by Ed Briant
A mere dozen people in the entire history of the universe will hear the Nowhere Men perform live, and that includes the bloke behind the table selling Coke and crisps. For one second I think there might be another figure, lurking in the shadows, but I’d rather have twelve in the audience than thirteen. Although it would be poetic if Rupert was the thirteenth.
Maybe it’s just as well there won’t be many witnesses, but I wish somebody was here to take a picture. Something to show my grandchildren. I frame the view, then blink my eyes as if I’m taking a photo. As if I can put this picture in the back of my mind and keep it forever.
I find the power cable. There’s a loud buzz and hum as I stick the jack plug into the amp. Zack turns his back to the audience and twangs a low E for tuning. When he turns back he whacks the head of his guitar against the body of my bass, creating a humungous boom, which then reverberates around the room.
It’s the loudest noise I’ve ever made, but oddly enough it’s in tune. It’s probably the loudest noise Shawn’s bass has ever made.
I shuffle sideways so the mic is right in front of my mouth. It’s actually just a fraction high for me, but it’s too late to adjust it now. Anyway, it’ll force me to keep my head up while I sing.
“Hello,” I say into the little serrated, metal ball of the mic. I’ve realized I can’t make myself sound like I’m a native of Port Jackson, but I try to make myself sound as non-London as possible. My voice echoes back from the auditorium. “Hello, Day Trippers,” I say, the last S echoing off windows, pillars, wallpaper, and the twelve members of the audience who are shuffling around to face us like a group of zombies who’ve just got a whiff of live brains. “This is your ticket to ride.”
A couple of them even clap again.
I step back from the mic and arrange my fingers on the bass strings, then blank out.
What is this instrument?
How do I play it?
Who am I?
Then it comes back to me. “One, two, three—” and we both hit the first note like a bulls-eye, the second note follows it, then the third, and our first and last gig has begun. It’s as unstoppable as a boulder tumbling down a hill.
I stretch up to the mic. “I think I’m going to be sad,” I croon, in perfect harmony with Zack, and almost immediately my brain starts to play tricks on me.
The bad news is that there really is a thirteenth person in the audience, leaning on a pillar in the shadows. The good news is that she’s not wearing a pork pie hat. She’s probably just some friend of the other band, but just because she’s a girl of about five-foot nothing, with long dark hair, my brain has to turn her into Michelle.
Of course, I know it’s not her. It’s just my mind playing tricks. But just as it happened at the Brunswick Bus Station, even though I know that this isn’t Michelle, I can’t take my eyes off her until I’m absolutely certain.
Keeping to the shadows, the Girl-Who-Isn’t-Michelle shuffles forward to one of the empty seats just in front of me. She slumps into it, her chin tucked down into her collarbones and her hands shoved into her armpits.
Typical. If my brain is going to pretend that Michelle’s here, then why can’t it invent a Michelle who’s happy to see me?
Yup. The magic of the moment of my first time on stage is over. I really do think that I’m going to be sad, and more likely than not it’s going to be today-yay, but probably for very different reasons than the ones Lennon and McCartney wrote about in their song.
26
Monday
They say that you never forget your first gig, and I’m sure that’s going to turn out to be true, but for me the moment that will probably be imprinted on my mind like a permanent tattoo is the time when the first song ends.
We hit the last chord of “Ticket to Ride.” The notes reverberate around the auditorium, and echo away into silence like the ripples when you throw a rock into a pond.
Somebody coughs, and a car passes outside with its stereo blasting. I raise my hand to hit the first note of “Can’t Buy Me Love,” but my fingers are numb. I can’t play the note.
Didn’t even one single person like us?
Can’t one person clap?
I glance over at the Girl-Who-Isn’t-Michelle. You’re no help, I think. Great. Now I can’t even make figments of my imagination clap.
And then the strangest thing happens. Bogus Michelle stands up, walks toward the stage, and steps into the edge of the lights.
“Yay!” she yells, and pounds her hands together.
Bloody heck. It’s not the Girl-Who-Isn’t-Michelle. It’s real Michelle. Of all people. This still makes no sense. All this time I’d been assuming that she didn’t like me. Maybe even hated me. But if that’s the case, then why is she clapping for us?
The next thing that happens is that someone else begins to clap. At first I think it’s a derisory slow hand clap, but it speeds up, and then there’s whistling. Then more clapping.
A tingle runs up my legs, up my spine, and makes the back of my neck burn. This is it. A heavyset kid comes and stands next to Michelle. She only comes up to his elbow. He’s joined by another. I think they’re friends of Zack.
Soon we have half a dozen fans right in front of the stage.
Something moves in the corner of my eye. Harry is still standing in the stage doorway. He’s making a rotating gesture with his arm. I know exactly what he means. Start the next song before the applause dies down.
I nod to Zack and he hammers out the guitar intro to “Can’t Buy Me Love.”
After that it seems like we play for the next twenty-seven minutes without stopping for even a second, and the twenty-seven minutes hurtle past us like twenty-seven seconds. Each song is note perfect. The sound balance is good. Zack’s guitar is just loud enough that you can hear his solos and fills, but not so loud that he drowns out the vocals.
