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  I would go to the Riverwalk and try to drum again.

  After Monica left for work the next morning, I fished out my drum sticks from where I’d hidden them away inside my closet. It was strange to feel them in my hands again. I rubbed them between my fingers, taking in the texture of the wood and the little nicks and notches dug into them from practicing. My palms started to sweat. These were the sticks I’d last used when everything started going to shit, and I found myself getting nervous.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  I took a deep breath and went out to the living room. I hadn’t played for months, so I wasn’t sure what would happen when I tried my hand at drumming away on a set of buckets. There was a pretty high chance I’d sound like a manic chimpanzee who learned she could make noise with a pair of sticks. A part of me—the old, perfectionist musician Beasley student part of me—wanted to make sure I was practiced and prepared, but I just couldn't bring myself to pull that sheet off the drum set and face the music. Instead, I stood and stared at it sitting there in the corner as my heart raced. When sweat started to prickle on my forehead, I turned heel and escaped to the garage to look for things to build my new, low-pressure, “reductive” drum kit.

  I had a pretty good idea of what kinds of things would make a good set. I needed at least one large, four-gallon bucket to use as my main drum. I’d probably want to get a couple of other, smaller sizes to add some variation to the sound, and then I wanted to get some metal pieces to stand in for cymbals and bells. A lot of street drummers seemed to make their kits entirely out of buckets, resulting in a fairly uniform sound that I wasn’t a fan of. To me, a good drum solo had plenty of variation in tones.

  Monica had inherited the house from her grandparents, and apparently had never bothered to do any cleaning in the garage. The place was filled with decades worth of junk. I searched around and quickly found some plastic paint buckets, but they were still full of ancient, molasses-thick paint. After sneezing my way through piles of gardening supplies, old clothes, and storage boxes, I finally found a large bucket filled with trowels and shovels. I dumped them, ignoring the flurry of startled spiders that fell out with the lot, and set the bucket aside. I discovered two paint cans that had a bunch of old batteries and rusty nails in them, and after emptying them out, I added them to my kit too. I wanted a couple more metal objects to fill in for my cymbals and bells, so I pulled out one of my sticks and started to test them on things. I found a rectangular metal piece that might’ve been part of a drain gutter, and an old cooking pot.

  Satisfied with my kit, I fit everything I could into the big bucket and the rest into a faded tote bag embroidered with “Beasley University Class of 1965”, and went to my car to drive down to the Riverwalk.

  The Riverwalk was a stretch of restaurants, cafés, and boutiques that ran along a grassy area in front of the water, shaded with trees and lined with old brick and cobblestone. Quite a few of the buildings here were historic and dated back to the early 1800s. A mix of street music always seemed to fill the air here, from classical violin to Peruvian pan flutes, the area was a prime spot for busking.

  I won’t say that I felt embarrassed or shy lugging my makeshift kit down the Riverwalk, even with the big bucket rattling and clattering with the items inside—I was used to performing in front of crowds—but I did feel slightly out of place here. I’d never busked before, and I wasn’t sure of the etiquette. There were plenty of other musicians around doing their thing, and I didn’t want to intrude on anyone’s territory, or something like that. Did buskers even have territory? Who knew.

  I found a nice spot in front of a bronze statue of Clifton S. Beasley, the founder of Beasley University, far enough away from any other musicians so that I wouldn't be interrupting anyone with my drumming. Families and couples strolled by, not even giving me a second glance while I unpacked my kit and laid it all out onto the brick. I sat cross-legged, with the main bucket directly at my front, the paint cans to my left, and the metal whatsits to my right. I left the tote bag open at the very front for tips.

  I pulled out my sticks and swung them in the air, miming a beat, trying to figure out what I was going to play. My heart started to pound, and my palms began to sweat. I exhaled, and rubbed them dry on my jeans.

  You can do this, Kendra. No pressure. This is just for fun.

  I tapped the sticks against the bucket, testing out the sound. Rattatat-tat-tat dock-dock dock. I found if I lifted the bucket up slightly I could get a bassier tone out of it. Then I moved to the paint cans. Tung-tung-tung-dak-tungatung-tung. Okay. Then the metal bits. Ping-ping-ping-pingpingaping. Dangdadadang-da-dangdanga-kong.

  The people continued to walk by, not paying any attention to me. I realized I was sweating, and I wiped my forehead with the back of my forearm. My heart was thudding hard—but I wasn’t having the anxiety explosion I would’ve had sitting at my drum kit.

  Dum-dum. Dum-dum. Dum-dum. I could hear my pulse racing.

  Fine, I thought. I’ll go with that. I inhaled—and then brought the sticks down onto the side of the bucket.

  The rhythm of my heartbeat pulsed out of the plastic makeshift drum. A girl passing by shrieked and laughed, startled by the sudden burst of noise.

