I think something is wrong with Weebley.
I could see he was quite emotional as we drove up Farcroft Avenue, then along Broad Lane. As we turned onto Nod Rise, he said : “James Tuohy.” That is the first name he has given me since we got here. “We listened to Slade together. He lived on Firtree Avenue. Man, that was a long time ago. I really liked him . . . good friend . . . honest . . . Irish parents, but I can’t picture his parents at all. Weird.”
We drove down the hill and stopped at 26 Nod Rise. He pointed at the front bedroom window.
“I was born in that room,” he said. “Mrs. Corbett was my Mums’ mid-wife. I was best friends with her son, Paul. Those were good times . . . playing with Paul, that is. I have to clarify that being born does not seem to be very enjoyable . . . for both parties involved.
I concur with that.
We then doubled back and drove behind the house, past the alley, then into the rear of Brookstray Flats, where his Nan lived. We cloaked the car and wandered around.
He hasn’t spoken a word since then.
“What’s wrong, Weebley?”
He took a long drag on the cigarette, looked at me with those piercing hazel eyes . . . then exhaled.
“See that bridge over there, under the highway? We smoked bracken down there . . . in the underbrush by the stream. I don’t know who’s bright idea that was, but we did it. I remember it well. The hollow tubes didn’t burn well. We kept having to re-light them with my Swan Vestas. I remember things as pictures. The picture is a trigger to start the video. We felt like adults for a few minutes.”
“We used to test fireworks down there too; under Dunchurch highway. I think this is it, Lucy . . . I had a vision yesterday.”
I was wondering what he was talking about. He took off walking past Brookstray Flats and ended up at Saint John Vianney School.
“This is outside class 4,” he said, pointing at the base of the classroom window. “We used to play a game here. Flicksies, I think it was called. We’d line up a few cards, then we’d take turns flicking cards, trying to knock down the standing cards. Whoever knocked the last card down took all. I wouldn’t play with Gordon Banks, or Georgie Best, or Billy Bremner. They were money.”
“I think I spouted something out yesterday. A game changer. I didn’t mean it. I hope it goes over well. It’s not my fault I said it. These things do not come from me. My mind is empty when I speak. Things just pop out!”
I asked him where these things come from, then.
“I think 62 million people wanted me to say it. You know, when the French ruled England, the commoners spoke English and began to warp the English language. The French Courts could not understand what was going on. English was ESL to them. It is going to happen again.”
We walked up to the upper play area. He gazed at Mount Nod Way, the road that passed by. He pointed at the road.
“We played conkers here once . . . hey . . . David Bowie walked past here one day. We were all frozen . . . dumbstruck . . . for a few moments . . . until he disappeared into the distance. We wouldn’t let ourselves believe anything except The Man From Mars graced us with his presence as he walked by. None of those bushes and trees were there . . . just a fence . . . and David Bowie walking by . . . he was ho hum about it . . . as if it was just another road to walk down. He looked over at us, though. I wonder what he was thinking . . .”
Weebley laid down on the grassy hill, looking up at the clouds passing by. I joined him.
“Do you see the magnets, Lucy?” he said.
“I do,” I said.
“Most people don’t take the time to see them,” he said.
Weebley was acting strangely . . . but he does that sometimes. That’s why I love him. It’s like being married to a different guy every day. It’s hard to know which one is the real Weebley.
After we picked out different animals in the clouds for a few minutes, I asked him.
“So, Weebley, what is this game changer?”
People need to pull some cash out of the bank. Not a lot. Just make sure you have some fivers on hand for when you need them. It will make a statement.
“What kind of statement, Weebley?”
“62 million people saying that you lawmen are beating up the wrong guy.”
Source: david bowie – life on mars