“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.
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