Chase and I take a taxi to Madison Square Garden. Tall buildings and traffic hem us in on all sides.
‘Where you boys from?’ The taxi driver has an unlit cigar in his mouth and an unlit match, which is just asking for trouble. He looks at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘You a hippie from San Francisco, man?’
‘No, sir,’ I say. ‘I am a lower secondary school student from Melbourne, Victoria, Australia. But I did once sit next to a cheerful hippie chappie wearing a purple shirt with pineapples and bananas orbiting around an incredibly inaccurate drawing of a bottle-nosed dolphin.’
‘You got a hippie haircut, my friend,’ the driver drawls. ‘One side anyway. Or you a skinhead? You hippie to the left. You a head-bangin’ cat to the right!’
‘My hairstyle was the result of circumstances beyond my control,’ I answer. ‘I can assure you, I prefer a more conservative look that reflects my conservative nature.’
‘You a hippie-head,’ the driver says. ‘First one I ever seen in New York City.’
Chase asks the driver to stop. I see a large brightly lit building with long lines of people outside it. The name, Rhibeeyonceyh, is spelled out in startlingly bright lights. Something big is happening here. Or it will be soon. I can feel it!
Chase pays the driver, whom I’m glad to get away from, because if that’s what harsh interrogation feels like, no wonder it’s banned under the Geneva Convention.
‘What is a skinhead, Chase?’ The question has been bothering me. ‘Are they dangerous?’
Chase looks at me. ‘You’ve had a very sheltered childhood, haven’t you, George?’
We stand on a wide street. It’s cold, but people are laughing and shouting. It’s kind of thrilling.
‘Not particularly,’ I say. ‘Although I wasn’t allowed to go to the letterbox by myself until I was twelve. A sensible precaution, I would’ve thought.’
‘Yeah, really sensible,’ Chase says, not bothering to join the end of the queue, which worries me because no Parker has ever pushed in anywhere. ‘Up here, George.’ He turns into a dark side street where gigantic trucks are parked. ‘Let’s make a plan.’
Oh, good. I like plans. And maps, brochures, pamphlets, and instructional leaflets.
‘I don’t have a pen,’ I say. ‘Perhaps I could borrow one?’
‘You won’t need a pen, George.’ Chase drags me into a smelly doorway. We crouch down. ‘But you will need to be cool and calm. No matter what.’
I nod. ‘I’ll do my best.’ Boy, there are odours here that make me nervous.
‘Right.’ Chase’s eyes shine in the dark. ‘How’s your dancing?’
Hmmm, the general Parker opinion of dancing is that it’s best left to the experts, or idiots with private health insurance.
‘I’ve seen quite a lot of dancing,’ I say, trying to be helpful. ‘I must admit I struggled with the complexities of “Itsy Bitsy Spider”, Chase, so perhaps the gentle art of folk dancing might be my thing?’
‘Perhaps it might not.’ Chase takes a deep breath. ‘George, you will do exactly what I tell you, which will not include folk dancing at any point. So let’s hope you’ve got hidden talents. Come on.’
There is a huge man wearing dark glasses standing beside a door with a silver star on it. Chase stops in the shadows.
‘We dance to the door,’ he hisses, ‘because we are dancers, right? Do everything I do, except talk. And keep on dancing. No matter what!’
This use of what is really confusing; it’s just so general.
‘What might the what be, Chase?’
Chase grabs my shirt and talks through gritted teeth.
‘The what could be freaking anything! Now get your dancing shoes on and let’s go!’
Suddenly, from inside the building, the loudest music I’ve ever heard begins. Chase shouts at me.
‘We go on the count of four! One. Two. Three. Four!’
Something peculiar is happening! The music explodes in my brain, my body gets lift-off, and my feet follow! I tap-dance towards the big security guy, trip over but turn it into a somersault (my first ever), then just when I’m about to do a spin, the music stops. But I don’t; I keep on dancing.
I leap like a tiger, crouch like a frog then strut like Captain Cook arriving in Australia, before doing a dance interpretation of popcorn popping followed by a scene from the ballet Swan Lake, which I’ve never seen, but it seems to have gone well because the big security guy just says, ‘You dancers! Always late! Get inside!’
So Chase and I simply waltz straight in through the door and hide behind a big black curtain.
A thought strikes me as we catch our breath.
‘What are we here for again, Chase?’
‘You’re here,’ Chase informs me, ‘to learn how to become a pop superstar song-writing billionaire. Like Taylor Swift.’
‘Like what, Chase?’
Chase looks displeased. ‘She’s not a freakin’ what, George. She’s a damned who!’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Well. That’s nice. What does Tyler do exactly?’
Chase looks really annoyed. ‘Which planet are you—’ The music starts, ka-boom, people swirl wildly, the invisible crowd roars, and then the curtain we’re hiding behind flies up! Suddenly Chase and I are surrounded by people in shiny black pants and tiny jackets – then I see the crowd, and they’re standing, stamping, and cheering!
‘Just do what these dancing dudes do!’ Chase shouts. ‘Whatever that is!’
No time for questions! Up we jump, and stand like statues like everybody else on stage, until something flat taps me on the head. I look up and see a beautiful young woman in pink and silver on a trapeze, and it’s her tapping me on the head with her electric-blue shoe. Then she spins to the floor in a tornado of glitter and sequins.
Chase hisses, ‘Tops off and teeth out, George!’ He turns on an electric grin and points to his now-bare chest. ‘This is showbiz, boy!’
