from the plot [the air drummer]

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thehinterlandonline:p l o t:euman t. currins_THE AIR DRUMMER

Is this a holy thing to see In a rich and fruitful land? -"Holy Thursday" Songs of Experience I Except when it rained Fenton Real stood in the shadows of Reverie, and squinted to hear the tips of his homemade pine sticks strike an invisible skin stretched out against the air. He nodded in time as he drummed his rhythms against a bodiless, tinny membrane pulled taut against the air. Pounded and thumped soundless rhythms against the spectral head of an air drum. And listened to staccato taps and high-hat cymbals clash as he carved mute music into naked air. . . . Reverie Street--the spine of the city that crawls up from the barren shore of Man-Made Lake (a hole trudged countless years ago and filled with water that never moves except in the event of some seasonal storm where its greyed water merely takes on the face of a natural lake. When small, grey-white waves seem like nothing more than the ash tips of countless dying cigarettes) to the endless fields beyond Main where dust is the only thing that moves. Little dust clouds between the sway of sparse, wispy hands once green with life. Looking up from the end of Reverie, where loosened bits of asphalt and gravel trip into shore, everything seems to swell with routine, hurry, and review. It's eerie to stand at Reverie's foot with the mix of distant city sounds and the soft rush of water against Man Made's shore, and watch the dark spill over such a strange street . . . Up the gentle slope of Reverie past the twenty-five-hour coffee shop, lit by a blinking sign that reads 'The First Hour of Your Day is the Last Hour of Ours.' Through the fogged windows are the regular sitters dressed in red and black checkered jackets, and bent shapeless caps. Quiet, mechanical mannequins programmed with four movements: right hand lifts cup to mouth, and down. Left hand lifts cigarette to lips, and down. The orange and brown aproned waitress pours cup after cup, and pencils order after order. From the street, The First Hour looks like a department store window display. Just up from The First Hour is Engine Rev--Reverie's garage and gas bar owned, appropriately, by the Rev brothers. There are three of them. They have names like Bob and Bill and Jim. No one knows for sure. They could be Robert, William, and James, or Rev, Rev, and Rev maybe. No one knows whether the garage named them or they named the garage. But it doesn't seem to bother the three brothers that they're not known individually. Just as the Revs. It's as difficult to tell them apart physically as it is nominally. They all have the same build: tall, thick, thin tufts of curly black hair, and hands so massive and muscular they seem simian. When coiled around some object in an attempt to loosen, tighten, or crush, each striation pulls to the point of snapping and pushes--pulsing--against the stained skin of their hands. Each of the Revs wears one piece, army green overalls dulled by hours under engines, blackened by oil and grit, and torn in spots by the occasional bar brawl at the local Reverie Review. One of them can always be seen dragging himself out to the pumps after a set of tires bumps over the rubber cord that signals a customer--ting-ting--wiping the remnants of whatever across the front of his overalls. Reverie Review is stamped between Engine Rev and The Music Stop. Its doors open to the walkway across the street that leads to the COR (Church of Reverie--one of two buildings that rest on Reverie's rural side). A walk often walked by the Revs after a night of rustic conversion, looking for a little forgiveness. There is quite a vacant distance of rubble that spreads from the edge of the Review to The Music Stop. Three one-story buildings that once housed an advertising agency, a book shop, and an upper-end men's clothing store all burned down as a result of the Revs' public presentation of a rather inflamed review of what the local dailies called "the book shop's bleeding impiety." The book shop was so squeezed between the other two it seemed to bulge, even to ache. The sudden fire seemed almost to release the pressure, like the sighing bang of a plastic bag balloon held helpless between two wickedly clapping hands. It's what spirits Reverie Street, really--the addictive art of review. Where the withdrawn are sucked into community by the stale smell of bar room sweat and fresh public disdain. Where blue suits and army-green overalls come together clanking glasses and sometimes fists, spilling rivers of drink down the sides of chipped tumblers and sometimes blood down the sides of scarred faces. On Reverie Street, review soaks up everything and everyone, wetting mouths that nearly ache to opine, thirsty mouths like the parched pores of a dry sponge. Near the top of Reverie, where it touches Main, there is a