Wayward James

Chapter 1


Looking back, those school days were dull with day-to-day unacceptance by all. Well, that’s the way Jim and his friends felt about it. He had a passion for annoying the other kids and teachers alike; it was the only thing that got him through each day.
When he was there, that is.
School never really agreed with him. He would often drift off in class, away from the monotonous noise cascading from his teacher’s mouth. The words floated out over his head, through the window into those grey english East Midlands skies along with his mind. He longed to be out of that place, and when that day came, it was the best he had felt for a long time.
Jim always felt he had issues with his state of mind, brought to the forefront by his erratic and unpredictable behaviour, which would arise more often than not through those school days, but they continued to plague him. There was nothing he could pinpoint (apart from school, that is) that triggered these issues. He always thought he could handle them.
His friends always looked out for him, as he would often slide to another place that challenged his wellbeing. This was not helped by the considerable amounts of drugs (weed/cannabis) for now, plus the alcohol that he would consume.
He always stated that it levelled him out and took him away from any normality, but in reality his mind was spinning more from this self-medication. But still they were always concerned with his wellbeing, even if it didn’t show, because they were always there, right beside him, doing exactly the same thing.
Jim would write constantly, lyrics, poetry, etcetera, for his mind was always racing with ideas, for the band he had formed in those school days with his friends. It was a way to get all his frustrations out after an unfulfilling day at school. He would reflect on his state of mind, through his words, and he often constructed melodies to fit around those words on his beat-up telecaster, which was fed into a small amp, along with a cheap acoustic kept beside his bed.
It wasn’t much, but it was all he had, and it was his.
Jim would listen to a lot of outsider music: The Smiths, Soundgarden, Nirvana, My Bloody Valentine, etcetera. He read books by Jack Kerouac and poetry by Allen Ginsburg among others.
He really liked that whole beat generation thing.
Jim would write constantly about the highs and lows (mostly lows) of being of that age. It was quite a rough time for Jim and his friends being classed as outcasts, for the way they would dress and conduct themselves, brought negative attention from all the cliquey types.
Basically, they were the ones who had to be seen and mostly heard; he always thought of them as idiots with not an original thought in their lacklustre minds.
People thought them strange, the typical outsiders.
But that was okay.
Jim and his friends would jam a lot in Tom Patton’s parents’ garage. Tom was one of Jim’s best friends along with Will McCabe, working on all the material Jim had written.
He would turn in fantastic ideas of hope, love, chaos and death. He was consumed with each of these things.
They also had another good friend, Ben Chambers. He didn’t play anything, just liked to sit in and listen to everything that was going on and offer any kind of criticism, constructive or not. He would usually sit there smoking a spliff, while the others jammed.
He was very protective of his friends, as he once punched out one guy for starting some trouble with Will at school. He was suspended for his trouble.
But they were all loyal and looked out for each other through school because of who they were and what with the music they listened to.
Also, Jim being the way he was, he was an easy target for bullying.
After rehearsing, he would have a smoke (weed). It became a sort of ritual after each jam. Then, more often than not, it was down to the local boozer to chat about the rehearsal while at the same time slowly getting more and more drunk, after which they would chat any form of shit that came to them.
They would play a few games of pool and then out to the back garden for a smoke (of both kinds).
That night when he got home, he staggered through the front door as quiet as a herd of stampeding elephants, falling into his mum’s flowers, which were located just within kicking distance as he stumbled his first step through into the porch, sending them sprawling.
All the while his dad just sat in the kitchen watching this spectacle lumbering towards him with a cup of tea and a sly cigarette, which he kept secret from the Mrs, as she thought he’d packed up about three years previous.
“Well, look at the state of you. Good rehearsal, was it?” his dad said. A wry smile crept across his face, which turned to a chuckle.
“Yeah, not bad. Got a few things sorted, yer know.” His dad just shook his head. “I don’t know; you say you practise in Tom’s garage, but you always come back absolutely plastered.”
Jim laughed. “Yep, weird, innit? Anyway, you better not let Mum catch you smoking; she would have a few things to say,” he said with a big drunken grin.
“Right, I’m off to bed, and don’t make a bleeding mess.”
Jim just nodded while trying to fill the kettle up. Most of the water was spilling into the sink and over the sides.
After making his tea, he stepped out into the garden, the night sky was littered with a million stars as he sat there with his tea, fumbling around in his pockets for his cigarettes. Lighting one, he stared out into the vast blackness, wondering how far it went.
It gave him great ideas for both songs and poems; it really drove his thought process.
Jim sat down on the grass and as the torturing, twisted bleakness rolled round in his head, the panic and darkness set in.
He wrapped both arms around himself, rocking back and forth, wishing this whole thing would just “FUCK OFF” and let him live normally like everyone else.
Looking back to the sky, thinking out loud, he said, “Why me? Why fucking me?”
As the dawn rose to greet the day, Jim woke. His clothes were soaked through from the dew. “Not again.”
As he sat up in the cold morning, the cool air lashed around his neck. He shivered as the cold rushed up his wet back.
Luckily it was early enough for his folks not to be up yet. He lit a cigarette, glanced down at the half cup of tea he didn’t manage to finish and threw the remainder on the grass.
Jim made his way up to his room unnoticed, undressed and fell back onto his bed. No sooner had he shut his eyes than the alarm kicked in. “Oh shit.” It was time to get up for work.
He lay there a while, for he had snoozed the clock like any rational person would. Gathering his bearings, he leaned over to his writing pads, flicking through some of the words he had written, smiling at some and cringing at others.
He had the shower on cold as so to wake him. He thought about the boring day ahead in that godforsaken factory, grinding the soul out every unfortunate person who worked there, except Jim’s superior.



