by Stephen Orr
Pete wasn’t convinced. ‘It doesn’t work like that. You can’t pick and choose.’
‘Sorry. See you later.’ He returned to Simon.
‘What’s up?’ Simon asked.
‘I was timing, it was forty-seven seconds.’
‘That doesn’t count.’
Charlie had had enough of jumps. ‘Wanna ride into town?’
‘It’s miles,’ Simon replied.
‘Pussy.’
William’s heart was racing. This was a moment he’d been dreading. He’d rehearsed it a hundred times. Tried to think of the right greeting. A solemn, Hi, Charles, or a pretend-nothing-had-happened, Hey, Charlie. He’d planned where they’d sit, and how he’d broach the topic. But as he watched the boy approach the music suite it all seemed to mean nothing. He sat down, placed his acoustic guitar across his legs and leaned forward, pretending to study music. Looked up at the door; down; up again.
‘Hi,’ Charlie said, in a monotone.
‘Hi. Come in.’
Charlie sat down and took out his guitar. There was no conversation, and William guessed he was right to have been worried. No instant forgiveness; no best chums again.
Charlie looked at him without speaking. William let his eyes slip onto the boy’s long neck, the gentle pulse of an artery. ‘How are you?’
‘Okay … thanks.’
William knew he’d got it all wrong. Confused one thing for another. Fucked up a perfectly good kid, perhaps. Kid. Under the Christmas tree. He remembered it. How you sat, with your knees bent, as you unwrapped presents. But then shot forward when you saw one with your name on it. Kid. As you pretended it was quite matter-of-fact, but felt the world glowing.
Charlie played scales. Every note, perfect. He stopped and waited, and William said, ‘I’m surprised you came.’
‘Why?’
‘I heard you were asking about another teacher?’
Charlie looked down, confused, but then said, ‘That girl, she would’ve kept going.’
‘Probably.’
‘She would’ve.’
There was a long pause; just the hum of the air conditioning.
‘And you just sat there, letting her.’
‘I know …’
‘And you were laughing.’
William had nothing to say, because there was no excuse. She would’ve kept going, and she might’ve made him stay, in his corner, in the cubicle.
‘I decided to stop learning,’ Charlie said. ‘But Dad wouldn’t let me.’ He explained how, when he’d brought this up, Damien had got out of his seat, searched through the receipt box and returned to him, waving a piece of paper in his face. ‘Look,’ he’d said. ‘Ten lessons, one hundred and eighty dollars. Non-refundable. See that bit there?’
‘Fine,’ he’d replied. ‘I’ll keep going.’
‘Too bloody right you’ll keep going. I thought you liked the guitar?’
‘I do.’
‘What about Guru Dutton?’
‘What?’
‘You sick of him?’
‘No.’ Studying his face. ‘I just thought I could try a different instrument.’
‘You gotta stick to one thing.’
‘I was thinking about clarinet.’
‘Forget it.’
Back in the bunker, Charlie had moved on to his set pieces, some of which he hadn’t tackled for weeks. He played slow, measured phrases. There was no attack, no anger, no straying from the small, black dots on the page. No bullshit things that needn’t be said. William watched and listened, and felt he’d lost him. A wall of politeness, bars in their correct measure, which had grown between them. Although he was only a few inches from the boy, he knew he’d drifted too far. As the realisation fully dawned, he felt worse than ever. ‘I’m sorry.’
Charlie stopped.
‘You’re a really good kid. Really grown up. So …’ But words eluded him. ‘We’re friends?’
Charlie dared to look up, but only for a moment.
William taught another four lessons. Luckily, he had drills to fall back on. The words were mechanical, the music lifeless, as usual. By mid-afternoon he’d made his decision. At four o’clock he packed his gear, left his bunker and walked into Pete Ordon’s office. ‘That’s me done.’
Pete was busy transposing charts. ‘See you next week.’
‘No, that’s me done.’
He looked up. ‘What?’
‘Finished.’
‘For good?’
‘There’s one more week for the term. Tell the kids I’m sick, and I’ll refund them.’
