Drums: a Novel

  “I’ll shoo the customers out of here shortly and close up,” Izy said. “Now Zoe, dear, and Danny, you two will pick up Abbey later?”

  “That’s the plan,” I said.

  “Good, then we all can have a nice visit,” Izy said.

  * * *

  Zoe and I had lunch at a little outdoor restaurant. It was good in a way that Abbey hadn’t joined us because she never ate regular meals and always got bored at restaurants. Abbey was a nibbler and relied on frozen yogurt and nachos to keep herself nourished. Fortunately, Zoe had a hearty appetite like mine.

  We finished our coffee and walked to a music shop Seth had recommended. Seth claimed that Granger’s Music was the only decent place to buy anything musical north of L.A.

  Inside, Granger’s looked like a warehouse. There were rows of drum kits stacked bass drum on the bottom with successively smaller drums stacked on top, forming perfect pyramids of concentricity. There were walls and walls of guitars, amps, and keyboards as well.

  I didn’t need a new drum set. My blue swirl seven-piece Sonor was a real prize, and I had no plans to trade it in. What I wanted was another cymbal—a twelve-inch thin crash Zildjian. Twelve inchers had a far-out, spanky sound. I located precisely what I wanted. Unfortunately it cost twice as much as I could afford—that was without a stand. I was low on cash. I made a little money playing with Bandit, but I hadn’t received any checks from home for a while. And I wasn’t expecting any.

  “Can I help you find something?” said a salesperson. He was missing the lower part of his left arm and had a fake hand, the kind with cables and a stainless steel pincher.

  “These cymbals ever go on sale?” I asked, my eyes dropping to his artificial hand as if it were a nudey photo. I felt like a creep.

  “They’re already marked down,” he replied, “But I like to deal. Which ones are you interested in?”

  I tried to stare at his eyes instead. “I think I’m just lookin’,” I said.

  “How long have you played drums?” he asked.

  “Ever since I was a kid,” I said.

  “Same here,” he said. “Until the auto wreck.” He clipped his pincher together to demonstrate how it worked. “I’ve got no wrist-action in this hand. So I can’t drum. Never mind, I thank the Lord Jesus for my life all the same.”

  Good God, I felt like a lucky slob. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Thanks, brother,” he said. “Let me know if you need any assistance, okay?”

  The salesman moved toward a young boy and his mother. The young boy was fondling everything in sight, including the cymbals on a drum kit display. There’s nothing worse for the finish of virgin brass than corrosive, oily finger prints. There’s nothing more irritating to a drummer or to a salesman.

  “Please don’t touch the cymbals.”

  “Nope. I don’t wanna.”

  The salesman steered the little boy away from the drum set with his one good arm.

  “Jason, you get away from that man this instant,” the boy’s mother said.

  The kid didn’t mind his mother, either. He banged on a crash cymbal with his fat little fist.

  Being a drummer, I couldn’t help myself. The Good Salesman was being too nice for his own good. “Hey, lady, do everyone a favor and get your brat away from those,” I said. “Do you realize how much those things cost? They’re no good if they have finger prints all over them.”

  “That’s correct,” the salesman said.

  “Well, I never!” the woman said. She left dragging the little shit by his elastic suspenders, and right before she walked out the front entrance she stopped and slapped the little boy hard on the rear.

  The salesman looked up toward the ceiling with an apologetic face. “Forgive me, Lord.”

  “Little boys wearing suspenders bug me,” I said.

  “Bless him. May Lord Jesus give him strength,” the salesman said. He turned to me. “May the Lord also give you strength, my friend, and me, as well.”

  “What?” I said.

  “I don’t like suspenders either,” he said with a gracious laugh; then he looked upward.

  I left the Good Salesman to pray.

  I found Zoe looking at a Moog synthesizer. I asked her if she played.

  “No,” she replied, “I don’t play any instrument at all. In my family, cultivating music is more important than playing it. Ironic, huh?”

  “No instrument at all? Not even a clarinet or something like that when you were younger, in junior high or high school?”

  “Not even a bassoon,” she said. She held an imaginary bassoon in her hands and danced. Because she was tall, Zoe wasn’t the most coordinated person in the world. Her dancing was so innocent and cute that I wanted to give her a hug. I didn’t, however.

