by Mike Grosso
“At least you have some idea how to set up a drum kit,” he says.
“I’ve done it a thousand times in my head.”
Pete leans forward and rests his arms in his lap. “But no one’s ever really given you a chance.”
“Less than that,” I say. “Do you know how it feels to spend every day another step farther away from really learning how to play?”
Pete stands up and paces the room. I glance at him from behind and see that he’s not totally bald. A long, black ponytail hangs from the tiny section of his head that actually has hair. It’s the longest ponytail I’ve ever seen—longer than any of the girls’ at school—and it hangs all the way down his back, dangling at the bottom of a button-down shirt that might look fancy if it was ironed and tucked in, which it’s not.
“This is not a fad,” Pete says. “This is not a hobby or a way to pass the time. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I say.
“I don’t babysit. I teach young dreamers to become real drummers and real drummers to become really amazing drummers.”
He used the word dreamers. It takes all my self-control not to bounce off the walls with happiness. “Yes.”
“If I start to think you’re wasting my time or not taking this seriously, you will be dismissed.”
“Yes.”
Pete crosses his arms and says, “That settles it, then. Do you have any other questions before you come back ready to work harder than you ever have before?”
I’m so excited that my voice squeaks a little when I say, “How much will it cost? Per lesson?”
“Fifteen dollars for a half hour.”
I’m shocked. It must show on my face, because Pete says, “Is that going to be a problem?”
“No,” I say. “Not at all, it’s just, well—”
“Spit it out, missy.”
I know I should just shut up and thank him. There’s no need to bring up things he hasn’t mentioned. But I’m curious, so I have to know. “I heard your regular rate was thirty dollars for a half hour.”
“That is my regular rate. I’m charging you fifteen. Do you think you can mow enough lawns to make that?”
He knows about my plan to mow lawns. I never told him, but somehow he found out. I wonder how he knew, just long enough to realize I don’t really care. He agreed to give me lessons. Mission accomplished. I feel a small tear leave my eye, and I blink furiously in hopes he doesn’t notice.
“Any amount you earn over fifteen dollars goes toward saving for a real drum set,” he says. “No more practicing on encyclopedias and comic books. Once you have a real set, we’ll talk about charging you the regular rate. If I find out you’re blowing the extra cash on video games, you’re done here.”
“Yes,” I say.
“Three thirty on Monday afternoon is open right now. Can you make that work?”
I think quickly, sorting out times in my head. Mondays are one of my dad’s latest work days. Sometimes he doesn’t even make it home by dinner. My mom gets home around four thirty, so I’d have to rush home right after. I’d also have to leave school the second the bell rings, grabbing my stuff from home, and running to Pete’s by three thirty. But it could work. It will work.
“Three thirty on Monday sounds great,” I say.
“One of my biggest rules is don’t be late.”
“I won’t. Thank you, sir.”
“Another one of my rules is never call me sir . Or Mr. Taylor. I can’t stand the sound of either. Just call me Pete, okay?”
“No problem, Pete.”
“I’m serious when I say come prepared to work harder than you ever have before. I throw a lot of stuff at my newbies. A lot of them get spooked and don’t show up for the second lesson. It would be disappointing if that was the case with you.”
I nod and offer to shake Pete’s hand. He backs away and says, “Get that thing away from me. Handshakes are for people who know they’re ripping you off.”
I consider this for a moment, and even though it sounds a tad silly, I don’t offer my hand again.
“See you on Monday,” he says. “Now get out of here and let me finish my day.”
He returns to his couch as I walk out his front door and down his steps, butterflies flapping their wings in my chest. I’m halfway down the block leading away from his house when it dawns on me what I’ve accomplished today. The tears shoot out, full force, like I’m suddenly the girly girl my mother always wanted.
I know I’m not a real drummer yet. But I feel like one for the first time in my life.
And it’s all because I’m going to get a chance to learn how to play. Really play.
I can barely sleep Sunday night. I keep envisioning my arms flying across toms as Pete cheers me on. Monday morning I feel like a zombie.
School isn’t too bad, but my final lunch detention with Dr. Pullman comes at midday, and I’m not any less tired when he begins his interrogation.
“I still haven’t heard from your parents,” he says.
“They’re really busy,” I say, blinking my eyes to stay awake. “My dad works really late at his new job.”
“I know. I tried contacting him at the office number we have on file and found out he no longer works there.” He blinks several times, his gaze softening into something almost friendly. Scary Dr. Pullman is back within seconds. “Did you talk with them about contacting me, like I asked?”
My shoulders tighten. “I mentioned it to them. They’re just really busy.”
“Both of them?”
I shrug, wishing for a better excuse, but too tired to come up with one.
Dr. Pullman folds his hands in front of him. His eyebrows tense as he stares me down. “I’m concerned that you don’t truly understand the severity of this. You hit another student with a weapon.”
I shiver at the word weapon. Is that really what it was?
“I know it was wrong to hit Danny,” I say, “but I wouldn’t call it a—”
“I’m not concerned with what you would or wouldn’t call it,” Dr. Pullman says, interrupting. “You used the mallet as a weapon. You could have been suspended, but I decided to be nice and give you lunch detentions instead.”
