I Am (Not) the Walrus (3 page)

“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,” says 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.

Trouble with letting the music play itself is that my mind tends to wander, and that's exactly what happens. One moment I'm listening to Zack play the guitar chords, I'm concentrating on the beat, and I'm plucking the strings, and then the next moment the walls of Shawn's room disappear and I'm back on Portland Road.

I step off the curb, I let the bus pass, and as the VW roars past, I hammer on the roof with the side of my fist. The VW squeals to a halt. The driver jumps out. He looks a lot like Jasper Hamilton-Sinclair. He swings a fist at me. I slip under it, slam a left hook into his ribs, then a right uppercut to his chin. He hits the front wing of his VW as he tumbles back, and somersaults over it onto the asphalt.

I dust my hands off then turn to the girls.

The taller one looks puzzled, but the shorter one just beams at me. I still can't think of anything to say, but I don't need to.

“Hiya,” she says. Her smile gets even wider.

“I'll see you around,” says the tall one, and just keeps walking.

“Hiya,” says the shorter one again. She slides her fingertips between my arms and my ribs, then pulls me toward her.

“Hey, Toby,” yells Zack.

Not now, Zack! I think.

The girl—Shelly, yes, that was her name—stands on tiptoe, turns her face up toward mine, opens her lips, and vanishes with a loud electrical crack. At exactly the same moment my bass goes dead, and I'm back in Shawn's room as abruptly as I left it. The transition is so sudden I feel like I've been dropped through the ceiling and I have to make an effort to stay on my feet. I keep singing, and for a few beats I keep plucking the strings, even though no sound is coming out.

“Bollocks.” Zack stops playing and throws his hands in the air.

Just for good measure the bass makes a final pop.

Zack shakes his head. “Come on, Toby, you have to fix that thing otherwise you're going to make us look like a couple of dingbats.” He lowers his head and checks his tuning even though he's about as in tune as he can get.

I give the instrument a sharp thump with the heel of my hand, then try the strings. The notes boom out of the amplifier. “See. All better,” I say to the pattern of hair on the top of Zack's head.

He looks up like a crocodile that's just spotted a wildebeest, a look that lets me know that it's anything but “all better,” and as if to underline the point, the bass emits a final pop!

I jiggle the cable until the interference stops, and then I count us in again.

“Wait up, wait up,” yells Zack over the boom of my bass. He reaches over and puts a hand on my strings. They go clonky-clonk with his hand damping them.

“Let's just keep going,” I say. “I mean, we can live with it just for this evening. I promise I'll fix it after we finish.”

“It's not so much the bass.” Zack frowns. “Could you sing that last line again without the music?”

“I think I'm gonna be sad,” I sing, and then I stop singing. “I'm pretty sure they're the right words?” I point to the Fake Book. “It is unofficial,” I say. “I mean, the words could be completely wrong.”

“No, they weren't the wrong words.” Zack uses his guitar pick to tap his teeth.

“So … ” I say. “Was I off-key?”

“No,” says Zack, but his pained expression doesn't change. “Your voice is great. I really like the way you're even copying the Liverpool accent a bit. You almost don't sound like a cockney at all.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I've been working on that, but—”

“Your bass playing is fine too.”

“Okay.”

“I might even say it's pretty good,” says Zack.

“So … ?”

“There's your problem.” Zack points his long index finger at my face.

Right away I think, nought out of ten.

“Are you telling me I'm too ugly to play Beatles music?” I say.

Zack shakes his head. “Blimey, mate.” He gives me one of those grimaces that hair-metal guitarists pull at a climactic point of their guitar solos. “I mean if it came down to that, then we'd all be back to playing Bach minuets.”

“So,” I say. “What, then?”

“It's your expression,” says Zack. “You just look so … ” He glances around the room as if he's searching for the right word. “ Bummed out.”

I gaze down at the Fake Book by my feet. I read through the first lines of “Ticket to Ride” as if they might have a solution to this problem. I mean the Bible was once supposed to have solutions for all human problems. Maybe the Beatles's Fake Book is the new Bible. Maybe the solution to all our problems is concealed within the lyrics of the Beatles. “I have a naturally bummed-out expression,” I say. “It's who I am.”

“Would it kill you to smile just a little?” says Zack. “Even if it's only when we're playing in front of people.”

“But it's a sad song?” I say. “See. Here.” I point to the lyrics. “The first line goes ‘I think I'm gonna be sad.'”

