Ride

By Daniel Thomas

27 year old drummer Tommy Chaise is a pro at falling flat on his face. When he joins a Melbourne rock band his life is changed forever. In pursuit of superstardom he dives headfirst into a series of calamitous performances as the band relocate to London to have a crack at the big time. Caught in a destructive spiral Tommy must&nbs

• Language: English
• Publisher: daniel thomas
• Release date: Dec 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9780645039313

Daniel Thomas

Daniel Thomas is an Australian filmmaker, writer and actor.

Book preview

1

GALACTIC CIRCUS

My name is Tommy Chaise and I am a pro at falling flat on my face. We’ve all got the mojo, our choices define whether it burns out, fades away or glows brightly for the rest of eternity. Mojo can be elusive, sometimes I wonder what it is or if I even have it, but when that day comes and the lights go out, I’ll let others be the judge of that. My 27th birthday is just around the corner, some people my age have it all together but I can’t seem to stop making mistakes. All I know is, sometimes it’s about doing a heap of stuff we don’t like so we can find out what we do.

As I sat across the desk from Gary Galactic, boss of the Galactic Arcade, I knew it wasn’t my destiny to work in a video game parlour but I desperately needed a job. He pulled out a cloth bag full of coins and slammed it on the desk.

Introduce yourself then.

I’m Tommy Chaise and I like long walks on the beach.

Is that it?

He took a seat and studied the resume I’d put together an hour before. This is pretty sparse, what work experience do you have?

Odd jobs. I’ve been told I am good with paperclips.

I don’t have time for this.

Sorry mate, it’s hard to admit I still don’t know what I want to do.

Did you finish high school?

You bet I did, but I didn’t do very well. I was easily distracted.

You’re not selling yourself here. I’ve got things to do, give me something?

I play drums... in my bedroom.

He gazed reminiscently at a tattered Big Day Out festival poster on the wall and put his feet on the desk with his hands behind his head. I was a drummer, those were some good days. We were on the verge of being the next big thing.

He’d suddenly caught my attention and polished his glasses with a handkerchief. We played a festival in Rome, all the record execs were there. I could feel it in my bones. Our singer was dressed as a bunny. Half way through the set, his ears caught fire on some bloody pyrotechnics then his entire body went up in flames along with our hopes and dreams.

He fiddled with a fluorescent pink slinky despondently. The urge I felt to heal his pain was as strong as the black coffee in his half filled cup. He removed his feet from the desk and tossed the resume in a drawer. It’s $8.50 an hour you can start in the morning.

Really? You beauty.

Wear a white shirt, preferably ironed, black slacks and shiny shoes, if you have any!

He tossed a blue and yellow bow tie across the desk and crushed my hand with his sweaty palm on the way out. The arcade was a sensory onslaught, an electric jungle of neon lights, bells, whistles and gunfire. A rabbit in the headlights, kids amped on sugar whizzed in every direction desperate to win tickets from games in exchange for tacky prizes. It was a perfectly orchestrated land of mayhem for ganglords, drug dealers and bag snatchers to run thriving enterprises.

It sure was a relief to have a job and get back to the safe confines of my apartment in West Brunswick. The block looked like a cheap motel where bank robbers on the run checked in for the night but I loved it. A lonely palm tree sat out front withered from a week of hot gusty winds capable of wreaking bushfire havoc. The sound of cicadas next to the driveway reached a crescendo and stopped when the keys jiggled in the lock. The landlord had become accustomed to the late rent since I’d left home at 21. The apartment was my cave with a tattered sofa bed, a fridge, a cooktop and the love of my life, a drum kit.

Bashing the drums was the only way I knew how to shake off the excess mojo accumulated from the outside world and escape the relentless wonderland in my own head. There was no time to wait an extra two minutes for the broth from the two-minute noodles to cool down. After a scolding slurp and a flurry of arms around the kit there were three loud thumps on the door. The neighbour stood impatiently in a pink dressing gown with a newspaper tucked under his arm. I can’t hear myself think!

Sorry mate, I’ll try and play softer, I couldn’t take my eyes off his fluffy pink slippers.

That’s what you said last night! You’re shaking my grandma’s porcelain teacups. If they topple off the shelf, you’ll pay.

He unfolded the paper and slammed his fly wire door. Playing quietly was not in my wheelhouse. Unable to release the excess mojo, I rolled out the sofa bed and got swept away in a savage sea of incessant thought. The ceiling fan did little to cool the humid air but its hypnotic rotations knocked me out cold and into dreamland. Stood on a bridge hunched over and out of breath, the freezing fog stung my lungs.

The silhouette of a dark medieval castle turret stood on the rocky bank of the river below as the choppy water crashed over the rocks. The road desolate in both directions, fear of being hunted shot through my body like an electric shock and I woke up in a cold sweat. A beam of morning light sliced the dust filled air through the gap in the curtains and hit me right between the eyes with the accuracy of a laser from a sniper rifle.

A white shirt and black slacks lay crumpled at the bottom of a cupboard and the iron hadn’t been touched since my cousin’s wedding. The last time I’d worn a bow tie was for my second grade class photo. Free spirited and unhindered by self-consciousness, it was red with white polka dots. In the middle of the second last row I grinned at the camera. Mr. McArthur stood proudly next to the class, he looked more like a scout leader than a teacher in his khaki shorts and knee-high socks he wore every day. The one time he chose to wear pants, it was 36 degrees. He definitely didn’t have the mojo. As the photographer went to take the photo, Johnny in the front row pointed at me and laughed, all the other kids joined in. Right there and then it was clear: if I wanted to be different, it was going to be brutal.