Normally I would not expose my upper half anywhere but in the shower or on doctor’s orders, but I guess I have to help Chase so – zip!
The next hour passes in a flash. One minute I’m a bad-tempered lion, the next I’m sailing a silver yacht on a wire high above the stage, and then I’m dodging a ring of flame because I’m not sure if my socks and undies are one hundred per cent fireproof.
‘Keep it up, George,’ Chase puffs as we pass. ‘Listen to the words. That’s where the money is.’
Somehow I find myself in the spotlight with the beautiful singer, who’s wearing underwear I’ve only ever seen in a letterbox catalogue, despite our No Junk Mail, It’s Annoying And Environmentally Unfriendly, Thank You Very Much And Have A Fun Day Doing Science If You Have Time sticker.
‘Whass up!’ The beautiful star does the splits.
I get it! I have to do the opposite of what she says, so I do the splits, too.
‘Gedd down!’ She stands up, confusingly, and now stretches one leg straight out on a grand piano. ‘And get jiggy with it!’
I’m with my mother on this one. No jigging for George.
Instead, I find myself beside the grand piano, turning pretend pages of music as the superstar sings and plays. Then somehow I’m sitting at the piano – so I launch into a tune I wrote called ‘Extinct Animals Don’t Make Good Pets’, which confuses the crowd although the message there is pretty clear, I would’ve thought. And just when I’m about to start ‘Stand Up for the Dugong Because They Can’t Stand Up for Themselves’, Chase drags me violently off the stage.
‘We gotta go!’ He nods. ‘A guy said they’re taking us to Las Vegas as pretend showgirls. And I doubt your parents would approve.’
I guess it doesn’t sound all that bad, but Chase is probably right. So I zip up his leather jacket and look for the exit – but we never make it. A security man in a leopard-print suit grabs us.
‘The boss wants to see ya,’ he growls. ‘So guess what?’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I say, ‘the only answer to that question is a question, isn’t it? Because what is the wh—’
Chase elbows me. ‘Don’t go there, George.’
Don’t go where? Well, it turns out that the where is a white room with couches, mirrors, flowers, and bottles of alcohol.
‘If this is prison,’ I whisper to Chase, ‘it’s quite nice, isn’t it? But giving alcohol to under-age law-breakers seems rather irresponsible.’
‘Take a seat,boys.’ The big man blocks the doorway. ‘The boss’ll be here shortly.’
‘I don’t like the look of this,’ I whisper.
‘Shut,’ Chase whispers back, ‘up.’
The beautiful star appears in a fluffy white dressing gown and slippers like furry dogs. A little old lady comes in with her and pours three cups of tea. Then she adds milk, so bad luck if anyone is dairy-intolerant because the evening is going to be rather gaseous from now on. The singer sits back, crosses her legs, and looks at me.
‘Who designed your leather jacket, darling?’
Is this a trick question?
‘Er, pass,’ I say.
‘My mother,’ Chase answers. ‘And her company made it.’
‘Get the details, Flora,’ the superstar says to the little lady. ‘We’ll buy everything.’
Well, I guess that’s a good start, so I sit up straight with my knuckles on my knees to show that I’m both attentive and polite.
‘Relax, George,’ Chase whispers. ‘You look like a startled kangaroo.’
‘George,’ says the beautiful star. ‘You’re a dancer, a choreographer, a hair-styling trendsetter, and a musician. Do you feel you could live in Hollywood as a creative consultant? Flora would attend to your every need.’
I try not to look alarmed.
‘It would be better if George phones it in from offshore,’ Chase says, ‘because he prefers silence to speaking.’ He glares at me. ‘He also worships every single thing you’ve ever done. And attends church every day and has eighty million friends on Facebook.’
What’s Facebook, I wonder?
The beautiful star glows at me. I try to glow back.
‘You’re very sweet, George,’ she says. ‘We’ll be in touch. Flora, get George’s contacts.’
Then the superstar is gone, and suddenly Chase and I are outside the steel door we came in. A black limousine pulls up silently like a ghost ship and a window whirrs down.
‘I can go as far as the Canadian border,’ the driver says. ‘Or Mexico to the south.’
‘It’s fine, thanks,’ Chase says, as we get into the rear seat. ‘We only want to go to Fourth Avenue. So, Georgie, I think we made significant progress.’ He sinks back. ‘It’s time to relax.’
‘I cannot begin to relax,’ I answer, ‘without pyjamas. I’d rather die!’
‘Settle down, you ninny.’ Chase checks his phone. ‘Clemmy’s bought you two pairs.’
Two? Generally we only buy one of anything in case I grow, or – rather more unlikely – I shrink.
‘Thank goodness.’ I unwind a little. ‘All I’ll need now is a permanent marker to draw an endangered species or two on them, Chase. Or I won’t be able to sleep a wink.’
Chase peers at me. ‘You’re not exactly mainstream are you, George? You certainly are a little bit out there.’
Me? The only edge of the envelope I would push, as the saying goes, is the one you press down to seal the thing.
‘Positive pyjama illustration,’ I say, ‘is hardly nonmainstream. Not amongst my crowd, anyway. I’ll simply draw a pair of dim-witted western swamp tortoises using my kneecaps as templates. And pretty soon you’ll see numbers of those short-sighted little fellows crossing the Great Northern Freeway again. Which, come to think of it, could explain the difficult position of survival they find themselves in today.’
Chase has no answer to that.
Just as I thought.