Angel and the Elk

By David Gardiner

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Muskie wasn’t thinking too straight about what he was strumming that evening. He’d been through a few of his own versions of traditional blues numbers, then bowed to commercial pressure and thrown-in some recent Shadows finger-picking extravaganzas, eventually got depressed at the scarcity of coins dropping into the hat and plumbed the depths of Leonard Cohen’s celebrated repertoire of songs to slit your wrists by. Finally, in a spirit of contemptuous resignation, he had given them a few numbers from his own conceptual album “Songs in an Open Vein”. It was conceptual in the sense that it had never been published. In Muskie’s view it was a darn sight better than they deserved, but the river of commuters just flowed on by, arms rigid, hands buried to the cuffs in their pockets, eyes forward and focused at middle distance. What would it take to get through to them, he wondered? Maybe if he stripped off and performed naked on roller-skates, holding the guitar behind his back and painting portraits with a brush held in his mouth at the same time…

Suddenly Muskie’s string-plucking finger became still and he was seized by the momentary panic of a performer who has forgotten his lines. Then he remembered who his audience were, and the extent of their involvement. Still, It was something that had never happened to him before. The cause of his paralysis was the appearance before him, stepping out of the viscous human fluid that poured from the bottom of the escalator, of a figure more divine than human, her beauty far exceeding his modest ability to construct sexual fantasies. There was simply nothing about her that wasn’t perfect. It would be tedious to catalogue her charms, beyond the power of mere words to do them justice. This slender graceful teenager, with her long straight black hair falling over her shoulders, and her wispy ligh-yellow almost see-through full-length dress clinging tightly to her impossibly perfect curves, was Muskie’s vision of the Goddess. He felt his grip on the guitar weaken, and the sling grow heavy on the back of his neck.

“Why did you stop?” she said cheerfully, walking right up to him so that he could actually smell her intoxicating fragrance, “you’re very good.”

“Why did I stop,” he repeated mindlessly, almost unable to speak in her presence, “Why did I stop? Oh, sorry, you scared me, I thought I was invisible. Why did I stop? I don’t know. I think I forgot what chord came next. I lost the thread. To be honest, I wasn’t listening.”

She laughed and a dazzling smile lit up her face. Muskie had to avert his eyes slightly so as to retain control of the muscles that enabled him to stand up. “What’s your name?” she asked sweetly.

“They call me Musk-Rat. My friends call me Muskie. You can call me anything you like, just so long as you keep on talking to me. Would you like to marry me, by the way?”

“Well, I’ll think about it,” she assured him with mock seriousness, “but I certainly wouldn’t mind singing a few songs with you.”

“You sing? What kind of stuff?”

“Your kind of stuff.”

She was right. She was able to sing everything that he was able to play. At least everything that was in the public domain and had words. She liked the sad slow ballads of lost love and broken dreams the best, and many times Muskie garbled the accompaniment from the effort of holding back a tear. They stood together for the better part of two hours, her strong, effortless and youthful voice hitting and holding every note with the perfection of an opera-singer but the freshness and vulnerability of a schoolgirl. More than that, she knew how to put a song across. When she sang, people listened.

As soon as she started to sing, the commuters no longer hurried by. Instead they slowed and searched in handbags and coat pockets for coins, and formed a little circle around the pair, until a London Transport official came and dispersed them and told Muskie and his companion that if they didn’t want to be meeting the Magistrate in the morning they had better be on their way.

Muskie didn’t care. It had been the greatest spiritual experience of his life to date, as well as which the hat was overflowing onto the concrete floor.

He smiled at her with respectful awe. “You’ve given me the biggest thrill I’ve ever had with a guitar in my hand,” he told her. “I’m sorry that I didn’t recognize you. It was brilliant that you were willing to give me so much of your time. If you tell me where you’re playing I’ll come and see you.”

“Where I’m playing? What are you talking about?”

“Well, you’re not an amateur, are you? Anybody can tell you’re not an amateur.”

She was so delighted she flung her arms around his neck and reached over the guitar to kiss him lightly on the lips. “You’re so sweet! I’m just somebody that likes to sing. That’s all.”

