Did you steal my Money?

by Regis Boff

“Could I have a word?” Townshend said to me on the hotel phone around midday. Like certain rare birds, Pete was seldom sighted before late afternoon for sound checks.

It was not a settling experience to talk to him one on one before then. In my case, it was fair cause for dread. He made me uneasy and I him at first. It took years to work that out.

A couple of us were having fun working out a logo/poster for the upcoming Canadian leg of a Who tour .Canada is big and mostly settled by moose. So far we had a sketch of a frog with a greasy slab of Canadian​ bacon in its​ mouth hopping from city to city outlining where they would play. He was dressed in a Royal Canadian Mounted Police uniform and in chase of​ a tubby beaver. It was in a time that people could laugh at themselves.

The bacon was my touch because I grew up eating it. But that phone call dampened me, so I headed down to his room with my bag .

He did not look well. He had his tea. There were no headless bodies and only his security guy who was desperately trying to focus his eyes on the sofa.

”Did you give me money last night?” he said without really looking up. I got the feeling that if I lied to him he would be pleased. ”

Yes”, I said.“

How much?” He gutturally​ groaned when I told him.

“Fuck,” was all he said

“Who was here?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter I didn’t know them. I must have passed out.”

He is dangerous to try to read so I didn’t.

“Want me to put Jim on it?” I said.

It’s gone, thanks.”

And I left.