Rock Star (12 page)

‘The asshole of England!’
They all screamed, hysterical with laughter.

‘Enough of that’, grumbled a fat counter-man in a filthy apron, looming over their table. ‘You’re makin’ too much noise.’

‘Sod it!’ sneered Buzz. ‘Can’t even have any fun anymore.’

‘What’s fun?’ Kris asked wearily.

‘Gettin’ your dick sucked in a bed instead of behind a bloody amplifier?’ Rasta suggested.

‘I dunno’, Kris sighed. ‘I’m tired. I just wan’ t’go back to London.’

‘Call the fag an’ tell ’im’, Buzz said. It’s about time ’e kept some of his bloody promises. If I ’ave to sleep with your hairy arse in me face one more night, I’m packin’ it in.’

‘
You
call him’, Kris countered. ‘
You’re
his blue-eyed boy.’

Adopting an exaggerated pose and mincing voice, Buzz said, ‘Hmmm, do you really think so, dear?’

‘You’d make a horrible girl,’ Ollie remarked. ‘All white and pasty!’

‘Yeah, but you’d like t’fuck me, wouldn’tcha?’ Buzz joked. ‘You’d like ter give me one, wouldn’tcha, darlin’?’

‘Not bloody likely’, Ollie retorted indignantly.

‘Aw, c’mon, admit it,’ Buzz taunted. ‘Don’t be shy. We all know what goes on in them fancy
music
academies. I bet you’ve slipped it up an arse or two in yer time.’

Ollie leaped to his feet, red-faced. ‘Don’t even joke about it, you fucking wanker.’

Buzz narrowed his eyes. Hit a nerve, ’ave I?’

‘Shut up, you two,’ Kris said, flicking a greasy chip in his friend’s face.

‘Yeah, shut up,’ agreed Rasta, grabbing a handful of chips and throwing them at Ollie and Buzz.

‘’Ere we go!’ yelled Buzz, reaching for a sausage, which he proceeded to tear into pieces and pelt across the table.

Kris responded with a squirt of tomato ketchup, and Ollie followed with the mustard. Within seconds they were yelling and screaming – letting out the tension – embroiled in an enthusiastic and enjoyable food fight.

‘That’s about enough of that, you yobbos,
ENOUGH!
’ commanded the fat counter-man, lumbering over.

Ignoring him, they continued their fun.

‘Sling the buggers out, Bert,’ roared a heavy-set truck driver sitting nearby. ‘Fuckin’ bunch of pansies with their long ’air. Chuck ’em out. Me an’ my mates’ll help yer.’

Bert had no say in the matter. The truck driver and his friends were only too happy to join in the fight. The trouble was they weren’t playing with food – fists were their weapons, and they launched into the unsuspecting boys with vicious gusto, taking them by surprise.

‘Let’s teach the fuckin’
girls
a lesson,’ shouted the heavy-set driver, encouraging his troops into battle.

‘Aw . . .
shit
,’ groaned Kris, as one of the bullies grabbed him by his long hair and attempted to frog-march him to the door. He twisted free, kicking the much bigger man sharply in the balls.

‘Yer fuckin’ scummy bastard!’ roared the man, doubling over.

Kris took quick stock. Five burly truck drivers and four skinny would-be rock stars. The odds weren’t good.

‘Let’s get the fuck outta here,’ he yelled.

But he was too late. The fight was on.

Bobby Mondella

1972

‘Happy birthday, honey,’ Sharleen said with a captivating smile, placing a tempting chocolate cake in front of Bobby.

‘Yeah, man,’ agreed Rocket, hovering nearby. ‘How about this bein’
our
year?’

‘Ain’t gonna fight with
those
sentiments,’ Bobby said – a new Bobby – a slimmed-down version of the former blimp. Bobby Mondella, at twenty-two, was tall, good-looking, and fit. Impossible to recognize as the fat boy who had been carried from Cousin Fanni’s house four years ago and rushed by ambulance to the emergency room, where he nearly died.

*    *    *

The two ambulance attendants almost had hernias on account of having to lift the stretcher with Bobby on. He had a burst appendix, and the surgeon who operated told him that another hour and there would have been no chance of saving him. As it was he hovered on the danger list for several days.

‘Cutting through your fat nearly cost you your life,’ the surgeon said bluntly when he came to remove the stitches. ‘You’d better get rid of the blubber or be prepared to check out early.’

‘Check out of the hospital?’ Bobby asked innocently.

‘No. Check out of life, young man.’

Fanni came to visit a week after his operation. She brought
Playboy
magazine and three Hershey bars.
Jerk off and get fat.
The story of his life.

