by Stephen Orr
‘Fix it, come on.’
But she’d just folded her arms. So he’d taken the clippers, switched them on and had a go himself. ‘Cow. You can tell Dad.’
‘Fine.’
Luckily, Damien had stayed back at Datsunland for a sales meeting. When he’d got home he’d called out, ‘Charlie, you in bed?’
‘Yeah, I’m tired.’
‘No more guitar then?’
The next morning he’d tried to wait until his dad left but couldn’t draw it out. When he’d emerged from his hole, Damien had said, ‘What the hell happened to you?’
‘It was Nicole.’
And then there was the usual lecture about rules, respect and responsibility. ‘This will go on your school record. One day you’ll ask for a reference, and what are they gonna write?’
‘She went stupid, I told her not to.’
Damien had stopped to think. ‘It’s the bloody boyfriend. Just you watch who you end up with.’
Nick and Aaron were laughing too. ‘It looks shit,’ Aaron said. ‘You should’ve just left it.’
‘My sister’s a bitch.’
Aaron ran his fingers through the stubble. ‘At least if you’d left it you coulda got some street cred—told people your dad was a Fink.’
Is this the best I can do for friends? Charlie thought. He looked at Aaron, licking meat from his fingers, swatting a fly and wiping his nose along his forearm. ‘What did you get for the geometry test?’
‘D, I think.’
No, there wasn’t much to be said, or learned beside the basketball court, he guessed. Just more of the same—balls through hoops, sweat, comments about Mrs O’Brien’s cleavage (visions of her leaning over to check their spelling), banana skins softening on hot concrete, untucked shirts and red cheeks. He stood and gathered his books.
‘Where y’ goin’?’ Nick asked.
‘The library.’
‘Why?’
But he didn’t answer, sauntering across the patched bitumen, dragging his feet, his shoulders drooped, his back bent. He made his way to his locker and dumped his books inside. There were five German soldiers climbing the walls: the beginning and end product of a father-son model-making phase.
Twenty minutes later he was sitting alone in the library, staring into a monitor, studying the lyrics of Xavier Rudd. William had played him a few of his songs, and he was hooked—the rhythm, the untamed hair; words that were angry in the nicest possible way; a man at peace with the patch of earth he’d been plonked down on, with whatever god had put him there, and the prospects of a musical life.
Xavier Rudd. Yes, he’d buy the album. Or, alternatively, put the money towards his new guitar.
He was surrounded by half a dozen groups of chess-playing geeks. He studied their pimples, and steady hands, and wondered where he really belonged in the Lindisfarne scheme-of-things.
William and Charlie ran down Ferngrove Street in the rain. Covered their heads with their guitars, skipping to avoid puddles, hitching their backpacks and laughing. ‘Shit,’ William said. ‘All of my music will be wet.’
‘Run!’ Charlie shouted, charging across a driveway, narrowly avoiding a reversing car.
They finally arrived on the porch of number fifty—a rental warhorse with dirt for lawn and weeds for a garden. The landlord had supplied the guts of an old washer and a cut-down 44-gallon drum as a plant pot. The iron fence had come away from its posts, although someone had tried to repair it with wire. There were remnants of a concrete path and a hole filled with cracked plastic where someone had once put a pond.
Charlie shook what hair he had and the spray caught William in the face. They entered a hallway cluttered with unpacked boxes, an ironing board (still in its plastic), soccer balls and tennis racquets. There were piles of books that rose like crankshafts from the carpet, folders full of yellowing lecture notes, a box full of chipped Buddhas and even a wetsuit and skis. William opened a linen-press, took out a towel and handed it to Charlie, who knelt down to dry his guitar case.
‘Should you dry yourself first?’
He wiped his face.
‘Do you want dry clothes?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Well, it’s better than I guess, I suppose.’
William creaked across the floorboards, into his room. He closed the door, stripped off and changed into an old business shirt and shorts. Then he opened a drawer and found a clean T-shirt and shorts for Charlie. When he returned the boy had dried both guitars, standing them up against the hallway wall.