Suspended. Another word that scares me to death. My mallet didn’t seem like a weapon at the time. It doesn’t even seem like one now. It’s just a wooden stick with a fabric tip that makes noise when it hits the wooden notes on a marimba. It’s not dangerous. It’s just music.
“I also find it more than a little odd that your parents are incapable of returning my phone call,” Dr. Pullman continues.
I clamp my lips together as hard as I can, afraid that if I open my mouth, the truth will burst out. I focus instead on today’s complimentary detention-based grammar assignments. I’m caught up on schoolwork now, but apparently there is an endless grammar vortex that I’m fighting my way through.
Dr. Pullman must be as tired as I am because he goes back to typing away at his computer. There’s no more needling me with questions for the rest of the lunch detention.
The rest of the day is a blur. The moment the final bell rings at the end of band class, I sprint to my locker, shove my things in my bag, and run home. As tired as I am, the excitement of my first private lesson with Pete gives me a second wind.
I get to his house and ring his doorbell. When no one answers, I ring it a second time, growing increasingly nervous that he forgot.
He finally answers the door and says, “Give it a rest! If it’s your lesson time, just come on in. You can wait in the living room if I’m finishing up with another student.”
I follow him in, feeling silly and shy all at once. As he’s leading me down into his basement, a thought occurs to me. “I haven’t mowed any lawns yet.”
Pete turns around, giving me a look from the bottom of the stairs. “You do realize that’s not what we’re doing today?”
“I know,” I say. “I just don’t have any money to pay you. Not yet.”
&
nbsp; Pete chuckles. “Relax. If you still want drum lessons a half hour from now, you can start paying me next week. Are you ready to work hard?”
“I’ve never been more ready.”
“Then let’s stop talking about money and get started.”
What I said is true. I am ready to work hard. Just not nearly as hard as Pete meant.
He begins the lesson by showing me his practice and teaching combination room. There are two drum sets—one looks nice and well-kept, and the other dented and chipped. Both look amazing to me.
“There are three rules. The first is never, ever touch my set. Students get to destroy that one,” he says, pointing to the drum set with dents and chips. He gestures for me to sit by the student set while he sits by his own.
“How long have you had two drum sets?” I ask, jealous that I don’t even have one.
“Ten years, give or take,” he says. “Ever since I first started teaching. And before you ask—yes, the set in front of you has been in service that entire time. No, I don’t know when I’ll ever get around to replacing it. Probably never.”
He grabs a pair of sticks out of a bag filled with millions of them hanging over the side of his floor tom. Then he does the coolest thing—he breaks into a heavy rock beat, and plays it with the most energy I’ve ever seen. Just when my brain is about to explode, he switches to a swingy jazz beat and breaks into a fill where he seems to play every piece of the set at once. He finishes it off with a crazy Latin beat.
Then he turns to me, and I can see that he didn’t even break a sweat. He says, “The second rule is as simple as the first—the student who does not surpass her teacher has failed him.”
I let his words digest in my head. Surpass my teacher? Does he really expect me to become a better drummer than him?
“That’s impossible!” I say.
“With that attitude, it certainly is,” he says. He grabs his ponytail in his hand and shows it to me. “There’s gray hair in this nasty thing. You really want a guy with gray hair to beat you at drums?”
“But you’ve been playing for years!”
“And when you’re my age, you’ll have been playing for even longer. I didn’t start playing until I was fifteen, so you’ve already got three years on me.”
I try to imagine myself with years of practice under my belt. I imagine being able to do things on the drums I only dream about right now. I even dare to dream of myself playing the kinds of things Pete just played. It’s easy to imagine, but I can’t help feeling a little foolish at the same time.
Sam, you’re such a dreamer.
“You said there were three rules,” I say, trying to block out my mother’s voice. “What’s the third rule?”
“It’s another simple one—the teacher doesn’t have to know everything, just more than you do. It’s a new rule, but an important one nevertheless.”
Pete pulls another pair of drumsticks out of his gigantic bag and hands them to me. “It’s your turn.”
I stare at the drums in front of me and say, “What do you want me to play?”
“Anything. I just need to see what you can and can’t do.”
I try to think of something that will knock his socks off, but every beat I imagine feels cheap and childish. My limbs lock up. My shoulders clench. I’m freezing up.
“Any time now,” Pete says.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Taylor,” I say.
He makes a gagging sound. “Mr. Taylor makes me sick. My name is Pete.”
“Sorry, Pete,” I say. “I’m just nervous.”
“No kidding. If you ever go on stage like that, you’ll bomb the show for sure.” Pete sits up straight and pushes out his chest. “Lucky for you, there’s a cure for nervousness. One deep breath right before you start playing.”
“Does that actually help?”
Pete nods. “One deep breath before you start playing, every time you go on stage. You may miss a few notes, but you’ll never ruin your whole show.”