Chapter 2


Jim just dreaded going to that place. He always joked to the others who worked there, “I’m depressed enough already; I really don’t need this in my life. It will, for certain, drive me to an early grave.”
The banter with the other workers was the only thing that really got him through.
Jim, at every convenient time (for him that is, not the company), would sneak off to have a smoke on the fire escape or go and sit in one of the toilet cubicles to read the paper and write. He would always carry a writing pad and a pen for when the time seemed right to go for that unauthorised break.
He was usually questioned by Dan, his supervisor as to his whereabouts. Jim would always answer, “Just went to see a man about a dog,” then smile and be gone.
Dan was a lanky streak of piss, who thought himself superior because he had a clipboard.
He would always pander to the factory hierarchy, hanging on their every word like some sort of trained dog.
That evening Jim got a call from Tom that his dad had gotten them a gig at the WMC. It wasn’t ideal, but it was a start.
That evening they all got together for a session of music and dope.
While discussing songs for the gig, Ben jumped in.
“Well, you guys have a couple dilemmas.”
Will turned around.
“What the fuck are you talking about, Ben?”
Ben just blew a big cloud of marijuana smoke out.
“Right. It’s all well and good that you’ve got this gig, but there are two slight problems.” The others just looked at him, quite confused.
“Well, what are they then, Mr Know-it-all?” Tom said.
Ben laughed sarcastically. “Well, you’re gonna be playing the Working Men’s Club, right?” All nodded.
“And your point is?” Will said, still with that slight confused look on his face.
“What sort of music do they usually have at working men’s clubs?” Ben questioned. Jim looked at the others, shrugging his shoulders with them following suit. “Just music, which we have,” Tom said.
“Yeah, but only your music,” Ben said.
“And?” Jim replied.
Ben shook his head in disbelief.
“Well, who the FUCK is gonna know your songs, you massive bell ends? You are gonna need cover songs, songs that people actually know and also, what are you called?”
Jim just looked stunned then burst out laughing, because Ben was right and because obviously they didn’t t have any covers for the set.
“Oh shit, now we’ve gotta learn a shit load of covers and get a name sorted,” Tom said with huge disappointment that they had actually got to think of a name.
Ben reclined back into his chair, his spliff hanging from his mouth, with an over-confident, annoying smile.
Jim looked up and huffed.
“Right, I think we all need to go home and think about a name and songs, especially songs for the older folk who go down these places. Go on YouTube and find some decent songs, and easy ones at that; nothing stupid and complicated.”
(As they were not clued up on any of the old stuff, they were quite ignorant in that department.)
So that night they all trawled through different songs, mainly sixties and seventies.
At this time, Jim went into one of his blackest times, feeling the walls closing in on him. Panic screamed through his head as he dived onto his bed, covering his head and crying hysterically.
With the dark shadows enclosing him, he ran to the bathroom and jumped in the shower, fully clothed, his mind racing, a hood of darkness seeping over him.
His mum heard his cries from downstairs and ran up to the bathroom shouting, “Jim, are you okay?” She frantically hit the door, calling downstairs for his dad to come up. His dad raced up and began knocking. “Jim, son, what’s going on? Are you okay?”
Then it went silent, but they could hear the shower running. Jim’s dad kicked the door in. Jim was curled up under the shower, sobbing uncontrollably. His dad switched off the shower, while his mum grabbed a towel, covering him up, trying to get him out, and took him back to his room. They tried but failed to get anything from him. He went blank and closed his eyes, still shaking. His parents discussed over him that they should get him to a doctor.
Jim’s mum rang each of his friends, asking them if he had had an episode like the one she described to them. Each of them said that he did go into some kind of panic attack, but didn’t think it too serious because he would level out after a while (after a few spliffs), but obviously they weren’t going tell her that. They all agreed that he should see someone to try and sort himself out.
The next day Jim came downstairs getting ready for work. His dad asked if he was okay. He just nodded and said he was fine, then his mum came through and tried to give him a hug, which weirded him out because she had never done that before. He just backed off.
“Oh, Jim, I’m just trying comfort you after last night.” A single tear streamed down her face, “I’m fine; don’t worry about me. It just sometimes happens. I can deal with it.”
He swigged the last of his tea down, grabbed a slice of toast and went out for his bus.
Still feeling some of the strain of the previous night, he got off at the stop before his usual one. He went into the park to gather his thoughts before the test of another dull work day. He rolled up the last of his weed and sat there staring at the sky.
Watching a plane flying overhead, Jim blew a smoke ring that encircled the plane, then it flew off into the clouds. Jim said to himself, “Where you off to today? Somewhere nice, I’m guessing.”
Drawing on the last of the spliff, he flicked off the roach into the grass, feeling a lot better now.
Jim was still pondering the thought as he looked up and saw someone walking through the park with a bright blue coat on. As the rain started coming down the person threw over the hood, which was way too big; it flopped over like a veil. Jim thought about the previous night’s conversation about naming the band.
And it came to him. Blue Veil Rain. He mulled over it while getting up from the bench and flicking the wet away from the back of his coat. The name stuck with him.
He then texted the others to tell them the name he’d just thought of.
Tom texted back and was all for it; he really liked it. Will was a little unsure. He said it sounded like another band but couldn’t think which, but he admitted that he was stuck for a name so agreed.
At work he went down to where the machinists were, all old boys who’d been there since the beginning of time, to question them about the old music and decent songs his band could play for the gig.
They all came out with all the same bands which were popular during the sixties and seventies – The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Who, The Kinks, etcetera, reeling off some of the well-known songs from those bands, because everyone would recognise them.
John, one of the old boys, said, “Which club yer playing at?” So Jim told him.
“Aggh, I go there with the Mrs on Fridays and Saturdays. I’ll come down and see yer.”
Jim thought, “Oh great, old John with his old wife; so it’s gonna be full of those types.”
Well, truth be told, Jim had never set foot in a WMC before, so it would be a real eye-opener.
All the oldies would be trying to twist, now with their plastic hips and fake knees. He laughed to himself before heading to his office (the toilet cubicle) to have a bit of quiet time and scribble down some lyrics and the song titles of the bands they were just talking about.
Jim texted the rest of the band when he had written down some things to play, to give them a heads up of things they needed work on.
Both texted back almost immediately with approval. Now they needed time to listen to those songs before jamming on them.
Jim felt excitement and apprehension coursing through his entire being, thinking about the gig.
“Is this gig a real gig?” he thought, leaning back against the wall, a smile spread across his face.

