pie, still in his hat and sunglasses.

  “Ha,” I say. I feel I need to explain what I’m doing here. “Yeah, I know it’s the ladies’, but I figured that as it was out of order it would be okay to use it.”

  “Hey, my brother.” He shifts his hat back on his head, revealing a pink, lined forehead. “I have no problem with that. No problem at all. You gotta go where you gotta go.”

  “This is actually the dressing room for both bands,” I tell him. “It’s kind of private.”

  “Oh, no problem. I hear you loud and clear.” He shifts his hat forward. “You need your space. It’s like a little oasis of coolness before the sandstorm up there.” He points at the ceiling. “I will leave you to do, or not do, whatever it is you need to do, or not do.”

  He takes a couple of steps back toward the door.

  “Thanks for coming, anyway,” I say. “I hope you enjoy the music.” I wave toward the door as a kind of hint.

  He does a 180 and looks at the ceiling. “I always enjoy live music. In fact, I’m an aficionado of all of the arts
. Once upon a time, I was an architecture student.” He looks straight at me. “That was why I came in here. I love these old places. I like the way they were put together.” He points at my bass. “Now that is a classic piece of design. The Fender precision bass. Never changed in sixty years. It’s a nice instrument.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I take a long breath. Okay. Big-decision time. “I saw you in Harry Haller’s a couple of days ago.”

  Finally, he pulls off his glasses. At least he slides them part of the way down his nose but not so far that I can see his eyes. “Harry Haller? I’m blanking out. I have so many friends it’s hard to keep track of all of them.”

  “Harry Haller’s is a music shop,” I say. “They sell instruments. You were in there looking for a p-bass.”

  “I love, love, love p-basses.” He replaces his glasses and reaches out a bony hand. “Do you think I could take a look at that one? It looks old. You must know the pedigree and that kind of thing, like who owned it and when it was made.”

  “Sure. Give it a whirl.” I unhook the bass from its strap and hand it to him.

  He takes it left-handed again. He pulls at a string with his thumb. It makes a horrible metallic twang. I immediately regret giving it to him. He’s going to put it right out of tune.

  “I’d better take it back,” I say, holding out my hand. “We go on in a couple of minutes.”

  He looks up at me, but doesn’t make any move to give it back. “I want to buy this instrument from you,” he says. “You mind if I just take it upstairs? The light is better, and I want to take a closer look at it.”

  “It’s not really for sale,” I say, “and in any case, it belongs to my brother. I don’t exactly know how much it’s worth. I mean it could be worth five hundred, or it could be worth five-thousand.” I point at him. “Why don’t you take your sunglasses off if you want to see it better?”

  “I have the money. Cash,” he says. “Right now. I could give you five thousand pounds right here, right now. Think about it. You could buy yourself half a dozen basses every bit as good as this one, plus you could equip your whole band.”

  “But we’re just about to go on stage,” I say. “What am I supposed to play?”

  “The other band,” he says. “Borrow their bass.”

  I shake my head. “Nah. I don’t think that would work.”

  He takes a couple more steps toward the door. “Just give me one minute, good sir.”

  Good sir?

  I think that if I live long enough, I’m going to have a family motto. I wonder what Slow on the Uptake is in Latin.

  “No.” I grab the instrument on a strong point around the neck, near the body. “No, Rupert.”

  I pull the bass back toward me, and with it comes Pork-pie. He brings his face right up to mine. So close that I can see the flecks of gray on his unshaven chin, and smell his cheesy breath.

  We stay like that for a few moments, then he hisses, “Yes, Rupert.” He flips the bass over, jerking it out of my grip, then swings it back and levels it at my face as if he’s about to hit me with it.

  “Peek-a-Boo.” The door swings open behind Rupert, and Jasper pokes his head around it. “Anyone home?” he says.

  Rupert twists around as Jasper clomps into the room and stands in front of the doorway, which he blocks quite easily.

  “Can’t you read, mate?” he says to Rupert. “The sign on the door says that this room is closed, so scram, my friend.”

  “It’s cool, it’s cool.” Rupert bobs his head. “I was just having a heart-to-heart with my good buddy here.” As he says this, he moves toward the door still holding the bass. “If you would let me through.”

  “No! Wait,” I say, and I say it more to Jasper than to Rupert. “You can’t take the bass. I need it.”

  Pork-pie grins at Jasper. “This kid is paranoid. I have no idea what he thinks I’m going to do with his bass.”

  Jasper moves to one side, giving Rupert room to leave.

  “No,” I say. “That’s my bass. Don’t let him take it.”

  Jasper puts one hand on Rupert’s shoulder. “Sorry, Buster,” he says. “I’m not sure I have any idea where you’re going with that bass either.” With swift moves, he relieves Rupert of the bass and shoves him out through the door.

