Drums: a Novel

  Uwe was referring to the manager of the Dameon, who had insisted we set up our equipment earlier that afternoon, well in advance of the gig. “It’s somewhat inconvenient having you band people dragging your guitars and whatnot in during the dinner hour,” he had told Seth, Uwe, and me, when we arrived in the van. The manager herded us with our equipment like we were a bunch of friggin’ cattle. He also got all over Uwe for tracking in some mud.

  “Hey, girls!” Uwe shouted.

  They ignored him.

  “What’s their problem? Can’t they come sit with us? We’re in a band together.”

  “They’re talking. Leave them alone.”

  “Sometimes I think they’re Lesbos.”

  “Quiet down a little.”

  “Okay.”

  Uwe continued, “I’ll tell you something. What they both need is a good hump.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I’ll pass on Abbey. But I’ll bet Zoe is so tight she squeaks. I wouldn’t mind giving her the big one.”

  “You’re sick, Uwe.”

  “Give me a sip of your drink.”

  “They’re $4 a pop. Go thirsty.”

  “I ought to kick your heiny, Vikker. Later. I’m going to find Seth and Jay. You and the girlies better come soon. Let’s rock.”

  “Yeah, later,” I said.

  * * *

  We met in the room the manager assigned to be our dressing area. It was where the Inn’s cooks, maids, and groundskeepers changed their uniforms. Against one wall there was a line of solemn, military-gray lockers, labeled with strips of white cloth tape: salt-of-the-earth names written in indelible ink: “Joe,” “Harry,” “Rita,” “Ben,” and “Ed” ….

  Uwe and I didn’t need to change for the show. He sat behind keyboards and I sat behind drums; the audience didn’t see much of us. Abbey, Seth, and Jay were the front people. They represented the face of Bandit.

  Ever since I began playing with them, Seth and Jay had arrived at gigs with suit bags as well as guitars. Jay liked to wear a kimono and knee-high leather boots when he performed. Jay owned three silk kimonos—one royal blue, one pink, and one black.

  Seth was not predictable. One night he might wear an old suit and tie purchased from a thrift shop. Another night he would appear looking like an impressionistic billboard, dressed in pants, T-shirt, and tennis shoes covered with all different colors of spray paint. One time Seth painted his entire head light purple, but when Seth got onstage and started to sweat, a couple drops of paint dripped onto his guitar and during break he stripped off the paint with turpentine he had brought in a baby food jar.

  Abbey seemed to adore dressing for the show even more than our guitarists. Zoe was helping her get things laid out. The girls hummed with delight.

  There was no privacy in our dressing area, but it didn’t make her uncomfortable. Quickly, she stripped off her top and pulled on another. Silently, she pulled off jeans and slipped on a short skirt. I felt like a voyeur as I stole a look.

  She applied plenty of makeup—black eyeliner, red lipstick, and blush. She drizzled tinsel in her hair, and flecks of sparkle on her face.

  Her final ensemble for the Dameon gig consisted of a mini-skirt and rose-colored tights; a red, silver, and black sequin-studded blouse; red, rain-slicker boots, and a toy sheriff’s badge on her left breast. She looked stunning.

  “Here we go,” Abbey soon said, as we stood alongside the darkened stage. Beyond us, on the floor, was a vibrant crowd of young men in suits and tuxedos and young women in long, formal gowns.

  “Without any further ado,” the Sigma Nu’s master of ceremonies said into the front and center mike, “I would like to welcome this evening’s entertainment—together once again—S.L.O’s own—Abbey Butler and Bandit.”

  * * *

  The first set went great. As Abbey hung on the last word of the set’s ending number, I ripped out on my drums. I played triplets trading off between bass drum and tom-toms; I played a vicious series of thirty-second notes on high-toned timbales; I played paradiddles all over the set; I kicked off a couple jazz licks. My solo went on for the sixteen measures predetermined by Seth. On beat four of the second-to-last measure, Seth and Jay jumped into the air and struck final notes when they landed. Cymbals ringing, Seth and Jay let their fingers crawl up the necks of their guitars, and the pitch lowered and diminished. Abbey took a deep, graceful bow. Seth clicked the foot switch to the stage lights and there was darkness. We slipped off the back of the stage and went into our dressing area.

