by Eric Shoars
“What? What is it?” Julie asks, thinking I’ve been injured or something is on fire.
Eyes wide, I explain. “Look at this. It looks like a bloody massacre. The onions have been murdered. All that’s missing is crime scene tape. Onions at a crime scene.” I accentuate the assertion by extending my arms, palms facing the ceiling making me look like a magician who has successfully completed a trick.
The three women look at the countertop chaos then look at me. Head shakes and eye rolls commence. Ashley chuckles in a way that humors me in hopes it’ll help end the weirdness.
I become a statue standing witness. Julie and Ashley return to their chairs. Nicole squeezes by me to get her seconds, popping a couple of pickles in her mouth like peanuts before grabbing her second burger. “Onions at a crime scene,” I whisper to myself.
Sounds like a band name.
I smile.
It sure does.
***
February 16, 2018
It took some effort and a couple of weeks to get my free drum lesson scheduled. Not surprising given the fact that I’m trying to coordinate schedules with a high school junior who has a lot of commitments beyond homework. In the end, the solution is for me to show up at the high school band room after the pep band finishes playing prior to the girls’ varsity basketball game.
Stepping into the band room is a surreal experience. It’s been decades since I’ve stepped into one; maybe since my Freshman year of high school when the band room was utilized as a classroom for driver’s education. Chairs and music stands are scattered as if the band left abruptly after the last practice. There are four tiers that provide the seating area for the band members. Cubbies for people to store their cases or backpacks are lined up against the wall behind the highest tier. Stationed on the highest tier is the reason for my being here tonight – the drums.
Nick greets me and extends a hand to invite me to take my seat at the drum set he’s reserved for me. Nick is about two inches taller than me, heavy set with shoulder-length curly hair and stubble on his face that indicates he hasn’t shaved for a couple of days. He’s wearing a red and black flannel shirt, blue jeans, and work boots.
I take my place picking up the drumsticks, gently introducing them to each of the drums and the cymbals. It’s the equivalent of pinching myself. This is happening. I’m going to play drums. It is challenging to stifle my giddiness. I am 12 again.
Julie and Aniko stand below in the front of the first tier of chairs; smiling at me upon seeing my excitement. They lean in to each other as they talk, arms crossed, keeping their thoughts between them.
“Okay,” Nick says, breaking me out of my thought, “let’s get started.” He then advises me on hand and foot placement. It feels odd to play drums with my wrists crossed. Right foot is on the pedal. As Nick continues his initial explanation it becomes very clear the drummer is perhaps the most important person because the drummer sets timing and rhythm for everyone else. This means the drummer for Onions At A Crime Scene can’t fake his way through and not affect the rest of the band. The first few drum strikes are tentative as though I may not know my own strength and fear I may damage the drums.
“Don’t be afraid of breaking them. They can take it,” Nick chuckles.
A hard exhale. More vigor in the striking. Better sound.
“That’s it,” Nick says approvingly. “Now try to keep this beat.” Nick starts in on his drums and lets me hear the beat I’m to follow. “Jump in anytime and just do what I do.”
I study his motion, hearing the cadence of the drums, keeping time with the tapping of my left foot. My hesitation is that of someone not sure if the water in the lake is the desired temperature before jumping in.
I begin striking my drums matching him beat for beat as best I can. The most difficult thing is trying not to overthink it. There are stops and starts as my brain tries thinking rather than feeling through the lesson.
“Arrgh!” I exclaim in mild frustration. “I get in a groove and then my brain gets involved and it all goes south.” Even at that, I’m having a blast.
“You’re doing great,” Nick encourages. “Now let’s try adding the foot pedal.”
Great. Let’s add another limb. Piece of cake.
Nick again starts in on his drums with hands only and then adds the foot pedal to the mix. Might as well try to rub my belly and pat my head at the same time. I try to mimic Nick and all is well for a few seconds at a time before I lose the beat.