Finally, Zack strikes the ending chord of our last song, “Get Back.” This time we don’t hear the notes echo; the applause is even louder than the music. Of course, the audience is bigger by the time we finish, as about forty of the Disappointed Parents’s crowd has been filtering in while we’re playing, and they seem to like us too.
Do I feel like a rock star? For thirty minutes that feel more like thirty seconds, I do. It’s amazing. It’s stupendous. Somebody once said we all get fifteen minutes of fame, but who would have guessed that the fifteen minutes would only feel like fifteen seconds. Still, fifteen seconds is better than nothing.
Not only is the crowd applauding, but they’re shouting for more and yelling out requests. Harry signals for us to get off the stage. I’m nearest the door. I unplug the guitar lead and head straight over, but just as we get to the door the chanting begins.
More! More!
Zack places his hand on my shoulder, and yells something at me.
“What?” I say. I stop opening the door.
“We could do ‘Back in the USSR,’” he says.
I take a step back out of the doorway, but Harry grabs my shoulder.
“They want us to keep playing,” I say. “We should do another one.”
Harry shakes his head. He puts his hand on my back and, gently but firmly, guides me through the stage doorway and closes the door behind the three of us.
“What’s the matter?” says Zack. “Didn’t you like us?”
Harry shakes his head. “You were excellent. Almost too good.” The sound of the clapping and cheers are muffled by the closed door, and then peter out after a few seconds. “You could be a tough act to follow.”
“Why couldn’t we do one more?” says Zack. “Sounds like they want us to.” Zack points back to the stage door. “I mean you’re not going on for half an hour or so, and we’re better than the disco.”
“First rule of show business.” Harry presses his hands tog
ether. “Leave your fans wanting more. Not to mention,” he laughs, “we need most of that half hour to move our equipment into the right position to play.” He folds his arms across his chest. “On a happier note, we have three gigs a week for the next six months,” he says. “If you can, I would like you to play support for all of them, and I will pay you fifty pounds a throw.”
Zack bites his lower lip, and shakes his head.
“What’s up?” says Harry, frowning. “I thought you’d be over the moon.”
I pull my fake grin. “No. It’s fine. It’s great news,” I say.
I look at Zack. “Really good,” he says.
“We’ll talk about the details tomorrow.” Harry steps back out onto the stage.
“Bummer,” says Zack, after Harry closes the door.
“You don’t have to tell me.” I point toward the stage door with the headstock of the bass. “Listen, there’s someone out there I want to see.” I stumble back down the stairs to the toilet-dressing-room.
“It’s Harry I’m not looking forward to telling,” says Zack, following me.
Midway down the staircase, we run into the remainder of the Disappointed Parents coming up the other way.
“Nice one!” they yell.
They slap our backs as we squeeze past, which would be more fun if I wasn’t so sweaty.
“Break a leg,” I shout back at them.
“Thanks, mates,” Jasper yells back, then they head up to the top of the stairs.
“It’s a hundred fifty a week,” says Zack.
“Blame Shawn,” I say. “Not me.”
Back in the dressing room, we throw our guitars into their cases, then I hurtle back up the stairs again. Once again, I have to squeeze past the Disappointed Parents at the top of the stairs.
“You look like a man on a mission,” says Jasper.
I march out across the stage, and jump down into the audience.
But she’s gone. She’s not there.
Another hand slaps against my back, pushing my shirt against icy sweat.
“Good one, mate,” says somebody else.
Another hand slaps me on the shoulder, then another. I turn and grin at faces I’ve never seen before. “Thanks. Thanks.”
“Loved it, man!”
“Thanks.” I stumble backward and another hand grips my shoulder. I turn around and look into the face of the guy who was actually standing beside Michelle. “You know the short girl you were standing next to?”
“Are you talking about the girl in the blue sweater?” he says.
“Right,” I say. “Did you see where she went?”
“Very nice.” The guy makes an exaggerated wink. “What’s it worth?”
“Aw c’mon, man!” I say.
The guy takes a step back. “It’s okay. I was just ragging you.” He laughs. “The moment you stopped playing, I asked her name. She looked at me like I’d trodden on her foot, and then made a bolt for the exit. You have my sincerest sympathies.”
I run to the exit. I look up and down the row of cars parked outside, but there’s nobody.
I retrace my steps back to the dressing room. Nothing makes sense. Why did she come to the gig if she didn’t want to have anything to do with me? I take my bass out again and this time I wipe down the strings so they don’t rust. I wish I’d brought a dry shirt to change into.
If she went to all the trouble to come over here, then why didn’t she stay to at least say hello?
Did she come to see Zack? He doesn’t even know her.
There’s a rap on the door and Harry comes in. “If you are ready to leave right away I’ll give you a lift home,” he says. “But we have to go right now. I have to return in twenty minutes in order to go onstage myself.
“I’m ready.” I pull my sweater over my head and pick up Shawn’s bass. “Let’s go.”
“I’m going to hang around,” says Zack. “I might as well take in the Disappointed Parents while I’m here.”