‘Did you call the Chainsaw?’ he asked anxiously.

‘Why? Was I ’spose to?’

Groaning, he said, ‘I’ll lose my job. You should’ve called.’

‘They’ll understand.’

They didn’t. When Bobby returned four weeks later, and already twenty pounds lighter, Nichols Kline was unsympathetic. ‘Your job’s taken, Mondella. Get lost,’ he’d said.

Bobby hung around outside waiting for either Sharleen or Rocket. She arrived first and was about to walk right past, when he grabbed her arm and reminded her who he was.

Eyes flashing angrily she said, ‘Where’s my tape?’

‘I’ve got it.’

‘Yeah? Exactly
where
, may I ask?’

‘At home.’

‘Why didn’t you give it to Marcus Citroen?’

‘He never came in that night,’ Bobby explained. ‘And after that I was rushed to the hospital with a burst appendix. The truth is, I nearly died. I was real sick.’

She couldn’t have cared less. ‘I want my tape back’, she said flatly.

Shifting uncomfortably, he said, ‘Y’know somethin’? I played it – I’m sure it’s not the best you can do.’

Indignantly she glared at him. ‘How would
you
know?’

‘I used to be in the music business, when I was younger.’ Hesitating, he decided he had nothing to lose, and added, ‘I . . . uh . . . made some records, wrote a few songs.’

‘When you was
twelve
, sonny?’ Her voice dripped sarcasm.

‘I
was
very young – but it’s true – I swear it.’

She was getting bored. ‘
Sure
, honey.’

‘I’ll write
you
a song’, he volunteered.

‘Oh, boy! I can’t
wait
.’

‘Listen, don’t fight it, I can help you sound much better on tape.’

‘Just bring it on back, sonny.’

She was being stubborn, but he was sure that given half a chance he could convince her. ‘When?’ he asked.

‘Tomorrow.’

‘I won’t be around. Nichols fired me. Let me drop it by your place in the morning.’

Biting her lower lip she thought for a moment, then said, ‘What the heck,’ and produced a dog-eared card with
SHARLEEN – CHANTEUSE
printed on it. She scribbled an address and thrust it at him. ‘Ten o’clock. Don’t expect to stay.’

‘I won’t,’ he said hastily, watching her walk swiftly through the back entrance of the club.

Another ten minutes and Rocket appeared. ‘Jeeze, Bobby! I never expected to see
you
again. Thought you’d scrammed with all the bread – yours
an’
mine.’

‘Thanks for being so trusting.’

With a nonchalant shrug Rocket said, ‘Ain’t the first time I bin ripped.’

It was great to come across two people so thrilled to see him. Trusting they weren’t. He repeated his hospital story, adding that he’d been fired. ‘Any suggestions?’

‘Clooneys,’ Rocket said without hesitation. ‘They’re hirin’ bouncers. Get your ass over there pronto.’ He flipped a cigarette from his pocket. ‘Do I get my money?’

‘I don’t have it on me.’ The truth was, Ernest had stolen every penny while he was in the hospital.

‘Hey, man, I guess I’ve waited four weeks, I’ll wait another day,’ Rocket said. ‘You can bring it by in the mornin’.’ Scratching his head, he added, ‘Just make sure you deduct the advance on rent you paid me – I got myself a new roommate. You’re out.’

Great! Before he was even in. But he couldn’t blame the guy. After all, there’d been no guarantee he’d reappear. ‘I can’t make the morning,’ he said, thinking of his rendezvous with Sharleen.

Rocket shrugged. ‘Lunch-time then. I’ll buy ya a hot dog an’ split a beer.’ Snatching Sharleen’s card from Bobby’s hand, he took a pencil from behind his ear and scrawled an address on the blank side. ‘Tomorra,’ Rocket said. ‘Try Clooneys. Ya look like a bouncer. Tell ’em you’re over twenny-five. They’ll buy it.’

Rocket was right. They bought it, and Bobby had a new job throwing people out of one of the hottest singles bars on the West Side.

When he got home he confronted Ernest about the missing money.

Ernest was furious. ‘You accusin’ me, boy?’ he demanded belligerently.

‘I sure am,’ Bobby retorted. As he was shedding weight, so he was gaining in courage. It was about time he stood up to Ernest.

‘Well, I
ain’t
gonna take it,’ Ernest fumed. ‘No, sirree, I ain’t gonna take no more of your goddamn
she . . . it
.’