‘There you go,’ he said, handing him the clothes. ‘Bathroom’s there.’ He indicated.
He went into the lounge room, collapsing onto a vinyl sofa. Sorted through a pile of CDs on the floor, looking for his latest Nimrod’s Cat demo. When he looked up—out of the room and across the hallway, through a gap in the bathroom door—he saw Charlie standing in his shorts, drying his long, brown legs. He stopped to ask himself what he was doing. Wasn’t this breaking some rule? Something in the fine print of his registration documents? Something about familiarity, decency, duty-of-care?
Charlie had been his last student for the day. He would’ve had to dismiss him at 3.25 anyway. There were only so many times you could play scales, and studies, and poxy little folk songs about maidens in meadows fair. Music became stale, and that’s when kids lost interest.
So, he’d thought, why not take him home and show him my guitars? What’s the harm? I’m the teacher. In loco parentis. And I could hardly bring my whole collection to school.
Still, he was sure he was doing something wrong. He’d gone through life with this feeling. That he’d forgotten an exam, missed his mum’s birthday, shrugged once too often or looked uninterested.
Charlie came into the room and stood barefoot in front of him. William looked at his flat feet and asked, ‘Drink?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Here it is.’
He produced a CD with a plain cover. Someone had listed the names of the tracks in a small, blue scrawl.
The Spider Revolution (Dutton and Fraser)
Me (Dutton and Fraser)
The Day before Yesterday (Dutton and Fraser)
He loaded the CD into a disc player. Charlie took the cover and read it. ‘Who’s Fraser?’
‘An old friend. Bass. Not that he can play beyond the first three frets. And not that he actually writes the songs—but it keeps him happy.’
The music started. Loud. Distorted. Thrashed out in major and seventh chords. Driven by a simple bass line and frenetic drums.
Charlie sat on the lounge and listened to his teacher’s singing.
Here, coming out of the sky
There are moons and stars and plastic forks
Brides with their hair on fire
And postmen on zimmer frames.
More guitar, more smashing cymbals and a buzz-saw riff. Charlie started playing it in the air, biting his lip. ‘What’s a zimmer frame?’
William held out his hands and attempted to look frail. ‘You know, the thing old people have.’
‘What’s the song mean?’
‘What’s it matter? It’s rock’n’roll.’
Charlie laid back and looked at the ceiling. Rock’n’roll, he thought, trying to imagine a postman with a zimmer frame.
Here, coming out of the ground
There’s holes and steel and plastic pipe
Boys with their arse on fire
And firemen with cobblestones.
It’s a Spider Revolution
Coming out of the sky
Spider Revolution.
Charlie’s first reaction was dumb, dumb, dumb, but then he looked at William and said, ‘Rock’n’roll?’
‘Well, it’s bound to annoy someone.’
‘Which is good?’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘I think.’
William sat forward. ‘Charlie Price, where’s the rage?’
‘The rage?’
‘School detent
ions … this is how you get back.’
‘“Firemen with cobblestones”?’
‘Okay, bad example. But what about the cruise ship that just docked? A quarter of a million dollars for a ticket. Meanwhile, half the planet starves. See, rage.’
‘But you didn’t write about a cruise ship.’
‘I should’ve.’
‘You didn’t.’
‘I might.’
‘You didn’t.’ Charlie didn’t even grin. ‘Anyway, cruise ships don’t piss me off.’
‘What does?’
‘Biology teachers.’
‘There’s your first song.’
‘What, “Fuck off, Biology teacher”?’
‘Why not? Only, don’t tell anyone I suggested it.’
Charlie smiled. ‘Yeah, Mr Attitude, don’t tell anyone I suggested it.’
William moved across and took him around the neck. He tapped him on the head a few times and said, ‘Hello, anyone home?’
Charlie was laughing. ‘Get off.’
‘“Fuck off, Biology teacher” … the headmaster would love to hear me play that one.’
‘You’re gutless.’
