The Drumstick

I’m cleaning up the bar, end of night, everybody’s gone, bar is quiet, someone left their drums on the stage. I’ve been known to beat the skins in my past life. I get on the stool, grab the drumsticks, start playing. Unfortunately, after five hits of the snare, drumstick breaks, half of it goes flying. Shit. What do I do?  Throw the stick away, hide the evidence?  I leave the half drumstick on the snare. That’s what you get for leaving your drums on stage, I rationalize.

Today, I’m chit-chatting with the sound guy, he played the night before, he says, out of the blue, did you get on my drums last night, break my drumstick?  Oh shit. Busted. I tell him, yeah. Guilty.

He says, I thought it might be you. I could imagine you getting behind the drums, everybody’s gone, breaking my drumstick.

Guess I know what I’m gonna get him for his next birthday.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

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