  “Isn’t this one lovely?” she said, pointing to a baby grand piano with a jet-black finish. “My parents have one just like it. No one plays it, of course. It’s just for looks.”

  We sat on the bench and Zoe began to play full chords. I listened to the sound resonate on the strings and in the piano’s dense, fragrant wood.

  “I thought you didn’t play,” I said.

  “Just enough to fool people,” she said. “I know a little Chopin, and a few recital classics like ‘Chopsticks’ and the ‘Baby Elephant Walk.’”

  I laughed.

  “I wish I could play and sing like Abbey. That would be wonderful.” Her voice seemed a little envious.

  “Do you know who taught Abbey to play?” she continued. “It was Isabella. She has a Ph.D. in Music Theory. Isn’t that impressive?”

  “Why doesn’t she teach instead of running that shop?” I asked.

  “She taught Abbey rather well, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, she did. It’s just curious.”

  “Yes, it is,” Zoe admitted. “One time Izy told me that she was the way she is because all she ever wanted to be was an artist, nothing else. I’m not sure what she meant exactly.”

  * * *

  It was nearly four o’clock when Zoe and I went to Izy’s apartment. The band was supposed to meet at Chee’s Nightclub in Pismo Beach at seven, so we couldn’t stay at Izy’s for long. We had over an hour of driving ahead of us, and when we got to Chee’s we needed to change and set up.

  Isabella’s apartment was on the beach four or five blocks from her shop. All of the apartment entrances faced the ocean, and the view was especially good from the second level, where Izy’s place was. A hand-painted sign hung in the corner of the terraced entry. The sign read: “This Lovely Sea Nest of Mine.”

  As Zoe knocked, I looked back at the sea, the same sea that parallels Highway 101 from Gaviota to Ventura—a strip of ocean I’ve always thought to be special because of the way it glistens. Even the oil rigs dotting the horizon did not take away from the shimmering blueness of this stretch of the Pacific.

  Abbey answered the door and said brightly, “Hi, you two. Have fun?”

  “Hello, kids,” Isabella called from somewhere inside. It felt pleasant, in a way, to be referred to as a kid.

  “Zoe and I almost bought a bassoon,” I said to Abbey. I was glad to see her.

  “That’s very nice, Danny,” she said. She winked at Zoe. “Sit down. Isabella and I made cookies.”

  The inside of Isabella’s apartment smelled like spice and cinnamon. I admired her collection of paintings—local scenes of the Central California coast. In one corner of the front room, there was a baby grand piano like the one Zoe had been drawn to at Granger’s only this piano was older. The baby grand took half of the floor space in the small room. A well-used violin sat upright in a straw basket next to the piano. Also, curiously, there was a shelf opposite the piano lined with stuffed animals and toys. In the kitchen, I could see there was a highchair.

  “Nice place,” I said to Abbey.

  “You should complement Izy, not me.”

  “Those aren’
t your old toys, are they?” I teased, pointing to the shelf. “It’s hard to imagine Bandit’s rock ‘n’ roll queen playing with that junk.”

  Abbey’s voice took a sharp edge. “His play things are not junk! What a crude thing to say.”

  “Carmen has a young child,” Zoe interjected. “And Izy baby-sits. Those are his toys, not Abbey’s.”

  “His name is Hector and he’s an angel,” Abbey said.

  I said I was sorry. “I’m sorry, okay?” I repeated.

  Abbey and Zoe exchanged one of their secret looks, and Abbey cooled off. She went to help her mother in the kitchen, and as she passed, she patted me on the head. Good God, I thought, one minute she’s as volatile as friggin’ nitroglycerin, the next minute she treats me as if I were her pet. Vikker, I mused, you picked one hell of a girl to be ga-ga over.

  Izy brought a tray of cinnamon snaps and offered us tea. Abbey told her mother she would prefer white wine. When Isabella returned with the drinks, Zoe pulled a joint out of her purse and sparked it.

  “Good thought,” Abbey said.

