“Do you even know how to play a guitar?” Sonny asked. He hovered over Bob and watched while Bob fumbled with the chords.
Bob dragged a hand through his hair and stared down at the crumpled napkin where he’d scribbled hasty lyrics and a dash of chords, then set the guitar aside for a moment.
“You done with it?” Sonny asked. His breath was rancid and he definitely had several old meals in his beard, but Bob didn’t care.
“No, not yet. It’s just --”
“Can you even write a song?” Sonny asked.
“Yes! I’ve been writing songs since I was seven. It’s just -- I was the drummer, all right? Clay tried to teach me how to play the guitar, but my hands just weren’t made for that.”
Sonny blinked. “Breathe, kid. It’s just a song.”
Just a song. Bob wanted to laugh. He did take a deep breath, and then he stared down at his hands. For twelve years now he’d pretended that all that mattered was dexterity, the quick rhythm of palms and knuckles, from brushes and sticks to bare hands on a box. Clay had longer fingers, more graceful hands, but then he had the smaller, thinner frame. Somehow, despite the fact that they were twins, he was prettier.
“Going to try again?” Sonny reached for the guitar.
“My fifty bucks isn’t up yet,” Bob said. “I just - need a minute.” He closed his eyes and set his hands on his knees. Then he curled his hands into fists and began to play. It was the first beat, the easy beat, the oldest beat from their oldest song, and it evolved from one song to the next, one album to another. When he opened his eyes, his palms were red and tingling, his knuckles swollen. He stared down at his hands once more. He had blunt-fingered, broad hands, like a carpenter or a construction worker, not a musician.
“That was...you’re crazy,” Sonny said.
Bob scooped up the guitar and tried the chord sequence once more. He was surprised at how steady his hands were this time, and he smiled.
“That sounds pretty good, actually,” Sonny said.
“Thanks.” Bob’s smile widened. “Now, on to the second verse.”
He barely noticed when a crowd began to gather around the edges of his vision.
“Every step along the way is part of who we are today...”
2 comments:
I liked how he reverted back to being a drummer for a moment to get his bearings. The tread of the same beat woven into all their music. I could also see his hands from your description.
Honestly, it was hard to get a lock on Bob's hands since he usually wears gloves when he plays. >.< But playing bare-handed can be really, really calming after an awful day; I used to play bare-handed all the time. And I have noticed that he has a pretty consistent drumming style as far as fillers and beats go, but as the band progressed his sense of rhythm definitely matured.
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