‘I’m forty. You’re fourteen. You write it. You sing it.’
Charlie pulled himself free. ‘I will then.’
William looked at him, and believed him. ‘Well, just be careful.’
‘Why? Scared?’
‘Be careful.’
‘“Firemen with cobblestones” …’
William was torn. There was no denying it, twenty years did make a difference—between what you thought, and what you said; between poems scribbled in the Ab-Flexor hours and words left unwritten; between lifted eyebrows, head shakes and mumbled comments, and diplomacy. It seemed that growing up was about packing things away in your head. Reaching compromises with yourself. Watering yourself down. And no amount of pretending, of cryptic lyrics or catchy riffs, could change that.
The second song started slow, decorated with fingerpicked guitar.
Me
All of the bits that you see
The broken glass and torn shirts
The remains of the years, blown away
The tears
Sitting forgotten beside gas bills, and old shoes, and love.
‘They’re your words too?’ Charlie asked.
‘My attempt at poetry.’
‘No … it’s good.’
Me
Nothing left to see
With the best bits taken away
Brushed from the skin like a sting
The years
Emptied of someone I love, her smile, her hair in my eyes.
Charlie listened as the guitar improvised. William looked across at him. ‘It’s hard to get the words right.’
‘Is it about someone?’
‘No.’
‘I bet it is.’
And the final chorus.
The years
Emptied of someone I love, her smile, her hair in my eyes.
More quiet arpeggios. Then Charlie said, ‘That’s it. I leave school, write songs, change the world.’
‘That’s the tricky bit. I tried.’
‘Just gotta be honest, say what you think.’
‘Which is?’
‘That I’m surrounded by fuckwits.’
‘For now. Later, you don’t have to put up with them. And you meet other people … people you recognise.’
‘And I get to leave Datsunland?’
William said, ‘Shit, I forgot why I brought you here.’ He led Charlie into a back room, switched on a light and said, ‘Welcome to Axe World.’ A dozen or so guitars on stands, amplifiers of different shapes and sizes, posters of Frank Zappa, Santana and Segovia. ‘Well, what do you think?’
Charlie ran his hand over an old Telecaster. ‘How did you afford all these?’
‘They just sort of … appeared. Supplied by the guitar fairies. If you have enough they breed.’
William explained his collection: a pair of resonator guitars—one wooden and one aluminium-bodied; acoustics—nylon and steel-stringed; two basses; Stratocaster copies; a Telecaster; a mandolin; a ukulele; and the pride of his collection—a black Les Paul from the 1960s. ‘The real thing,’ he promised. ‘This would set you back fifteen thousand now, but I got it from a pawnbroker for two hundred. See, you gotta keep your eyes open.’
Charlie felt the Les Paul’s varnished wood.
‘Go on.’
He sat on the floor with the guitar in his lap, plugged it in and switched on the amp. Played a single chord. ‘What a sound.’
‘Try the pickups.’
He switched from one to two to three pickups and tried again. ‘Sure you won’t sell me this one?’
An hour later they were still there—Charlie sampling the guitars, improvising and starting spontaneous jams with his teacher. Eventually he looked at his watch and said, ‘Shit, not again.’ He stood.
‘Wait,’ William said, picking up the black Strat copy he’d promised. He put it in its case and said, ‘You may as well take it now. It’s just sitting here. You could be playing it.’
‘What about the money?’
‘When you’re ready.’
He threw a cord in with the guitar and presented it along with a small practice amp. ‘There, can you carry it all?’
‘I’ll try.’
Later that evening, Charlie was dry. Still wearing his teacher’s T-shirt, and now, a pair of Fred Flintstone boxer shorts and woollen socks with holes for the toes. He had his feet on a coffee table covered with junk mail. His acoustic guitar nestled in his lap—its veneer scratched where he’d tried to fit screws for a strap. As he sat cocooned in his chair, his shoulders slouched, his head drooped, the guitar seemed to become part of his body—an extra, clumsy limb that moved in time with his torso.
