“You want more?” he called out, his voice the perfect pitch of virile male everythingness. And they reacted with cheers. I noticed women twice his age had joined me in lustfully eyeing the young musician. Like me, they wanted more. A whole lot more.
Giving his buckets a momentary reprieve, the drummer focused on the sticks spinning in his hands. Starting off slow, he gradually picked up the pace until they were rotating at such dizzying speed they disappeared in a blur of motion.
“More?” he teased, flipping the drumsticks in the air and catching them like it was no big deal. The display of showmanship wowed his crowd. Sweat dripped from his hair onto his face and neck as if he had his own personal rain cloud dumping precipitation down upon him. He was working so hard, and he deserved the riotous applause. “Yes? You want more?”
He waited for the whoops and cheers to die down before speaking again. “Okay, I hear ya. How about an encore? Anyone want a little…” The sticks instantly stopped spinning so the drummer could bang out the first beats of “We Will Rock You.” It drew a thunderous response.
But it was just a tease. He pulled the sticks away from the buckets and began spinning them again, spinning and flipping them in the air, only this time in the opposite direction. Damn, such a performer. Drummers tended to be in the background, out of the spotlight. With all eyes typically on the lead singers and guitarists at center stage, it was easy to overlook the hardworking percussionist in the back. But I never did because I knew what most didn’t—a good drummer was worth his weight in gold. Much like the FedEx guy, he was expected to show up on time. Every time. There was no room for tardiness when the fate of a song rested on his shoulders.
But this drummer was different, born for the stage. He came alive with those sticks in his hands and entertained like a young Tommy Lee. Within seconds, his sticks were again lost in a high-velocity centrifuge. The cheering continued, louder and more explosive than before. I was swept up in the thrill of the moment, feeling as if I was witnessing the birth of newborn baby star. Then, as swiftly as it had started, the drummer’s sticks came to a swirling, twirling halt, and with his foot, he thrust an upright bucket toward the crowd.
Written across the front read, “Feed the Beats.”
There was a moment of pause as those in the audience tried to catch up to the abrupt transition, but then the light bulb went off. The drummer expected, and rightly deserved, compensation for the show. His worshipers did not disappoint, stepping forward and dropping dollar bills into the collection bucket. I would have been right up there with the rest of them had I any money to give. But I didn’t, so I stayed put and kept my eye on the resting drummer.
Lifting the hem of his shirt, he bent over and wiped off his face, exposing a generous expanse of stomach. Sweat carved trails of dirt into his skin, almost like his perspiration had gone off-roading and hadn’t had a chance to stop by the car wash on its way home. More notable was his concave abdomen. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his lengthy body, making me wonder if it was genetics at play or if he was going to sleep hungry.
It felt criminal to profit off his sweat without giving something in return. All night I’d bemoaned being parted from my phone and my money and my identity, but it was only now, when I desperately wanted to give something to this talented boy, that I felt its profound loss. I didn’t deserve to be standing in the front row, taking up space from those who could help him fill his belly. I had to fall back, lose myself in the crowd. But before I could slip into the background, the drummer shifted his eyes in my direction, and his head instantly cocked. That slack jaw of his was indication enough that he recognized me.
Our eyes locked, just as they had earlier on the sidewalk, and I was again immediately drawn in, free-falling into the depths of his misery. Dark and fiery, it was Armageddon down deep in his soul. What had happened to this boy to cause such despair? I’d been there before, staring into the eyes of a wounded boy who’d gone to war with himself right before my terrified eyes. My brother had needed me then, but I’d forsaken him. The regret stuck with me, and I’d made a promise to myself: never again would I abandon another lost soul.
Shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, I was unsure what to do with his undivided attention, so I faked it and forced a smile. He didn’t reciprocate, responding only with a scowl. But I didn’t shy away, allowing him to study me as I’d done him, waiting on him to blink and break the spell. But he didn’t. The sidewalk percussionist kept that deep focus on me even as he extended his arms straight out in front of him and pointed the drumsticks directly at me.
I scrunched my forehead, looking over my shoulder to see if there was another girl behind me more worthy of his attention. But no, it was me he was pointing at. His eyes sparked with a sudden playfulness as they registered my ‘Who, me?’ antics. With the slightest smile on his face, he began alternating the sticks back and forth like an air traffic controller motioning an aircraft to the gate. I took two cautious steps forward, stopped, and looked up at him. Was I good?
He shook his head, not satisfied with my minimal progress. The drummer ramped up the back-and-forth motion. I took another step forward. Then another. He was strangely mesmerizing as he continued to lure me in. I feared if he wanted me in his lap, I might jump right on. It was only when I was within a few feet of him that he halted me with his sticks, now upright and parallel to his face. There was clear expectation in his expression, but for what, I didn’t know.
And then he showed me.
Tapping the feed-the-beats bucket, he said, “I don’t work for free.”
My cheeks ignited, totally on fire. I’d been busted for freeloading and had nothing in my pockets to prove him wrong.
“Oh, I… I’m sorry,” I stuttered. “I totally would, but I don’t have any money.”
His jaw steeled, his playfulness erased. “No, of course you don’t.”
“No, really. I don’t. Remember that guy I was with? The one who called you…” I bit down on my lip, preventing the word from escaping.No, Grace, don’t bring up unpleasant experiences when you’re trying to get him on your side!“Er… um… anyway, that guy dumped me for another girl, and now he has my phone and all my money.”
The drummer blinked. Then stared. Then blinked again. Clearly, I’d provided too much information in too short a time. The other possibility was he just didn’t care about my suburban drama.
A quick pop of annoyance skipped over his face.
“Whatever,” he said. “Step aside, 90210. I’ve got an encore to do.”
What the…? Was he shaming me by zip code?
“Oh, I don’t… I don’t live in Beverly Hills.”
Although to be fair, I didn’t live that far off. Undeterred, I continued. “I’m going to come back tomorrow and bring you some money. Then you’ll know I’m telling you the truth.”
No emotion registered on his face. “I won’t be here tomorrow.”
“You won’t? Why not?”
“Because I don’t plan my gigs around you, Gucci.”
His words hit with a punch, and after holding it together all night, the stress finally caught up to me. I punched back.