Nick is as steady as a metronome which provides a guide so I can jump back in when I drop the rhythm. “Keep it up, Eric, you got this.”
“I feel so uncoordinated,” is my reply before jumping in again. My brain shuts off long enough for me to stay with Nick for nearly a minute before crossing myself up again. I laugh but it is a laugh of triumph not humor.
“Yeah!” Nick punches the air. “That was great!”
“I guess we’re getting a drum set,” Julie says from the peanut gallery.
A perfectly-executed rim shot is my reply. All assembled start howling.
Yeah. I’m getting a drum set.
***
Julie and I arrive back home at 8:30. She brought my drum lesson to an end after my rim shot by pointing to the clock and saying over an hour had passed since starting. Maybe people had other things to do on a Friday night. I agreed but couldn’t believe time had gone that quickly. Felt like 20 minutes.
“Did you have fun?” Julie asks. Our ride back had been in silence. I was digesting the lesson and needed time to process. She knew that and gave me the mental space.
“You know I did. I could have stayed the whole night.”
“That’s why I had to remind you of the time,” Julie acknowledges. “How do you feel about being able to pull off being a drummer for your band?”
An exhale of mixed emotions is the preamble to my response. “Overall, I feel fine. This doesn’t seem impossible. What was brought home is how important it is for me to be more than competent. I have to be sharp.”
Julie and I exit our SUV and walk through the interior door that gets us in the house via my office. Julie continues to the kitchen as I take off for my desk, plopping down in my chair. “I have to check on a couple of things and then I’ll be in and we can watch some TV,” I say.
“I’ll go put on my pajamas and be ready when you’re ready,” she answers without slowing down.
I bring up my web browser and log in to Facebook. I’ve tried everything I can think of to find Lori and I guess it’s time to do what I didn’t want to do – involve another person.
I click on the Facebook Messenger icon and begin a new message. This missive is to my classmate Sara. Sara and I have stayed in touch over the years especially when Facebook made it easy to link with one another. Sara and I were in the same homeroom all during high school so we know each other quite well. Sara’s been able to keep tabs on the whereabouts of our graduating class and some classmates who moved away before 12th grade. It’s that expertise I require.
The reason for not wanting to involve anyone else is I don’t want to divulge why I’m looking for fear that Sara might share this tidbit of information with others; information that could take on a life of its own. But she may be my last hope in finding Lori.
My message to Sara is a simple one. Does she know Lori’s given name and maybe married name, where Lori moved after 5th grade and – most importantly – does she know how I can find her on Facebook or anywhere else for that matter? Luck seems to be solidly in my corner as Sara is online and gets my message immediately. She messages me back nearly as swiftly.
“Hey, Eric,” she replies. “I think I can help you. BRB.”
My stomach flutters that it might be just that easy. A stare down with the Messenger box ensues. The whole “watched pot never boils” axiom walks across my mind. Distracting myself with other th
oughts doesn’t work. Does Sara have the missing piece to this missing person puzzle?
The notification ding announces Sara’s reply. “May have something helpful,” her message begins, increasing my hopes. “I can’t tell you where she went or is BUT in my classmate files I found that her given name is Lorelei Rae Politis. Can’t help you with a married name but she might be using first and middle name as many women do to try to keep themselves anonymous.”
“THANKS. That is a HUGE help!” I reply. This is the first solid breadcrumb I’ve had to follow. “Appreciate you looking this up for me. Now let’s see if I can find her.”
“You’re welcome. GOOD LUCK.”
Exhaling a combination of relief and nervous anticipation, I back out of Messenger to do a Facebook search for Lorelei Rae and cross my fingers for the nanosecond it takes for the results to appear. Or, should I say, result. There is precisely one result and I click on it. This woman lives in Pella, Iowa. I know Pella. Been there. One of the most iconic Downtowns I’ve ever seen.