  We broke out a cooler of beer and wine, which was stashed in my bass drum case. Unlike some places, the Dameon didn’t offer free drinks to band members. The manager was probably afraid we’d take liberties, maybe converge on the Stallion Cocktail Lounge. Touché. Some of us already had.

  We sat on the floor and talked about our music and drank.

  Uwe and Abbey got into a mild argument about Bandit choosing a frat party for our debut gig. Abbey said she much preferred playing nightclubs rather than “Old-fashioned, dukie proms.” I didn’t really like playing frats, either, but the fraternities paid four or five times more money than the local nightclubs.

  After a while, Seth stood and scrunched up his face at the girls. “Take it easy, you lushes. We have three more sets to go.”

  Abbey was holding an empty wine bottle.

  “I was thirsty,” she said, over-emphasizing her words as inebriated people are prone to do.

  Zoe laughed.

  Seth muttered the word “shit” a number of times. He paced the dressing room. I didn’t understand why he was anxious. Abbey always drank a lot.

  The Sigma Nu’s emcee called us back onstage. It was time for our second set at the Dameon Inn.

  Abbey approached her mike. She drew her fingers naughtily through her hair. She grinned devilishly back at the band.

  Then she turned and let out a blood-curdling proclamation: “Fuckin’ A, all you privileged freaks!”

  The crowd was dumb-founded. There was a long, anxious pause.

  “Excuse me, I mean Greeks!”

  One fraternity guy laughed.

  “Are you ready to rock?!” she cried.

  A number of people cheered.

  She let the audience grow quiet; then, once again, Abbey screamed: “Hey, you rich shits! Does mommy know you’re not all virgins?!”

  Tension cracked. The audience erupted with laughter and bawdy retorts.

  “She’s wide open!”

  “Crazy bitch!”

  “She’s totally fresh!”

  “Fuckin’ A, all you snotty-nosed boys and girls,” she dared them. “I guess even bourgeois piggies like to rock ‘n’ roll!!!”

  Her sarcasm was thick enough to cut with a machete, but the voices of her enchanted audience fell in sync with her, “Oink! Oink! Fuckin’ A. Dukies like to rock ‘n’ roll! Oink! Oink! Fuckin’ A. Dukies like to rock ‘n’ roll!”

  I had to hand it to her. Somehow, she was managing to stay in control.

  Seth grabbed her mike, “This next song is our own version of a Beatles tune, ‘Twist and Shout.’”

  I kicked in the song hard. Abbey jumped back on track—shut up and started singing. Once again our music sounded awesome with her on vocals.

  Song after song went by. Silky dress trains and tuxedo tails whirled on the dance floor.

  As we played into the third set, the party became increasingly rowdy. The frat boys started taking off their ties and their dates started wearing them. During slow numbers, the couples on the dance floor made no attempt to hide their passions. Groin to groin, the carnal grind—guys kneading their girlfriends’ bottoms as though they were dough.

  Once again, the wine and whatever else she had shared with Zoe surged in her.

  “This is no church!” she screamed in between songs. “Goddamnit, I wanna get crazy tonight! I wanna see you dukies tear this place down! I’m the wicked witch.
Who are yyyooouuu???”

  “Yeah!” The audience whooped. “Party down!!!”

  The girl wearing the toy sheriff’s badge could do no wrong. She was the law.

  The sound of guitars, drums, vocals, and keyboards circled the convention room like a tornado. Jay’s bass line thumped in my gut, I pounded on my drums, my arms going limp on the recoils.

  Then, nothing came out of the P.A.

  Nothing came out of the amps.

  The stage lights blinked off.

  A bald-headed man stood in the corner by the power supply.

  The emcee sauntered over and tried to plug us back in, but the man yanked the cord out of the emcee’s hands.

  “Bummer,” Jay said. “It’s him.”

  The manager made a beeline for the stage.

  “It’s all well and fine that fraternities have their formals at the Dameon,” the bald-headed little man snarled upon reaching us. “We do have a policy, however. When the raucousness gets excessive, then ‘poof,’ we pull the plug on you people.”

  “Poof?” Abbey said, one hip jutted out. “What do you mean ‘poof’ you pull the plug?”

