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.