the cadence of part time poets

Chapter 98: Boyhood Made Redundant

What's your name?
Who's your daddy?
Is he rich like me?
Has he taken any time to show you what you need to live?

(Tell it to me slowly)
Tell you what;
(I really wanna know)
It's the time of the season for loving...

- "Time of the Season" The Zombies, 1968

After their stunt playing "Hail Mary" at the Shoestring, Remus had been sure Ray would've sacked them. He'd been clear—cover songs only. From a business perspective it wasn't unreasonable. Covers were easy, covers were safe. Covers didn't turn people off or cause them to look elsewhere for their drink and swill. Ray had taken a chance on them, Sirius especially. They were in the middle of a job crisis and Sirius Black looked about as rough as a prima ballerina when compared to the pub's usual crowd. However luckily, it seemed as though Sirius' centre-stage impudence had paid off. Rather than making them redundant altogether, Ray had flipped the script again when he'd not only granted permission for them to play their own songs going forward, but also declared the Marauders as the Shoestring's resident Saturday night band.

"I'm real stupid to offer this tah' ya," the manager grunted, after the bar had closed and they were finished wrapping up their gear for the night. "Ya never feckin' listen, and you play like a bunch 'a pansies to boot."

"That's 'cause you've only been letting us play Neil fucking Young!" Sirius objected. "Come on, Ray, let us show you what we can do. The crowd loved it, and we've almost got enough songs for an entire album now, all we need is a place to play 'em!"

"You don't even need to pay us!" James chimed in. "We'll do it just for the exposure."

Peter looked up from his pint; "You mean you guys have been getting paid?"

None of them knew it, but Ray had made the decision to give them the Saturday spot before Sirius had even finished belting the final line to "Hail Mary". Though not having to shell out any cash on a prime night gig was certainly a quick way to seal the deal.

That evening they'd driven back to Shepherd's Bush in Mr. Pettigrew's van, windows down and radio blaring. It was freezing out, but not even the North Wind himself could have touched them. They'd just been granted the one thing all new bands craved, short of a record deal—their first pub residency.

"FUCK YEAH! ROCK 'N' ROLL!" Sirius bellowed, leaning past Lily to scream out the front seat's open window while his hair whipped wildly around his face. In his haste to join in the celebration, James veered a bit too far to the right and quickly swung the Newspaper van back into the correct lane while a series of honks echoed from behind them.

"UP YOURS!" Sirius shouted, bestowing several vulgar gestures upon the neighbouring car until Lily had hauled him back inside by his collar and rolled up the window.

"Come on, Sirius, let's not lose our heads all at once now," she cautioned, despite the hopeless grin on her face.

"If not now, then when? Come on, Evans, I knew playing that song was a good idea!" Sirius cried, furiously drumming his palms on the back of James' seat.

"I still can't believe he gave us the fucking residency," Peter agreed, lying on his back on the floor of the van, one of Remus' spliffs tucked between two fingers. Remus sat across from him in the tight space, his knees forced up against his chest as he kept himself busy with a cigarette of his own. It was celebratory. Though better at containing it than Sirius, the constant thrumming in the centre of his chest was clear evidence that his elation was through the roof. A few hours ago he'd been looking at his friends with only a pipe dream in mind. Now they had a chance—a real chance! The success of their own songs meant that it wasn't just dreams anymore. Instead it marked their first step.