‘What are you crapping on about, Dutton?’
‘You’ll fix my pay?’
Pete stood, came around his desk and closed his office door. ‘Sit down.’
William stepped back and reopened it. ‘Thanks.’ Leaving the office.
Pete stepped out after him. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he said, as a couple of boys walked past. ‘What’s up?’
Charlie didn’t touch either guitar for days. Then, on the weekend, he flicked on his amp and tried to remember a riff William had shown him. Damien popped his head in and said, ‘I remember that one.’
‘It’s The Beatles.’
‘Yeah … “Baby’s good to me you know” … Is this the guru?’
‘No, I heard it somewhere.’
Charlie had gone over William’s words a hundred times. As always, bullshit things that needn’t be said, excuses, little grovelling whispers that didn’t attempt to understand or make good the situation. But, then again, everyone he knew was flawed. His father, of course, lost in a haze of retreads and cracked dashboards. His sister, with her allergy to work, dwelling in a Young and Restless world of celebrity-slimmer magazines. Wearing out couches as early visions of foreign correspondent-cum-author faded to a soundtrack of discount rugs—as hair went unwashed and armpits unshaved. Davo, floating through some dreamworld in a patched inner-tube, complaining about distant dictatorships as he failed to establish any sort of order in his own life.
But all of them people. Real. Fully formed. Functional. Aware of their own limitations.
A week later he was back in the bunker. He was surprised to see a tall man with almost no hair, wearing a tie and business shirt, sorting through piles of music.
‘Now, you are Price?’ he asked, without looking up.
‘Charlie.’
‘Come in. Sit down.’
He did as he was told. The man turned and studied him, put on a pair of glasses, squinted, and crossed his legs. Then he sniffed, wiped the tip of his nose with a long, bony finger, and tried to smile.
‘Where’s Mr Dutton?’
‘Gone.’
‘Gone?’
‘My name’s Mr Lewis. I’m taking his spot.’
He didn’t understand. ‘What, he’s on holiday?’
‘No, he’s left. So, you’ve got me.’ He smiled a strange, crooked smile.
Charlie stared at a print of Weber hanging on the wall. He noticed his enormous sideburns and high collar. There were mountains, Bavarian hunting lodges and deer in the background, and he sensed that the scene was not quite right. He looked back at Lewis and asked, ‘Why did he leave?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He didn’t even say goodbye.’
‘Maybe he owed someone money.’
Charlie glared at him. Fuckwit, he thought. He knew why his teacher had gone—given up his job, his income, maybe even his future.
‘Okay, let’s hear “The Ash Grove”,’ Lewis said, indicating the music on the stand. ‘Mr Dutton said you were working on it.’
‘So you’ve talked to him?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘Good luck.’
He felt defeated, cheated. He remembered the afternoon in William’s guitar room; smelt their wet clothes, and heard the chainsaw from next door. The air was heavy with wet grass, and soil, and damp. As though it had happened years ago. Although there was no forg
etting the hum of the amps, the double-coil growl, the white feet folded in front of him—William, Bill, Dutton, dude, Mr, Sir, fuckwit, arse, dirty—uncut toenails, a hole in his T-shirt, a half-smoked cigar in a saucer. He could remember every word he’d uttered—descriptions of fuzz-boxes, caring for pickups, the joy of taking a Les Paul out of its case.
He played his piece and Lewis asked, ‘How long have you been working on this one?’
‘Six weeks.’
‘Six?’
‘As well as other stuff.’
‘I see.’ He tapped a pencil on his teeth. ‘You’re going into Year Ten, you need to know more.’
‘Like what?’
‘Sightreading, fingerpicking, sitting properly.’ He stood behind him and pulled his shoulders back.
‘Ask,’ Charlie said, pulling free.
‘Your technique, it’s sloppy.’ He sat down. ‘Mr Dutton, I heard he liked his rock’n’roll?’
‘We did.’
‘Well, that’s good, but you need a proper grounding.’
‘We did all that. He was always making me play scales.’
Lewis had him playing exercises for the rest of the lesson. At the end he smiled with approval, saying, ‘Excellent, you have made some progress then.’
