Understood?”
“That’s
a bit harsh.”
“Harsh?
Your guitar would already be mulch if it weren’t for mother. You wouldn’t be
fooling about with your bloody band until you were wearing falsies. You know
nothing about harsh, boy. And another thing, I don’t know why an upstanding lad
like Skeffington is running around with the likes of you, but you better not
sully his good name. His father doesn’t suffer fools lightly. Now clean up this
room and find a blooming job.”
Sod
off! Brother wasn’t going to be a professional footballer because he moved like
a turtle. It didn’t stop dad from bragging about his athletic achievements to
the other washouts who frequented the Turf Tavern. I was a rock n’ roll prodigy
but he wanted to stomp me out like a bloody cockroach. No matter. I had no
alternative but to mostly comply with his terms.
I’d
tossed my dirty laundry into the cupboard and was fixing to make my bed when a
brief moment of clarity struck. Tremaine’s Guitar Shop. Dad couldn’t
possibly grumble if I found work at such a well-respected establishment. Of
course I hadn’t a clue as to whether they were hiring or if they’d even
consider a vagabond like me. It felt like fate, however. I grabbed the
situations vacant from dad’s discarded newspaper and darted out to the garage.
“I’ve
got some leads. May I pop into town?” I didn’t bring my guitar so as to
convince him there’d be no funny business.
“It’ll
do you good.”
Twenty
minutes later I stood in front of Tremaine’s Guitar Shop sulking. Not a single
noteworthy advertisement graced the otherwise impressive display window. I
would’ve ordinarily just spun around and strolled home, but the thought of
bagging groceries or delivering shrimp lo mein on my bicycle appalled me.
Onwards and inwards. The scent of rosewood and Sitka spruce instantly filled my
konk as a soft chime signaled my presence.
The
shop never seemed crowded because four-figure price tags kept the tramps away.
Only well-healed six-string aficionados were truly welcomed. I’d waltzed in
once before and found myself summarily removed for handling the wares without
intent to purchase. Management was probably as selective with employees as they
were with clientele. It seemed worth a shot, however, because I knew quite a
bit about their guitars and would happily sacrifice two-thirds of my family
just to get closer to them.
A
rather suspicious middle-aged sales associate with distaste in his beady eyes
approached rather aggressively. “Can I help you, sir?” His mannerisms suggested
that he was fixing to send me on my way if I didn’t answer just right.
“You
hiring?” Wrong answer.
“The
Guitar Emporium is down on Harrowby Street. Anything else?” He seemed like
quite the cheeky plank, but I’d grown tired of getting pushed around by these
types.
“You
got a manager?”
“Mr.
Surtees is unavailable, sir. May I help you find your way out?” Blimey. I
couldn’t get a straight answer from this twerp. Prodding him further would’ve
been risky, however. The last thing I needed were bobbies rapping at the front
door.
“I’m
alright.” So much for fate.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Our
first manager was a Japanese chap named Shogun. He was an affable raconteur
from another dimension who could sell bourbon to a Southern Baptist. Shogun
would’ve been a valued cohort in negotiating full and fair resolutions to all
of my post-dance quandaries. Regrettably, we were separated by time and space.
Monday
traipsed in like a lamb. Blueberry pancakes for breakfast. Only minor niggling
from brother on account of my choice of trousers. Beautiful spring air
oxygenating my lungs as I strolled to St. Thomas’ School for Blighters.
Regrettably, it was all just a pitiful rouse. I fully expected to stew in a
crockpot of lukewarm misery for the greater part of the day.
Becky
presented the thorniest issue. Her absence from the alley was either a blessing
or disaster. She
“That’s
a bit harsh.”
“Harsh?
Your guitar would already be mulch if it weren’t for mother. You wouldn’t be
fooling about with your bloody band until you were wearing falsies. You know
nothing about harsh, boy. And another thing, I don’t know why an upstanding lad
like Skeffington is running around with the likes of you, but you better not
sully his good name. His father doesn’t suffer fools lightly. Now clean up this
room and find a blooming job.”
Sod
off! Brother wasn’t going to be a professional footballer because he moved like
a turtle. It didn’t stop dad from bragging about his athletic achievements to
the other washouts who frequented the Turf Tavern. I was a rock n’ roll prodigy
but he wanted to stomp me out like a bloody cockroach. No matter. I had no
alternative but to mostly comply with his terms.
I’d
tossed my dirty laundry into the cupboard and was fixing to make my bed when a
brief moment of clarity struck. Tremaine’s Guitar Shop. Dad couldn’t
possibly grumble if I found work at such a well-respected establishment. Of
course I hadn’t a clue as to whether they were hiring or if they’d even
consider a vagabond like me. It felt like fate, however. I grabbed the
situations vacant from dad’s discarded newspaper and darted out to the garage.
“I’ve
got some leads. May I pop into town?” I didn’t bring my guitar so as to
convince him there’d be no funny business.
“It’ll
do you good.”
Twenty
minutes later I stood in front of Tremaine’s Guitar Shop sulking. Not a single
noteworthy advertisement graced the otherwise impressive display window. I
would’ve ordinarily just spun around and strolled home, but the thought of
bagging groceries or delivering shrimp lo mein on my bicycle appalled me.
Onwards and inwards. The scent of rosewood and Sitka spruce instantly filled my
konk as a soft chime signaled my presence.
The
shop never seemed crowded because four-figure price tags kept the tramps away.
Only well-healed six-string aficionados were truly welcomed. I’d waltzed in
once before and found myself summarily removed for handling the wares without
intent to purchase. Management was probably as selective with employees as they
were with clientele. It seemed worth a shot, however, because I knew quite a
bit about their guitars and would happily sacrifice two-thirds of my family
just to get closer to them.
A
rather suspicious middle-aged sales associate with distaste in his beady eyes
approached rather aggressively. “Can I help you, sir?” His mannerisms suggested
that he was fixing to send me on my way if I didn’t answer just right.
“You
hiring?” Wrong answer.
“The
Guitar Emporium is down on Harrowby Street. Anything else?” He seemed like
quite the cheeky plank, but I’d grown tired of getting pushed around by these
types.
“You
got a manager?”
“Mr.
Surtees is unavailable, sir. May I help you find your way out?” Blimey. I
couldn’t get a straight answer from this twerp. Prodding him further would’ve
been risky, however. The last thing I needed were bobbies rapping at the front
door.
“I’m
alright.” So much for fate.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Our
first manager was a Japanese chap named Shogun. He was an affable raconteur
from another dimension who could sell bourbon to a Southern Baptist. Shogun
would’ve been a valued cohort in negotiating full and fair resolutions to all
of my post-dance quandaries. Regrettably, we were separated by time and space.
Monday
traipsed in like a lamb. Blueberry pancakes for breakfast. Only minor niggling
from brother on account of my choice of trousers. Beautiful spring air
oxygenating my lungs as I strolled to St. Thomas’ School for Blighters.
Regrettably, it was all just a pitiful rouse. I fully expected to stew in a
crockpot of lukewarm misery for the greater part of the day.
Becky
presented the thorniest issue. Her absence from the alley was either a blessing
or disaster. She
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