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Sophisticate’s Flat” began to burst at the seams.
    The
garage fell silent as the final note finally stopped reverberating. Skeffington
broke the silence with seven simple words: “It’s time to tell my dad, mate.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    Skeffington’s
decayed body was found three years later, buried under the parking lot of the
Davies Football Complex in Mayfair. His bones were draped in the tattered
remains of a St. Thomas’ School for Blighters football uniform complete with
shin guards and jock strap. His dad delivered a stirring eulogy that mostly
recounted Skeffington’s glorious career as a jock. There was no mention of
Skeffington’s brief flirtation with rock n’ roll. His ashes were placed in a
silver football-shaped urn etched with the following epitaph: “Midfielder.”
    Fortunately,
the fates weren’t as cruel as my imagination. There wasn’t any bloodshed on
account of Skeffington’s confession. He wasn’t even beaten. His dad took the
news reasonably well. There was an intense interrogation followed by stern
warnings. Skeffington’s artistic endeavors weren’t to interfere with the three
As: Academics, Athletics, and Attitude. He’d also have to quit the band post
haste if it negatively impacted his mum’s social calendar. These terms were
non-negotiable, and Skeffington was obliged to execute a handwritten contract.
He did so with an enormous sense of liberation.
    The
week that followed was transformational. I’d gone from lo-fi busker to
frontman/lead guitarist of a genuine rock n’ roll band. Intros. Outros. Tempo.
Cohesion. The strenuous learning curve should’ve been rather daunting on
account of our tiny window. Lesser rock n’ rollers might’ve buckled under the
enormous pressure. Sod off. We sucker-punched pressure in the konk with our
grizzled rhythm section leading the charge.
    Lincoln
and Frisby might’ve only been one or two years older, but they’d already lived
a lifetime. They’d been playing in one rock n’ roll outfit or another since
puberty. I found myself mostly enamored with their scars and the war stories
they bandied about like currency. Snatching them up as our permanent rhythm
section seemed like a bloody no-brainer. Skeffington remained somewhat
skeptical of course because of his natural predisposition towards rigidity. He
didn’t altogether appreciate their lack of decorum or frequent forays into
tomfoolery.
    Lincoln
referred to Skeffington as “Sporty Spice” after he waltzed into our final
rehearsal dressed in football attire. My rock n’ roll fantasy flashed before my
eyes as Skeffington glared at him with distaste.
    “Oh,
that reminds me, mate.” Skeffington struck a surprisingly mild tone. “Do you
mind if I run inside to grab my jockstrap and the box of Magnums I left on your
mum’s nightstand? I snuck out late last night and forgot all about them. I’ve
still got two raincoats left and I want to save them for after the spring
dance.”
    “Sure.
But mum’s in with Frisby’s granddad right now. It could get a bit awkward
because he’s a bloody Viking. No worries though. The geezer uses bin bags for
protection.”
    “Eight
gallon bin bags.” Frisby chimed in.
    “That’s
a rather disturbing mental image, mate.”
    “Awful.”
Lincoln shook his head. “Alright, lads. We’d better quit or else junior’s going
to develop a complex.” He winked at me before settling behind his kit. “Shall
we rehearse now?” I nodded and moments later we were putting the final
flourishes on our big number. Bloody hell. Perhaps Skeffington wasn’t such a
stiff after all, or perhaps I’d simply underestimated his prowess as a
politician. Either way, my rock n’ roll fantasy had just sprouted wings.

CHAPTER TWELVE
    The
audition was fixing to be a mere formality. No liberties would be taken,
however, as a classic bait and switch was unspooled. “Skeffington and the
Disciples” strutted into the auditorium adorned in pressed black trousers,
white collared