Road Rash (2 page)

“No worries.” I gave him a thumbs-up and a smile.

It was complete fiction, of course—they were still there, sitting at a table back in a dark corner with some girls. That’s one of the advantages of being the drummer. While the other guys are busy concentrating on their playing (or their
performance
, if you know what I mean), you’re in back, watching everything. It’s kind of like being the catcher on a baseball team—the pitcher gets all the glory, but you’re really the one calling the shots and keeping an eye on the big picture.

There’s this popular myth that drummers are the morons of the music world.
(Q: Why do guitar players keep a pair of drumsticks on their dashboard? A: So they can park in the handicapped spots.)
But to do it right, you’ve got to have two streams of consciousness going at the same time, where you’re monitoring your playing
and
keeping an eye on what’s going on around you.

On the one hand, you’re thinking,
Okay, stay on the hi-hats … four-on-the-floor … make sure to hit those accents … good … now open the hats a little … yeah, build into the chorus … add eighth notes on the snare … crash! … over to the ride cymbal … more
energy … go up to the bell … now ride the crash cymbal … not too loud yet—the chorus goes high and he can’t sing as strong in that range … now drive hard going into the guitar solo, but don’t get too excited and speed up.…

On the other hand, it’s like,
Good, people are starting to move to the dance floor … play solid on the kick drum—make it easy for them to catch the beat … this crowd seems to like the danceable mid-tempo stuff better than the fast punk-pop stuff … that hot girl in the white shorts can really dance—pull it back one percent and put a little something extra on the backbeat for her—make it sexy, man … catch the bass player’s eye and nod so he’ll get the groove and make it even funkier … now the floor’s packed—signal the guys and keep the song going for an extra minute … sneak a peek at the list while you’re playing and pick another tune in the same style—right now!—so there won’t be enough downtime between songs for them to walk off the floor
.

Handicapped, my ass.

By the end of the gig I was back to feeling pretty good about being in the Sock Monkeys. Justin wasn’t a bad guy, and he was a good enough guitar player … when he stuck with what he knew. And Kyle was more than just a solid bassist—he had become my best friend since I’d started school in Los Robles a year and a half ago. He was the one who’d asked me to join the group last summer, and hanging with him was the best part of being in the band. And I had to admit that Toby really was a pretty good singer, even if he did have a terminal case of LSD … Lead Singer’s Disease. And when everything was
working right, there was nothing like being onstage, driving the band. Especially now that we’d gotten good enough to go beyond the free parties and actually get some paying gigs. This felt real—like we could seriously get somewhere.

After we’d finished playing, I was walking toward the restroom when someone said, “Hey, good job up there, man.”

I looked over. It was Glenn Taylor, sitting with two guys that looked semi-familiar and a couple of girls.

“Thanks.”

One of the guys stood up, a little wobbly. I recognized him as Bad Habit’s drummer, Nate. “Yeah,” he snickered, doing some behind-the-neck air-guitaring. “I especially liked that pathetic Jimi Hendrix impression. What a joke!”

Glenn shrugged. “Okay,” he said calmly, “but what did you think of Zach’s drumming?”

To be honest, I was surprised he knew my name. The guys in Bad Habit were a couple of years older than us—they were all out of high school, and Glenn was the oldest by a few years. Kyle and I were juniors, Toby was a senior, and Justin was only a sophomore.

“I was too busy laughing at the rest of those clowns to notice.” He snorted. “But I know this much—you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.…” He stumbled off, heading toward the door.

Glenn looked at the other guy at the table. “Could you give us a minute? No big.”

The guy said, “Sure, GT,” and he and the girls left.

Glenn nodded toward Nate’s empty chair. “Have a seat.”

I sat.

“Don’t mind Nate,” he said. “He’s never been big on giving credit. And he’s hammered, as usual.” He paused. “Have you ever thought about expanding your horizons, musically speaking?”

“Uh … I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I’m scouting around for someone more, um … 
reliable
. I like the way you play—good mix of attitude and skill. Any interest?”

“Wow. I mean, thanks! But …” I saw Kyle and the guys across the room, joking around. “I’m pretty committed to my band.” Man, that sounded lame.

“That’s a good thing to be.” He smiled and held out his hand. “Thanks anyway. And you really did sound solid tonight. Keep on it.” I shook his hand. He wasn’t a huge guy, but he had a grip like iron. “Well, take care,” he said.

“See ya.”

I finished my original mission, then walked back toward the stage. As I started taking my stuff apart and packing it up, I felt weird. Like, what if I’d just blown a great chance? Bad Habit were big on the local scene. Big enough to go somewhere … and believe me, I’ve got nothing against that. I mean, I’ve been playing drums since I was ten—I freakin’ love music, and I’ve always dreamed of being able to do something with it.

But then I thought about the Sock Monkeys. We
had
sounded pretty good tonight—at least after Justin stopped showing off. And Glenn had probably just complimented me because he might need a temporary fill-in for his band sometime. I could hear my dad now. “Good networking skills,” he would have called Glenn’s pitch. “Never burn a bridge you
might want to drive over someday.” He was
full
of stupid sayings like that, but this time he’d probably be right.

Kyle grabbed one of my cases as I was loading out and fell in beside me. The elevator was still broken, but down was better than up, especially with two of us. He was pretty quiet as we navigated the stairs. Then he finally spoke. “I saw you talking to GT and those guys. What did they want?”

I almost told him, but what was the point? “He wanted your sister’s phone number,” I joked. We were always kidding about setting Kimber up, but she was evidently pretty picky.

“Yeah, right.…”

“Actually, we were just shooting some hoops. They thought we sounded good.”