  Rupert stumbles into the corridor, but almost immediately finds his footing. He turns to face us, looking first at me, then at Jasper. “That was uncalled for, my friends.” He straightens his jacket. “To be continued,” he says.

  Jasper closes the door without even looking at Rupert. “How do you feel?” he says, and hands me back my bass.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, and I actually hug the bass.

  Jasper laughs. “I wouldn’t leave it unattended if I were you.”

  “Yeah. You’re probably right,” I say. “Thanks for helping me out there. For a minute I thought I’d lost my bass.”

  “I thought you knew him,” says Jasper.

  “No. I’ve never seen him before,” I say. “Well, I have seen him, but I don’t know who he is.”

  “Well, he finagled his way in without paying,” says Jasper. “He said he was a friend of the band. None of us knew who he was so we figured he knew you.”

  “He says he wants to buy my bass, and he has the money on him,” I say. “I think he was just a bit impatient.”

  “Well, he must be the stingiest guy on the planet, because he not only refused to pay to get in, but he also scrounged a free drink at the bar.” Jasper gives a short laugh, and then looks serious. “I actually came down here to let you know that I found out where that Julie McGuire lives,” he says. “You want me to give you the details now?”

  He doesn’t get a chance to finish, as there’s another knock on the door.

  “It’s the bloody ladies’ room,” shouts Jasper.

  This time the door opens all the way, and Zack steps in. “Ladies?” he says to Jasper, then he looks right at me. “I don’t think so.”

  Harry appears behind Zack. “Please come,” he says. “Your destiny is waiting for you, my friends.”

  “Thanks,” I say to Jasper. “Can we talk about this later?” I bash the neck of my bass against the edge of the narrow doorway as I try to steer through it.

  “Maybe I should ring you tomorrow,” he says.

  “Good idea.” I swing the neck upright so I don’t bang it on anything else, then I follow Harry out of the toilet, into a pitch-black corridor, and up the steps.

  25

  Monday

  Harry pulls the door all the way open. “Go, go, GO!!” he yells, like he’s a sky-diving instructor kicking his students out of the plane.

  Zack crosses himself, wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans, then turns to me and shouts, “Yeah! Come on! Let’s do it! Let’s knock ’em dead,” as if everything is still okay. As if this is just the first of many gigs.

  Zack leaps out onto the stage, and I’m just about to follow him when I feel a hand grip my shoulder.

  Rupert! I think, and ice shoots through my limbs, but when I spin around to confront him I find myself face-to-face with a scowling Harry. He pokes each of his index fingers into the corners of his sad mouth, and pushes them up so it looks like he’s smiling.

  I stretch my own mouth into a grin.

  Harry twists his mouth into a lopsided smile and shrugs, then nods.

  I give him a thumbs-up, then turn and chase after Zack, keeping my eyes glued to the soggy orange carpet that covers the stage.

  This would not be a good time to trip over any of the cables that snake between the main act’s amplifiers, speaker cabinets, drums, guitar stands, keyboards, and microphones.

  Staring at the carpet also means I don’t have to look at the audience. There’s no cheering, no applause, no disembodied voice an
nouncing, Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to introduce the fantastic new sensation from Port Jackson! The Nowhere Men! in a hurried baritone.

  The disco music fades out to nothing and there’s silence, but as my ears get accustomed to the quietness there are more sounds within it. There’s a clink of glasses, and the sound of someone crumpling a crisp bag.

  A couple of people clap—Zack’s friends probably—and somebody calls out “Zack, my man!”

  Ordinary sounds.

  I would prefer silence. Silence is kind of special. Silence would mean everyone has stopped what they’re doing to watch us. Ordinary sounds mean that everyone’s gone back to whatever it was they were doing before we went on stage.

  I see our mic stands over on the left-hand side of the stage. They’re sitting in their own beam of dusty light in a narrow ledge between a speaker cabinet the size of a wardrobe, and the edge of the stage itself.

  Cradling the bass so I don’t knock it against anything, I insert myself into my little patch of carpet. It’s just wide enough for me to stand upright with my feet apart. I slide the bass down into playing position and turn to confront the audience.

  Zack slides in next to me, then turns sideways so there’s room for both of us. For the last six weeks we’ve been rehearsing in a tiny bedroom, barely bigger than a broom closet. But even in that broom closet we’ve never had to play standing this close together.

  So this is it. This is really it.

  With a massive effort I force my chin up so I’m facing the audience, and then stretch my mouth into my best fake grin.

  The fake grin that tells the audience that I’m not the least bit scared to be standing up here, even though I am.

  The fake grin that tells the audience that I know all the songs backward, which I’m not sure I do.

  The fake grin that tells the audience that this is the first of many gigs, as opposed to the first and last gig.

  Hopefully with the hazy lighting and the distance between me and them, the grimace will pass as a grin.

  Yup. There really are only twelve of them. But at least there’s nobody wearing a pork pie hat.