Laughing Boy Read online

  The record was a slow burner, as they often are in America. There is very little national exposure but local stations play certain discs ad nauseam and listeners on the fringes of the reception areas then ask their own stations to play them. So popularity spreads across the country like an infectious disease, or a plague of crop-devouring insects. But once the momentum starts, there’s no stopping it, and soon Blue Coyote’s only record had sold more copies than The LHO had in its entire career. There were rumours about Blue Coyote, and one or two more perceptive rock journalists noted that Zeke’s new baby was called Theo and drew the obvious conclusions. But when they printed their theories the boys just grinned and said: “Not us, man. No way.”

  The summer season ended with sell-out gigs at the Greek and Balbao Park, and The LHO settled into a tour of the various indoor venues around LA, with names like It’s Boss, Le Parisien and Gazzari’s. They’d hammer out their own special brand of folk-rock and garage-band, Tim yelling his anti-war lyrics to an audience who lived in fear of finding a US Government letter in their mail. A letter that might say they were required to report for training, or, God forbid, that a brother wouldn’t be coming home.

  Towards the end of every concert some joker in the audience would shout a request for ‘Theo’s Tune’. “Not us, man,” Tim would respond, and go straight into his new hit song – ‘Breakfast at Da-Nang,’ or ‘Eye of the Storm’ if it was curtain time. Nobody argued, although Eddie firmly believed in giving the people what they wanted. Meanwhile, ‘Theo’s Tune’ kept clocking-up the air-time. They heard it in hotel foyers and on garage forecourts; bus drivers sitting in gridlocks tapped their steering wheels to it and hopefuls on second-rate TV talent shows hitched a ride on its popularity.

  The day before Thanksgiving they played the Graffiti Club on the edge of Compton, a largely black and Hispanic quarter of Los Angeles. Tim, for some reason, wanted to start with ‘Eye of the Storm’. The others pointed out that they usually finished with it, to bring the audience back to ground level, but Tim just said: “OK, so we reprise it. What’s the problem?”

  There wasn’t one, and it went well. The audience identified with the lyrics – those they could hear – and bounced along to Zeke’s driving rhythms. The aptly named Graffiti was a large converted cinema with the seats torn out, and every ticket was sold. Eddie let rip on the keyboards and Oscar laid down a bass line as solid as stepping-stones across a river. Tim turned as Eddie played the opening bars of ‘Breakfast at Da-Nang’, and grinned at him, nodding to the beat. Eddie added a flourish and Tim launched himself into the song:

  It’s breakfast time on the Mekong Delta

  The PFC in the mess hall’s making a brew.

  How d’ya like your napalm? Over easy?

  That’s the way he’ll do it, just for you.

  The audience loved it, some swaying to the music, others jiving with or without partners. Eddie cast an expert eye over the girls and wondered whether the roadies would invite any black chicks to the party. It might not be wise.

  We’re cooking toast, here at Da-Nang.

  Do you have a preference? Brown or white?

  Or how about a crazy shade of yellow?

  So as not to give your mother such a fright.

  The irony of the song was lost on the audience. The mood now was “Let’s bash the Commie bastards.” Napalm was what they deserved. Eddie saw a black girl with eyes like moonrise in the desert and fell instantly in love with her. He smiled and she smiled back at him, reflected light from the spots glinting off her tooth brace. He fell out of love just as quickly as Tim went into the last verse:

  Man, you sure look groovy in those pee-jays,

  I guess you didn’t have the time to change.

  Is black the only colour that they come in?

  And have you any others in my range?

  The applause came like the surf down at Redondo Beach, crashing and tumbling as each new wave filled the trough left by its predecessor. Tim lifted the strap of his guitar over his head, took a step forward and bowed. It was his sign that the concert was over. Oscar looked at Carlo and they both looked across at Eddie. Eddie shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. The applause from the audience settled into a rhythm, the calls for more growing until it was a battle of wills between the audience and the band. Tim turned and took his place in the line again, absorbing the adulation but determined not to play any more.

  “I thought we were doing ‘Storm’,” Carlo shouted at him.

  “We did it.”

  “A reprise.”

  “We did it once.”

