Featherless Bipeds (8 page)

“Better make it quick!” she calls back.

There is silence around the table. We all stare into the smoky air of the barroom. Then an idea pops into my head.

“Why don't we call ourselves ‘The Catatonics'?”

I don't even bother to try to explain.

“Not bad, but it sounds too much like ‘The Rheostatics',” Akim says.

“What the hell are rheostatics?” Jimmy T asks. “A kind of amp or something?”

“They're a
band
,” Tristan says. “Awesome musicians. Very eclectic. Other musicians tend to be big fans of them.”

“Which explains why
you've
never heard of 'em!” Akim says to Jimmy T.

Jimmy leans forward, staring directly at Akim. “Think you're a funny guy, do ya?”

Lola elbows Jimmy in the ribs. “Cool it, honey.”

“Drinks off the tables in ten minutes!” Suzy hollers from the other side of the room.

We sit deep in thought, scratching our chins, squinting, occasionally pausing to drink beer. We look like a bunch of students at the School of Athens, sitting in a circle, trying to figure out one of Socrates' unsolvable puzzles.

“But
wait
! There it is!” I shout. “Listen! I've
got
it!”

Jimmy T rolls his eyes. “Is this one from history,
too
?”

“Well, um,
yes
.”

“Do we get to hear another
lecture
?”

“Well . . . ”

“Go on, “ says Tristan, always the reasonable one.

“Let's hear it, Sifter,” Lola says.

I clear my throat.

“Okay. In ancient Greece, Socrates was teaching his students about classification.”

“Sockra tease? Sounds kinda kinky!” says Jimmy, reaching towards one of Lola's breasts. She intercepts his hand with a slap.

“
Socrates
, the Greek philosopher. He was teaching his students about classification . . . you know,
Homo Sapiens
, genus and species, that sort of thing. Anyway, he asked his students to try to classify human beings. One student suggested ‘featherless bipeds', since human beings have no feathers, and they walk on two feet.”

Nobody interrupts with an objection or sarcastic comment. Amazing. I continue.

“So Socrates walked out, and came back with a plucked chicken. He dropped it on the floor in front of the student and said, ‘Try again.'”

Silence. I hold my breath for the inevitable put-downs.

“
Featherless Bipeds
,” Tristan says. “I like it!”

“Me too,” Lola says.

“It's okay, I guess,” Akim wavers.

Suzy walks over and leans on the table.

“That's it, kids. We're closed.”

We all look at Jimmy T. For a moment his face is expressionless, a wax museum cast of himself. Then he begins to nod. Unconsciously, the rest of us do the same.

“Yeah. Yeah! Yeeeeeaaaaahhhhh!” Jimmy T cries.“The
Featherless
Bipeds
! Y'know, it's got a good ring to it. Socrates
kicks ass
!”

Dancing in a Room of Millions

Lyrics — D. Sifter, Music — A. Ganges, T. Low, D. Sifter
(From the album
Socrates Kicks Ass!
recorded by The Featherless Bipeds)

Turn off that light behind your eyes

that blinds me to the line between us

Shut down that wily way that you betray your feelings

while revealing nothing real about us

Turn on that fiery charm that drew me to you like a moth

Turn up that feminine mystique

Rev up those engines, spin the blades of the propeller

Let my destruction be complete

It's like we're dancing in a room of millions

But it's just only you and me

It's like we're dancing in an endless desert

And the only space is in between

You and me

Stoke up that fire that burns me to an ember

At least reminds me I can feel

Just turn that key that's always been in this ignition

If you're the engine, I'm the wheels

Unleash that lightning, pound my ears with thunder

But don't withhold that cooling rain

The crash is coming, we can't avoid this collision

A single track between these trains

It's like we're dancing in a room of millions

But it's just only you and me

It's like we're dancing in an endless desert

But the only space is in between

You and me

T
HE
C
ROSSROADS

T
he morning after our first performance at Harlock's, Jimmy T summons us all to his downtown apartment to discuss the band's future. Tristan wheels his old Ford Escort up to the curb in front of a tower of gold glass, and Akim, wedged into the back seat, wonders if Tristan hasn't maybe written down the wrong address. A uniformed valet hurries out to the car.