Charlie leaned over his guitar and asked, ‘Is that all we’re gonna do?’
‘No, we’ll have some fun too.’
‘Fun?’
‘Rhythm and blues.’
‘Is that what you like?’
‘Muddy Waters.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Who’s that? You wait!’
Charlie was examining the hair in his new teacher’s ear. ‘What about modern stuff?’
‘Like?’
‘Red Hot Chili Peppers?’
‘That’s easy … if you’re half-decent.’
Charlie sat back. ‘Some of the riffs are hard.’ But he drifted off, realising there was no point.
Two weeks of holidays passed and Charles returned to his world of unwashed T-shirts, cardboard jumps and walks through Morialta Park with Simon. They went to the city on the 104, drank gallons of frozen Coke and sat through martial arts films that Charlie couldn’t stand. ‘This is such bullshit,’ he’d whisper, breathing in flakes of popcorn and coughing.
‘Beats Hugh Grant.’
‘As if I’d see Hugh Grant.’
He returned to school—fresh blazers and pants that couldn’t be let down any further. A battery of pie warmers in the canteen, handball, leaves blowing across the tennis courts, mixing with paper, plastic and feathers from the farm. There was expectation, and holiday stories, someone’s sister pregnant again and someone’s dad trading up to an SS Commodore.
Mr Lewis gathered his four best students (the only ones who could hold a melody, Charlie told Damien) into a guitar quartet he called ‘The Bright Lights’. He made them practise every Tuesday and Thursday lunchtime, endlessly flogging the same three pieces until at last he announced, ‘We’re ready.’
‘For what?’ Charlie asked.
‘Your first performance. Why else do we learn music, boys?’
None of them could provide a reason. Charlie had his own suspicions of what ‘The Bright Lights’ was all about: Mr Lewis trying to look good in front of his Catholic overlords. If he could prove his worth they might keep him on beyond his contract. Davo had told him how the whole world turned on three pivots—money, power and sex. He’d often stop and cross-reference his friends, teachers, relatives and daily events against these criteria, and to Dave’s credit (surprisingly) he seemed to be right.
So, there they were, on stage in front of a full school assembly. They each sat in a plastic seat, one foot on a stand, their guitars placed neatly across their knees. Lewis stood in front of them with a baton. ‘Sit up straight,’ he whispered, and they all responded.
Fuck, Charles thought, looking out across the grinning faces. How did it come to this?
Lewis had polished his shoes and shaved an extra half-inch off his sideburns. He was wearing a pinstriped suit that threatened to cut circulation to his legs. He’d attempted a bow tie that sent entirely the wrong message to eleven hundred boys. He’d drowned himself in cologne that did little to counter four generations of stale BO in the Brother Dalrymple Memorial Hall. He smiled at the boys, cleared his throat and turned to the audience. After adjusting the microphone, he said, ‘I’m pleased to introduce you to four very talented young men. This first piece is called “The Ash Grove”. I hope you enjoy it.’
He counted them in and they played their parts from memory. Charlie was in charge of the melody; another, a counterpoint in bass notes; a third, arpeggios; and finally a short Italian named Di Censo who played broken chords to disguise any bum notes.
But there were none. Lewis had made sure of that. What the music lacked in soul it made up for in precision. They had become a steam engine. Their arms were pistons, their hands cylinders. They’d practised so much they couldn’t have made a mistake if they’d wanted to. The ‘Professor’ (as they called him) wasn’t about to let four smelly, awkward teenagers blow his big moment.
They finished and there was light applause. Made their way downstairs into a change room and packed away their guitars. ‘That was a complete success,’ Mr Lewis said.
Charlie wasn’t so sure. ‘They were laughing at us.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Didn’t you hear them?’
‘Calm down, Charlie.’
‘I felt like a complete …’ He looked at the other boys. ‘Well?’
No response. He returned to Lewis. ‘Mr Dutton wouldn’t have made us do that.’
‘What did Mr Dutton teach you about performing?’