“Oh my God,” he mumbled, “I think I’m going to have to sit down. What’s your name, then, sweetheart?”

“Clare.”

“Clare? That’s a wonderful name. Perfect. Do you know the ‘Angel Clare’ album by Art Garfunkel?” She nodded. “The title track never appeared on the album. Only a few people have ever heard it. I’ll sing it for you. He must have written it just for you.”

As they made their way towards the escalator Muskie delivered a sensitive and soulful unaccompanied rendering of the song, which was in fact entirely his own creation.

oo OO oo

Muskie and his new companion left the concourse of Paddington Station Underground hand in hand. He quietly whistled “Stairway to Heaven” as the escalator carried them noisily and bumpily to street level. They were almost alone on the “up” section as the steady stream of office workers and sales people from the big Edgware Road shops jostled each other for position in the “down” lane. London’s day shift was going home and its night shift would soon be arriving.

Muskie took his angel to the seedy all-night café in Praed Street where he always went to count his money. Legend had it that this was where Ralph McTell had written “The Streets of London”. He apologized for the seediness. She told him that she loved it. They ordered coffee and a sandwich and, still staring wistfully into her dark adorable eyes, he tipped out the contents of his small rucksack onto the table, managing to control the coins before they overflowed onto the dingy lino-covered floor.

“I think we split one quarter, three quarters,” he said reverently, “okay with you?”

She agreed without hesitation but obviously hadn’t understood. When he finished counting and shoved the larger pile in her direction she protested: “I thought you meant three quarters for you! You were there all day, I was only there a couple of hours!”

“Sweet angel,” he countered sadly, “I know what my playing is worth, and I do a lot of bad things but I don’t steal other performers’ money. You’ve got nearly a hundred pounds there. I couldn’t make that in a week as I think you know perfectly well. When the lady comes with the coffee, you ask her and she’ll change it into notes for you. And God bless you for singing with me.”

She reached over and touched his hand. “We’re a pretty good team, aren’t we?” she said quietly and seriously, “why don’t we share?”

Muskie became a bit hot and sweaty. “Share… what?” he asked hoarsely.

“Whatever you want,” she smiled, squeezing his hand.

oo OO oo

Muskie was too excited to sleep very much that night, as well as which he had other things to do. Angel Clare, who was cuddled-up to his right side with her head on his chest, started to stir at about nine thirty in the morning. He kissed her softly and asked her what she would like for breakfast.

“Just coffee,” she whispered, “I can never eat in the morning.”

“No, absolutely not. Me neither. You stay right there, coffee will be ready in five minutes.”

“You know,” he added as an afterthought, “that was the nicest night of my life. Ever. I could die now, I wouldn’t have missed out on anything.”

“Don’t,” she laughed. “Die, I mean.”

He gently disentangled her arms and, not bothering to put anything on, made his way to the Baby Belling stove and the little free-standing kitchen cupboard. She pulled the single sheet over her body and watched him tenderly.

“There’s just one thing I don’t understand,” he went on thoughtfully as he rinsed out two cups at the sink, “why would somebody as beautiful and talented and just plain gorgeous as you want to have anything to do with a loser like me? I mean, are you crazy or something?”

“Stop running yourself down, Muskie,” she scolded him, “you’re a very sweet guy. And your songs are great. And I had a lovely night too.”

“Did you? Really? You mean that?” She shook her head in exasperation. “Hey, I’m goanna write a song about you, Angel. About how we met, and how beautiful you are, and how you’ve made my life worth living.”

“It won’t be a success,” she warned him, “people like sad songs. How rotten everything is. How nothing ever works out.”

He thought for a moment. “Yeah, you could be right there. But I’ll still write it. Just you wait and see.”

He poured the coffee, remembering from the café how she liked it, and carried the two cups back to the bedside table. She sat up to drink, unselfconsciously baring her stunningly beautiful young breasts once again. Muskie found that he couldn’t keep his hands off her, but for the sake of good manners tried to limit his caresses to her back, neck and shoulders. He realized too late that that his nude state was giving rather a major clue as to the direction of his thoughts.

