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Maxwell slung his guitar over his hunched back. Lowering his head, he trudged through Hyde Park. Darkness enshrouded his lone figure, and heavy clouds hung low in the sky. Misty rain fell upon his bent shoulders, plastering his dark, shaggy hair against his head. His worn parka provided little warmth.
He felt like a failure. Success seemed imminent to Maxwell back in Graceville, Maryland. He'd played in several local bars and clubs. A few high school girls had started a fan club in his honor that grew to a couple thousand teenage devotees. Encouraged by his home state success, he booked several gigs in Philadelphia clubs.
"You're good," Mr. Bigg stated meditatively. Chewing off the end of his cigar, he spit it toward the waste basket and missed. "But you're raw. You need experience and a gimmick."
The rotund promoter leaned back in his desk chair and studied the young man. His flabby salmon-colored lips worked the cigar from side to side. Maxwell stood before Mr. Bigg's desk, his eyes full of expectation. He pictured himself in the limelight from the time he first picked up a guitar. Music flowed through his veins, and his fingers made magic.
Claude Bigg knew talent when he heard it but grew lackadaisical over the years. Recently, he dropped several acts from his roster and began thinking of a Miami retirement. He reluctantly took Maxwell on as a client and considered him a last hurrah. As a result, Mr. Bigg booked his new protégé into a few small bars and clubs within a short radius.
Maxwell played summer gigs in Maryland and the Jersey Shore. By August, the crowds grew larger, many traveling to the resort towns just to see him. Still, he wanted more. Nothing would satisfy him better than a recording contract with a big label and international acclaim.
"Go to London, my boy," Claude encouraged, his perpetual cigar hanging from his fat mouth. "You gotta think big. Everyone's getting their start in London these days. Don't let an opportunity pass you by."
Rising, Mr. Bigg grasped Maxwell's arm and led him to the door. The promoter believed in his client's talent, but that Miami villa seemed more enticing. He'd started many young hopefuls on the road to success and recalled the beginning of the rock-n-roll era. He wouldn't stick around for another season, regardless of his expectations for Maxwell.
Despite his parents' protests, Maxwell emptied his bank account and took the first available flight to London in the spring of 1981. He dropped his demo off with all the agents and promoters he could locate with high hopes, but he has not heard back from any of them. His savings dwindled to nothing. He could neither stay in London nor go back to Graceville.
Maxwell trudged along the darkening streets, his determination a flickering flame in the cold night. He thought of his modest home in Maryland and his familiar bedroom. Warmth and love surrounded him there. He savored his mother's meatloaf and could nearly taste it in his dry mouth. A long time passed since he'd had a good, hearty homecooked meal. He'd even welcome his little sister's teasing and pert 'who me?' expressions. Nevertheless, he couldn't go home in defeat. He'd sooner struggle than go home.
Maxwell owned his guitar and a small pack of clothing. Both weighed him down heavily as he trudged through the park. He had neither a place to go nor food to eat. For several hours, he attempted to play in the park. A few people passed him; it was too cold to listen to his crooning songs.
Life as a street musician had its ups and downs. Sometimes, Maxwell did well, earning a few pounds for fish and chips or a beef burger. But, as winter gripped the city, the downs became more frequent than the ups. People weren't interested in street performers when the temperatures dropped. They didn't stop to listen or show their pleasure by tossing coins at him.
Maxwell slept in the subway with other homeless people. He kept his guitar and clothes bag nearby because he might wake up without them. A tug at either alerted him from his fitful slumbers. He would fight to save his few meager belongings.
He cursed Mr. Bigg for sending him on a fool's errand. Eager and innocent, Maxwell never considered the consequences of his quick decision. He would have recognized the folly of flying off to London if he had thought about it. No one knew his name; no one cared.
Back in Graceville, everyone knew Maxwell Stoddard. His father owned the hardware store; his mother was on the PTA. Maxwell attended school, went to the prom with Gabby Mitchell, the head cheerleader, and played at local bars and clubs. Hometown fame lacked in comparison with popularity in a big city like London. The loss of familiarity and recognition weighed heavily on Maxwell. It added to his sense of isolation in the bustling city.
Maxwell felt trapped. Without friendly faces surrounding him, he hadn't had a decent conversation with another human in months. His days as a street musician embarrassed him. The limelight wasn't shining in his direction.
