Nowhere Near Milkwood Read Online Free PDF

bread somewhere in this wide world owns me! I’m pretty certain it does, the only pretty thing I can ever be, so I cling tight to it. That’s a tendency I have. What’s yours? Don’t care to examine that, I bet.
    Anyway, I ditched most of the song long before Toni Trumpet came down from the stage, but by the time I was climbing up on it, I’d resolved to pluck my note, the ultimate G sharp, as I’ve mentioned. The audience licked its lips, unsure of whether I was a solo player or a band. I like that ambiguity. It’s my version of androgyny, a look very many musical stars cultivate. I can’t do that, I have too many masculine chests to depilate, too many rugged cheeks to powder, so I just make the most of what I’ve got, which is lots of much. My support acts were watching me too, drinking and relaxing after their performances, and I briefly considered dedicating my perfect note to Bridget. Fear of rejection prevented me, rejection not just by the woman in question, but by the fabric of the cosmos for daring to presume too much. She was lovely.
    I stood there and flexed my thumb.
    To my astonishment, Goodbut called out a request: “That obscure Bavarian number, if you please.”
    “Which one do you mean?” I muttered.
    He said, “‘I Feel Like Hound Dressed Up As Swine Tonight’,” and I realised he was trying to assist me, trying to make the pigdog soul of my banjo seem deliberate and right.
    I loved him for that. Music reviewers don’t earn enough money in my opinion. He was able to keep his car on the road, true, yet I still think he deserved a small wage increase.
    But I retorted, “Don’t know that one.”
    He shuddered just a little, and I added, “No, my set for tonight is sure to be remembered in myth long after the destruction of Bavaria, however and whenever that happens.”
    “Because,” I continued, “it’s the best...”
    And then I roared, “Listen!”
    And I plucked the G sharp. And it flew out of my banjo and filled the pub to its most hidden corner.
    I knew something had gone amiss before the ripple of sound struck the nearest tables to the stage. I wanted to run forward, pull off my coats and gather it up, this ripple, whose circumference was already growing bigger than any item of clothing. Yes, gather it up and push it back into my instrument! But I stayed where I was and let the damage make itself known. It did. I leaned over and blew out the crimson candles which had been left flickering to themselves since Bridget arranged them there, for I craved darkness for the payback.
    What had I done? What was my mistake?
    Playing a sharp on a flattened instrument! The note just wasn’t right. It was shifted a semitone backward, which wouldn’t have mattered usually, it’d just be a major tone, but not in this case, because I had suggested the context with the note, as I indicated earlier. A bum note. It was infinitely bum. That stinks. So I flushed. My embarrassment was severe enough to calcify hedgehogs. That’s warm.
    The glow of my shame returned sunset to the interior. The UPLANDS TAVERN boiled itself alive. The people ran out. Somebody was plucking at my sleeve. It was Goodbut.
    He said, “You imbecile! You’re finished.”
    We ran away somewhere. Turned out we were headed toward the only late night drinking venue in this part of Swansea, a bohemian place called MOZART’S. It was just down the road. I don’t believe Goodbut wanted to go there with me, but the momentum of acquaintance carried me through the doors in his wake. It was cramped inside. Most of my audience were already there, together with my support acts. They tolerated me without a flicker of compassion. This was good enough for me. I didn’t expect any sort of forgiveness. No quarter, not by half. I moved into the back room, which was slightly less full.
    I recognised one person there, Brian, who I’d last met at Darren’s party a few weeks before. He sat with his friends, Chris, Pete, Reshmi, Louise, and his