Drums: a Novel

  “Dad, don’t you understand? I’ve never felt better.”

  “Shut up,” he said. “When you straighten up, let me know. Until then, you’re on your own, buster.”

  “Aren’t I already?” I asked.

  He pulled a fifty dollar bill from his wallet. “I was going to give you $5,000 for graduation. I thought you might want a trip to Hawaii, or something special. But you don’t deserve it. So I’m knocking off two zeros.” He paused and his expression thawed a little. If you change your mind about grad school, ha-ha, you’re back to four figs. What do you think about that, math whiz?”

  It took me a moment to gather some courage. “$50 minus $50 equals zero,” I replied. “What do you think about that?”

  I handed him back the money, kissed my mother and little sister goodbye, and walked away….

  I lay my head on the surfboard, and tried to relax. I heard Seth strumming a slow, thought-provoking melody on his acoustic guitar, music blending with the aspen wind, the flapping water, and the far-off sound of ski boats. The melody struck a promising chord as it fused with the pristine elements. But the water was getting very cold.

  I dug in with my arms and propelled the surfboard back in to lounge with Bandit, on a weathered, toasty-warm pier, jutting out from the continuous ring of evergreens and granite, which surround and shelter Lake Tahoe.

  * * *

  We parked where the road dead-ended. Zoe and I located the trailhead and started hiking along the path. According to the directions the owner had given Zoe, we were to follow the bank of the Truckee River through about fifty yards of dense forest; then we would reach a lone cabin.

  Zoe had finally found us a place to live.

  “It isn’t large or fancy,” she said, mimicking the voice of our new landlord. “Built it myself back in 1953. You could buy land on the Truckee for peanuts then.”

  She was quite pleased with herself—rightly so, I guessed. She had negotiated a very good price—and what was more, the cabin’s owner lived down in Sacramento, so he wouldn’t be around to bug us.

  Our feet crunched dry pine needles. Zoe kept talking: “He then asked me, rather protectively, why I wanted to rent his place. I lied! This is great! I said we were a group of post-docs from Stanford University, who intended to co-op in Tahoe and study pollution and its effect on aquatic life such as trout.”

  “Sounds fascinating,” she mimicked in a deep voice. “I recently retired from the State Department of Biology. I’m very interested in blue jays.”

  Zoe burst out laughing, “…and I replied, ha ha, oh my, ‘now that is a real Cyanocitta stelleri for you.’”

  I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.

  “Family and species of the bird. Steller’s jay. Don’t you see? Ha ha, oh, my,” she clarified. “After that, Danny, he lowered the rent even more. To just peanuts.”

  Where did you pick up that Cyanocitta stelleri stuff?” I asked.

  “From a handout in the Ranger Station,” Zoe said in a breezy tone. “I’m rather fond of blue jays myself.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “Really,” she said.

  Zoe Cleopatra Hash had no plans to diminish her studies in Tahoe.

  * * *

  The cabin standing before us was small and weathered. Yet nestled among the pines, on the rocky, granite bank of the Truckee, the dilapidated little cabin exhibited an unmistakable charm.

  Abbey, Jay, and Seth had lagged behind, because Abbey had lost one of her army boots in the pile of gear and clothing in Jay’s van. She insisted that she must wear her army boots if she was going to have to hike. The others were just now joining Zoe and me in front of the cabin.

  “Look at those shutters and little Tyrolean things,” Abbey said. She was a dazzling sight in her daringly short jean cutoffs and hefty black boots.

  Zoe took the key out of her briefcase and we stepped inside. The cabin smelled of burnt wood and dampness. We switched on a light. We saw a beat-up old couch, some curious-looking chairs, and a rustic stone fireplace. Cobwebs and dust were also exposed, as well as a bunch of amateurish paintings of blue jays, arranged above the fireplace mantle.

  “I dig the skis,” Jay said of a pair of old wooden skis on the wall next to a pair of old-fashioned snowshoes, with webbing made from a crisscross of animal gut.

  “Disgusting,” Abbey called from the tiny kitchen. “There’s mouse turds all over the counters.”

  “Oh my,” echoed Zoe. “I have on sandals. Do you see any live ones?”