single streetlight that looms over the street performers and fades into the nights around dusk. It pulls them like flies. One by one clicks of clocks draw the performers up the street and home, off some artery of Main. Or at least away from Reverie. Fenton is always the last to leave, if he leaves at all. He is cemented into the last slab of Reverie's sidewalk as though he were scratched there with a twig, like a name and date in wet cement. He is constant. And like an engraved name he is weathered only by rain. An inaudible percussive dance of pine sticks that continues to wave in the absence of hands. It's as though the air itself has become accustomed to being struck, to being the skin, the head of a nonexistent drum. An air that feels naked without the incessant caress of Fenton's etching sticks. . . . Every morning mothers usher children to the top of Reverie, down to the dirt path that cuts through the COR, and over Oldman's hill to St. Paul's School for Boys (the second of two buildings on Reverie's rural side). Little hands wave and cover giggles. Feet skip in pretend rhythm. Some children point toward Fenton and whisper, Can we stop and listen to the dumb-drummer? It's not polite, the mothers say as they cover their children's eyes and cross the street, to stare and call people names. . . . The noon hour ritual brings waves of men in blue suits who walk down Reverie Street past all its performers. Past the preachers and drunks and mimes. Past the bluesman James. They walk past Fenton Real as though he were a spirit unnoticed, an image held in the peripheries where some sign of life seems to etch itself a small place. They march past Reverie's last man whose wooden sticks fly in liquid rhythm beside the steady acoustic hum of busker bluesman James: an older man whose face is hidden by a thick, wiry beard the colour of smoke (touched with faint cigarette stains). His eyes burrow deep beneath his black brow--shadowed as though afraid of light, as though protected from the eyes of passers-by. His voice is hard and rough and low. A deep vibrating rattle of a bass clef bluesy E filtered through a blot of phlegm caught in his throat. A few sidewalk slabs and store glass windows lie between the two men. Between Fenton's silent drum and the bluesman's deep blue hum. And every noon hour James rasps the Reverie Street Blues as Fenton's wooden sticks drip and meld in air, like the slow pull of wood in water: Here come the blue wave son, Here come the blue rue, Stridin' down, struttin' down, marchin' down Reverie Street. Here come the blue wave son, Here come the blue rue, Hidin' frowns, button downs, archin' to the pine beat. There go the blue wave son, There go the blue rue. Wave to the blue wave son, Rue the blue rue. Hollow clinks follow the blue suits as the odd, habitual coin falls against its metal siblings in the chasm of one of Fenton's upside-down drums or James' shapeless hat. Coins that fall from hurried hands whose fingers are accustomed to the ritual release of thin corrugated metal, stamped with systematic signs of worth. Mr Blue Moon, can you Hear those bluesman rhymes? Mr Blue Moon, let me Hear your nickels and dimes. Mr Blue Moon, can you Hear that drummer mime? Mr Blue Moon, let me Hear those metal chimes. . . . Evenings are silent. The city dies as dusk falls upon it. There are the regular lost men, of course, the drunk men, led by companion stray dogs. There's the lazy drag of trailing street performers. But they are all carved into the evenings like age marks. Deep lines and wrinkles that if smoothed or faded the night would lose its semblance of experience. . . . This is the way most days passed--with the innocent hum of morning children, the echo of the midday bell, the quiet routine of men in blue suits and army green overalls, the flicker of lights at dusk, the bluesman's song, and the unassuming calm of Fenton at the corner of Reverie and Main, drumming his silent drum. Then there were other days. Days that held a certain dream-like presence. Days that became reverie. That became memory itself less the history, and were remembered only as experience. II Some Monday. No one ever stopped to listen except Blake. He stopped some Monday morning on his walk to school when he saw another boy tug on his mother's purse and ask, Can we stop at the every-drummer? No, Blake heard the mother say and correct, we can't stop at the Reverie-drummer. There isn't time. Besides, you shouldn't talk to strangers. Come along, the mother said as she hurried her son across the street, hands over his eyes and ears. But I don't want to talk to him, the boy said. I want to listen. Don t be foolish, the mother said. There's nothing to listen to. Blake liked the walk to school. He felt unfettered. Unattached. There was no brightly coloured stretch-cord strapped round his wrist and fastened to his mother's belt loop. Most of the other children were being towed like baggage. It was the trend. Why do you have to pull me on a leash like a dog, Blake heard another boy ask. To make sure, the mother said, that you don't run away and get lost. She thought for a moment. And it's not a leash. It's a safety-cord. But it's bright pink, the boy said, and when I get to school I'm not safe anymore because all my friends have a blue one or a green one or none at all and they're not bright pink like mine and they call me things and push me and punch me and it's not safe. Fine, the mother said as she gave a little tug on the pink safety-cord to hurry her son along, we'll get you a blue one tomorrow. When Blake first stopped on Reverie Street he didn't talk to Fenton. He talked to James. 