  “We can’t leave them like this.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  The applause had settled into a chant. Then somebody near the front shouted: “Do ‘Theo’s Tune’!”

  “Yeah! ‘Theo’s Tune’!” came like an echo from the back of the hall. Soon everybody took up the call: “Theo! Theo! Theo!”

  “Let’s do it,” Zeke shouted from behind the drums.

  “No!” Tim screamed back. “That’s it! We’re through.”

  “Theo! Theo! Theo!” they chanted.

  The club owner, his face etched with panic, strode onto the stage trailing a microphone lead. He attempted to speak into it but didn’t make a sound and only encouraged the crowd to double their efforts. He was wearing a business suit that immediately marked him as part of the enemy, one of the fat cats living off his warmonger shares. He tapped the mike then abandoned it. “You can’t leave ’em like this,” he appealed to Tim. “They’ll tear the fuckin’ place down. Play something slow, for Chrissake.”

  “We don’t do slow,” Tim replied, stepping away from him to take what he intended to be his final bow.

  “Theo! Theo! Theo!” they chanted.

  Eddie took over. He slid the controls on his keyboard over to maximum, turned to do the same with the volume on the amplifier, and played the opening riff of ‘Theo’s Tune’. It cut through the hall like a jet plane and the chants turned to cheers of approval.

  Dum dum, di-dum dum dum, he played again, and the crowd fell almost silent.

  Dum dum, di-dum dum dum.

  The others looked across at him, Zeke grinning, Oscar and Carlo confused and Tim’s face hollow with disappointment.

  Dum dum, di-dum dum dum.

  Zeke took it up, adding his tum ta-ta, tum ta-ta, tum behind Eddie’s keyboard, and Oscar thought, What the hell! and laid on his bass line.

  Tim stood for a moment, his back to the audience, guitar held by the neck in his right hand. When Carlo started to pick out the melody he hurled the three hundred-dollar Fender at Eddie, catching him a glancing blow on the shoulder. The instrument, mute without its power lead, hit a speaker and fell to the floor. Tim stormed off the stage.

  “You take it,” Eddie shouted at Carlo, who duetted with Tim on several numbers and had the better voice. Carlo stepped forward and the band fell into time for the first public performance of ‘Theo’s Tune’.

  One two, buckle my shoe, Carlo sang, and the bemused audience stopped laughing at Tim’s antics and sang along with The LHO’s new front-man:

  Uncle Joe is stuck in the glue.

  Two three, he’ll never get free,

  As long as he sits there in that tree.

  Call the fireman, call the vet,

  Call the doctor but don’t call me.

  Tim was in the waiting car and heading back towards Sherman Oaks before the song was finished. He picked up his own Corvette and drove aimlessly across the Valley, through Pasadena until he found himself on I-210, heading out of town. It was a cool, clear night, and the roads were busy with people doing the rounds that everybody needs to do the day before Thanksgiving. Through Arcadia a police car tailed him for a while and he realised that they’d have a bonanza if they pulled him over, what with the vodka he’d consumed before the concert and the king-size joint he had in his pocket. He slotted into the right-hand lane behind a 1960 Eldorado Biarritz with bigger fins on its tail than Apollo 11 and t
he cop car cruised by without a glance. Tim turned off at the next exit, heading north into the San Gabriels.

  He parked in a viewing area overlooking the reservoir and lit the joint. Away to his right were the lights of town; behind, before and to his left was the empty blackness of the reservoir, the mountains and the desert; above him the Milky Way trailed across the sky like the train of a bride’s dress.

  City of angels, city of dreams. Less than an hour ago he’d held them in the palm of his hand. Every jerk of his head, every strangulated vowel, and they’d bayed their approval. And now he was up here, alone, destroyed by those he thought were friends. Judases, every one of them. People down there were doing deals, pulling fast ones, making money by the strength of their talents. Or, for some, by selling their souls and their bodies. He took a long pull on the joint and closed his eyes. They’d learn, he thought. They’d learn. It could all come crashing down. Los Angeles might be the dream factory, but it was surrounded by desert. And it was built on an earthquake zone.