Charlie knew he was headed for the Focus Room, but he just didn’t care. ‘We played a real gig, at a real hotel.’
‘If that’s how you feel, maybe you should seek him out.’
‘I will.’
Charlie realised that Lewis was being too reasonable. You couldn’t argue with common sense. So he said, ‘It’s just, I like other things.’
‘If you want Mr Dutton’s number, I can get it.’
He paused, and continued packing.
‘I’m not saying you can’t like that stuff, Charlie, but I get paid to teach you something else.’
‘As was Mr Dutton.’ His eyes narrowed and he could feel his heart racing. ‘You don’t know what he taught me.’
And what he wanted to say—Music’s the least of it, you silly little prick.
A few days later there was sun; a fern with four fronds burnt brown, an oleander dropping dead flowers, and a camellia in just the right spot, flourishing. A pergola, its wood rotten, its shade-cloth flapping in a light breeze, and an old barbecue built from leftover house bricks. Charlie sat in half-shade, on a cracked plastic chair, at a plastic table. He stared at a blank piece of paper, bit his lip, and finally started writing.
Howdy Mr Guitar Teacher,
It’s me again. How are you? I’m shit at writing things. Hey, I’ve just taught myself Revolution. You probably know it, but I heard a slow version, and apparently Lennon was stoned.
The letter continued for a page and a half, outlining what he’d been up to. Most of it was a critique of his new teacher, the ‘Incredible Shrinking Chrome-Dome’, the chinless wonder who was forever scratching his balls.
He sealed the letter in an envelope, addressed it and thought, Why not? Walked the two blocks to William’s place and slipped the letter into his box. When he got home he went to his room and picked up his guitar. He could hear the chooks, still, and the rooster you weren’t supposed to keep in the suburbs.
William was content. Like a possum sitting in a tree, waiting for food to come to him. His plasticine face was finished with the hint of a smile. He held his body still, barely moving, breathing long, shallow breaths.
Greg counted them in and they started to play. It was Nimrod’s Cat’s weekly rehearsal, although they hadn’t met for nearly
a month. There’d been weddings, birthdays, work, an ingrown toenail and a dog to be put down. So they were rusty. The drums and bass didn’t quite gel. The rhythm guitar was behind the beat and William couldn’t reach notes he’d sung a few weeks before. There was a lethargy in the back room of his Shangri-La.
Still, they’d promised him a no-covers rehearsal. No Beatles, no Stones, no Pistols. Not even a ‘Long Tall Sally’ whipped off as a warm-up. Today it was all about engineering—the oxywelding of guitar, drums and bass. Improvising. Testing and rejecting dumb lyrics and over-complicated riffs.
Homestead Seven Hundred
I love your halogen plates
The cactus in your gravel
The sound your toilet makes.
William’s new song was slow but loud, underscored with power chords and beefy bass notes. He raised his voice, shouting high notes until they were all gravel, nodding at the others when he needed a harmony. They were unsure, but followed their scribbled charts carefully, powering along when they finally reached the chorus.
Homestead Seven Hundred
Your quarter-inch snot-green turf
I’m coming through your French doors
You’re Heaven here on Earth.
They stopped for coffee, to slouch on the lounge and watch Viva Las Vegas. As they took in the corny lines and lip-synced songs, William could see Charlie sitting on the rug beside him. He could see him scanning their CD, looking up at him and asking questions. Could remember the words he’d read that morning.
As he sits listening he picks snot from the corner of his nose.
Then I see him rolling it into a ball, and flicking it.
He could remember Charlie’s description of his argument with Lewis in the changeroom, the quartet’s performance, his new teacher’s smell (‘hair oil and cheap deodorant, burrito breath, and when he takes off his shoes … disgusting’), his walk (‘like he’s got something up his bum’) and the way he rolled his r’s when he pronounced words like ‘arpeggios’. He could remember the tone of the letter, hear Charlie’s voice, see his smile, his hands moving in perpetual motion, his shoulders drooping. He could see the glow of his skin, the fine line of his eyebrows. And he could hear his half-child, half-adolescent voice breaking, conserving words like they had a dollar value.