2. Brian
“It’s nothing like they said on the website,” I utter, dropping the last cardboard box inside.
Greg snickers, “Is this where I say I told you so?”
I take one long look at him before my eyes roll to the back of my head at his sarcasm. Greg and I have shared the longest friendship among all the band members. Even when everyone else hurried back to get their own places in order, he decided to stay a little longer, his commitment unwavering.
With a mischievous grin, I playfully tug his ponytail. “Don’t you start, Greg.”
“Okay, okay,” Greg says, throwing his hand up in mock surrender. “You know most travel blogs and destination magazines are just filled with filtered pictures and exaggerated descriptions to suck you in.”
“Doesn’t matter. We’re here already.”
“Yeah. If you ask me, though, it’s not that bad here. The air is fresher and has a great view almost everywhere. I think we’ll be better off here than in New York.”
I stand and walk toward the window. Something is relaxing and unnerving about this place. I can’t place either one.
Greg is right. The scenery isn’t bad, and the air is different. There must be a lake around here somewhere. The fence around the house is too low, though, like those perimeter fences on ranches.
Well, that explains a lot.
I guess South Brook folks aren’t big on privacy, like the woman staring outside a few minutes ago. Cute kid, though. I sigh. An ordinary day—is that too much to ask for? It has barely been a couple of hours here, and I’ve already found the woman who claims the Neighborhood’s Chief Snooper badge, always one curtain twitch away from breaking news.
I convinced the band to move here to escape the big city’s ogling and the daily hustle and bustle. Touring in big cities is one thing, but living in them is a different ball game. Besides, with all the competition out there, we weren’t booking enough gigs to make any headway.
“You sure we brought that amp in?” Greg asks.
“Yeah. Carried it in myself.”
He rummages through box after box, looking for the amp. Being a bassist, I’m sure he won’t stop until he finds it.
“You sure it’s here?” he prods.
“Yeah, it’s around here somewhere.”
“You’re lucky. All you need is a bunch of drumsticks, and you’re good to go.”
“Doesn’t make it any easier.”
I bury my hands into my pockets and drift off into my head. It’s quiet. Way too quiet for anyone’s mind to be. All that’s left are the whispers that echo in quick succession in my thoughts. All that’s left is Sonya’s anxious voice, ‘When do I go home?’ My lie follows soon after, promising her that she’ll be alright.
Ugh! This is usually where the blaring of car horns and people yelling profanities flood into my thoughts. I wait. Nothing. Oh, right. This is South Brook, not New York.
“I hope this was a good idea,” I say with concern.
“Relax, man. This is the single best decision you’ve made in a long time. Trust me.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
He shrugs.
“Found it!” He points to the amp. It’s tucked under a pile of paper bags.
“Told you it was here somewhere.”
Greg walks over to join me by the window. He slaps his hand over my shoulders and stands for a while.
“You know you worry too much, right?”
“This time, I dunno, man.”
“Well, I do. We’re gonna be just fine. The rest of the gang will settle down within the week. Keep up this attitude, and it’ll spread to everyone else.”
“Band, not gang.”
“You’ve seen what Phil does with the piano. If that’s not criminal, I don’t know what is!” He chokes back his laugh. “But you win. You’re the boss.”
I don’t see it that way, but I’m not in the mood to argue with Greg. The band is a team, just like all musicians and performers should be. Phil is our pianist, Greg is our bassist, Sabrina is our guitarist, and Georgie is our lead singer. Everyone in the band sings except me.
“You made the right call bringing the band here. We were drowning in genres. Funk, jazz. Man, we even did a little RB, remember?”
“Yep, sure do.”
“Happens in the big cities. You just keep trying to please everyone and listen to so many different styles every time you step out of the house. Here, we’ll get to perfect our style.”
“No arguments there.”
We stand there, staring quietly outside the window. He squeezes my shoulders again and takes a deep breath.
“Still worried about her?” he asks.
“I’m fine, I think,” I respond hesitantly.