  As dawn broke he took the I-10 towards Palm Springs, drawn inland by thoughts of a reunion with a girl he’d had a brief affair with earlier in the year. Twenty miles from her home he realised that she wasn’t the type to be eating alone, and in any case he didn’t have the gall to arrive at her door and invite himself in for Thanksgiving lunch. He made a U-turn and drove all the way back to La Habra, the suburb of LA where his parents lived.

  “Hi, Mom, hi Dad,” he said as he breezed into the house. “Is my room still vacant?” Ten minutes later he knew it was a big mistake, but it was too late now.

  He was the best Thanksgiving present they could have had, his mother kept telling him, between enquiries about his wellbeing and relating items of gossip. They were so proud of him, and he didn’t come visiting anywhere near often enough. He took refuge in the bathroom, having a long shower and a shave with his father’s spare razor. When he went downstairs an hour later lunch was ready.

  Tim’s father asked him what he’d like to drink with his meal, and was surprised when his son told him Jack Daniels. When pressed, Tim agreed that wine would be fine.

  “Dad…” Tim began before they took their places at the table.

  “Yes, Son.”

  “I was wondering. About my car. If people see it there they might realise I’m home, you know, and kinda come visiting. I was hoping for some peace and quiet. Would you mind if I swapped it with yours in the garage?”

  “No problem, Son. You know where the keys are. Only trouble is, er, my gun’s in the glove compartment. Bring it in, will you. Can’t leave it there if the car’s parked outside. I’d be in big trouble if that got stolen.” Mr Roper owned two shoe shops, and habitually carried the day’s takings in his car. The gun was a sensible precaution.

  Tim’s mother came in bearing a steaming bowl of pumpkin soup. “No time for that, now,” she stated. “It’s eating time.”

  Mr Roper said grace and Mrs Roper handed a basket of corn bread first to Tim, the prodigal son, and then to her husband. “I told Aunt Jessie you were home, Tim,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind, but we’re so proud of you. She said she might drop by, later, and bring Shiralee with her. She’s such a nice girl.”

  Tim winced at the prospect. Cousin Shiralee wasn’t his proper cousin, unfortunately, so was considered a prospective bride for him. Nobody had noticed that he was skinny as an alley cat’s shadow while she had averaged a weight increase of ten pounds per year throughout her twenty-three years. “That’s OK, Mom,” he lied.

  “And she just loves that new song you did. ‘Theo’s Tune’, is it? Why, it’s so…educational. Mrs Gilfedder even has grade two singing it, and they all know it’s by you.” Tim reached for the wine bottle. “Why you said it wasn’t you who wrote it I’ll never know.”

  “It was, sort of…commercial reasons,” Tim said.

  “Well I don’t understand all that commercial stuff. I know it’s not like all the songs you wrote supporting our boys in Vietnam, but I reckon it’s the best thing you’ve ever done. Why, Mr Summerbee at the fillin’ station, he reckons you could be bigger than the Partridge Family, come Christmas. Now wouldn’t that be something, George, if Tim’s song was number one at Christmas?”

  “Sure would,” Mr Roper agreed, laying his spoon alongside his empty bowl.

  They had corn-fed tom turkey with orange rice stuffing, cranberry and apple sauce, traditional mashed potatoes, mashed sweet potatoes, glazed brussel sprouts and roasted onions with green beans. Mrs Roper was a ferocious cook and helpings were copious in spite of there being an extra face at the table. When she put on a spread the table legs braced themselves.

  “It’s not as if I like all that rock ‘n’ roll stuff you do,” Tim’s mother was saying as he ploughed on through the mountain of food in front of him. “But I don’t like all opera, either. Just some of it. But the good stuff kinda makes up for what you don’t like, and it’s the same with yours, Tim. Refreshing, that’s what a song like ‘Theo’s Tune’ is. Refreshing. Don’t you agree, George?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Any chance of some more wine, Dad?” Tim asked.

  “I’ll open another bottle.”

  “This is a wonderful dinner, Mom. I’m glad I came.”

  “So are we, Son. It’s the best Thanksgiving we could’ve asked for. I can’t wait to tell them at the Guild that you came by. Everybody’s so proud of you.”

  They finished off with pecan pie and blueberry ice cream. When they’d left the table and were settled in easy chairs Mrs Roper said: “And now something I’ve been just itching to show you, Tim. Look at this.” She perched on the arm of his chair, glowing like a log fire, and laid a big coloured book on his knee. “I found it at Books R Us. What do you think of that?”