‘It wasn’t my money,’ Bobby tried to explain. ‘I was only—’

‘I’m not innerested in your bitchin’ an’ whinin’,’ Ernest interrupted, obese belly heaving with emotion. ‘You all’s jest a weight ’round your good cousin’s neck. That woman bin too damn good to you. Whyn’t y’git
out.
An’ do it
now.
’

‘If I had my money I would,’ Bobby retorted angrily. ‘You
took
the six thousand dollars I came here with. You spent it pretty good.’

‘
I
took it? You done got the goddman
balls
to say
I
, Ernest Crystal, took somethin’ wasn’t his?’ He started to yell. ‘Fuck you, boy.
Fuck you.
’

Fanni arrived home, causing Ernest to shut up, and Bobby to go to his small room in the back. He made up his mind that if Rocket was prepared to wait for his money, he would take his first week’s paycheck and get the hell out. The sooner the better.

The next morning, clad in his best pants and jacket, both now too big for him, he arrived on Sharleen’s doorstep, tape in hand. She lived in a basement off Tenth Avenue. The steps down were littered with garbage, lewd graffiti was scrawled all over the door, and there was no doorbell.

He knocked tentatively. After a few minutes and no response, he knocked again. A large rat scuttled out of its corner hiding place and raced past him up the crumbling stone steps.

‘Comin’,’ yelled a muffled voice, and eventually the door was flung open.

Standing there was Rocket, in grubby jockey shorts, with his lank hair all over the place. He had a disoriented look on his face. ‘Bobby,’ he said vaguely. ‘I thought you was goin’ to be here later.’

For a moment Bobby was startled. But then he realized what he’d done. He’d made the stupid mistake of going to Rocket’s address instead of Sharleen’s. Both addresses were scribbled on the same card.

‘I s’pose you’d better c’min an’ visit the palace,’ Rocket mumbled, adding a loud burp.

Bobby stepped inside chaos. Peeling brown walls, a linoleum-covered floor, old furniture scarred with cigarette burns, stacks of used Chinese take-away cartons, and piles of old newspapers and magazines.

‘This is the tidy part,’ Rocket said with an unapologetic shrug. ‘You should see the bedroom, an’ what passes for the bathroom.’

‘Hey, at least it’s yours’, Bobby said enviously.

‘Yeah, I know, I know – it coulda bin yours too.’ Lazily he scratched his stomach. ‘That’s the breaks, I guess. You’ll find somewhere.’ Pausing, he contemplated a rusty hotplate on a table in the corner. Wanna cuppa coffee?’

Bobby thought of Sharleen, probably impatiently waiting for him, wondering why he was late. ‘I can’t stay,’ he said quickly. ‘I just came by to ask if y’can hold out a couple of weeks for your money.’

Rocket threw him a quizzical look. ‘Y’know somethin’? You
really
got jumpin’ balls.’ Lighting a match beneath a saucepan of water, he flipped a cigarette from an open packet of Lucky Strikes. ‘If you weren’t such a fartin’ babe in toy land, I’d be pissed. What’s the problem?’

‘It’s like this—’ Bobby began.

A woman entered the room. A woman wrapped in a bath towel and nothing else. She smiled sweetly. ‘Bobby,’ she greeted in a low, sing-song voice. ‘Are you early or am I late?’

It was Sharleen.

The shock of discovering that the love of his life was living with his best friend did not exactly boost Bobby’s morale. It was an emotional trauma, and one he faced the only way he knew how – straight on.

They made an incongruous couple. Sharleen – the pretty black girl who wanted nothing more out of life than to be the new Diana Ross. And Rocket Fabrizzi – a would-be actor who saw himself as a sort of seventies Marlon Brando.

Over the course of the next four years the three of them forged a solid friendship – based on mutual trust and respect. They were all basically orphans. Sharleen had no family. Rocket had long ago disowned his. And Bobby left Fanni and Ernest’s with no regret on their part, and rented a room that made his friends’ basement look like the Plaza.

What they had was a loyal support group. Bobby took up music again – mainly because of Sharleen’s encouragement. He wrote songs for her. He helped her with voice training, presentation and style. And he got himself a daytime job selling sheet music, while still working nights at Clooneys.

Sharleen nagged him to diet and work out, urging him to return to music full-time. Although she was a lousy housekeeper, she made him the best meatloaf he’d ever tasted.

Rocket was just Rocket. Always there, always up, always working on schemes to make an extra buck or two, in – between going out on auditions and coming home with a turn-down and an undefeated grin.

A week before Bobby’s twenty-second birthday he heard of a loft in Greenwich Village – a sub-let. Quickly he figured out that if they all shared on the rent, they could move in and begin living like human beings. It didn’t take much to persuade Sharleen and Rocket.