Photo by Shawn Rodgers on Unsplash

When the Drummer Boy disturbed the silence it sounded mostly like sounding brass or off-beat, clanking symbols. Loveless, harsh, wrong.

Muted, stifled sounds emitted from the bass drum that refused to kick. The snare was warped and warbled— out-of-tune throbs echoed from the toms.

I could hardly endure the sounds. Being off-time was bad enough, but this? This was intolerable.

The drummer boy smiled and continued to beat out what little life was left in the worn out drum set he played.

Had it always been this way? I asked myself as I eyed both the drummer and the drums. Had the cracks and tears always been there?

The banging paused.

“Do you know where I got these?” the drummer boy asked. His clear blue eyes sparkled like a child’s on Christmas morning. He set the drum sticks down and pulled his long black hair back with the tie he wore around his wrist.

Honestly, I didn’t care where he got the drums, but didn’t want to be rude. Out of obligation I replied, “Where?”

“I found them!” He jumped off the stool and turned around to face me. Grabbing me by my arms, he squeezed and began jumping up and down. “You wanna know how much I paid for them?”

Warily, I regarded the drummer boy. If you found them then surely you paid nothing. I thought as I shook my head no but said “Yes”. The body never lies. I didn’t want to know. Frankly, I didn’t care.

“NOTHING!” he yelped, jumping and spinning around in the air. When he landed, if you want to call it that, he crashed into the high hat sending the entire rig sprawling across the floor. “I’ll fix it.” he mumbled, trying to set everything back to rights.

I watched as he twitched and ticked. His neck ducking twice, nodding to the side, then ducking three times more. Violently, he flung his head side to side to side again. Tourette’s.

“Who are you?” I asked.

He became completely still, “Me?” he responded with a question. His countenance fell and a dark cloud descended. I saw it but chose to ignore it. At any moment I could have offered him grace, compassion, and love, but I didn’t.

Instead, I made an exaggerated sweeping gesture around the otherwise empty room, just to make sure he was aware there was no else I could possibly be referring to. Inside, I screamed. No, the Drag Queen performing ‘It’s my Party and I’ll Cry if I Want to’ on that stage over there that doesn’t exist!

“Are you talking to me?” the drummer boy spoke again after I didn’t respond.

I choked back the desire to spew the sarcastic response welling up inside, and although I did fight my urge, I couldn’t completely overcome it. If I were a kid I would have said “DUH” but I’m not. I’m a sophisticated adult, so I finally responded, ‘Uh, yeah.” Complete with an eye roll and hair flip.

I knew I was being an utter jackass but I refused to stop myself. This kid must be an idiot.

“I can’t believe you don’t know who I am.” He spoke softly, more to himself. Then he added, “I Am, Man, I Am.” And that’s all he said as he sat back down on the set and continued to pound away.

Smile now gone. Joy defused. Light snuffed out. All because of me.

In that moment I realized my folly. For he was me— I was the sounding brass or off-beat, clanking symbols. My words. My deeds. My actions. Loveless, harsh, wrong.

I left.

What else was I to do?