  Downstairs consisted of a main room, kitchen, one small bedroom, and a bath. Jay, Seth, and I explored the upstairs and discovered two sleeping lofts. There were twice as many spider webs upstairs. Seth found a clarinet stashed in a cardboard box underneath one of the beds. Jay thumbed through a pile of old National Geographics. “Tits, dude,” he said, shoving a picture of an African woman in my face.

  Abbey and Zoe put dibs on the bedroom downstairs.

  Jay and I would bunk in one of the lofts upstairs.

  Seth would occupy the other alone, since he snored.

  The cabin had no phone, no water heater. But the stove worked. The toilet worked. Plenty of cold water sprayed out of the shower. With a little work we knew we could fix up this place. Its remote location was perfect for practicing. Everyone agreed the cabin was 2001 times better than camping in the pickup and van.

  Abbey immediately thought of a name for our wooden cabin. She called it Oz, because it was so much like a “fairy tale” and “so very, very serene.”

  * * *

  I, personally, invited Abbey to go out on the town with Jay and me. But she, Zoe, and Seth were busy enjoying the cabin. Much to Zoe’s pleasure, the landlord kept a small library of books downstairs; upon finding this, she immediately arranged the books alphabetically, by author. She was currently browsing through the collection, making a list of which books she intended to read and by when. That evening Seth was busy at the hearth branding the name “Oz” onto a wedge of pine. Abbey was killing spiders with a rolled-up newspaper. She donned a quizzical expression, “I’d give my eyeteeth for a big, fat beanbag chair to put in front of the fireplace. And, no, Danny. I don’t want to go anywhere tonight.”

  She had moved the knickknacks around on the fireplace mantel; re-hung and tried to better arrange the landlord’s inherently awful collection of painted blue jays; even added things of her own to the décor, such as candles from Izy’s shop, old flyers from club gigs in San Luis Obispo, and ashtrays she had stolen from the casinos.

  As Jay and I went out the door, the girls dropped what they were doing and trailed behind us, with leftover spaghetti and vegetable pieces for the forest animals that came in the night. As Jay and I walked along the dark path toward the road where my truck and the van were parked, we heard the girls shriek, “Look, look, a squirrel! He’s eating the spaghetti!”

  * * *

  According to our new manager, Zoe, nearby Tahoe City contained a variety of nightclubs. Jay and I decided to skip the dives and first check out what was reputed to be the big daddy. But first we stopped at a supermarket and bought a six-pack, so we could get a preliminary buzz on cheaply, before having to order drinks from an expensive bar.

  When we got to the Lake Club, it was lit up like the casinos on the Nevada side of the lake. The parking lots on both sides of the club were packed full of cars. I started to search for an empbty slot but was stopped by a valet wearing a monkey suit. The jerk wanted two dollars to park my truck. I flipped a “U” and found a place alongside the main road a couple hundred yardsb down. Jay and I drank the sixer and got high.

  A muscle bound guy dressed in black greeted us at the entrance. “It’s crowded tonight. Who are you guys?” His voice was as broad and muscled as his chest.

  Jay said, “I’m the Nowhere Man. Is that cool or what?”

  “You donkey,” I said.

  “We’re
at max capacity,” said the doorman. “You gotta be on the list to get in.”

  “We’re in a band,” I said.

  “Give me some names or buzz off, guys.”

  “I’m Danny Vikker and this is—“

  “Blue Jay Wong.”

  “You donkey,” I repeated.

  The doorman checked his list and held out his hand like a policeman stopping traffic. “Sorry, guys. See you later.”

  “Try Zoe Cleopatra Hash,” I said quickly. “That’s our manager’s name.”

  “Wait,” he said. “Maybe.”

  Pretty soon, two couples walked out of the club and the bouncer nodded his head and said, “Thabt will be five dollars each, gentlemen.”

  “Ouch,” I said.

  Jay and I fumbled for our wallets.

  We passed through the double doors. “Bitchin’, dude,” said Jay. I realized, at once, that this was where Bandit had to play.