“Very gentlemanly of you,” says Harry.
Now I feel like a rat. I should have stayed to hear Harry, but I don’t feel up for it. I have a lot on my mind.
I follow Harry out of the dressing room, down the hall, and out into the street where his transit van is idling by the curb. He pulls open one of the back doors.
“My first ride in a gig bus,” I say. “Now I feel like a real rock star.”
“I regret to tell you that the glamour will probably fade fast,” says Harry. “I hope you don’t mind riding in the back,” he says. “I have a great deal of equipment in the cab.”
“That’s fine,” I say. I slide the bass case onto the floor of the van, then climb in after it.
“Oh, and please mind where you step, Toby,” says Harry. “You will be sharing with another passenger.”
“What?” I say. I spin around, just in time to see the door slam behind me. It’s pitch black. “Hello,” I say, to whomever it is.
“Hi,” says a girl’s voice. A very familiar voice.
“Michelle!”
27
Monday
The van’s motor revs and I’m thrown backward. Presumably this is what Harry meant by the glamour fading fast. I shuffle my feet to try to find balance, but then a small hand fastens around my wrist, and pulls me down onto the wheel-arch next to her. I feel Michelle’s warm shoulder against mine, and I smell her chai tea smell.
“What?” I begin to say, but a hand closes over my mouth.
“I’m right up shit creek,” she says. “Harry’s taking me to the bus station. We have about two minutes. Mum’s going to murder me when I get back.”
We lurch over to the left, and the van creaks and groans as if it’s about to fall apart. I flail my free hand, and my fingertips hook onto a ridge jutting out of the wall of the van. This time it’s me who pulls us back onto the wheel-arch.
“Thanks,” says Michelle. “I just wanted to see you, and tell you I was sorry. Turns out my mom saw us walking back from the park. I was back in Brunswick about forty-five minutes after I left you. I never thought of Brunswick as jail before.”
We’re thrown forward, and then backward. I keep my fingers hooked into the metal ridge.
“Can you come over to Brunswick sometime?” she says. “I’d still really like to have that second cup of tea with you.”
“Oh, man,” I say. “Why do things always have to work out like this?” We’re both thrown upward as the van hits a bump. “My whole life has turned upside down in the last couple of days. Nothing related to what happened to you. Or even what happened between us. Listen, we only have a couple of minutes, but the worst of it is that I have to go back to London.”
“Going to London doesn’t sound too awful,” she says. “How long are you going for?”
“For good,” I say, as a car blasts its horn behind us.
“You mean you aren’t coming back?” She squeezes my hand harder.
“Well, maybe on holiday once in a while, but, no. Not really.” I twist my hand around and interlock it with her fingers. “I don’t suppose I’ll be heading back here in the near future.”
“Why? You have the band. It was amazing,” she says. “You have to stay. Why would you want to go back now?”
We lurch forward as the van brakes, then we’re thrown backward. “I don’t want to go back,” I say. “Sure. I’d like to go back there for a holiday, but to stay? No. No way. This is my home now.”
“Can’t you stay here somehow?” says Michelle.
“It’s my mom,” I say. “She has to go back. Obviously, I have to go with her.”
A siren wails past.
“Unless your dad wants to adopt me.”
“You probably wouldn’t be his first choice,” she says.
&nbs
p; “Things are all messed up here for us,” I say. “I don’t have time to tell you everything.”
I’m thrown over to the left as the van swerves to the right. I’m beginning to feel like I’m doing one of those zero-gravity exercises that astronauts have to go through. I swing my hand up, and manage to grab onto a metal spar as I fly past, then lower myself next to Michelle again.
The van squeals to a halt, and Harry comes around to open the door. “First stop, Port Jackson bus station.”
“Bye,” says Michelle. She leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. As she stands up she thrusts something into my hand. I shove it into my pocket without looking at it.
I stand up with her. I want to kiss her back, but everything happened so fast. I have just a glimpse of her as she runs toward the bus platforms, and then the door is closed and I’m back in the dark again. I feel my way back to the wheel-arch, and I have just enough time to brace myself before Harry roars off again. It’s a lot easier hanging on to the spar on my own, but I would give anything to have Michelle clutching my hand again.
Without Michelle, I don’t want to be in here. I slide toward the front of the van, and hammer on the dividing wall just behind where I reckon Harry’s head is. I’m thrown forward as the van jerks to a halt once again.
I listen to the driver’s door slam, footsteps, and then the back doors swing open. “Are you okay?” says Harry.
“I want to walk from here,” I say.
“It’s not really a great place to walk from,” he says. “I’m going right past your house.”
“I just want to decompress after the gig. I feel all wound up.”
I grab my bass and hustle out onto wet asphalt. “You know where you are?” asks Harry.
Behind me is the harbor. A big tanker is all lit up. I used to like going and looking at ships. Maybe I’ll go and take a look and dream about working my way back here from London on a coal barge. In front of me are some down-and-out hotels, and off to the left is the ocean, with its waves breathing softly.
“Yup.” I nod. “I know where I am.”