'I'm not like the other kids you know.' James was in the middle of a song. 'I'm old enough, my mother said, to walk myself to school. She has to get her rest because she never stops, and there's no reason for her to get up so early in the morning because it's not her that has to go to school and learn. Besides, I have to start taking care of myself because I'm not a little baby anymore, I'm a little man. I have to get the experience, my mother said, and the only way I can get the experience is to do things myself, like walking myself to school.' Blake turned, not waiting for nor wanting a response from James. He turned and walked on to St. Paul's School for Boys whose peak sat in the distance, behind Oldman's Hill. The morning bell sounded. 9.00 am. By the time the bell's echo floated past Blake it was almost 9.01 am. He was late. And James was about finished his song. Me and Fenton, The corner men, Aren't dead anymore. Me and Fenton, The Reverie men-- Guardians of the poor. . . . It was some Friday almost a year ago that Fenton's drum died. The last day he or his drum made any audible sound. At least in the conventional sense of audible sound, where it may be heard by someone other than the one who is making it. . . . Five weeks after some Monday. 8.50 am. The sky, an unsettled deep grey, nearly tricked the streetlights into coming on. Peripherally, Fenton saw the last streetlight on Reverie start to flicker, undecided. It hadn't rained in over a month. Fenton stood quietly behind the window of Reverie's Used Goods Store, Second Hands, and listened to nature's drum. He liked the way the rain sounds seemed to clean everything. The way the rain seemed to wash away the waft of rotten fruit scraped out to last night's curb, left to ferment and sour in dark humidity. The way it cleared everything to a pleasant, damp blur. The way it fell. The sound. Fenton withdrew into the scene as audience and listened. The steady tap, tap, tap of the tin-awning snare. Occasionally, the wind whistled a solo. Then settled into a steady rain-drum rhythm. The odd drop of rain reddened as it fell past the flashing crimson sign hanging in the window of Second Hands: OPEN TILL EVER. Only the PEN of OPEN and the T of TILL still had flashing bulbs. The rest had died over the past year or so. Through the window Fenton watched the soaked, naked feet of Reverie Street Pete splash the sidewalk puddles as he danced and kicked to the rhythm of his street corner sermon. He caught Fenton's eyes as he passed, unhurried, pulling and lifting himself in patterns of a familiar dance. He shouted, head slightly back and back slightly curved, and pushed the words out from his throat to the ends of his raised fingers, 'Stand at my right hand,' he sang, 'I'll make a footstool of your enemies for your feet.' He wore a black, tattered, old suit. From the violent stomping of his rain sermons the once tightly sewn hems were now fallen and curled under his scarred, bloody heels. In his left hand he carried a small, handwritten copy of the Book of Acts. There was a small name tag pinned to his left lapel. The black, block letters that simply read PETE had bled and greyed the once white surface around his name. He had a youthful face aged with a week's worth of patchy bristle. And with a moment's glance you could see there was more speech in his eyes than his voice. Reverend Pete was Fenton's rain day replacement. And like Fenton he was rarely heard because almost no one walks in the rain. James, though he was tucked neatly under the awning of The Music Stop, played on. And whenever 'revved-up Pete was revvin' up Reverie Street,' as the bluesman often said, there was always a little hymnic tune thrown into his set, just to keep the street even: Young men will see visions, Old men will dream dreams. God on television-- Nothing's real, it seems. 9.00 am. 'Where's the drummer?' James was belting out the song's last refrain (nothing's real it seems) and whining out a full neck slide. 'Mr Blueman,' said Blake, arms akimbo. 'I asked where's the drummer.' 