“Hey, give me time to finish my coffee,” she laughed.

oo OO oo

Muskie took Angel to a different station that day. Paddington was good in the evenings but Bond Street was better to catch the steady stream of shoppers and tourists through the day. If they had been up earlier he would have taken her to Victoria, which was best for the morning rush-hour because of the long passageway that gave people an average of a minute or so of exposure to the song before they walked past the hat. You had to study the market if you wanted to make a success of your musical career.

Despite their late start, by the time they were ready for a break and something to eat the contents of the hat was once again nudging towards a hundred pounds. Muskie could barely comprehend the change in his fortunes. He had the most beautiful girl that he had ever seen as a lover, and he was making more money in half a day than he had been collecting previously in half a week. There had to be a snag. Fate must be planning some particularly cruel joke at his expense. He was being set-up for a colossal tumble. That was the way Fate treated people like him. As he watched her sip her coffee dark forebodings swept through his anxious imagination. He craved for reassurance.

“Angel,” he began nervously, “are you coming home with me again tonight, or do you need to go back to your own place?”

“I do need to get back really,” she confirmed, “I need clean clothes and there are things I need to do. But you could come with me if you like.”

“Could I? You mean you would let me into your home?”

“It’s just a room in a rooming-house. It’s nothing wonderful. You let me into your home, didn’t you?”

“But my place is a dump.”

“Why do you always have to run yourself down, Muskie? There’s nothing wrong with you. Or your place. You’re a very sweet person.” She held his right hand in both of hers. “May I ask you something?”

“Of course. Anything you like, Angel.” He somehow knew that this was the start of the big tumble. She sounded way too serious.

“Do you know a guy called the Elk?”

“Yeah. Sure. I know the Elk. How do you know him?”

“I don’t. I’ve never met him. But I would like to.”

Angel knew about the Elk, and she wanted to meet him. What was going on here? This threw everything into a whole different perspective. He started going over in his mind the events of the previous day, the way she had walked straight up to him out of the crowd, as though she knew him already. She hadn’t known him of course, but she had known who she was looking for. He could easily imagine what had led up to the meeting. A young girl asks around for the Elk. Nobody knows where he is, or more accurately the ones who do aren’t willing to say, but somebody says: “I’ll tell you who would know: Muskie, the guitar-player. You’ll likely find him busking at the bottom of the escalator on Paddington Underground about now.” That had to be it! How could a drop-dead gorgeous female like her be interested in Muskie for himself? She could have any man on the planet just by smiling at him. Is she going to choose him? Is she hell! Muskie felt a heaviness enter his heart.

“Yeah, I can take you to see the Elk if you want me to. We could go over this afternoon. He would be wakening up about now.”

She smiled and squeezed his hand. “Would you, Muskie? It would be a big favour.”

oo OO oo

The Elk lived in an attic room three floors above street level and had no doorbell. To alert him of your presence you stood in the back alley behind the big decaying Victorian terrace house and threw pebbles at the cylindrical metal chimes which he had suspended for this purpose outside his rear window. It was an energy-efficient and environmentally friendly solution to the communication issue, and discouraged or significantly impeded the access of officers of the law or anyone else whom the Elk might consider persona non grata. Muskie’s expert first shot struck the large middle chime dead centre, and it reverberated with a deep, sonorous note, which brought the Elk immediately to the window. He glanced down and disappeared again inside.

“He’ll be right down,” Muskie assured her, strolling up to the wooden rear door. It suddenly crossed his mind that he knew very little about Angel, beyond her musical talents and sexual preferences, and might be leading the Elk into a trap. But no, he couldn’t believe ill of anybody as pretty as she was.

Sure enough the door was quickly opened by the Elk, who wore a genuine silk dressing-gown with a Chinese dragon motif on a light blue background. Big though it was, the gown barely closed around his massive girth. A pair of hand-made open-toed Jesus sandals completed his ensemble, and heavy locks of straight blond hair flowed over his shoulders as he walked, his perfectly circular brass-framed spectacles magnifying his eyes to create the general impression of an owl that had been fed on growth hormones.

“Hey, Muskie, how’s it hangin’ man?” he greeted them, “who’s the new chick?”

Muskie had not discussed any previous female associates with Angel and was mildly embarrassed by the greeting. “This is Angel,” he said curtly, “she’s cool. Wants to see you.”