  “Could you please define ‘poof?’” Zoe said.

  The manager shunted Zoe and focused his glaring eyes on Abbey. “You, miss,” he enunciated, “are the crux of the problem. I’ve been listening to your drivel. You are one of the most vulgar-mouthed female creatures I’ve ever encountered. Were you raised by cretins?”

  Abbey’s face flushed.

  “That’s an awful thing to say, Mr. Whoever-You-Are,” Zoe blurted. “You’re worse than a cretin. You’re an amoeba.”

  Abbey still made no reply.

  The fraternity boys and their dates began to gather around us.

  “I was raised by a goddess,” Abbey said finally. Her voice was uneven.

  A female voice came from the crowd, “I agree with that man. She does have a slutty mouth. I didn’t appreciate some of the things she was saying to us.”

  “Shut up,” a male voice answered. “She’s a hot mamma. Talk dirty, baby!”

  “Quiet!” the emcee told the crowd. “Look,” he said to the manager, “the people at this party didn’t do anything wrong. It was the band. We paid money up front for this room. This is one of Sigma Nu’s most important functions.” He turned on Abbey. “You’re a real stupid bitch aren’t you?”

  “Don’t call me a bitch,” Abbey said. “I’m not a bitch.”

  Seth, the emcee, and the manager removed themselves from the stage to renegotiate. I overheard Seth and the emcee trying to convince the manager to let us fire up the P.A. and amps and resume playing. The emcee was persuasive. The manager was stubborn. Seth was frantic.

  During all this, Uwe drifted away from the commotion. He stood with a group of prom guests chatting, showing off. He kept putting his arm around this one heavy-set girl; each time he did this, she pushed him away and he laughed.

  The rest of the crowd surged toward the bar. Jay, Abbey, Zoe and I remained on the stage.

  “Just look at Uwe,” Zoe said.

  “God, he’s more interested in talking to those dukies than helping Seth get us out of this mess,” Abbey said.

  “He’s so high on himself,” Zoe said.

  “He’s a joke,” Abbey said.

  “Hey, come on girls,” said Jay, not bothering to look up. He was wiping down his bass. “Give the dude a break. It’s all kind of your fault, Abbey. This isn’t the first time this has happened, either.”

  “Shut up, Jay.”

  I said nothing. I felt bad for her, but I couldn’t think of how to defend her.

  I noticed Uwe go over and join in with Seth, the manager, and the emcee. The manager had stopped shouting.

  They called the rest of us over.

  “We’ve got two choices,” Seth explained. “One is we pack up and leave and don’t get paid.”

  “The other choice is this,” Uwe cut in. “The manager and my colleagues in Sigma Nu feel the guests of this party and the rest of the members of Bandit should not be penalized just because the lead singer has a trashy mouth.” He straightened his back and looked down at Abbey. “I told these people about your problem, Abbey—about how you were kicked out of school for the same reason, being a slut.”

  “Shut up,” said Abbey.

  “Can it, Uwe,” said Jay. “You’re being way too harsh.”

  “This is ridiculous,” said the manager.

  “Sir, let me talk,” Uwe said. “Everyone in the band, except Vikker, knows it was her who Domino got sick of. This time she needs to leave. We finish the gig without her, and without any more of her trash.”

  The manager said, “She is not the type of person we want presiding over a function at the Dameon.” Both the manager and Uwe acted as if Abbey were invisible.

  “Let’s bail,” said Jay.

  “This is bogus,” I said.

  “What will it be, people?” the manager asked.

  Seth put a hand on Abbey’s shoulder. “It’s not like we’re kicking you out. We’ll just finish the gig with the stuff Jay and I sing.”

  The emcee said, “You said you’d tell her to leave.” He, too, refused to look at Abbey directly. She was crying. Zoe was crying, too.

  “Yeah, tell her to get her butt out of here,” some frat guy yelled.

  I looked around for him. I wanted to sock him. But it was a zoo. I couldn’t single out one smart-ass dukie from another.

  My eyes returned to where Abbey and Zoe had been standing.

  Zoe remained. Abbey was gone.

  Zoe delivered a message from Abbey: “She wants you to keep playing tonight without her, and if you don’t she’s gonna quit the band. You know she’ll do it, too.” She looked coldly at Uwe. “This isn’t going to happen again.”

