The Rise and Fall of Calvin Comet - Pt. I

    'Hard to say really when it all began right? I mean, hard to trace that first stroke of the Mona Lisa, er the first guitar stroke of the Beatles innit?'


    PART ONE -- Tomorrow's Child


    David "Slice" Rogers puffed his cigarette like a man unconvinced he'd live long enough to smoke another. The interviewer shifted in his chair before asking the big question:

    'Can you tell us about the first time you met Calvin Comet?'
    'Aye. Most definitely.'

    A shuffle in his seat, and Slice Rogers continued.

    'Good you asked me that. You done your research. Them other blokes of the group only met 'im once he was already Comet Superstar Man. But I knew Cal since the beginning. Course 'e was Calvin Travis back then. Think we was fourteen, school lads at whatever school we'd met. I'd only been cross the pond a few months and teased quickly for me accent. 

    'Cal was different though. Charming, kind. Those wankers made fun of me but not Cal. Not ever. Ee wanted to learn more about me, what I was into.'

    Slice pulled a metal flask from the inner pocket of his leather jacket and hovered it over a convenient coffee cup.

    'You mind?'

    The interviewer shrugged.

    The flask was emptied into the cup and the contents were even more efficiently erased by Slice's emotional gulp. He sucked his teeth, the valleys of his face deepening ever so subtly, and refocused.

    'You don't haveta mention that part.'
    'Don't worry about it. So, when did young Calvin first show interest in music?'

    'We was sixteen I wager. Lad named Lowrey scored tickets to see some band nobody'd ever heard of at a rock club across the bridge. The three of us went, underage o'course, no problem, to see these unknowns. Bloody turns out to be Velvet Underground. We was hypnotized that night, by that show, ever heard anythin like it before. Very next day, Cal rings me, wants to go to a pawnshop and buy a guitar. Never forget that day, mate... 

    'Nice of you to meet me here. I can't decide which one to get.'
    'Really mate? All look the same to me.'
    'No. It's gotta have imagination. Something really out there.'
    'Out where?'
    'There!'
    'Where?'
    'Hey Dave, check out this one. It's red.'
    'Right mate. It's definitely red.'
    'Think about it. Red is the colour of love, of fire. It's calling to me. I think this is it.'
    'It's the colour of England too, mate.'
    'How much for this?'
    'Fifteen-eighty.' -- said the store clerk.
    'I'll take it. I'm telling you, Dave, there's something special about this guitar. Like it's from another planet. I'll keep it for the rest of my life.'

     

    Slice Rogers' eyes were tearing up so he reached into another pocket of his leather jacket, found another metal flask and took a swig. He wiped his face and chuckled to himself.

    'That guitar was the Red Nova, wasn't it?' The interviewer inquired.
    'Right mate. The Nova. Acoustic six string, Scribner brand. The "A" was always a little jangly from the start. But a legend. Best sixteen dollar guitar in history, no doubt. Changed Cal it did. Changed music. Changed the world even.'
    'How soon did he start writing songs?'
    'Oh right away. Week after that Velvet concert he comes o'er to my flat, I was livin' with a bunch o' lads who I worked in a factory with. Brings the Nova wit 'im. Plays me a song ee wrote, bout a kid in space bein' born and visiting a future Earth.'
    'Tomorrow's Child.' nodded the interviewer, leaning back.
    'Aye. That's the one. Course neither of us knew, sitting that day in some sweaty Brooklyn room... we was sitting on a million dollar song. How could we?'
    

    Slice lit up another cigarette and treated it much like he'd treated the first. His eyes squinted hard so that they were hardly visible within the smoke, his long grey hair, his beard, and his scars. He chuckled again.

    'Thems was the good days, in that flat. The innocent days.'

    ***

    'Steckland! Wake up! Are you packed?'

    Only silence can comfort me. This is not silence.

    'The car is gonna be here in half an hour. Are you ready to go? Do I have to come in there?'

    He wouldn't dare.

    'I want you out here in fifteen minutes. Bring a pillow because it's a long drive!'

    My face sinks back into my bedsheets and the semi-comfort of semi-sleep welcomes me there. My one bag is already packed: just some clothes of varying cleanliness and a notebook. In fifteen minutes there will be another banging on my door to wake me up and drag me away from this singular place of comfort. Still no sadness. In a sleep filled place, fifteen minutes can last fifteen years.


     

    (xxviii) --- One