Scrubbing his scruffy face with his palms, Maxwell felt a deep sense of self-disgust. He had not had a shower in weeks. In the morning, he washed his beard-stubbled face and wind-cracked hands in the McDonald's bathroom. The Egg McMuffin odors wafting through the fast-food restaurant enticed him, but he couldn't indulge. He could barely scrape together enough money for one meal a day. The stark contrast between his current state and his former life filled him with a desperate longing for change.
Unfriendly faces glared at him in the subway when he entered. Trudging toward a small corner, Maxwell plopped down his knapsack and rested his head on it. He wanted to sleep and wake up in his bedroom at home. It was a nightmare, he continued to tell himself—he'd fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep and dreamed he was homeless. He would wake up and laugh at himself at any moment.
His hapless dreams dissipated by the following morning. Filthy human bodies surrounded him, creating a certain amount of warmth. Maxwell couldn't handle the putrid odors that came along with the warmth. Much to his chagrin, he realized some of those smells came from him.
"I am one of the unwashed," Maxwell told himself grimly. He hated the thought. He was meticulous about cleanliness at home. Washed hands and brushed teeth meant a lot to him. Through his decline, he neglected life's basic necessities more frequently.
Maxwell gathered his meager belongings quickly and scuttled out of the underground. He never spent longer than necessary amongst the homeless. He did not want to count himself as one of them.
The Stoddards were a decent family. Maxwell grew up in a modest house in Graceville, Maryland. His parents kept their marriage together and provided a happy home. Although he and his sister, Mackenzie, had an occasional spat, they still loved each other. Other than ambition, there was no reason for him to leave home.
Ambition—the desire for fame and fortune. Following his local success, Maxwell had much ambition. It was enough to drive him overseas to seek his place in the limelight. How quickly he hit the proverbial wall.
The cold London streets greeted him when he exited the subway. Traffic stood still as inbound employees wove their way to their city offices. Fiery red faces poked out of unmoving cars as drivers upbraided each other. Maxwell dodged between the traffic lines, heedless of the cacophony of blowing horns. He had no place to go.
Freezing temperatures drove him into a nearby café. Small and dingy, the café had a long counter stretching along one side with red vinyl-covered stools facing it. Maxwell slid onto one at the far end and frowned at the owner.
"Cup of Joe, Ollie," he ordered dismally.
"Are you planning on paying your tab soon?" the elderly proprietor asked, lifting the coffee pot. He slammed a cracked mug on the counter and poured the black liquid.
"Yeah, Ollie, soon," Maxwell lied, wrapping his hands around the hot mug.
"When? Today? Tomorrow or next week?" Oliver Weeks snapped, leaning menacingly over the counter.
"Soon, Ollie," the young man assured, a small smile poking at the corner of his lips.
Silence fell heavily in the small café. Maxwell sipped his coffee while Ollie wiped the washed dishes with an old rag. Faded green and white tiles lined the floor. Three sagging booths sat against the opposite wall. The counter gleamed cleanly, but it had seen better days.
Oliver Weeks dreamed of retirement but hung on to his weary establishment. He and his wife often spoke of a villa in Spain overlooking the Mediterranean. Their dreams failed when Cynthia developed leukemia and succumbed to the disease after a few short months. Ollie trudged through his lonely days as though in a fog. Day after day, he opened his café out of habit. His heart was no longer in it. Often, days would pass without a single customer—until Maxwell showed up.
Ollie had to admit he looked forward to seeing the young American boy in the morning. He spotted him a cup of coffee and hoped for repayment someday. Nevertheless, he did not allow his hopes to soar too high. Although he acted tough about the tab, his heart went out to Maxwell.
When the bell above the door chimed, the proprietor and his lone customer looked up. A young woman entered and glanced around tentatively. Her face was chagrined, and she reached behind her for the doorknob. For a moment, it looked like she would flee back into the London streets.
"Good day, Miss," Ollie sang out cheerily. "Coffee's strong and hot. Could I interest you in eggs and bangers?"
The newcomer continued to hesitate at the entrance. A startled look etched itself across her pretty face. Suddenly, Maxwell found himself smiling at her welcomingly. He slid from his stool and approached her, his hand held out. Taking her by the elbow, he led her to a stool next to the one he had vacated.