  We gaped at the club’s fantastic interior, its clean angular architecture of parallel, perpendicular, skewed, and intersecting lines. Chrome trimming splayed lasers of colored light onto glossy white walls, cut-outs, and pillars. Bizarre art pieces and free-form metal statues sprang from the main floor like leafless trees. Some artist owning a cutting torch and a welder had gone wild. Music blasted from speakers everywhere; sleek, tan customers talked all at once.

  There were no vacant tables and no empty stools at the downstairs bar. Jay and I climbed a flight of stairs leading to the upper level, centerless in construction, a catwalk bolted to the club’s high walls. The catwalk connected a series of terraces with tables. Chrome chain-link fence caged in the walkway.

  Jay and I found two empty seats on a terrace and sat down. We peered through the chrome mesh at a tangle of faces and bodies below, chopped into diamonds. It was half past nine. The band was due onstage at ten o’clock.

  A cocktail waitress appeared before us, an extremely well-endowed blonde wearing a spandex tunic.

  “Can I help you gents?” she asked with a European accent. Her voice sounded carefully polite, also tired.

  Jay blatantly examined her from tip to toe. “What’s your name, Total Babe?” he asked, his smile cracked wide, exposing his silver eye teeth.

  The waitress ignored him and pulled out her ordering pad from a pocket in her micro apron. “I’m serious,” Jay said. “You really are a Total Babe.”

  “He’s wasted,” I said.

  The waitress petulantly clicked her tongue. “You’re staring at my titties. Do you mind?”

  Embarrassment turned Jay’s face to putty.

  She readied her pencil, “There’s a two-drink minimum, gents. What’ll you have?”

  “Sorry for being a donkey,” Jay said.

  “Yes, our apologies for being rude,” I said in my most chivalrous voice.

  She smiled slightly. “These outfits they make us wear are a bloody pain.”

  She soon brought us a couple beers, took our precious money, and told Jay, much to my chagrin, that her name was Sly Michael and that she thought he was kind of dashing when he behaved himself.

  I decided to go downstairs and dance until they shut off the canned music and the band came on.

  I dodged elbows, brushed by stunning young women, swam through the crowd. A song by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers blasted out of the circle of speakers on the main floor. My mind, however, was locked on an old Beatles tune, “Eleanor Rigby”—look at all the beautiful people—here, by God, is where they belong….

  Expensive clothes. Honed gestures. The beam of confidence that comes from money. Everything about this club, everyone in this club, was so very, very chic.

  I asked several young women to dance. One after another, they turned me down. My thrill for the Lake Club numbed. I was sixteen again, my father’s country club, my first debutante ball.

  Mary Lewis was beautiful. The bass line throbbed as we slow danced. Her hair smelled like velvet. Her body steamed. Electric skin….

  “Dr. Lewis’ daughter complained about you, Danny. She said you had an erection and were rubbing yourself against her leg when you were dancing with her.

  “Christ, Danny. Jerry Lewis is a partner in my family practice. Jerry’s a good guy—he laughed it off, but Mrs. Lewis and Mary — . Goddam crap, it’s an unqualified embarrassment that my only son is such a loser with girls. They think you’re strange, Danny. Get with the program….”

  “Excuse me.” I stepped back. A girl in a red leather miniskirt pushed by me.

  I do all friggin’ right with girls, I rationalized. So far in college I’d laid eleven different girls. After hanging around with Jay, I was getting good at picking up groupie chicks. But classy girls like Mary Lewis didn’t like me. I’d never even put my arm around Abbey Butler.

  I went back upstairs, intent on getting shit-faced and checking out some Tahoe rock ‘n’ roll—maybe steal some licks for Bandit. If we got a gig here, perhaps my luck would change ….

  * * *

  The Pronouns were quite a spectacle. The band had five members. All of them, including the girl, had the new eighties-style haircuts—short on top, long in the back, with pointed Star Trek sideburns. Each member wore black trousers and boots, and a jersey bearing his or her stage name. “He” played guitar. “She” sang. “Them” played bass. “It” sank behind the drums. “Us” played synthesizer.