“You're going to be sad,” says Zack. “You can't be going to be sad if you're already sad, and anyway you look more hostile than sad.”

“Look,” I say, “we have less than five days to put together a killer set. Can't we just figure out the words and the music for now? Maybe we can work on my demeanor for the next gig.” I tap my foot again, but Zack unhooks his guitar strap.

“Just wait.” He props the guitar against the side of the amp. “This is important, Toby. Please just try and look a little less morose.”

When Zack gets an idea in his head there is no shifting it. I'm going to have to sit this one out. I tip the bass sideways onto my legs, lean my elbows on the sound board, and stretch my mouth into a grin. “How's that?” I mutter through my teeth.

“It's like Heath Ledger playing the Joker,” says Zack. “Do you have something a little less demented?”

I stretch my mouth wider.

“Better,” says Zack. “But it's more like Jabba the Hutt now. Show your teeth.”

I stretch my mouth so much my cheeks hurt.

“No. Now you look like you're going to bite me,” says Zack. “You know what I think?”

“No,” I say. “What do you think?”

“I think,” says Zack, “that you spend too much time tormenting yourself over what happened with Katrina.”

“Katrina! I haven't thought about Katrina for––I don't know—ages.” I prop my bass back up into a playing position, thump out the descending notes that lead into the first chord, and then stop. “Look. I don't think I can deal with this right now. Let's play.”

“You were thinking about her when we played rugby this afternoon.” Zack picks up his guitar and puts the strap back over his shoulder.

“I was not!”

“Oh really?” says Zack points a long finger at me. “The whole time you made that long run, you were staring at those two girls on the touch-line. You were thinking about how one of them reminded you of Katrina. That's why you tripped.”

“That's completely out of order,” I say.

“Then … ” Zack wags his finger. “Then you were thinking the same thing when you crossed Portland Road.” He spreads his arms. “That's why you almost got hit by that car.”

“That's not true,” I say.

“Then just now, when we were playing, you were thinking about her,” says Zack. “You've got to let go. Come to terms with rejection. Move on. She's ruining your life.” He scratches his chin. “Well. To be honest, it's not Katrina who's ruining your life. It's your memory of her.”

“Move on to what?” I say.

“Not all girls are like Katrina,” says Zack. “That girl you bumped into isn't Katrina.” Zack prods himself in the chest with his thumb. “You know what? I bet you misjudged her. I think she had a soft spot for you.”

“Wait,” I say, “What exactly do you think I misjudged?”

“Nothing specific,” says Zack. “It's just a feeling I had. I've got to admit I'm a little jealous. She was kind of fit-looking.”

“You didn't hear what she said to me,” I say. “They were giving points out of ten to all the boys they knew, and she gave me nothing.”

“Nothing?” says Zack.

“Correct,” I say. “Zero. What part of zero out of ten are you claiming I misunderstood?”

“Nothing out of ten is better than nothing out of a hundred.” Zack gives me a thousand-yard stare through one eye. Kind of a five-hundred-yard stare.

“Nothing,” I say, “is zero. Zero is always zero. Zero out of ten is the same as zero out of a hundred.”

“Okay, so she gave you nothing.” Zack absent-mindedly thrums the opening chords to “Can't Buy Me Love.”

“Not one,” I say.

“Not a half?” says Zack.

“Nothing.” I say.

“My opinion, for what it's worth.” Zack places the end of his guitar on the floor and draws in a long, ragged breath. “If she'd given you one or two out of ten, I'd say forget it. But zero is a bit over the top.” He slaps his hands on his knees. “I mean nobody is worth nothing. I reckon she was actually trying to pretend she didn't like you.”

“She did a pretty good job of pretending,” I say. “She convinced me.”

“You don't get it, do you,” says Zack. “She wasn't trying to convince you.”

“Who then?” I say. “Her friend?”

Zack puts his face in his hands. “She was trying to convince herself.” He puts his guitar on the bed, stands up, and goes over to the window.

“So. Fine,” I say. “She's convinced herself she doesn't like me. It's all the same in the end. Let's play.” I point to his guitar.

“You don't get it do you?” Zack leans against the wall. “She needed to convince herself because she actually did like you. If you see her again, all you have to do is un-convince her.”

“Ha. If I see her again,” I say. “I'm going to break the world land-speed record heading in the opposite direction.”

“Oh, well,” says Zack. “Plenty of fish in the sea.”

“Plenty of fish in the aquarium.” I trace the lines of the cables as they snake across the floor like railway lines on a map. “If I want a fling with a flounder.”