It sounds easy the way he says it. I take a deep breath, feel the air entering my lungs and calming my body. Then I exhale, imagining a gray mist coming out of my mouth and nose. Then I play something. It’s a sad attempt at a funky beat with the toms and snare, and I don’t even work in the hi-hat. I’ve played something like it before at home, but playing it on a real set makes me realize how unrealistic my desk set really is. The positioning is totally different. Things are farther away. The stands can be adjusted, but I’ve never had to do that before, so I don’t know how.
It also feels weird to play after him. All my flaws are so much more noticeable. It’s so clear that he’s really good and I’m not.
After about fifteen seconds of me looking like an idiot, he says, “Okay, I know where we need to start.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I know I’m terrible.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Pete says. “You’re undisciplined, not terrible. And for the record, being terrible at drums doesn’t require an apology unless you’re in the middle of a gig.” He points at the sticks in my hands and says, “Forget all about the other drums for now. Just focus on the snare.”
“I’ve played the snare a million times in the school band,” I say.
“No, you’ve played it wrong a million times in the school band. Now you’re going to play it right, and you’re going to keep playing it right, no matter how many times your band teacher or your inept band friends try to tell you you’re playing it wrong. Is that all right with you?”
I’m about to answer when I realize he was being sarcastic.
“Play me a single stroke roll,” he says.
I freeze up. My arms won’t move.
He lets out a big, long sigh and says, “Right left right left right left right left. Over and over again. Got it?”
“I know how to play a single stroke roll!” I say, not wanting to admit that I’m getting a little frustrated.
“Then what are you waiting for? Go for it!”
I take a deep breath, just like he suggested, and my arms finally loosen. I start playing. Right left right left right left right left. He lets me play for about twenty seconds, and then he says, “Stop!”
I stop playing and look at him.
“Who are you angry at?” he asks.
“Nobody,” I say, annoyed.
“That’s a bunch of crap. You’re mad at someone.”
I’m mad at you right now, I think to myself.
He gestures to my hands. “You’re holding that stick in a death grip, like you’re wringing a chicken’s neck. You’re playing the drums like a homicidal maniac. Are you trying to kill your drumsticks?”
I shake my head.
“Then loosen it up.”
I loosen my grip, and the rest of my body follows. He tells me not to slouch, that relaxing isn’t the same as transforming into a hunchback, and then starts talking about my grip again.
“Hold it between your thumb and the first knuckle of your index finger.
“You’re holding the stick too tight.
“Don’t let the stick slip into your second knuckle.
“Don’t squeeze with the other fingers. Just the thumb and index finger.
“Don’t let the other fingers hang off either. You’re not a flamingo trying to fly away.
“You’re holding the stick in your second knuckle again.
“Don’t clench your arms and shoulders. The only thing that should be moving is your wrists.
“It’s slipping into your second knuckle again!
“Relax!
“Relax!
“Relax!”
And when I still don’t relax, he says, “Pretend the cutest boy in school just threw a Skittle at your head.”
My eyes bug out, and I say, “That wouldn’t make me relax. That would make me want to punch him in the face.”
“So punch him in the face if that helps. Then you can relax, knowing he got exactly what he deserved.”
We both
laugh.
We spend most of the lesson doing single stroke rolls on the snare drum. Whenever my arms start hurting, he tells me it’s because I’m straining when I should be relaxing.
“Remember!” Pete shouts over my drumming. “You’re not terrible, you’re undisciplined!”
Then he makes me play double stroke rolls, which are even harder and more tiring.
Right right left left right right left left.
Back to single stroke rolls—right left right left right left right left.
Singles for four measures followed by doubles for four measures.
And on. And on. And on.
We do nothing else. I don’t hit any cymbals or toms. I don’t thump the bass drum. By the time it’s over, I’ve been doing the same thing for what feels like hours, and it’s only been thirty minutes. I feel like running out the door screaming.
While he’s leading me out of his house, he says, “You’re disappointed.”
“No, I’m not,” I lie.
“Yes, you are. Every student is disappointed the first lesson—you more so than most. It’s okay. You won’t hurt my feelings.”
I shrug. Does he really expect me to have anything to say to that?
“You made it through your first lesson,” he says. “How does it feel?”
It feels miserable and hopeless, but I’m not going to tell him that. Besides, the practice isn’t what bugs me. It’s something else. Something too familiar. Something I don’t want to say out loud. That headphone jack in my head would be nice right now.
I take a deep breath and choose my words carefully. “I really appreciate what you’re doing, Mr.—I mean, Pete. It’s just that I’ve always hated the way they only let you play one drum at a time in band, and that’s exactly what we did today.”
“That’s right,” he says.
“I didn’t think this would be just like band.”
“It’s not.”
“Then when do I finally get to play the whole set?”
“After you learn to play a single drum correctly.”
“Is that the only way?”
He nods. “Until you show me a way to juggle five beanbags without first learning to juggle two, I’m afraid so. You need to learn proper stick control and some drum rudiments that are actually useful. Then we’ll see about moving you on to the rest of the set. Even then, Sam, I’m sorry to say that you will begin each session every week with stick control on a single drum.”