Pella is a Dutch community and years ago its city council passed an ordinance that all buildings built in the Downtown stretch must have Dutch architecture. When McDonald’s wanted to put a store in their Downtown the city council denied their request until McDonald’s agreed to build their store to conform to the ordinance. The city council won. The end result was astonishing. It’s one of my favorite McDonald’s in the country.
Squinting to get a better look at her picture – trying anything that will help me positively identify her – 50-50 is as sure as I can be. Nothing in the Facebook profile leads me to believe this isn’t Lori but nothing leads me to believe it is her either. Coin flip. Nothing ventured and all that, the mouse clicks on Messenger and I try to compose a message that is heavy on re-introduction and sentiment while being light on creepy.
Another deep breath to make sure every word hits the precise note. A chuckle. Hits the precise note. That’s funny.
The message is posted and now I cool my jets for Lorelei’s response to let me know if I’ve found her or if my search hit another speed bump. I log off and leave my office. Time to Netflix and chill with my wife.
***
Saturday finds me in an upbeat mood. Last night’s drum lesson was a highlight. Even if the reunion never happens, the kindness of a high school kid will always be remembered fondly. It’s the kind of stuff that restores one’s faith in humanity.
I stroll into my office while the coffee maker is working on preparing my morning cup of giddy up and Julie is making me blueberry waffles.
Firing up my PC I check to see how my freelancer Lisbeth is coming with the songs I’ve asked her to write. Lisbeth answered my message a couple days after I posted it and we found ourselves to be a creative match. I gave her an idea for the first song with a couple of lines to use and gave her a direction the lyrics should take.
She did such an amazing job with the first song that I asked Lis to write the entire album with me. She accepted without hesitation. Each opening of my email from Lis brings with it anticipation to see what she’s done with my musings. My Inbox reveals a note from Lisbeth with attachments. Songs are ready to review.
I do a quick scan for first reaction and then go back for a more thorough examination. A big smile appears as I look over the lyrics. Lisbeth took the ideas and turned them into some damn fine songs. I see a couple tweaks for her to make but they are minor adjustments. These songs will do just fine. She captured my thoughts turning them into legit songs for an honest-to-goodness band.
A quick reply is crafted that is part instruction and mostly gratitude on a job well done. My attention returns to Facebook now that my message in on its way through cyberspace and across the pond.
I’ve been busy relationship-building with Todd and Laurel since both accepted my Facebook friend requests. What I share is strategic – no cute animal videos or quizzes – in order to lay a relational foundation and bond with them emotionally again. I log in to Facebook now to see if my morning is going to get even better.
A couple days ago I jumped on YouTube and found the clip from Paul Lynde’s 1976 Halloween special where KISS made their network TV appearance. This is what got Todd into KISS and got me into thinking of starting a band of our own.
My posts to Laurel have been in the realm of parents of twenty-somethings and how impossible it seems that so much time has passed so quickly that our kids are the ages they are. The number 8 appears on the notification icon. Clicking on it, the drop down window shows me some people who have replied to me or tagged me. Todd and Laurel aren’t among them for now. Then I see it. Lorelei Rae has accepted your friend request.
A triple-take to ensure I’m not hallucinating and then my chair becomes an ejector seat as I launch myself up and out. A wild dance of fist pumping and spastic jumping is accompanied by me shouting, “YES! YES! YES! YES!”
I’m caught in a massive adrenaline rush and I’m riding the wave. The biggest hurdle to clear was finding the other three and being able to establish contact again. The most elusive of the three is now my Facebook friend.
A casual observer would think I am Tigger after drinking a forty of Rock Star. Julie has heard the commotion and comes running in to the room to see what happened during her absence.
“What the heck is going on?” she inquires, doing a visual sweep for any obvious clues as to what has caused my sudden outburst.
“It’s happening! It’s really happening!” I exclaim, still jumping around my office. “Lori accepted my friend request! Onions At A Crime Scene is happening!”