  It wasn’t very thick and had stiff board covers with cartoon characters racing across the front. ‘Theo’s Tune’ it proclaimed in bright letters. Tim slowly opened the cover and a tree came to life in front of him, rising hesitantly off the page like a new-born giraffe finding its feet. One two, buckle your shoe, it said. Uncle Joe is stuck in the glue. Uncle Joe was indeed stuck in the glue, up near the top of the tree.

  “That’s, er, neat, Mom,” Tim managed to say, his voice a croak, as he turned the page to reveal a dancing nun. Four five, saints alive! Sister Mary is learning to jive.

  “I got two more, for you to autograph,” she declared. “One for Aunt Jessie and one for the girls at the Guild, to auction for funds. Aren’t they the cutest things you ever did see?”

  “Sure. I’ll, er, do them later.” He leaned forward and placed the book on a coffee table.

  “Well I’ll be!” he heard his father say. Tim turned and saw he was fiddling with the controls of the television set. “Well I’ll be. Come and look at this.”

  “Come and look at this,” his father insisted. “Ma, come and look at this.”

  “What is it, George?”

  “Larry Johnson show. Listen. Just listen.”

  They listened, and watched. Four girls dressed in pilgrim costumes with lace bonnets but short skirts high-stepped across the screen, kicking their legs in a way that would have had them burned at the stake in 1621. Four men, appropriately but more modestly attired, tripped on from the right and merged with them, linking arms.

  “What is it?” Mrs Roper asked.

  “Ssh!” George replied. “Listen. Just listen.”

  Tim recognised the tune before his mother did:

  Nine ten, I’ll tell you when, the dancers mimed.

  You can bring your apricot hen.

  Come on an elephant, ride on a donkey.

  Come in a buggy with a wheel that’s wonky.

  It was almost too much for Mrs Roper. “Oh my!” she gushed. “Oh my! That’s wonderful, just wonderful! I don’t believe it. Our Tim’s song on the Larry Johnson show.” Tim had picked up his wineglass but he had to put it down again because his hand was shaking. “And just look at him,” she went on. “He’s so modest.
Anybody would think he was embarrassed by all the attention.” She stepped forward and held her son in a bear hug that stopped him breathing for a few seconds. “Wait till I tell Jessie,” she said as she released him. “Just wait till I tell Jessie. I wonder if she saw it?” She dashed off into the hallway, where the telephone was, to pass on her good tidings.

  Tim and his father stood awkwardly for a few moments until Mr Roper Sr. said: “She gets kinda excited, Son. She’s proud of you. We all are.”

  Tim picked up the glass again and drained it. He studied the empty vessel for a few moments, as if whether to have a refill was a big decision, then said: “About the cars, Dad. Do you mind if I swap them over now?”

  “Why no, Son. The key’s in the kitchen, where it always is.”

  “OK.” He walked through into the kitchen, which still held the debris of the blow-out lunch they’d eaten, and placed his glass on the work surface. Just inside the top left-hand cupboard, where they’d been since his childhood, he found the keys to the garage’s side entrance and his father’s car. On the key fob was a Mickey Mouse he’d given his dad when they’d visited Disneyland the day it opened, down in Anaheim back in ’55.

  It was dim and cool in the garage, with motes of dust suspended in the beams of sunshine from the tiny windows. The car was the same old Buick that his father had owned for ten years, the maroon paintwork’s glow reflecting the attention he gave it. Tim squeezed down the passenger side and unlocked the door.

  He placed his hand between the door and the wall so as not to scratch the paint as he eased himself into the seat and sank into the deep leather. The door closed with the dull clump that took millions of dollars to perfect.

  Through the windscreen he could see a pile of articles heaped against what had once been his father’s workbench. Easily identifiable were Tim’s first and last bikes, and two Halloween masks hanging on a hook. There was an ironing board, a convector heater that he’d had in his bedroom, and a pile of boxed board games that he remembered as being invariably disappointing. Sitting on top of them was the catching glove he’d been given as a twelfth-birthday present and, apart from briefly trying on, had never worn since. Not once.