Peter McFeely

Jimmy eyed his order at the bartender. Moments later the beer was handed over the heads of waiting youths.
“Fuck’s sake” came the grunt in front of Jimmy as he nodded his appreciation.
“Hey – if you want served, shut your mouth. Show some respect.”
“Wha?”
Jimmy was desperate to walk away but he was locked in place by the bartender’s look. The bartender flung his arms wide.
“This man is the greatest musician to ever come out of this town.”
“This guy?”
“Yeah, you little prick, this guy. Greatest guitarist I’ve ever heard – and I’ve heard every half-talented little cocksucker in this town who thinks they’re the next Hendrix. Hell, I’ve heard most of the completely talentless cocksuckers as well. This guy is the best.”
“Better than them?” the kid sneered, jerking his head towards the stage.
The bartender stifled a laugh. “Are you deaf? Best. Ever. Those kids are good but man… Jimmy… something else.”
The kids looked at Jimmy. He looked back through his hair, over the lip of his glass.
“Yeah, thanks Mike.”
He turned and slipped through pressing bodies, back to the sanctity of his table.
“Best ever. I’m telling you. Look him up. Now whaddaya want?”

Jimmy hunched over the table, his weight on his elbows in the scuffed half-moon where varnish was worn away. In an unpleasant osmosis the battered leather soaked up the grime and dirt that had permeated deep into the table, taking with it the last flecks of dark brown lacquer. His sole tapped the rail under the table.
“Here mister.’ The kid from the bar. “You are famous. Well you used to be. Your man wasn’t lying.”
The kid thrust the phone under his nose, as if the photos were evidence of which Jimmy was previously unaware. On stage. In magazines. His record cover. The phone disappeared.
“Sid Barrett. Andrew Wood. Jeff Buckley. Now you can add another name to the list of men from whom we will never have heard enough” the kid read as he scrolled. “A creative genius… a masterful performer… could have been one of the all time greats. What the hell are you doing sitting in here?” Jimmy glanced sideways at him pursing a lip and offering the tiniest of shrugs. “He returned to his hometown for love and retired from performing to focus on a family life. Are you fucking serious? You sap! You came back here voluntarily – and for a bird?!”
“I think it’s sweet.” The silent girl blushed as Jimmy turned his body towards her, surprised by the softness of her voice.
“No way. He was a rockstar. He could have banged any girl he wanted. How did such a golden opportunity get wasted on a fool like you? I’d be shagging circles round me.” The girl snorted a half-sigh half-laugh. Jimmy turned back towards the stage.

What the kid said stung. Not the accusations, nor the insults. The lies. Jimmy didn’t just come home. He disappeared – mid-tour and mid-contract. He turned up back home and was married in half the time it took the first journalists to come banging on his door. They drew their own conclusions. The internet is a crazy thing but it served Jimmy well. The story was out there and it spread. He didn’t try to correct it. A legend had been built. A lie. Even if he wanted to tell the truth nobody wanted to hear it.

Jimmy probably was the best to come out of this town. When he was younger he certainly believed it. But it’s easy to be the big fish. Go to the city, there’s a big fucking fish on every corner. And there are three more behind him trying to kick him off it. Jimmy listened in the bars. He listened in the studio. He listened on the road. These guys were better than him. In his head it sounded like he was playing fucking chopsticks in comparison. All the technical prowess of Come As You Are but with none of the magic that finds its way from the ear to the heart. He felt like a phoney. An impersonator. He did have a corner but it was a shitty one and it wouldn’t be long until someone kicked him off it.

Yeah, he had an album. Now everyone online talks about it as a work of art. But the internet fucked him back in the day. Illegal downloads. YouTube rip-offs. People might have been listening but who the fuck was buying records? Nobody. Commercially he was a dud. The reason he was on TV so much, that he performed every bloody week, was that the label was trying to convince people to buy the fucking album. But nobody did. He had a three album deal and the writing was on the wall. He knew he’d be shit-canned as soon as the second hit the shelves and stayed there. He was scared. He felt lonely. He didn’t believe he was the best anymore. So he came home. Home to Sarah. He did love her but he never planned on her being his excuse. The label didn’t even put up much of a fight. He knew they were secretly over the moon. A whole series of concerts had to be cancelled and that was all they needed to terminate his contract and he didn’t get a penny. Nobody outside of that office celebrated his homecoming. The town didn’t cheer the same way as when he left. But people have short memories. All it took was Marty Jackson. One fucking article – The lost album… The star that never was. Where the fuck was this prick 10 years ago? Now every asshole with a set of headphones wanted to listen to him. The fans wanted more albums. Some flunkies from labels had tried to convince him they did too. No chance. Nothing about this town prepares you for the city. Even now Jimmy knew he couldn’t handle it.

Biggest talent from these parts? Maybe. Biggest failure? Definitely. People just didn’t know.

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