"Despite appearances, the food is delicious here," he stated, smiling. "And you'll have to admit, it's warmer than out there."
The young woman hesitated a moment longer, then sat down. Pushing back her parka's hood, she shook out her short blonde bob and lifted a stained menu. Oliver placed a coffee mug in front of her, and she added milk and sugar.
"I'd have the eggs and bangers with grilled tomatoes and fried bread," Maxwell suggested, his mouth-watering. He thought longingly of hot food that he could not afford.
"Oh, you're an American too," she stated, her blue eyes softening. "I'm Claire Ogilvie."
"Maxwell Stoddard," Maxwell responded, holding out his hand.
"Nice to meet you, Maxwell Stoddard," Claire answered, encasing his palm with her own. "I'm from NYC. How about you?"
"Graceville, Maryland."
"You a musician?" she asked, eyeing his guitar propped against the bar.
"Pretending I'm one," he answered, casting his eyes down.
Suddenly, Maxwell wished the young woman hadn't sat close beside him. His unkempt appearance embarrassed him. His clothes were shabby, and his body odor strong.
Claire wore a white argyle sweater and a burgundy wool skirt beneath her parka. Warm winter boots clad her feet. The entire ensemble looked expensive. Maxwell shifted his body uncomfortably.
Maxwell strongly protested when Ollie placed two heaping breakfast plates in front of them. He could not afford the food and could not expect Oliver to put it on his tab. Pushing the plate away, he stood hastily.
"Do join me," Claire pleaded, touching his arm gently. "I hate to eat alone."
Maxwell continued to hesitate until Ollie nodded silently and grinned. He regained his stool and ate ravenously. Following a few forkfuls, he forced himself to slow down. He could not let Claire believe he hadn't eaten a proper meal in ages.
"Now, I want to hear you play," Claire demanded, lifting the guitar and pushing it toward Maxwell.
He hesitated until Claire smiled encouragement. Softly, he began to play and sing a love song from his composition. His voice rang out melodiously, and he gained confidence as he continued.
"Marvelous!" Claire exclaimed, enchanted. She recognized natural talent when she heard it. Digging in her handbag, she pulled out a business card. "Tomorrow morning, eight o'clock."
Hastily, the young woman grabbed her handbag and marched importantly toward the door. Outside, a long black car pulled up to the curb. Claire thrust the door open and rushed out to it. Maxwell stared after her in awe.
Maxwell continued to focus on the door for a long time. Finally, Ollie cleared his throat and plucked the business card from his customer's fingers. He whistled between his teeth as he gazed at it.
"Your lucky day, my friend," the café proprietor stated, flicking the card onto the counter.
Maxwell lifted the card and looked at it laconically. Suddenly, the name registered, and he hooted loudly.
"Ogilvie Records," he exclaimed, his eyes widening. "Claire Ogilvie. Who is she? Ogilvie's daughter, maybe?"
"Looks like she scouted you, young man," Oliver Weeks stated, glancing at the card again. "Amazing!"
"Yeah," Maxwell dragged the word out. He still could not believe his sudden luck.
"You better get yourself cleaned up before eight o'clock tomorrow morning," his friend commented. He returned to wiping the dishes.
Maxwell slumped in his seat and held his head in his hands. His appearance could have been better, and he needed decent clothing. His dreams faded. Lifting his guitar, he moved toward the door, a deep depression settling on him.
"Where do you think you're going, lad?" Oliver called after him.
"Nowhere," Maxwell muttered, pushing on the door.
"Nowhere, huh?" Ollie slammed a white mug onto the counter, breaking the handle off. "You get back here. We have work to do."
Maxwell turned back to Oliver, a surprised look etching his worn face.
"We must get you cleaned up, filled up, and practiced up." The café owner strutted around the counter and grabbed Maxwell's arm. "Meet your new manager." Oliver stretched out his hand. When his new protégée stared at it, he shook his empty palm up and down.
Maxwell felt dumbfounded momentarily, then he reached out and clasped Ollie's hand. He shook it meaningfully and grinned. A light shone brightly in his somnolent eyes, and suddenly he came alive. Enthusiasm filled him for the first time since he arrived in London.
