Chapter Four The Guitar Guy #3
We all watch the video in silence except for Ava, who laughs in that rolling childlike way where they’re unable to finish one laugh before the next one starts.
Hell, I’ll admit that the part with Bernie’s door stunt is genuinely funny.
With how I play along, you’d think I’ve been working with puppets for a while.
By the end of that brief, messy skit, acting with him felt weirdly natural, like how making up songs about brushing teeth or bubble baths comes to me more easily than anything else right now.
Ava squeals, laughing.
“Daddy funny!” Ava says again.
Daddy’s funny.
I was tired on that show. Grumpy. But despite looking equally as exhausted, that woman puppeteering Bernie was just happy to be there.
It was probably a dream come true. I know because her grin was the same grin I used to see on myself.
Before the past year. Before losing Robin.
Before every song felt like wrenching my soul from my body.
Bernie looks in the camera, and his beak contorts into an exaggerated frown.
“She’s good,” I comment.
“Who?” Jimmy asks.
“The puppeteer. She’s talented.”
“Oh yeah,” he responds, too focused on his phone and emails. “Apparently she was there to bring awareness to her revival. I think she’s tried pitching, and it hasn’t worked out.”
I turn on the piano bench, the leather squeaking under my thighs.
“What? Where’d you hear that?”
He waves his hand around. “I don’t know, she and Finch were talking about it backstage after.”
“Finch?”
Jimmy points his phone at the video. “You know. He’s one of the guys that created Birds on the Block. He’s a legend. But the show went kerplunk, and now it looks like their workshop is too.”
“Is she losing her job?”
“I think so, yeah. There was a whole article on it last week.”
“Show me.”
Jimmy sighs but taps over his phone anyway. After about thirty seconds, he hands the phone to me.
The article talks about how Flock Workshop, the nonprofit that creates Birds on the Block, is unable to keep the company afloat.
The article speculates that to make the company operational again and to produce new episodes of the show, they’d need a partnership to fund staff, new materials, musicians…
Christ, I could help with music. All I write is children’s music nowadays. It’s the only way the incessant tapping in my fingers finds its relief.
“Well, did it work?” I ask, handing the phone back.
Jimmy side-eyes me, exhaling. “Did what work?”
“The variety show. This video’s everywhere. Did it help her get the funding she needs?”
He huffs out a laugh. “How would I know, Griffin?”
“I want to know.”
“Shouldn’t you be focusing on the next album?” Poe chimes in. Despite his playful smile, my stomach clenches.
They need me to write. Without new music, my bandmates are out of reliable work.
Sure, they get gigs as background musicians for other artists, but they’ve invested a lot of time in my career these past few years.
They’re on my albums. They’re on my tours—specifically, they’re scheduled for the three-month international tour mid-March. They’re my band without being my band.
They’re acting like good sports about my lack of motivation, but I know they’re getting antsy.
Ava giggles again.
“Daddy funny,” she whispers.
Yeah. Funny Daddy can talk to a puppet, but he can’t write anything but children’s music. Can’t help his friends. Can’t—
Huh.
I can write children’s music.
“I wanna talk to her,” I blurt out.
Jimmy freezes. “What?”
“The puppeteer who’s reviving it,” I say, flicking my eyes over to him. “Get me in touch. I want dinner with her.”
Jimmy runs a palm over his face, tugging down his cheeks and the bags under his eyes and everything in between.
“Why?” Jimmy pleads.
“I just do.”
“Please,” he says, tossing his phone to the side and clutching his palms together. “Please, dear Lord above, please just write new songs, Griffin.”
“That’s what I intend to do. But maybe I gotta get these songs out first.”
“What songs?”
“Songs for children’s television, I guess.” My mind is already thrumming with ideas. I need to make new music, and if this is what I can get, I’ll take it. “It’s better than nothing, right?”
“Griffin—”
“I wanna talk to her,” I repeat.
Poe barks out a laugh. Royce stretches his arms to the sky with a smile.
“You’re kidding,” Jimmy says.
“I don’t think he is,” Poe says, grinning.
Ava is still laughing at Bernie and me in the video.
This will rejuvenate things. My music career.
My bandmates, who need work. My daughter, who hasn’t laughed this much in months.
Bernie Bird, needing a new home. This is the solution; I can feel it.
I’ll create something fun, something I’m already able to do well, and then I’ll move on.
Once it’s out of my system entirely, I’ll have nothing left but new chords to explore.
Jimmy taps his finger on the couch’s arm. “You’re behind on the deadline you promised the studio six months ago. You’re destroying your reputation interview after interview. And now you want to do this? Meet with the creator of a kids’ show?”
Dom, my silent drummer, finally clears his throat. Despite the grit still crackling between each syllable, he says, “Griffin did look like he was having fun with that bird. Maybe it’s worth a shot.”
Jimmy shuts his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “That’s not—”
“Jimmy?” I interrupt his breakdown.
He groans, peeking at me through a squint. “Yes?”
“Get me a dinner with her.”