'Bluesman, Blake,' corrected James with an emphatic draw on the zedded 's' in blues. Blake had stopped to talk to James every morning since the first day he told him about having to 'get the experience.' Though Blake's daily monologue was only drawn into dialogue a couple of days prior. I don't make a habit of talking to people, James had said. I'm not people, Blake had responded with innocence and shrug. I'm just a kid. James smiled, though hidden by his beard, and conceded. Blake nodded. He waited a few seconds before he spoke again. His eyes closed slightly and his little nose scrunched. I just won't call him anything, Blake thought. It's easier. 'Where's the drummer? I want to talk to the drummer.' 'You shouldn't be outside in this Blake,' James looked up, reached out, checking the cool drip of steady rain against his palm. 'My mom said a little rain never hurt no one.' He looked down and wiped the wet from the rose-red St. Paul's crest embroidered on the front of his blue blazer. He traced the outline of the threaded cross and name with his little finger. A small comfort felt in the silk-wet threads. He liked the feel of his uniform in rain. The water made everything softer. He liked the feel of rain on his skin. On his face. He liked to play the old-man game in the rain. He would scrunch his forehead into a thousand pretend wrinkles and try to stop the rush of rain down his face. Try to hold little drops of rain in the boy-made crevices of old-man wrinkles made by pushing up his eyebrows, widening his eyes as though in shock or in excitement or in fear. He'd start counting the seconds as soon as he could feel the tickle of rain-beads slipping from within his neatly combed, silk hair to the edge of his forehead slope. He'd stop counting when the thousand little rain-rivers rushed over the thousand old-man wrinkles and down his cheeks and into his mouth onto his tongue and off his chin, the flood of rain smoothing the wrinkles as the water passed over them, streaking his face young. 'Where's the drummer?' James leaned forward. He peaked his head out from the awning and glanced up Reverie, pretending to look for Fenton. Then, bringing himself back in, he paused and looked down Reverie to the grey of Man Made Lake. The wind pulled the lake water up, as though attached by strings, into a multitude of ash-tip waves. The rain fell like a translucent curtain being drawn across a scene which made the lake seem endless. In that moment James realized he was a man who had never seen the ocean. 'I wanted to talk to the drummer today.' 'So you said.' James motioned his hand, 'Come in out of the rain, Blake.' Blake didn't move. 'You said I could talk to him someday.' 'I said?' 'You said.' 'Oh.' 'Well this is someday isn't it Mr--,' Blake caught himself. James' callused fingers slid down the neck of his guitar to the bridge. He moved the hollow-body so that it rested comfortably in his lap, his leg nestled neatly into the curve of the guitar. He cradled his instrument and gently rocked side-to-side. 'He's listening.' 'Listening?' 'Listening.' 'Listening to what?' 'The rain.' 'What's he listening to rain for?' 'Because he likes it.' 'Why does he like it?' James turned from the street, looked at Blake, and shook his head with a whispered laugh. 'I'm glad I make it a habit not to talk to people.' 'I'm not people. I told you Mr Bl--,' James lit a cigarette. He was beginning to like Blake's morning stops. 'You should ask him.' 'Ask him what.' 'What? What you just asked me. Why he likes listening to rain.' 'Oh.' 'But it won't do you much good.' 'What?' 'Asking him.' 'Why not?' 'Because he won't tell you.' 'Why not?' 'Because he can't.' 'Why not?' 'I can't say.' 'Why not?' 'Because I can't.' 'It's about that time last year, isn't it? Tell me. Why won't you tell me?' 'Because I can't.' 'Tell me.' 'Not now.' 'When?' 'Not now.' The two were quiet. Weather and the persistence of a child ripped at James' memory, tearing the Friday Night Review poster-ad from a year ago and pinning it to now. 'Where's he listening?' Blake broke in. 'Huh?' James managed, sill caught in memory. 'Where's he listening?' 'Oh. Up the street.' 'Up the street is right there and I don't see him.' Blake pointed to Fenton's regular spot. 'I only see that crazy man.' Says the Lord, says the prophet, 'Heaven is my throne, and the earth is my footstool.' 'He's there,' James mumbled through the filter of his cigarette. 'Where there?' 'There,' James pointed. Blake stomped up a few paces to where Fenton usually stood, to where James pointed, over-swinging his arms and huffing a little. If Blake had looked through Second Hands' window he would have seen Fenton looking out, smiling. He turned, shouted back 'Here?' to James and slapped a puddle with his little hand to mark the spot. The water splashed his face. He rubbed at the water-sting, buzzed his lips, and shook himself into a dance that blended well with Pete's sermon song. So well, in fact, that as he passed Pete grabbed Blake by the wrists and swung him into a spin. Pulled him in an up-down, elliptical orbit.