  Isabella reappeared and said in an exhaustive tone, “Fiddlesticks. You girls and your habits.” She turned to me. “Don’t let them corrupt you, Danny.” Zoe handed the joint to Abbey, and Abbey handed it to her mother, who took a long, expert drag.

  The four of us started talking—talking and talking—about nothing in particular—the usual profound garbage that people talk about when they’re high: “these cookies taste sooo delicious…that blouse is sooo purple…his verse is sooo sublime…everything is cool….”

  Then I drifted away from the conversation. My thought became crystal clear.

  All I ever wanted to be was a drummer….

  Had this always been the truth? Had drums, music, partying—all the things my father labeled “crap” (and Jay Wong labeled “bitchin’”)—had these things propelled me to become who I really was, or had they changed me into something different?

  Thinking about this frightened me—because until I resolved this question, the nitpicky analytical side of me wouldn’t allow me to factor out the sobering possibility that I’d turned into a weed-smoking, coke-snorting, heavy-drinking, “C”-grade loser.

  Yet a bigger part of me knew that I was a good drummer, and that I currently liked myself better than I ever had before. Being a doctor’s son had never been fun.

  I had always hated his idea of what I should be, because I could never seem to do it well enough to merit his endorsement and pride.

  I loved playing drums with Bandit. That was a given. And, of course, I loved Abbey.

  I felt kinship toward all the members of Bandit like I’d never felt for family and friends. I’d only known Abbey’s mother for about four hours, yet I felt more comfortable around her than my own parents. And there was a part of me that pained to acknowledge this. I supposed I could contact the graduate schools, mend fences, get back on track….

  I knew going to Tahoe would make things worse. But, fuck it. I was going—that was all there was to it. From that point on, I resolved not to look back!

  Chapter 6

  Lake Tahoe, California – Nevada

  Sometimes a fool gets lucky and wins

  Sometimes an old man dies

  For a young man’s sins

  But when the amber light

  Of day is gone

  All I want to feel

  Is the beat of a heart…

  —Patty Smyth and Scandal

  I know

  It’s only rock ‘n’ roll

  But I like it, like it

  Yes I do….

  —The Rolling Stones

  Summer 1981

  “Freedom!” Jay yelled, as he leapt off the end of the pier. For a moment he seemed to hover—neither rising nor falling, suspended like a cartoon hero; then gravity yanked him, and he flopped into the icy blue water. Within seconds Jay reappeared, lunging upward and exposing nearly all of his torso. “You bullshitted me, Vikker,” he screamed. “This water’s colder than ice.”

  “You donkey,” I said from the pier. “What do you expect? This is Tahoe. It ain’t Hawaii, partner. We’re at 6,000 feet.” I dove in, too.

  I hadn’t swum in Lake Tahoe for a long time, since four or five years back when my family vacationed in a Sierra condo. The clean, clear, dark blue water engulfed me, and its coldness quickly penetrated my arms and legs and chest. At first the lake water caused me to gasp, but soon I was numb to the cold, full of exuberance. It was ten or twelve feet deep off the end of Schooner Pier. Jay and I were treading water and wrestling around like teenagers.

  “Come on in, Seth,” I said to our guitarist, who was standing next to Abbey and Zoe on the wooden pier. Abbey sat royally in a beach chair and smoked a cigarette. Zoe was stretched out in the afternoon sun, wearing baggy Bermuda shorts and a flower-print micro-bikini top. Zoe, our newly self-appointed manager, was becoming a bit more risqué.

  Seth nervously paced the edge of the pier, trying to gather enough courage to jump in after Jay and me.

  “I don’t swim so good,” he repeated.

  Jay blew a mouthful of water into the air like a whale, then instructed Seth to paddle out on the surfboard. I watched a discreet smile form on Jay’s lips. “As soon as he’s out here,” Jay whispered, “one of us should tip him.”

  “What’s so funny,” Seth yelled. “What the fuck is so funny?” Awkwardly, he lowered the surfboard into the water and climbed onto it. The squirrelly competition surfboard teetered from side to side as he paddled out.