“Friends of Master Tanner?” the valet asks.

We all nod dumbly (even Akim).

“Allow me to park your car, sir,” the valet says to Tristan. “Serge at the front desk will escort you to Master Tanner's suite.”

“Good thing his last name isn't ‘Bates',” Akim quips.

We unfold ourselves from inside the tiny car. Tristan hands his keys to the valet. “The jumper cables are under the back seat,” he says.

Serge takes us to Jimmy T's suite, the entire twenty-third floor of the building. We stumble from the elevator into the private foyer of his apartment, which is bigger than my parents' bungalow in Faireville.

“Will that be all, sir?” Serge asks Jimmy T, who meets us at the elevator in his bathrobe. Jimmy T lays a ten-dollar bill in Serge's white-gloved hand. Serge retreats behind the closing elevator doors without another word.

Lola is already there. She's wearing a bathrobe, too.

“Hey guys,” she says, “nice place, huh? I could get used to this. Come on into the living room. Anyone want coffee?”

“She makes great coffee,” Jimmy T says.

Lola disappears into what I suppose is the kitchen. Tristan, Akim and I just look at each other for a moment, then we follow Jimmy T into the living room, an enormous space with a sunken floor and a wall of two-storey windows that look out onto the skyscrapers of the business district and Lake Ontario beyond.

“Make yourselves at home, dudes,” Jimmy says. “I'll go help Lola with the coffee.”

He leaves the room, and soon we can hear stifled giggles and dishes rattling.

“You could fit our whole apartment into his elevator, Dak,” Tristan whispers.

Lola and Jimmy T reappear and settle down together in the love seat across from the three of us. Akim struggles to keep from rolling his eyes.

“So, gentlemen,” Jimmy T says, “I suppose you're wondering why I've called you all here today. I have a proposition for you.”

Jimmy T places his hands together like he's about to pray, then touches his index fingers to his chin.

“We have got an excellent rock ‘n' roll band in the making. We are good enough that I propose we get into it full time, start playing as many gigs as possible, record a demo CD, and work toward the ultimate end of landing a recording contract with a major label.”

“Why are you suddenly talking like a banker?” Akim says. “What happened to, ‘Yo! Akim! My Bro!' and all that?”

“Emulating my old man, I guess, “ Jimmy T says. “I heard him negotiate a lot of deals when I was a kid.”

“And exactly what kind of
deal
are you trying to negotiate with
us
, Jimmy T?” Akim says darkly.

“I'm just saying we should go professional,” Jimmy T says. “Devote ourselves to the band for a year; see if we can make the big time.”

“You mean quit school?' I ask.

“Hey, it would only be for a year,” Lola says. “The band is good. We should go for it.”

“You mean you would leave university,” I say, “and let go of all your work with the Women's Issues Commission and the Minority Rights Alliance, just to make noise in bars?”

“Well, not exactly,” she says, shrinking a little. “Jimmy just made very large financial contributions to both organizations, so now would be a bad time for me to give up my presidencies. I'll need to stay on the inside for at least another year, to make sure that Jimmy's money gets put to proper use.”

“But she would come to as many gigs as possible,” Jimmy T interjects, “and she'll certainly do the lead vocals when it comes time to record a CD. Dak and Tristan and I can handle the vocals when Lola isn't available.”

“You?” Tristan, Akim and I chorus.

Jimmy looks hurt. “Hey! I can sing!”

Akim rises from the couch. “Well, you can sing without me. My parents haven't got warehouses full of money like yours. They worked their butts off to send me to university, and I'm not going to throw it all away to help you live out some fantasy to be a rock star,
Jimmy T
.”

Jimmy T also jumps to his feet. “But Akim!” he says, (and I sense that he's doing all he can to resist adding the word ‘bro') “Don't you see? We
can
be rock stars! This band has what it takes! And your guitar playing is the heart and soul of it all!”