“No shit man? Well, I want to see her too. Come inside, sweetheart, tell me what I can do for you.”

As the Elk stood aside to let Angel come in Muskie moved forward also, but the Elk stepped into his path. “Look, I’m real sorry, Muskie, but you know the rules.”

“Rules? What rules?”

“Like, one at a time, man. I can only do business with one person at a time. It ain’t a supermarket. I gotta find out what the little lady wants and then we have to agree a price. Business has got to be done in private. You know that, Muskie.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he conceded gloomily.

“Don’t worry, Muskie,” Angel shouted from behind the Elk, “I’ll come back to your place tonight. Maybe late. You wait for me. Okay?”

“Are you sure? You’ll really come?”

“Sure I will, Muskie, Stop worrying so much. Chill out, man.”

“Wise words,” the Elk put in, “wise words.”

oo OO oo

Muskie couldn’t concentrate enough to play any more music that day. He walked around the Paddington area for a couple of hours, went back to his room to drop off the guitar, then walked around some more. Two of his fellow performers greeted him outside Euston Station: he didn’t even return their hello. Everything that had happened kept churning about inside his head. She liked him. She had said she did. She had had a good time with him in bed. She had said that too. And he could tell that she had. Although women can fake that kind of thing, so he’d heard. She’d promised she’d be back. But earlier on she had said he could go to her place tonight. What had happened to that plan? If she could change one arrangement she could change another. God, he knew so little about her! Didn’t know her last name, where she lived, who her friends were… nothing. But he was crazy about her. If he couldn’t see her again there was no point in living. It was as simple as that.

As the sun sank low behind Westminster Bridge and Parliament Building he knew with a cold gnawing certainty that she wasn’t going to come back that night. He went to his room and lay down on the bed fully clothed, staring up at the pallid twenty-five watt bulb in the ceiling above him. He had never felt this bad before. So bad that he didn’t even want to write a song about it. Music didn’t exist for him any more. It was just a meaningless noise that people used to bolster-up their fantasies and avoid having to face reality.

oo OO oo

The sun had already risen when Muskie heard the timid tapping on his landing door. He looked over at his bedside clock. It was 6.15 AM. He was on his feet in a moment.

“Angel? Is that you? Don’t go away! I’m coming!”

Trembling, he dashed over to the door and wrenched it open. She was still wearing the same yellow dress and her hair was damp as though she had come straight from a shower. She looked up timidly and apologetically.

“Angel,” he breathed, flinging his arms around her and almost lifting her off her feet, “you did come! Thank God! I didn’t think…” His words faded out and he started kissing her and, to his acute embarrassment, sobbing.

It took her a moment to recover from the ferocity of his greeting and start to return his embrace. “Muskie,” she pleaded, as soon as she could get her lips away from his, “take it easy. Relax. Of course I came back. I said I would, didn’t I?”

“Oh God! I was so scared. I thought I would never see you again. What happened? Where have you been? Did he… do something to you?”

She gently disentangled herself from Muskie’s embrace. “The Elk? No, of course not. He’s a pussycat. A real sweetie…” She gently led him in and drew him down to sit beside her on the bed.

“Well… what then?” he asked blankly, holding both her hands and staring anxiously into her eyes.

“I… I just fell asleep, Muskie. We both did.”

He looked at her in complete incomprehension. “You… both… fell asleep?”

“Look, Muskie, it’s time we had a proper talk. Hey, don’t look at me like that! I’m not giving you the shove. It’s okay! Relax. Just listen to me.”

“I’m listening, Angel.” The tremors died down slightly in his hands. He felt his shoulders relax. It took Angel a moment to think of the right way to explain things.

“Muskie, you gave me that name, Angel, but it’s wrong. I’m not an angel. I’m me. I’ve got good parts to me and bad parts to me. I’m the same as everybody else. I like being with you. You’re a very sweet person. But I’m not very good at this faithfulness thing. I’m good at some things: I think I’m quite a good singer, and I can cook… and I can tidy up this place for you and make it look nice...”

“This place? Make it look nice?”