‘Go on then,’ Nicole said, pulling stringy cheese from her toast.
‘What do you want to hear?’
‘What do you know?’ Dave said.
Charlie started fingerpicking a sequence of broken chords he’d learnt from William. Some of the bass notes were wrong and he acknowledged this with a shake of his head. Then he stopped.
‘Keep going, it’s good,’ Dave said.
‘I just worked it out.’
‘You’re really getting into it, eh?’
‘It’s hard to put it down.’ He worked on a difficult chord. ‘And it’s good when you come up with something.’
‘But getting good’s only half of it,’ Dave said. ‘Then you gotta be able to sell yourself. So, start with friends.’
‘We’re not gonna laugh,’ his sister added, kicking his leg.
‘Doesn’t bother me.’
‘Go on then.’
This time he started with full chords, played to a strong rhythm. He sat up, his back straightened and the music became louder, cleaner, driven. Then he was singing Xavier Rudd’s ‘Messages’, his eyes drifting across the carpet, his licked lips and bitten tongue gone, his flat feet tapping as a toe emerged from its hole with a long, crooked nail.
His body started to rock and, although he was tall and lanky, there was a measure, a sense of proportion, a pulse—movements that went beyond the awkwardness of his fingering and timing. There was an inner music, and he was following it—not in any thought out way, but a learning-to-crawl, walk and run way.
Charlie was a boy who listened and learned, observed and imitated, mastered and excelled at nearly everything he set his mind to. That’s why Damien knew he was the luckiest father alive—why he never really worried about Charlie’s future. He was a set-and-forget sort of kid, a teenage crockpot, an aspidistra that kept growing in a dark corner. He’d watched his son’s temperament develop. As he became serious and smart, funny and ironic, and with this, slightly superior (without saying as much). He’d watched his will harden, so that when he decided to win, he would win. If he decided to give he would empty his pockets, and heart, of everything. If he decided to daydream he
would invent other worlds and if he decided to love, he would walk across hot coals to share whispered thoughts.
He stopped playing.
‘Fantastic,’ Dave said, wiping crumbs from his attempt at a beard. ‘Does your little group play that one?’
‘No, they just want to hammer the same three chords.’
Nicole was smiling her look-at-little-brother smile. ‘Has anyone else heard you?’
‘No.’
‘Dad?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Well, if he heard that he might be more interested.’
He couldn’t see it. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Bullshit,’ Dave said. ‘You got it all, buddy, except one thing.’
‘What?’
‘In yer face. You gotta learn to say, Here it is, like it or lump it.’
‘Na, people make up their minds.’
‘People are fucked in the head. They’re told to like Adele and they do. They’re told to watch MasterChef. You gotta be there, right in their face.’
‘That’s not me.’
‘It’s not anyone. You gotta make yourself.’
Charlie stopped to think. Dave was probably right.
Breasts on a billboard, that’s what William said. That’s what it took to get ahead in music—breasts on a billboard. And for the rest there were a hundred half-empty pubs, ringing ears and work on Monday. You could always find a gimmick—eighteen earrings and pasted-on attitude—or else there was an eternity of Motown revivals. But, Charlie guessed, the only real choice was to be honest and say, This is me, these are the chords I pluck and the words I sing. ‘Xavier Rudd, he’s good,’ he said.
‘Yeah, but he’s out there,’ Dave said.
‘So am I.’
‘No, you’re in here.’
‘It’s early days.’
‘You have to play that for Dad,’ Nicole said.
‘It’s not his thing.’
‘What is then?’
‘Trade-ins.’
‘Bullshit. Have you played that for anyone else?’
‘Once.’
‘When?’
He stopped to remember the afternoon on the tennis courts. A few friends were playing and he was sitting in the shade, serenading them. Then a small group of girls in their early teens approached. By the time he saw them it was too late to stop—so he cut his losses and fingerpicked a few simple chords he couldn’t stuff up. He diverted attention by watching the tennis, calling out comments.