He looks each of us in the eyes.

“Tristan, your bass playing is amazing! Dak, your drumming is rock-solid! Lola's got killer pipes! And I've got the connections and business sense to make it all work. Don't you see? We're bigger than the sum of our parts! We're the real thing! We're a friggin'
band
!”

Akim sits back down with a grunt. Jimmy T perches on the edge of the love seat, leaning forward like a castle gargoyle.

“Look boys, I've got trust fund money to invest, and I can probably talk my father into donating money to the cause himself — he can write it off as supporting the arts or something. I'll buy us a new PA system, and a van to carry our equipment from gig to gig. If you need new gear or whatever, I'll take care of it. I'll book the gigs, and I'll make the contacts in the recording business. All you guys have to do is write songs and play them.”

“Oh, is that all?” Akim says.

“And you'll do all of this for free?” I ask.

“Well, the money we make playing gigs will be divided into six parts — one share for each musician, and one extra share to pay me back for my investment. That seems fair, doesn't it?”

Akim has to admit that it does.

“Come on, boys, whadda you say? Our gig last night was magic.

Can you say that you wouldn't like to be playing rock ‘n' roll full time? Dak? Can you honestly tell me that” He stares at me. I look at the floor.

“Tristan?” he says.

Tristan's response is the same as mine.

“Come on, guys! Akim? What about you? Come on, guys! Come on!” Jimmy T begins coughing. “Uh. I need a smoke. I'm going out to the balcony. You guys talk it over among yourselves.”

Lola follows Jimmy T outside.

“Well?” Tristan says to Akim.

Akim passes it on to me. “Well?”

“Well,” I muse, “We seem to be at the proverbial crossroads.”

“Doesn't legend have it that Robert Johnson went down to the crossroads and wound up selling his soul to the devil for musical success?” Akim says.

“Jimmy T seems to have thought this through pretty well,” Tristan says. Then he stands up, hooks his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans. “What the hell, I'm willing to give it a year. It's not like the university is suddenly going to disappear or anything. We can all go back the next year if the band doesn't work out.”

“Well, I'm still not sure I like Jimmy T much, but I love playing with you guys,” Akim says, smiling slightly. “If you both want to do it, I guess I'm in, too. What do you say, Dak?”

“Give me a day to think about it,” is all I can say.

“Why? What's wrong?” Tristan says. “Is your scar hurting you? Are you worried about school? How your parents are going to react? What? What is it?”

Any of these would be good reasons to think Jimmy T's proposal over, but it's something else that's holding me back, something I'm not sure the rest of them can really understand. Being at the same university has brought Zoe and me closer together. Every day is a day closer to her being mine again. Will taking a year off from school tear down all that we've built over the past year? Or will Zoe like the idea of dating an up-and-coming musician?

I suppose there's only one way to find out for sure.

It's later in the evening, when I meet Zoe at Jafo's. We are halfway through our usual hockey-puck sized hamburgers when she finally speaks. “So, what's the big issue that you needed to talk to me about?”

I put down my burger and stop eating. She knows I'm serious when this happens.

“Zoe,” I say, “When we were back in Faireville, did you ever think I would become the drummer in a touring rock band?”

“There are permanent dents on the table at the Faireville Times Café from you drumming on it with your silverware. I suppose that should have tipped me off.”

When we were dating in high school, Zoe and I used to meet at the Faireville Times Café and sit together at the booth by the window. I'd make her laugh by playing The Who's “Won't Get Fooled Again” on the old-fashioned tabletop jukebox, and doing a flailing, wild-eyed impression of Keith Moon's drum solo using a fork and knife as drumsticks. The memory of those few perfect days with her makes my heart thump, and I'm distracted from the question at hand.

“Hey,” I say, feeling hopeful, “when we both get back to Faireville for the summer, want to go to the Times Café for dinner? Sit at our old booth, for old time's sake?”