At this point I’m leaping in a circle around Julie grabbing her hands to bring her in for a 40-something version of Ring Around the Rosie. Julie indulges me in one rotation before letting my hands go.
“You’ve had a lot of positive things happen the past two days, sweetie.” Julie pivots to leave the room. “I need to get back to my waffles. They’ll be waiting for you once you’ve settled down.” I watch as she tightens the belt on her baby blue bathrobe and walks back to the kitchen.
You might be waiting awhile I think as my impression of Tigger continues.
***
February 24, 2018
The Internet is a beautiful thing. All those beautiful ones and zeroes bring the world to my door. Finding old friends, finding someone to write songs, and finding a used drum set.
After becoming Facebook friends with Lori, I mean, Lorelei last Saturday, this Saturday has me behind my own drum kit which is set up in the family room.
It was ridiculously easy getting the drum kit. I went on Facebook and looked on the Stuff for Sale group. It’s a rummage sale without having to leave my humble abode. Three kits were for sale and this one was only $350 and is in exquisite condition.
Contacting the seller, telling her I wanted the drums, meeting her at the local strip mall parking lot, then paying for and picking up the drums all happened before one in the afternoon. My wife is gracious enough to allow me to set up in the family room in our basement. It was like Christmas morning once the drums were unloaded from the SUV, lugged down here, and set up.
I’m sitting like Nick taught me. My sticks are raised in position ready to make a sound I should have made decades ago. For all my anticipation the sticks will not move. The drums are a temple; the drumsticks about to touch something holy and should do so with proper reverence. This is about more than a hobby or setting right a wrong by a 7th grade music teacher. This is about a second chance for a band that never existed. Doesn’t that deserve more than just diving in?
Sticks come down and are gently laid across the snare. A sigh comes out. This rock band thing isn’t all glamour; it’s going to be work. Glamour. Glamourous. Glamourous life. That’s it.
Jumping from the drums, I grab the remote for the smart TV from the side table next to the couch. The television comes to life and I bring YouTube up on screen and
search for Sheila E.
The video I’m looking for loads then paused until I’m ready to watch it in the proper mindset. I take a deep breath. The year is 1985. American Music Awards. Sheila E and her band are going to perform her hit single “The Glamourous Life”.
The pause turns to play and the song begins. I am 17 again, sitting in the living room at the farm, a senior in high school. The performance starts. Sheila E is wearing what would be called leggings or tights today with a very low-cut teal bodice and a black jacket with lace sleeves. Her band dances as they play, Sheila E playing her drums as she sings. It is fantastic.
Upon further examination, Sheila E isn’t playing the drums; she’s making those drums sing. I am transfixed in front of the screen. The last time I felt this way about a television music performance was a particular Halloween special that featured KISS.
Toes tap in time with the drums. The melody reaches my ears and then courses through my body as a massive adrenaline rush. Then it happens just as I remember: Sheila E thanks the audience of her peers; a band member eases a white fur coat over her shoulders as she waves and walks away from the audience. She suddenly stops between the risers supporting the band’s two keyboard players. Sheila E drops the fur coat and picks up a couple of objects. The lights go down and then a 17-year-old’s mind gets blown as he sits watching in stunned amazement.
Sheila E is playing her drums in the darkness but her drumsticks are plugged in and light up in various colors. All that can be seen are the drumsticks tracing light patterns at light speed. Drumsticks are a blur as light and sound meld in one of the most sensational things I have ever seen. In that instant, Sheila E cements herself as my favorite drummer ever.
The song ends. The 17-year-old leaves the near 50-year-old body but the adrenaline rush stays. Snapping the sticks off the snare, I now christen the drums with Sheila E’s virtual benediction via YouTube. The next Sheila E video plays as I try the basic beat Nick modeled for me. Sheila E and I aren’t in sync and it doesn’t matter one bit. This is probably the only way I’ll ever play with her. I’m okay with that.