  “He” and “She” fronted the band. “He,” wearing his personalized jersey cut down with scissors to the size of a bra, was doing half of his guitar playing with his butt turned to the audience. As he shook his butt back and forth, he cocked his neck to one side, and gave his face to the audience—his nose crinkled, his eyes and mouth opened painfully wide as if by toothpicks. While “She” was singing her heart out, she continually ran her fingers through her black, stringy hair. When she wasn’t doing this, she ran her hands up and down her hips. “She” had a rough look, and growled and sneered. “She” was also about twenty pounds overweight. But, as much I hated to admit it, the Mr. and Mrs. of the Pronouns had definite talent. “He” played a mean guitar, and “She” had a clear, gutsy voice, which in some ways reminded me of Abbey’s.

  The bassist, “Them,” was a tall black guy with a small head and long neck. Jay, who normally wasn’t as critical of people as I was, said, “That fuckin’ bassist looks like a rooster.” “Them” stood motionless as he played, except for his long fingers, which seemed to move on the bass strings weightlessly, like ripples on water. Out of the neckline of Them’s jersey protruded a white, Nehru collar. Very spiritual, man.

  The keyboard player, “Us,” was equally laid-back and wore dark sunglasses like Ray Charles, only “Us” didn’t smile or rock his head from side to side when he played. He was dead still.

  The drummer was pudgy like the singer and equally wild. “It” looked like an it as he threw himself around his drum set hitting the heads harder than Keith Moon.But “It” played a perfectly solid beat. I couldn’t argue with that.

  As Jay and I listened jealously to the Pronouns, Sly frequently passed by our table. Jay and I couldn’t help but order more beers, and soon we were broke. Jay conned Sly into bringing us the rest of our beers for free. Jay and I became increasingly heated, and the voluptuous wiggles of the girls on the dance floor looked better and better. I was still too intimidated to ask one of them to dance.

  “Bitchin’,” Jay said. He must have said the word “bitchin’” about three million times that night.

  I hit the john when the band went on break and bumped into “He.” The guitarist was drying his underarms with the electric blower on the wall, cool and nonchalant about it. “I play in a band, too,” I said. “We just came to Tahoe. We’re looking for work.”

  “He” started blow-drying his neck, cocking it the same way he did when he did his little number onstage. “And you are?”

  “Bandit.”

  “Never heard of
you.”

  “You will,” I said. “Your guitar sounds hot tonight.”

  “Don’t kiss my ass,” he said.

  I wasn’t surprised to see that his ass was pointing in my direction.

  “You want free advice?” he continued. “Here it is: You aren’t going to get a job here. This is the place, and the place doesn’t hire scrub bands. The end.”

  “Nice story,” I said.

  “What do you play, anyway?”

  “Drums,” I said.

  “I should have guessed,” he said.

  The asshole left.

  I wondered what the hell he had against drummers. I appraised myself in the mirror. I saw: The lean frame and red cheeks of an English-American. Brown hair that was getting longer and longer. My friggin’ pug nose.

  I looked deeply into the reflection of my eyes. My eyes looked weird like a zoo monkey’s. Curious, afraid, pathetic, bulging…. I realized that I was incredibly drunk and let out a huge, roguish beer belch.

  Back at our table, on the cage-like terraces on the catwalk surrounded by chrome chain-link fence, Jay was rapping with Sly. She was sitting in my seat. “Goodness, I’d better hop back to it.” She began taking orders at another table.

  “Sorry to scare her away,” I said to Jay.

  Jay pushed yet another beer toward me. “Listen, dude, Sly said this place is happening outside, too. Let’s check out the dock.” He chugged his beer and motioned for me to do the same.

  “Fuckin’ cheers,” I said.

  Floodlights lined the backside of the club. There were quite a few boats moored to the private dock and landing. Most of the craft were hot ski boats. I watched the rhythm of the boats, bobbing gently on ripples caused by the faint pull of the moon, and the nighttime breeze.

  Only a handful of patrons were gathered on the deck, couples chipped off from the crowd inside. The action Sly spoke of didn’t exist—at least not at that select moment.

  Jay and I dangled our feet off the end of the main pier. The soles of our shoes barely scraped the water. The Tahoe air was hinted with the smell of pine trees, smoke, and trout. You could look up and see every star in the sky embedded in blackness. If you looked straight ahead, the night over the water appeared infinite in expanse.