| For The Many Things I've Done by Abi Wyatt |
Life pulls you up sharp sometimes and it’s usual that you don’t see it coming. You’re bowling along with your guard down and suddenly you’re flat on your behind. The last time that happened to me, it was on the 10th September, 2000, the day I set off from Paddington Station to close a deal in Plymouth, nodded off around Exeter and woke with up in Penzance. I knew what I had done the very second the train lurched to a standstill. The carriage was empty and, outside, the platform was way too quiet. I opened the door to find the sky ablaze with an MGM musical sunset and the next thing I saw was coloured poster ‘Have Holiday Fun in Penzance’. At the far end of the platform a sweat-stained porter was trundling a mountain of luggage. Reluctantly, he halted his unstable load to confirm what I’d already guessed. Getting back to Plymouth in time for my appointment was already out of the question. I might as well get a decent night’s sleep and go up on the early morning train. ‘So where are you exactly?’ My wife’s tone was transparent. ‘I told you. I’m in Penzance. I’m right on the sea-front now.’ ‘You work too much.’ She was unconvinced. ‘You spend too much,’ I countered. Both charges were justified but neither was quite to the point. My marriage wasn’t a miserable one, merely uneventful. We went through the motions, lied a lot, and tried not to make a great fuss. She suspected I had affairs – though these were far less frequent as she thought they were. I had inkling that she didn’t much care but persuaded myself that she did. Whether or not my wife played around was a question I preferred not to think about. With me away from home as much as I was, I suppose she had plenty of time. Anyway, after the phone call, I strolled along the sea-front. I decided to make the best of it and enjoy my time alone. I was looking for a clean, no-frills hotel or at least a comfortable guest house. I’d stayed in so many that were cheerless and dispiriting with damp, narrow beds and no bar. Then, a short distance down on my right, I spotted the sign for The Lugger. It looked a promising prospect so I crossed over the road. Close up, however, I was less impressed. The paintwork was shabby and peeling, one of the windows was boarded up, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. In fact, the whole of the building looked tired and flat, like a woman neglected by her husband. It was tired and flat and colourless, a mishmash of beige and brown. By that time, though, my feet were aching and I needed a long, hot shower. A meal, a bed, a quick cup of coffee, and then I’d be back on the train. The clincher was the chalkboard sign propped against the wall by the lobby. ‘JOHNNY FARGO SINGS,’ it read, ‘LIVE ENTERTAINMENT TONITE’. I was so surprised I pulled up short to double check the notice but there it was in black and white, a name that went back to my youth. Johnny Fargo was a juke-box giant, the hero of a whole generation. He had narrow hips, a sculpted quiff, and hooded, smouldering eyes. But Johnny Fargo was one of those whose star had burned brightly but briefly. In the late fifties, he hit it big with a song called ‘Summer Love’. For months and months, it was all you heard and his photograph appeared in all the papers. I bought that record, the first I ever owned, the day I turned fourteen. Later that same day, at my birthday picnic, Gloria Guyatt kissed me. She leaned her cheek against my chest and asked if I would walk her home. I didn’t, of course. I had plans of my own – and so did Lucille Carter, she of the creamy, freckled skin and the carrot-coloured hair. Luscious Lucy had a glint in her eye and a strange, swaying walk. She could turn five cartwheels in a row and she wore a proper bra. Luscious wouldn’t kiss you at all but sometimes she would show you her titties. Gloria, who was still in white socks, never stood any kind of chance. But all that had happened in the dim and distant past so could this be that same Johnny Fargo who had rocked and wriggled his way to fame while women screamed and swooned? Forty years: he must be sixty, possibly even older. It really wasn’t a matter of choice: I had to go inside. And so I did. A woman appeared. She was sour-faced but efficient. Before I’d even signed the book, she was handing me a key. ‘Up the stairs and second left. Breakfast starts at seven.’ ‘I’ll be away first thing,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you before I turn in.’ ‘Card or cash but no cheques,’ she said. ‘The bar closes at midnight. After that, if you want a drink, you’ll have to ring the bell.’ ‘Thank you,’ I began but she turned on her heels and disappeared back into her office. I picked up my overnight bag and made for the stairs. But, as I bent over, I heard a few chords, a sweet but melancholy music. It seemed come from a half-open door further down the hall. I wanted to ask was that Johnny Fargo but there was no one there to tell me. It wasn’t any tune I knew, just finger-picking guitar. Except for the barman and a couple in the corner, the whole place was empty. At one end, though, and on a slightly raised platform, sat a music stand, a stool, and two guitars. I picked out a table to the left of these, one which stood apart from all the others. From there I would have a good, clear view but I couldn’t be sucked into any crowd. Quiet as it was, things could change and I wasn’t in the mood for conversation. A dull-eyed waiter brought my steak pie and chips and I settled down to eat. I was about to clear my plate when an older guy walked in. He was not much more than medium height – I expected him to be taller – but yes, it was him, the Johnny Fargo, hero of my adolescent days. He raised a hand in a casual greeting and smiled at the surly-looking barman who sauntered over to meet him and even cracked a smile. Then he poured a pint of something and wouldn’t take any payment. I saw Johnny shrug his shoulders and shake the other man’s hand. Johnny still had those narrow hips but his grey hair was thinning in the middle. I couldn’t see his eyes, of course, but his whole face looked grey and tired. I looked at him and looked at him – and what I saw was a loser. He wore shapeless denims that hung round his arse, sandals, and a faded orange shirt. He didn’t look dirty but he didn’t look ‘cool’, or even as if he was trying to. What he looked like was a man who was down on his luck and doing what he could to get by. ‘Jesus Christ,’ I said to myself. ‘What the fuck has happened to you?’ I looked over my shoulder then, suddenly embarrassed and guilty. Luckily, there was no one there to catch the disbelief in my voice. Until the words had left my lips, I hardly knew I’d said them. If this was Johnny Fargo, he looked like some kind of bum. Nevertheless, I watched him play for a solid forty-five minutes. He started slow but, as the people came in, he gradually picked up the pace. He didn’t have the chat of some I’d seen but, sometimes, he would tell a little story. Mostly, he said, the songs he sang were the lyrics to his life. I have to say the songs weren’t bad but they weren’t the songs I remembered. They made up a kind of rueful commentary on the madness of the modern world. Some of them sounded like country songs, others were more ‘bluesy’ or ‘folksy’. There was a lot of sadness in the mix and a fair whack of anger too. Then, right at the end of the set, he started in on something familiar. He didn’t introduce the song; he just played the opening chords. ‘This is my hit,’ he said with a grin. ‘Some of you out there may know it.’ The room fell silent. He played the song. He smiled and wandered to the bar. I thought about going up there after him and offering to buy him a drink. I thought about it but that was all. I didn’t follow through. I can’t tell you why that was except to say that I had found the whole evening quite depressing. I suppose I thought that to talk to him would only make things worse. So, instead of watching the rest of the show, I decided to call it night. I left my drink on the end of the bar and headed for the Gents. I was just zipping up when in he came, tired around the eyes but still smiling. ‘How’s it going?’ he said. ‘Fine,’ I told him. ‘Things are going just fine.’ He walked over to the basin, then, and turned on the tap. Catching the water in his two cupped hands, he splashed it over his cheeks. ‘Wake myself for the second stint.’ He grinned like a schoolboy. ‘I’m too long in the tooth to be up this late. I need all the sleep I can get.’ Before I could put my brain in gear, I had opened my mouth and said it. ‘It must be very hard for you – playing a place like this.’ Well, he looked at me then through narrowed eyes and he made a little shrug with his shoulders. His lips curved upwards in a kind of smile but that was as far as it went. ‘What I mean is,’ I stammered, ‘you’ve had it all. It must have been tough to lose it. I’m sorry. I know I’m out way of line. I didn’t mean to be rude.’ ‘Don’t be sorry,’ he said, and he seemed to relax. ‘I look at it like this. Next year I’ll be sixty- three and my music has always kept me fed. For a little while, it made me rich but that couldn’t go on forever. Still, I’ve been around a bit and I got to write my songs.’ He must have seen something in my face, perhaps some trace of amusement. He clapped me hard on the shoulder and treated me to a grin. ‘Ok, so they’re not that great. I know I’m no Dylan or Paul Simon. But my songs are my songs – and I know who I am.’ He turned then and opened the door, not rankled at all but still smiling. I followed behind him with the air of a scolded child. I watched him saunter back to the platform and pick up his battered old twelve-string. He strummed a chord, adjusted a string. ‘I’m Johnny Fargo,’ he said. © Abigail Wyatt All Rights Reserved www.millionstories.net |
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potential for creativity that the form begets. And you might even see one or two of ours on here from time to time too.
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