  “Is that a threat?” said Uwe.

  Zoe stormed off. A drunken frat guy bellowed, “Watch out. She’s a hot mamma, too.”

  Seth rallied us together. He told us we better play spectacularly if we wanted to get paid. I didn’t say anything, neither did Jay.

  I felt ashamed for Abbey. I also felt paranoid that there was a chance I might not ever see her again.

  Chapter 5

  Suspenders

  What exactly is it about men who wear suspenders? Do they belong to a cult? Do they idolize firemen or lumberjacks? Is it that they have a strange phobia toward belts—are belts a gripping fear around their waists? Did their fathers strap them, and do suspenders symbolize emancipation? Suspenders, it would seem, are of little use except to hold one’s pants up, and Uwe’s jeans screamed at his hefty waistline and clung to his thick, Nordic legs like Scotch tape. Two wide, rainbow-colored suspenders decorated his shoulders, each strap tensionless as a slice of headcheese. Uwe looked absurd.

  I drummed absently on my thighs as I gazed through the Coffee Shack’s tinted windows. The theme song from the television series Barney Miller had been playing in the back of my mind all day long since my eight o’clock Non-Euclidean Geometry class. Uwe was outside in the campus courtyard with a bunch of his fraternity brothers. It was too bright outside for him to look in and see us. The differential intensity of the afternoon sunshine and the dark-oak dimness inside the Coffee Shack made the café’s tinted windows into one-way mirrors.

  If Uwe hadn’t been outside, Zoe probably would have finished her Coca-Cola and left. She wasn’t one to idle away her time in the campus snack bar as I sometimes did. The vicarious intrigue of spying on Uwe was altogether too compelling, however, and kept Zoe from going off to class or to the library.

  All of the other Alpha Upsilons were wearing showy rainbow suspenders like Uwe. “It must be some kind of brotherhood-love thing to wear those,” she said.

  “Must be.”

  “Dukies are such peacocks, aren’t they?”

  “I’m sure Abbey would liken them to something much worse.”

  “Oh
my.”

  Bandit had played several gigs since the Sigma Nu incident, and Abbey had toned down her stage act considerably. She apologized to all of us, including Uwe. We all agreed that the matter should be dropped.

  However, in a cleverly vague way, Uwe continued to gloat over his triumph. And in an overtly blatant way, Abbey continued to despise him.

  Yet a strong force held Abbey, Uwe, Seth, and Jay together—something about the band’s past with Domino. I was sucked into a vacuum the ex-drummer left.

  “I wonder what Uwe and company are plotting,” I said. “Another controversial hazing up at the Ag barns?”

  “Perhaps,” said Zoe, “a multiple sheep rape.”

  “Let’s see if we can read their lips.”

  “Oh my, that one fellow just said he wants to bring a blindfold.”

  “Of course Uwe’s in charge of the gumboots.”

  “I really can’t stand him.” She sighed.

  “We’re stuck with him.”

  “Yes.”

  “It has something to do with Domino, doesn’t it?”

  This was the first time I’d mentioned his name in the presence of one of the girls.

  Zoe pretended she hadn’t heard me.

  She made a funny face at Uwe through our one-way mirror, and sipped the rest of her coke through a straw until there was just ice and a gurgling noise.

  After a while she said, “East is east. West is west. Zoe-baby is the best.”

  “What?”

  “Isn’t that warped?”

  “Yes, what are you talking about?”

  “Uwe,” she said. “The other night at practice, he stole my biochemistry text. He was acting like a jerk, as usual. The next day I discovered a bunch of notes in it.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Stuff. The east-west-best business was the most bizarre. He wrote it on page 217, at the beginning of the chapter on cellular reproduction. He also drew a man’s penis.”

  I felt like going outside and wrapping Uwe’s suspenders around his neck. He had no right to bug Zoe. She was too friggin’ nice.

  “Did you say something to him?”

  “What could I say?”

  “Maybe you should have confronted him,” I said. “Or maybe I should—maybe Jay or Seth?”

  “My hero!” she teased. “Don’t worry, Danny, Abbey will always hate him enough for both of us. She’s working on Seth and Jay.”