  I continued to drum out that deep beat, readjusting to the feeling of having the sticks in my hands again. It was coming back quick, and I had to admit—it felt good. I wasn’t feeling any of the crippling pressure, and the unfamiliarity of the instruments meant I needed to learn how to make them sound good. I zeroed in to the way the sticks vibrated and responded in my hands, how they ricocheted off of the plastic, and how the bucket responded in turn. I moved to the paint buckets, then to the metal bits. Then I tapped a rhythm on the brick ground itself.

  Okay. I got this.

  I burst into a fast tempo that would’ve been right at home in a techno or EDM song—something catchy that would continue to have your toes tapping the beat hours after hearing it. I focused in on my instruments, paying close attention to how they reacted to me. I felt myself loosening up, and I was amazed by it. For the first time in months, I was playing. Sure, it wasn’t a real drum set, but I was actually using that part of me again.

  I heard the tinkle of coins, and looked up as a little girl dropped money into my tote. She ran back to her parents, and I was surprised to see that I already had an audience of five or six people watching me. I couldn’t help but smile.

  I suddenly realized that I was slightly rushing the tempo, and tensed and missed a beat. My audience didn’t budge, or even seem to notice. In fact, someone else came forward and dropped a five-dollar bill into my bag.

  Okay. This is awesome. I’d forgotten how good drumming could make me feel, and right now, it felt amazing. I was fucking up all over the place, but it didn’t matter. This was street drumming. It was like learning a brand-new instrument.

  I let myself get involved in the beat I was creating, opening up things inside my heart and my mind that had been held closed for a very long time. I didn’t stop drumming—I changed up the rhythm but kept it going as one continuous song. The sticks dug into my un-calloused palms, but I didn’t care. I enjoyed it. It was a good kind of pain. The pain of progress. I was making progress, and for the first time in ages, I felt like things might actually be okay. Like maybe, just maybe, the rainy season was starting to clear up.

  The crowd grew. People stopped to take videos of me. I watched with humbled amazement as the money started to fill my bag. Some of the people danced, some kept the beat with their toes. The faces kept changing, but each one of them was zeroed in on my performance.

  Then, after about forty minutes of straight playing, I realized that not all of the faces were changing. There was one girl who stood dead center, slightly behind the rest of the crowd, but I could see her watching, nodding her head slightly along to the beat, and tapping her finger against the cup of coffee she held. She’d been watching my performance for at least half an hour, longer than anyone else.


  She looked to be around my age, but from the way she was dressed she seemed older. She wore an trim, expensive looking blazer and a pencil skirt, with perfectly on point makeup that made her look like the type of woman you’d see fitting right into a corporate boardroom. She was like a yuppie—or one of those really rich trust fund kids that you sometimes saw at Beasley. What stood out to me the most was her amazingly intense gray eyes. They were focused on my sticks, following their rhythm as she tapped her fingers along to the beat. From the way she accurately followed it, I could tell that she was a fan of drumming—or maybe she was a drummer herself.

  I played until my hands were screaming and the beat was at a fever pitch. I didn’t want to stop. There was a part of me that was terrified that the moment I did, I would lose it entirely again; that I wouldn’t be able to play on any drums at all. This felt too good. I didn’t want to let it go.

  Fat beads of sweat dripped down my face. Harder. Faster. I didn’t look, but I was sure that my palms must’ve been ripped and bleeding by now. It definitely felt that way—they were on fire.

  Keep going. Don’t stop.

  I doubled the time, then tripled it. I heard the crowd murmuring.

  Don’t lose it, Kendra, don't—

  With one whip of my hand, my left drum stick hit the hardened edge of the overturned bucket and splintered with a loud crack. The crowd gasped as the broken tip of the stick flung away—and whipped right dead center into the gray-eyed stranger’s left boob. Her hand shot up to grab it, and she bounced around cringing.

  “Ow, ow, ow,” she squeaked.

  There was scattered laughter. Someone asked if she was okay. People applauded and dropped money into my bag.

  She shuffled backwards and sat down on the edge of a stone planter, her coffee still clutched in her hand, her breast in the other.

  I tossed my sticks aside and hurried over to her. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry about that. Are you alright?”

  She tilted her head back to take a few deep breaths. “Well, that is definitely going to go viral,” she finally said, still massaging her chest. “Damn, that thing had some velocity.”

  “I’m really sorry,” I repeated.

  She turned to me, her gray eyes meeting mine, and gave me a reassuring smile. “No, it’s not your fault. Anyway, I’ll take a stick to the tit any day if it means getting to see an awesome drum solo like that.”

  I laughed, half in relief that she wasn’t angry, or threatening to sue me or something like that. Plus, it was pretty hilarious. The more I thought about what had happened, the more I cracked up, especially because she was laughing harder than I was. It felt like I hadn’t laughed that hard in… well, seven months.

  “You’ve got to be a pro, or something, right?” she asked. “You’re really good.”

  “Not a pro,” I said. “I’m —was—a student.”

  “Jazz?”

  “No, not exclusively. I studied at Beasley. We have a comprehensive percussion program.”

  “Who’s the instructor?”

  “Dr. Nathan Adler,” I said, suddenly feeling reserved. I didn’t want to talk about Beasley, and wished I hadn’t said I was a student. I tried to change the subject. “Are you a drummer?”