“Well, over a period, obviously. A little bit at a time. But the faithfulness thing, that’s one of my weaknesses. You see, I know girls aren’t supposed to say this, but I like men and I like sex. I like all… you know. The closeness and the cuddling and all that. And I get tempted, real often. Maybe it’s some kind of disease, I don’t know. But if you really can’t cope with that part of me, then maybe we can’t make it together.”

Muskie simply felt dizzy. But sitting next to Angel and holding her hands nothing could be all that bad. “Hey! This is heavy shit! You’re telling me that you slept with a good friend of mine? Man, this is heavy. You know, Leonard Cohen writes songs about stuff like this.”

“Is it okay, Muskie? Are we still cool?”

“Hell! Of course we are! It’s cool. Absolutely cool. But you’re always going to come back, aren’t you?”

“Always, Muskie. That’s the bit you don’t have to worry about.”

He hugged her again, less desperately, and stroked her back. “Hey, are you sure the Elk didn’t hurt you? I mean, he’s a big guy. If he rolled over on you…”

“No, honest, Muskie, he wouldn’t do that. He’s very gentle...”

“Did you… did you like him better than me?”

“Nope. Pretty equal, I would say.”

Muskie felt a twinge of disappointment. “Oh. Okay. That’s cool, I guess.” He thought for a few seconds. “Are you going to see him again?”

“Well, she hesitated, “that’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. The Elk is quite lonely you know, but busy too, because he has his business to run, and he’s writing a novel as well. It’s set in the ashram he stayed in when he was in India. Did you know he was writing a novel?”

“No. I knew he was trying to learn the guitar.”

“Believe me, he’s crap on the guitar. No timing and his fingers are too short and fat. But, he and I said that maybe I could visit with him two nights a week. We thought maybe mid-week, Wednesdays and Thursdays. And then I could stay with you over Friday and the weekend, because that’s when we could make the big money playing the Underground stations. So I would be with you more time than I would be with him. Is that okay, Muskie?”

Muskie swallowed hard. “It’s cool, I guess. Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays. That isn’t too bad.”

She kissed him tenderly. “You’re so sweet, Muskie. I knew you would understand.”

Muskie’s head was still swimming. He couldn’t quite believe what he had just agreed to. But the alternative was losing Angel, and that was unthinkable. He squeezed her tight. His Angel still wanted him. He had been saved. Nothing else really mattered a damn. “Next time you see him tell him I want my Bert Weedon ‘Play in a Day’ book back.”

He looked straight into her eyes. “Is the Elk cool about this arrangement?” he asked as casually as he could.

“Yeah. We talked it over. It’s fine with him. He’s cool.” She suddenly remembered something and reached into her shoulder-bag to take out a small brown bottle with a medicine-dropper top. “And guess what,” she added with obvious excitement, “he’s given us a little present. This isn’t like the old weak stuff you used to buy from him back when you had some money: this is the best you can get. One drop of this on a sugar cube and you get to see heaven, Muskie. That’s what he said. Two drops and it’s the other place. Think of the songs you’ll be able to write when you suck that sugar cube! And there’ll be more. As much as we want. All free, Muskie. A token of his friendship, he said.”

Muskie took the little bottle and held it up to the light. “Free? A bottle that big?”

“As much as we want, Muskie.”

Muskie smiled. “You must have given him one hell of a time, Angel.”

She returned the smile. “I guess that must be something else I’m good at.”

He held her again, very tenderly this time, and felt his whole body relax. “Please,” he whispered, “promise me, that… if I can accept you as you are… you’ll never leave me… I mean, that you’ll always come back to me.”

“Always, Muskie. It’s a deal.”

“I don’t give a shit about the acid. It’s you I want. Real bad.”

“You’ve got me, Muskie. It’s a deal.”

He stiffened slightly. “Hey,” he said with sudden realization, “Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays with me, Wednesdays and Thursdays with the Elk… What about Mondays and Tuesdays? What happened to them?”

She caressed the side of his face soothingly with her hand. “Oh yes. Mondays and Tuesdays. I’ll talk to you about them, but maybe not just now.”

CONTINUE TO THE NEXT STORY IN THE SERIES:
MUSKIE'S BIG BREAK

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