An Evening with Birdy O'Day by Greg Kearney

Author:Greg Kearney
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Arsenal Pulp Press

OVER THE WINTER, Birdy’s band saved up enough to cut a demo. It was all he could talk about at home that spring.

“Okay, so, out of all the songs I’ve ever played for you, which three do you think are the most like, catchy?”

Margaret and I looked at each other. Birdy had played us at least a hundred songs over the years.

“Okay, let me play you my top five, and then you pick three.”

My mother smiled and gave an encouraging fist pump. Birdy took his guitar from its case.

“This is called ‘Never Forget.’”

He played the song. It was a gorgeous ballad about lovers who witness a murder. The lyrics were still slightly clunky, but he’d come a long way since his first song, the one that rhymed lake with clambake.

“I love that one, Birdy,” my mother said. “It was like an old Irish folk ballad. Very eerie.”

Birdy scrunched up his face. He didn’t like that feedback; old Irish folk ballads weren’t exactly tearing up the charts.

“Okay, this next one is called ‘Going Home.’”

“Going Home” was a boppy ode to a favourite hiding place. Birdy and I didn’t have a hiding place, and I got lost in thoughts of where Birdy’s hidden hiding place might be, but I quickly concluded that the whole thing was a metaphor for his shattered family.

“I adore that one, Birdy.” My mother offered up a giddy bleat, one of many hearty sounds she’d discovered during her therapy retreat and now used when words failed.

Birdy turned to me. “Well? What do you think?”

“Yeah. Nice,” I said stingily. To my mind, we’d experienced a horrific rift but were still forced to live together. I couldn’t just fall in line again, like the sheep I used to be.

“Don’t give yourself a hernia there, Roland. Anyway, I think that one is probably definitely going on the demo. Okay, next!”

He played the other songs, all of them melodically brilliant. With Margaret’s gentle guidance, he arrived at his top three. One of them, “Butterfinger,” would eventually be Birdy’s first single and first hit, in 1971. It had simple, almost nursery-rhyme lyrics (You know you really put me through the wringer / When your ring slid off that butterfinger) that were stupid but less weirdly slapdash than previous efforts.

That night we had a dense, heavy chicken salad for dinner. Margaret apologized as we worked our way through the taupe goop. “It looked so good in the display case at Safeway, but I know it tastes like glue.”

“I have an announcement to make,” Birdy said, all smiley. What next? What new, exciting thing did Birdy have to announce, as I gummed the rubbery chicken shards, my filthy hair falling onto my face?

“I have a girlfriend. Nadine.”

If we were in a movie I would’ve spit my food across the table. “Nadine Jackson? She only has one eyelid.”

“Roland! We don’t identify people by their infirmity. Congratulations, Birdy. She sounds wonderful.”

“But I haven’t said anything about her.”

“I know, I’m just trying to counteract my son’s callousness. What—what is she like?”

“She’s really smart.

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