  “I’m not. Haven’t got an ounce of musical ability in me. Big fan of music, though, especially rock. I’ve got crazy respect for a good drummer. Most people pay attention to the guitars or vocals. The melodic shit. I love a good beat.” Her eyes flashed, and she stuck out a hand. “My name’s Melany. Melany Crawford. I’m a Beasley grad too.”

  “Kendra Ellings. I’m actually not a graduate.”

  She shook my hand. I was surprised how strong her grip was. “You’re working on your undergrad?”

  “I kinda dropped out,” I said. I didn’t want to talk about it, but it was difficult for me to lie or skirt around things when asked directly about them. Thankfully, it seemed like Melany could read the discomfort on my face.

  “Gotcha,” she said. “Well, I’m no expert—just a drum fan—but I think you’re pretty damn good. Who needs school?” She stood up. “I’ve got to get back to work. Is this your first day playing here?”

  “How did you know?”

  She smiled. “I walk here during my lunch breaks and grab a bite to eat and some coffee. Will you be playing here again?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “The truth is, I haven’t drummed in a long time.”

  “Sure doesn’t seem that way. I’d love to talk some more with you, in private. I’ll kick myself if I come back tomorrow and you’re not here, so how about you give me your phone number?”

  Had it been anyone else, that question would’ve totally caught me off guard—normally I would’ve exchanged business e-mails when it came to someone interested in my playing, but she was charming and it’d been a while since I’d felt so good about myself. Her compliments had really buttered me up. Also, she was gorgeous.

  “Yeah, definitely.”

  “Shit,” she said. “I don’t have my phone on me, and I’ve got a pen but no paper.” She held the pen to her hand. “Mind writing it on me?”

  I shook my head and took the pen. It was heavy and looked expensive. I held the back of her hand in mine, and wrote my number onto her palm.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I promise that I’m not usually this unprepared. It was great meeting you, Kendra. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Sure,” I said. “See you.”

  She gave me a little grin and walked off.

  I stood there for a moment, feeling slightly bewildered. Suddenly, a thought occurred to me as I recalled what Melany had said. “I’d love to talk some more with you, in private.” In private?

  No way. In the excitement of it all, I hadn’t even stopped to consider that Melany might be a lesbian. Had I just been asked out?

  I snorted. Yeah, right.

  I went and picked up the tote bag to see how much I’d made in that first hour, and I was shocked at how much was in there. Not rent money for sure, but it was better than nothing and definitely more than I expected.

  With my sticks broken I’d have to end the day early to go get more, but I felt positive. Things had worked, and as long as my “day job” held up, I might actually be able to survive another month. And who knows? Maybe I could somehow get back on my real drums.

  I packed up my makeshift kit, noting to myself what new pieces I should add to further expand the sound.

  Yeah. Things are looking up.

  2

  Melany

  My coffee had gotten cold, but I sipped on it anyway. I strolled up the Riverwalk back to where my condo was on the edge of downtown Rosebridge, my thoughts on the hot-as-fuck drummer I’d just met. I usually didn’t ask for numbers unless I was fairly certain they were gay, but I’d ignored my rules this time and went for it anyway. Something about her did give me the feeling that she was into women—call it my gaydar—but I couldn’t be certain. Either way, it didn’t matter. If she was, then I’d take her out, learn more about her awesome playing, and then see if she was down for me to throw something at her tits. Namely, my face. If she wasn’t queer then I’d be perfectly happy with the conversation. The girl was an amazing drummer.

  It’d been a long time since I’d hooked up with anyone, let alone went on a date, and I was feeling a little lonely—more than usual, I mean. I actually felt excited for once. When was the last time I’d felt excited about something? A long time ago, too.

  I tapped my key to the panel at the front of the building to unlock the door, and took the elevator up to my loft condo. Even though I worked from home, I still treated my workspace as if it were a real office. I made sure it was immaculately decorated and cleaned, stocked with the amenities I would expect in a corporate office, and I always dressed for work. I’d made it a habit even back in business school when I was writing code in the tiny, grungy-ass apartment I shared with three other Beasley students. I was convinced that feeling successful, professional, and produc
tive was a key to achieving those things, and two years ago, I saw my efforts come to fruition. Design a killer app, and it could turn into a goldmine. I had designed three, and it’d made me a millionaire in months.

  I threw the rest of my coffee down the drain and sat at my desk, which faced the big floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over downtown Rosebridge. I woke up my computer, and pulled up the app I was working on. When I put my fingers to the keys, I found myself unable to type. Kendra, the hot drummer, filled my head and wouldn’t leave.

  I usually liked to wait at least five hours before messaging a potential date, but it looked like I’d be breaking another one of my rules for this girl. I copied her number from my palm into my cell phone, and wrote her a text.

  > Melany: Hi, Kendra. This is Melany. What are your plans for tonight?

  I set the phone down and turned back to my work. I didn’t expect to get an answer back from her anytime soon, so when my phone chimed just two minutes later I couldn’t help but smile in surprise.