He nodded slowly, like there was no way he was buying
that
one, either. “Uh-huh … 
sure
.”

“Okay, except for Nate, their drummer. He was less than impressed with Justin’s tasty little solo.”

“That’s the first honest thing you’ve said. So, what did you think of it?”

“Justin? He was trying to show off and it sucked, big-time.”

“Duh.”

“But I get it. Glenn-Taylor-the-guitar-wizard walks in, so he feels like he has to prove something. He’s only a sophomore, man—he’ll get over it.”

“Boy, you’re in a forgiving mood.”

“Look, he’s one of us, so we have to cut him a little slack, right?”

“I guess. But I’m starting to worry that his insecurity might
get in the way of us getting somewhere. This isn’t the first time he’s choked.”

I shrugged. “I want a deal as much as you, but I’m not gonna sweat it—this is supposed to be about good times, too.”

He gave me a strange look.

“Yeah.
Supposed
to be …”

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty!” my dad said. “Nice of you to join us.” He held out a plate stacked with pancakes. “You almost missed breakfast.”

I snagged four or five. “I was up late last night, working.”

“Hey, you pig,” my little sister, Alicia, said. “Don’t take them
all
!”

“I’m making more,” my mom called from the kitchen. “And don’t call your brother a pig.”

Alicia’s idea of complying was to pull her eyelids down and push her nose up in a snout and snort at me.

Dad ignored her, as usual. “You were
working
last night?” he said. “Then how come they call it
playing
in a band?”

That joke was getting old. “Just because parts of a job are fun doesn’t mean it’s not work.” I was thinking about that broken freight elevator.

He nodded. “Yeah, maybe. But speaking of work, what are your plans for the summer? School’s out pretty soon and we’re not having a repeat of last year.”

I rolled my eyes, but luckily he didn’t see me. Okay, maybe last summer I’d kinda bailed on my promise to get a job, and I’d ended up spending most of my time with Kyle and the band. And to be honest we’d goofed off more than we’d worked, but the band had grown into something more serious now.

Mom tried to help. “Last summer was better than the year before, when he moped in his room all day.”

“There’s nothing wrong with him having friends,” Dad said. “But he needs to learn how to work, too.” He turned to me. “I was talking with Jerry over at Johnson’s Yard Supply the other day, and he said he could use some extra help this summer, moving plants and loading trucks. I told him I’d send you down to talk to him.”

Whoa—time to steer this bus in a different direction. “Thanks, Dad. But I already have a summer job lined up.”

His eyebrows went up. “Really? Where are you working?”

“Land of Lights.”

He pulled a face. “That laser-tag place?”

It was more than that—it was also like the world’s biggest pizza joint, with a cool arcade attached, too. Probably the best hang in town—lots of people from school went there on weekends. And not just dudes, if you know what I mean.

“Yeah,” I said. “Our band has a steady job there for the summer. Every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night.” What I didn’t say was that they probably hired us because we charged less than other bands. This was our first real steady gig, and we were happy to have it at any price—it sure beat scrounging for parties and one-nighters, which were all we’d had until now.

“But if you’re only playing three nights a week, you could still work at Johnson’s during the day.”

This wasn’t going the way it was supposed to. I tried hard to seem businesslike about it instead of whining, because I knew from past experience
that
wouldn’t fly. “Dad, besides doing the gigs, we need to rehearse. We’re developing our original music too—we want to make a record this summer, and that takes a lot of work. We’re serious about this.”

Dad didn’t say anything for a minute. I was waiting for him to call BS, but once in a while he surprises me. Like when I’d asked him if I could go to that big music fest in the desert last summer, and his answer was no … unless
he
took me. Kyle came too, and we had a blast.

But I was still surprised when he said, “Okay, Zach, I can tell you’re serious. Sharla, what do you think?”

Mom raised an eyebrow at me as she spoke to Dad. “I think they should have some sort of schedule. So they stay on track.”

“Thanks,” I said. “To both you guys. We’re definitely going to make things happen this summer.”

Monday morning I looked for Kyle before school started—I wanted to talk to him about getting a schedule together for the band. What I’d told my folks about our summer plans wasn’t
exactly
fiction, but I felt like I ought to try to get something more, uh … concrete arranged.

Kyle wasn’t in any of the normal spots but I ran into Toby
holding court on the senior lawn. The dude’s always onstage, whether he’s fronting our band or hanging before school. Today he ignored me even more than usual, if that’s possible, so I gave up and went to class.

In language Ms. Lovell continued with her painful dissection of
Huck Finn
. This cracked me up, because at the beginning of the book Mark Twain himself says, “Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.” But when I’d suggested that maybe he was directing this at language teachers, she didn’t seem to see the humor. Still, her mostly-one-way discussion did give me a chance to sit in the back and get started on a band schedule, so it wasn’t a total loss.

Next I had Spanish, where the groove wasn’t as smooth. Mr. Arrez walks around the room as he lectures, which makes it difficult to get any “outside projects” done.

But in social studies we were watching a movie about the Great Depression, which was exactly as exciting as it sounds, so I decided to keep my mood elevated by working on my band stuff instead.

So by the time I was through my first few classes, I had a pretty detailed schedule hammered out, with times and dates. The basic plan: Mondays and Wednesdays we could practice in the evenings, probably at my place like usual. (If you’re the drummer, it’s worth hosting practice—beats hauling your stuff to someone else’s place.) Then we could meet on Saturdays and have songwriting sessions—our gear would still be at Land of Lights through Saturday night, but we could just get together
with acoustic guitars and a cajon and work on arrangements and stuff. And working on our originals was important, because on Sundays we would focus on that whole business of making a record.