“I’m going drumming,” I said.
She made a grunt of acknowledgement.
As I went towards the front door, the specter of my sheet-draped drum kit stood out in the corner of my eye. I paused, and then set my bag onto the floor. I walked over to the kit, my chest tight, and gripped the edge of the fabric. Then I inhaled and pulled it off.
My heart pounded, and I stood face to face with my kit. Its chrome glistened, and the golden waves of its cymbals winked in the morning light. My heart thudding against my chest, I reached out to touch it.
My fingers rested on the cool metal. Then I came around to the stool and took a seat behind the kit. My palms were sweating. I looked up and saw that Monica had stopped paying attention to her game and was watching me.
“Are you going to play?” she asked.
I swallowed and shook my head. This was great progress, but I still felt the anxiety standing in my way like a gigantic brick wall. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. There was still a fist around my heart, and I couldn’t pry it off. But at least it was loosening, just a little bit.
“No,” I said. I covered the set back up and picked up my pack. “Not today. See you later, Monica.”
She shrugged and went back to the game.
It was a beautiful day. The weather was getting much warmer, and summer was definitely here. It was my first Saturday playing at the Riverwalk, and it was bustling with people. My usual spot was occupied by a juggler, so I walked a bit and found a good spot directly across from the Indian restaurant I’d gone to with Melany. I set up my kit, which I’d expanded and refined since my first day playing, and did a few warmups. A small audience started to gather, and once I was satisfied that I’d gotten enough ears tuned, I started to play.
The first day out, I’d just kind of played. Any beat that came to my mind, I went with. It was like clearing off the cobwebs and knocking off the rust. After that, I started thinking about what kind of things would draw people in. After a couple days of experimentation, I learned that bigger crowds were attracted to full beats you could easily dance to, rather than impressive speed drumming. I’d looked up some popular EDM and techno songs, and searched for more pieces for my makeshift kit that could stand in for a variety of electronic drum beat sounds, and focused my performances around making up my own techno style street songs.
It was the kind of music that was looked down upon by the professors at Beasley, and the kind of style that students might’ve made on their laptops in their dorms but never brought in to the rigorous, conservatory style classrooms of the music department. I’d never done any beat-making on the computer before, nor had I really been interested in electronic dance music, so it was a nice surprise to find out how fun it was to do. It was simple, and that was exactly what I needed.
A crowd gathered quickly. Two young guys came up and asked if I could throw down a rap beat, so I did, and they performed a freestyle rap with me. After that, I went back to the dance beats, and a few kids hopped around enjoying the music. My tip jar was filling up. I’d been making pretty decent money—it wasn’t anything near what I would make in tips on a busy night at the restaurant, but it was definitely a relief to have a second source of income. And if I was able to get my hours up after this inspection, then things would be good again.
I had my eyes closed—a habit of mine when I really started to find the groove. I could feel the beat vibrating through my body, projecting out through my hands into my kit and ricocheting back through
me in turn. I’d quickly come to love the roughness of street drumming, and the lack of precision. It was all improvisation—my senses were tuned to feel out the imperfections of my instruments and make them work to my level. I had the kit spread around me in a circle and had memorized the positions of each piece, shuffling and turning around on my butt to reach them all.
Suddenly, I caught something in the air that made my eyes snap open.
Her perfume.
It was faint and vanished in a second, but it was there. Distracted, I skipped a beat in the tempo and had to stop for a moment and start over. My head swiveled, looking around for the source, and then I saw her. She stood on the edge of the crowd, in a short black skirt, black blazer and white button up, a Louis Vuitton handbag hanging off her shoulder and her hair framed by a black, large brimmed felt hat. She looked like such a yuppie fashionista. I couldn’t help but smile.
Melany caught my glance and smiled back, giving me a little wave. I spun my drum stick in the air in a little move of private recognition, and then wound down the song. The audience applauded and whistled, people dropped cash into my jar, and Melany pushed forward through the crowd. My heart started to beat a little faster.
She pulled out what looked like a fifty from her wallet and dropped it into my jar.
“Not from you,” I said, returning it to her. “Though I’m flattered.”
“You were awesome. What’s wrong with me giving you a tip?”
I shrugged. “Just… feels weird.” Because we did it?
“We’re friends, right? Don’t feel bad about getting a tip from a friend.”
I smiled. “Really, Melany. Thank you, but I can’t accept it from you.” Are we friends? What do you call a one night stand you just met? I suddenly started to feel awkward and anxious. “Thanks for stopping, though. It’s, um, it’s good to see you again.” I moved to sit back down.
“I came by the other day, but you weren’t here,” she said.
“Oh, really?” I tried to play it off, but I felt oddly pleased to hear she had come by before after all. “I was probably at work.”
“Since you won’t let me give you a tip, how about you let me take you out to dinner? And we could go to this…” She pulled out a small rectangle of paper out of her bag and handed it to me. It was a flier for an art show at the Shadetree Art Collective. I’d heard of it before. It was a place founded by one of the professors at Beasley, and a popular spot amongst the arts and music majors at the university. I’d been told it was a good place to mingle and make professional connections.
“Melany,” I said quietly—the crowd was still around waiting for me to play, but I noticed people were starting to leave. “I thought it was clear that was a one-time thing.” The anxious, tight feeling was growing. I didn’t want to have this conversation in public, and I didn’t want to lose my audience.
“Well, I thought so too. But I realized that I needed to see you again. So, maybe we can start over. Just a friendly date, that’s it. No expectations.”