Unfortunately, judgment chipped away at my bold fashion choices over the years and now the only reason for wearing a bow tie was to appease the boss of a minimum wage job. Even so, at the risk of being late, it had to sit straight. Perfectionism was in my wheelhouse but the more I forced it to stay in position the less it cooperated. With it still skewed, I bolted for the 58 tram. An old lady with a walking stick in one hand and a birdcage in the other mumbled to herself as it ground to a halt and she shuffled toward the doors.

Struggling to climb the step she handed me the cage and I offered her my arm. Her white satin glove didn’t soften the painful grip she had around the crook of my elbow with her brittle fingers. A green and yellow budgie flapped about inside the cage and a packed carriage full of morning commuters retreated behind the safe veil of their newspapers when it tweeted loudly. She carefully placed the cage on her lap and gazed out the window.

The 58 line was renowned for crazies. I often wondered what their stories were, the choices they’d made, the things they’d endured that had played a part in blowing the fuse. As much as I’d like to think I was, maybe I wasn’t so different from them. I had a voice in my head and he was a royal pain in the arse. So much so I’d named him Larry. I never knew when Larry was going to pop up and stoke my flames of insecurity. Sometimes he was just a voice, other times I saw him, either way his timing was priceless and on the 58 tram he decided to make a morning announcement. Good morning you true blue Aussie fuck up. It’s only a matter of time before you stuff something up today and personally I can’t wait.

Shut up Larry.

The old woman shifted her gaze from the window directly at me. Larry? Who’s Larry?

I stared at the floor uncomfortably and without warning, a ticket inspector in plain clothes stood over us and flashed his badge. Ticket.

I just got on I’ll buy one now.

That’s a one hundred dollar fine.

What? I just helped this lady to her seat. I was going to get a ticket.

You could hear a pin drop. I need your ID, now.

The budgie flew wildly around the cage and kicked birdseed onto the floor. Wildlife is prohibited on the tram madam.

He’s my Burt, he’s lovely isn’t he? She tickled his beak.

I leaned toward the inspector. C’mon mate, if the budgie brightens her day, let her be.

As the tram pulled to a stop the inspector began to write me a ticket. I’d made another mistake. The doors flung open and without hesitation I leapt off the bottom step and bolted down the tracks on Elizabeth Street. He was so close behind I could feel his ferocious breath on the back of my neck. Nearly losing my feet, I took a sharp left and weaved through narrow laneways past accountants perched on milk crates sipping lattes.

He wouldn’t let up, running out of mojo fast I skidded around a corner, tripped on the edge of a cobblestone and dived head first into a pile of cardboard boxes in a bin storage area. Buried beneath the boxes my heart felt like it was about to burst. Running footsteps whizzed past and faded in the distance. My shirt drenched in sweat, the bow tie hanging by a thread and in fear I was a ticket police fugitive, I arrived at the Galactic Circus half an hour late.

2

SHOOTING STAR

Gary stepped out from behind the busy counter. For a drummer, your timing is way off. He handed me the master keys, a rag and cleaning spray. If it’s quiet, clean the Rolling Stones pinball.

He slammed the door to his office so he could get busy cooking the books. A family of four heaved a tangled pile of tickets they’d won on the basketball game over the weekend onto the counter. Five hundred tickets counted by hand were enough to secure the ultimate prize of a pink and green lava lamp straight from a Zhengzhou sweatshop. Despite being a perfectionist gift-wrapping was not a forte and nothing made me more uncomfortable than being put under the microscope.

The intense observation from the family cranked my internal pressure gage to get it right. They stood bemused as I handed them the lava lamp box and the scrunched rocket-decorated paper slid right off. As it floated to the ground a gaunt gangly man shuffled past and clipped the paper with his leg. He slumped into a racing car near the Rolling Stones pinball and stared vacantly at the screen.

With a pop, I removed the metal plate from the front of the pinball, slid the glass out and carefully rested it against the side. As I tried to remain focused on checking the bulbs, cleaning the ramps and straightening the plastic tongue, my chest restricted in the gaunt man’s presence. As I slid the glass back in, the nervous mojo from my fingers was too strong and sent a shockwave through the panel causing it to shatter like it had been struck by lightning. Glass fragments crumbled through my fingers and spread across the tiles, it was enough to send the man packing after three attempts to climb out the car. Gary burst out of the office in a panic. What have you done?

It just shattered out of nowhere.

This will come out of your pay.

He grabbed a replacement panel from the office and slammed the door behind him. Down on my hands and knees and riddled with guilt as I swept up the glass, Larry chimed in. At this rate you won’t even survive the first day. I expected as much.

Put a sock in it Larry.

A sudden pain shot through my shoulder like someone had dug a knife in and I jumped through the roof. There stood a woman with long jet-black hair, a striped singlet and an unlit cigarette dangling from the side of her mouth. Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness.

You can’t smoke in here.

Relax. I’ll take it outside. Good you fixed the tongue, it’s been broken for ages.

A rampant cue formed at the counter as I carefully slid the new panel in.

Any chance of a free game? she asked.

People pleasing was something I was good at, there was also a red button on the inside of the coin door I had a burning itch to press. With one push it malfunctioned and racked up fifty credits. After switching the power off and on, the credits remained. A glint gleamed from the woman’s dark eyes behind the purple streak in her fringe. Gary’s head would explode if he found out, so I left her to the games.

An empty coffee cup lay under the car racing machine. With a naïve sweep of the hand, instead of the cup, I grabbed the handle of a full-size baseball bat and slowly slid it out from under the seat. There was no time to ponder how it had got there or what the heck it