Page 44 of Marley
I breathed in deeply through my nose, enjoying the smell. Maca had been ordered to quit after having a chest infection after Christmas, so I’d done the same to try and support him, but it wasn’t easy. That ol’ nicotine shit was addictive. Kids, if you’re listening, take note of what your uncle Marley is saying. That stuff is bad, bad I tell ya. Save your money and invest in property instead. That don’t stain your fingers or make your breath stink.
“What’s Marley not gonna like?” I watched as they both jumped at the sound of my voice.
Feedback screeches through one of the speakers and we all look up to see Maca standing at the mic, his Fender hanging over his back. He’s wearing a white T-shirt, leather trousers, and the scowl that I’ve gotten used to these last few months.
“Rock star much?”
“24/7, baby. 24/7,” he said without cracking a smile. He flipped his guitar over his shoulder and instantly started playing a tune I didn’t immediately recognise until he started to sing, that is.
“The cleaning lady told him he reminded her of David Essex, but with brown eyes. It was this morning. I think it’s gone to his head,” Billy explained as he stood next to me, both of us watching our lead singer perform his own rendition of‘Rock On,’which I’ve had to say, wasn’t fucking bad.
“Well, at least he looks a bit chirpier today.” I said with a nod towards the stage where Maca’s husky voice was still belting out a mighty fine rendition of a song I hadn’t heard in years.
A short woman, probably in her sixties, appeared through a side door, pushing a mop bucket by the handle of the mop that was resting in it. A younger woman, about thirty, and not bad looking, appeared beside her and slung the cloth that she was holding over her shoulder.
“Told ya, Kell. David Essex, but with brown eyes and a better voice,” said the older woman.
“Fuck. Me,” the younger woman said.
Maca ended the song and winked at the two women who were now giving him a round of applause.
“Don’t encourage him, ladies. His head’ll be too big to fit through the doors when it’s time for us to pack up later.” I told them.
Maca licks his index finger, pulls up his T-shirt, and circles it around his nipple. What the fuck has gotten into him this morning?
The two women fan themselves as they leave by the same door they came in through.
“You seem happy.” I told him as I walked towards the stage.
He smiled and his eyes shined. “That bird I brought home last night sucked like a Hoover. Three times, and she swallowed every drop. What’s not to be happy about after a night like that?” He stared at me for a few seconds after he finished speaking and I could see that the anger was still there. He couldn’t fool me.
“I’ve got a new song I wanna try.” He said, jumping down from the stage and pulling a sheet of paper from his back pocket. “I’ve got an idea of how I want it to sound, but I wanted your input first.”
“Mac, c’mon man. I really don’t think this song is a good idea.” Billy said.
“Chill the fuck out, dude, it’s just a song.” Maca told him.
“No, it’s not just a song though, is it Mac?” Tommy added his voice into the conversation.
I look between the three of them, my eyebrows pulled into a frown caused by my obvious confusion.
“Yeah,Tom, itisjust a song. What the fuck is your problem?”
“You’re my problem, Mac. You’ve spent the last year bouncing between being catatonic with grief, drugs, and booze, and then pinging off the walls and trying to fuck anything with a pulse, all to try and get Georgia out of your system. You’ve changed all of that up the last few weeks and have been miserable as fuck, walking round with a face like a smacked arse and wanting to punch anyone that looks at you the wrong way. Then you turn up here this morning, cracking jokes like a fucking game show host and pull that piece of shit song out, knowing full well that it’s gonna upset people.”
I swear to God, still to this day, that was the most I’d ever heard Tommy say. He was seriously pissed off about the song, and I had no idea why.
“How about you fuck off and mind your own business, Tom? When was the last time you wrote us a song?” Maca asked.
“Never, Mac. I’m not a songwriter and I’ve never claimed to be, but if I was, I wouldn’t pull a stunt like that.” Tommy rubbed his hand over his shaved head and turned his pale blue eyes on me. “I can’t be part of this, Marls. I’m sorry, mate.” He said before turning and walking over to where all of our equipment was set up.
“What the fuck was that all about?”
Billy put his hands up, as if in surrender. Shaking his head, he said, “Nothing to do with me. I understand why he’s pissed, but it’s your shout whether you want us to put some notes down for this.”
“Well, I’ve not even seen the fucking thing yet, so how would I know?” I told Bill as he headed in the same direction as Tom, who was now banging on his drums.
“You gonna show me what’s got him so pissed off?”