“Yeah, you are. You just don’t realize it yet.”
“Hope you’re right.”
“When am I ever wrong?” he chuckles. “You mind if I run a few scales before leaving?”
“You’re leaving already?”
“Gotta get back to the wife. Audrey’s gonna have my head if I’m not back to help with the kids after school. It’s a minimum day. You know how it is.”
No, I don’t.I’m clueless about married life, surrendering to all that cheesy, mushy stuff they glorify in movies. Sure, love exists, but it’s around me, not for me. The possibility of finding the perfect match isn’t a risk I’m prepared to waste my time with, especially right after touching down in a new town.
“Give Audrey my best,” I say.
“Yeah, yeah. Will do.”
He claps my back. “So, is that a no on the scales?”
“If you can set up, run your scales, and still make it in time for homework or lunch or whatever you gotta do, be my guest.”
“Right. I’ll head out then.”
“Thought so.”
“Be good, man. You know, Audrey says South Brook is the perfect place for you to heal.”
“So, she’s psychic now?”
“No, you big baby. But she’s got a knack for things like this. Foresight, is it? Can’t remember the word, but it made a whole lot of sense when she said them.”
“Alright. I’ll be fine.” I wait at the door until he gets into the van.
“You sure I shouldn’t just catch a Lyft? You could need the van.”
“And have this four-wheeled signpost pointing people here? No way. I’m good, man.”
“Have it your way.” He pulls out of the driveway and flashes me a wink. “Oh, and say hello to your new neighbor for me, will you? I saw you checking her out.”
“Dude! Get outta here, already,” I laugh.
I watch the van roar into the distance, and then silence returns. I stayed outside for a while, looking around at what’s supposed to be my new home. It doesn’t feel like one yet, but I’ll get the hang of it, eventually. There are hedges and flowerpots in front of every house except mine.
The ones to my right are beautiful, almost like a perfect painting. But wait. I spot movement from the window next to the hedges. It feels like somebody’s watching me. I hold my gaze, trying to make sense of the shape I’m sure I saw at that window. Nothing. I clearly can’t shake the New York paranoia.
Oh, great. Now, I’m the one peeping at someone else’s house. I shut my eyes and indulge in the feeling of the wind wafting over my face. It’s peaceful and quiet. Too quiet.
My mind soon starts playing tricks on me. First, I hear the thump-thump of my heart, then it slows down, thumping slower until all that’s left is a beep. Then another beep. Steady, just like the sound of a heart monitor. Sonya’s heart monitor. Then it all goes flat.
Her final question, ‘When do I go home?’ is forever ingrained in my head.
Ugh.
I kick the ground and head back inside. My drumsticks are exactly where I kept them, but the set is scattered into individual pieces. I tuck them into my back pockets and get to work on assembling the set. As usual, it’s the bass drum first, then the pedal, followed by everything else.
A quick sound check later, and I’m good to go. I start with a basic four-four rhythm, playing a simple swing at a normal tempo. But the silence in my head won’t go away. I hit a double pedal and switch to an upbeat pop rhythm much faster than how I started.
Soon, nothing else matters more than the harmonious resonance filling the air with each beat of the drum. It’s out of this world—finally, some clarity. I shut my eyes and let my hands express the music as they deem fit.
I switch to a salsa rhythm a few rolls later, maintaining the same tempo and humming along to the catchy beat.
Isn’t this why you moved here, Brian?
I get lost with the movement of my wrists trying to find my style. In just a few years of playing, I’ve sampled four or five different rhythms and still have a few more to explore. I told the band we were moving here to learn our genre, perfect our techniques, and learn our style. But what if I’m the only one who still hasn’t found it? When I do, I’m sure I’ll find my joy and freedom again. But for now, my troubled past shackles me in the present.
I stop drumming with a crash on the hi-hat. It echoes until I stop it by holding the edge. There, that’s the stuff. Unless it’s not the stuff.
There’s pounding on my door. Jeez. What now?