Chapter 11
Sugar
It’s a well-known fact that drummers are agents of chaos. They’re easily distracted, impulsive dopamine chasers who leave a trail of broken hearts in their wake. I won’t say this doesn’t describe our moose, but one big dopey grin and you’ll forget why any of those things are a problem.
Sam warms up the small crowd with a hilariously dramatized version of “All My Exes Live in Texas,” then moves into “Check Yes or No,” which I enthusiastically sing with him though I’m not much of a country fan. My mom likes ’90s country, so I know a lot of Sam’s favorites. And you can’tnot singwhen you hear Sam.
Steamy August air travels through the open door as people file in and join the thirty or so already sitting. There’s no telling how many will be here by the end of the night.
I add my songs to the mug, hoping Jace’s suggestions aren’t too dirty, because he’s already in rare form tonight.
Sam’s been walking around in socks and sandals goofing off with a guitar like a human jukebox but finally settles behind the drums and pulls a mic over.
“I was told to start with Poison so Lu Lu will sing. Who’s got“Nothin’ but a Good Time”? Jace?”
Jace shrugs. “That’s you, man. Take the bass and put DC on drums.”
“Me? Okay, birthday boy, switch me.” Sam pops up and takes the bass from Daniel.
I could be wrong, but I don’t think DC plays drums often. They’re not quite professionals, but they’re definitely not amateurs. It’s kind of fascinating to watch them switch instruments.
Daniel climbs behind the drums and catches me slinking off to the side.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” He points a stick at me. “You’re singing. Get your butt out front where I can see you. Count us in.”
They check their volume, and DC hits each drum and gets a feel for the kick. I watch him, curious how this will go when he lifts his hand and twirls a stick like a pro, smirking as if to say, “Don’t underestimate me.”I wouldn’t dare. No one twirls like that without having sticks in their hands for hours, probably for years. That much I know.
“Lu Lu, you’re the boss on this one. Ready?” Sam asks. “I hope I remember the words. Y’all better back me up.” Sam looks back at Jace and DC, and they both point emphatically at me setting off a war between terror and excitement. I guess this is payback for all the times I’ve blasted it. “Okay, Smalls, it’s on you. Do it.”
This intro has to beprecise. I put my hands over my head, and Daniel matches my count, hitting the sticks together over his head as Jace comes in perfectly on the intro with the thump of the bass drum. I know they’re actually following DC, not me,but it’s so much fun. I may never recover from this. I’m hopping like a kid in a bounce house, and I can’t stop smiling.
The crowd has grown too. There might be more than fifty people now, if the full tables are any indication. More than half are singing with us. Not bad for a forty-year-old song.
Jace rips the solo like he could play it in his sleep. I’d probably deny it to his face, but he’s the filthiest guitarist I’ve ever known … which isreally good, by the way.
Every time I see him play I wonder why he’s in the medical field.
I fill in when Sam fumbles the words, trying to keep the bass on rhythm, but his big stage personality makes everything look intentional, and the guys are perfect in the background. Usually, we sit outside with a couple of guitars and Sam playing a cajón box or drumming the back of an acoustic, so this is all a little surreal for me.
Of course, the real star of this show is my smokin’ hot fill-in drummer. I mean, he’s notminebut, you know, for this song. He’s my drummer forthis song. And he’s no novice.
I hate to admit it, but Jace is right. Hair metal is my drug of choice. I’m flushed and breathless and feel like I just jumped out of a plane. At least Ithinkit would feel like this, because that’s a nope for me, but this is my kind of adrenaline rush.
I shouldn’t be left unsupervised tonight, because if anything could embolden me to control-alt-delete my whole life, it’s a Poison song.
In Annie’s words, “Marie Kondo that shi—stuff.”
There happen to be a few glaring things in my life not bringing me joy.
Then again, some things bring me all kinds of joy, and that comparison has screamed in my face the last few days. How do I know whether to try harder or light a match?
Tonight, though, is for Daniel, and he’s never seemed more like Jude than right now. I wonder if he put his real name in my phone because he’s giving me permission to use it.
DC takes us into “Fallen Angel” next, and I’m euphoric. When we finish, he hops down the step from the drums, pulling his army green T-shirt up to wipe his face and exposing me to his glistening sweaty abs for the second time today.
I don’t think it’s intentional this time, but I just sang two Poison songs at the top of my lungs, and we know what that does to me.
“Was that necessary?” I ask as he drops his shirt back down.