There was a knock on the door. “Jim, are you in here?” It was Dan.
“Err, yeah, be out in a bit.”
“All right, just need a word.” Jim heard the door go. He thought, “Oh shit, what does he want?” As he came out, Dan was waiting.
“Mr Osborne wants to see you.”
Jim thought, “Oh great; time to get my best poker face on.”
While walking to his office, Dan started to question Jim.
“I’ve noticed you always disappear to the toilet for large amounts of time. What do you actually do in there?”
Jim shook his head. “Well, I do have a weak stomach, if you must know.” Dan just glanced at him, a distrustful look etched on his face as if to say, “Yeah, right.”
Dan then told Jim that he had informed the boss that he was always disappearing and not getting his work done. Jim glared at him. “You fucking what! Why did you grass me up?”
Dan just looked at him with a sly, smarmy smile.
“Well, why should you take all these breaks while others are working? Anyway, it might give you the kick up the arse you need.”
Jim’s anxiety started to build, the tension streaming through his whole body, thinking, “Fuck, he’s trying to get me the sack, little prick.”
As they got to the office of Mr Osborne, the boss, Dan knocked on the door. “Come in.” The voice rattled through Jim’s soul.
Walking in there was like walking into a Turkish bath, but instead of invigorating steam, the office contained clouds of strong cigar smoke.
Jim gagged. Even though he smoked himself, this was enough to choke out the strongest of smokers. “Agh, Jim, how are you doing?” Mr Osborne said while sifting through some papers and brandishing another stinking cigar. When lit, the plume of smoke given off by the cigar was like a steam engine. (He would succumb to his years of smoking soon after.)
“I’m not too bad. How’s yourself?”
Dan looked at Jim, startled at what he just said.
But Osborne laughed. “Not too bad myself, thanks for asking.” There was a bit of a pause when Dan the rat chirped up.
“Well, Mr Osborne, I’ve been keeping tabs on Jim’s time-keeping on and off the floor, and it seems to me that Jim would rather spend his time off it, so I just thought you’d like to know.”
Osborne was still looking at his papers. “Well, Jim, what do you have to say? Is there any explanation for this?” Jim gave Dan a sharp sideways look.
“I’m sorry that I spend so much time off the floor, but I have a weak stomach, like I’ve told Dan several times.”
The bullshit spilling from Jim’s mouth was plain to see, but he thought he was giving the performance of a lifetime.
“Okay, well in future, don’t eat any crap food before you come here, then maybe you’ll settle down.” Jim threw a sarcastic-looking smile towards Dan.
“Thank you, Mr Osborne. I will try in future.” Jim nodded.
“Oh, and in future, Daniel, please take your concerns to Mr Johnson. He’s your floor manager. I have enough to do, and my time is limited.”
Dan held his clipboard to his chest, stunned by what he had heard. “Yes, sir, I will do, but I just thought, on this occasion –”
Dan was interrupted by the dismissive tone of “Goodbye”, as Mr Osborne was still deep in his paperwork and never gave him a second look.
On the way back up, Dan was seething at being brought down a peg or two.
“Hey, Jim, you are gonna fuck up again, and you will be caught out.” Jim just nodded, his lips pursed.