Starman
Short story
I called him Starman. All his friends did. Martin Deckley doesn’t really have the same edge, does it? Especially when you’re an aspiring rock star. It was from that Bowie number. You know the one I mean, ‘There’s a Starman waiting in the sky/blah blah… he thinks he’ll blow our mind…’
Well, he blew my mind.
I first met him at the Nags Head where he was doing a gig. What amazed me was his energy. His short, wiry body strutted and cavorted for two hours without stopping. At one point he practically shagged his guitar, Hendrix style. And he could cover everything, all the old stuff — REM, Nirvana, The Clash and, of course, David Bowie.
As the barman was shouting, ‘Time, please!’ he was suddenly hunched over me, staring intently.
‘So what do you reckon of Starman?’
Before I could answer he sat down next to me and ruffled his shoulder-length, dyed black hair. I shifted in my seat, suddenly aware of the notebook beside my pint.
‘I’m doing a review for the weekend section. Should give you a few more punters.’
‘Cool. And which paper is that?’
‘Oh, y’know, The Chronicle.’ This was back in the day when we still had proper newspapers and our screens stayed obediently at home in the corner of the room.