  I dove underwater and felt a gradient of cold as I got deeper. The water was chilly on my eyes, and in the fishbowl blur, I made out a white sandy bottom and a few pieces of water-logged driftwood; around me was a matrix of turquoise blue; above me, I saw Jay’s legs and the long, oval belly of the surfboard. I planted my feet in the sand, remembering my need for oxygen, and torpedoed into Seth.

  Seth was right when he said he couldn’t swim well. He lost hold of the surfboard and floundered and dog-paddled back to the pier swearing, “Danny, you fucker. You fucker.” Jay did a smooth, showy back crawl and escorted Seth in.

  I hung on the surfboard about 75 feet out and floated.

  It was quieter without Jay and Seth in the lake. I listened to water flapping lazily against the surfboard. Damn, I thought. Here we are—in Tahoe.

  We didn’t have a place to stay, any jobs, and only enough money to last for two or three weeks. We were car camping in my pickup and the van. What we needed was a couple of rooms—with showers and toilets and beds—somewhere to spread out, to set up our instruments, to hone our act.

  Nevertheless, the situation felt good—really friggin’ good—much more peaceful, much more harmonious, than things had been just before we left San Luis Obispo.

  We had hoped to get some cash together for our tour by playing a number of end-of-the-year frat parties, but four out of five of these jobs fell through. With all the anti-Bandit sentiment that Uwe stirred up among the Greeks, it was a wonder we retained the one job with the Tau Deltas. It was a bush gig. The crowd acted blasé toward us and our music, and this gravely offended Abbey.But no matter what she screamed into her mike, she mustered no power over them—the dukies refused to act like dukies.

  We did go out with a bang at Chee’s Nightclub and at Aces. Each place had a special going away theme for our last shows. Aces called our final gig “Bandit’s ’81 Tour Kick-off” and served double kamikazes for 59 cents a pop. Chee’s did a similar thing, not to be one-upped, and called our last night there “Bandit’s Dead Brain Cell Festival.”

  At both gigs everyone in the place got totally ripped, including the band; although, despite all the booze, we played pretty well.

  Spook’s going away party was, by far the best.

  He and some other groupies threw an outrageous bash at his place. The highlight was a strange, dramatic presentation of a monument to Bandit, which S
pook had designed himself.

  He waited till midnight, then swept away the object’s huge, red-silk veil. There, underneath, was a baked serpent, constructed out of countless rectangular sections of chocolate cake, all laid out decoratively on a row of card tables covered with wax paper.

  An aluminum foil horn protruded from the creature’s head. Wings made from coat hangers and plastic garbage sacks stretched out from the middle of its body. Fishing line anchored the wing tips to the ceiling. Spook had even hooked up rubber hoses to a bowl of dry ice, so that smoke spewed from the serpent’s nostrils. And it must have taken him days to tile the entire creature with the brown and green M&Ms that served as scales.

  Spook allowed everyone time for a reverent viewing of the creature; then he ceremoniously hacked off the serpent’s head with an army surplus machete. The guests ate pieces of serpent with glasses of keg beer.

  During the festivities Abbey and Zoe became very drunk and lively. I asked Abbey to dance six times. She said yes only once.

  Right - left - right - right. Left - right - left - left. My thoughts could not linger on the rudiments of love.

  I had my glorious diploma, and had received letters of acceptance from several graduate schools. I thanked the graduate schools generously for their offers, and asked them all for a rain check.

  After commencement ceremonies, I had explained to my father my plan to drum now and defer graduate mathematics till later.His reply: “Crap. Goddam crap! You’re a selfish person, Danny. I break my back for you. I send you to school. I give you love and everything you want. And all I asked for in return is to have a respectable, educated son. Now you want to cash in everything and become a loser?”

  “That’s not it at all, Dad,” I said.

  “Shut up,” he said. “Shut up and listen to me.” His hand latched onto the back of my neck. I thought he was going to shake me, like he did when I was a little kid.

  He lifted up my collar and said, “Good Lord.” I realized he was commenting on my clip-on necktie. For him there was no substitute for the convention of a real necktie and a smartly tied double Windsor knot.

  “Look at you,” he said. “These people in this group, or combo, or whatever you call yourselves obviously are derelicts. What the hell is wrong with you? Is it pot, cocaine? Tell me! I’m a doctor, or have you forgotten?”