Soundcheck (Skull and Roses)

It's pouring, pissing down all over New York with a miserable winter rain. Not quite three in the afternoon, and it's already dark, neon and taxi headlights streaking across oil-splashed streets outside the Manhattan Centre.

I flap my backstage pass at the guard and run for the warmth and dryness of the lobby. A roadie nods, busy; onstage, guitars and bass sit cradled in their stands.

Behind the two sets of drums, Bill and Mickey are taking a break. I slide off my sodden coat.

And the perfectly meshed downbeats of one solid drummer and one worldclass percussionist light up the empty hall.

As we pull into the lot the sound insinuates into the car. We get out and it surrounds us, pulls us in. We walk for long minutes, passing rows of cars. There are dozens of people walking, in straggling groups, in clumps, singly, all moving toward where the sound is coming from. We reach the end of the grass, the edge of a sharp drop and look down on the dancing ground. At one end sits the circle, a stick in every other hand, and one tenor voice rising in insistent plaint to the relentless beat of the drum.

Drums drabble: 100 words exactly

His fingers are drumming on the desk, a restless tattoo breaking the quiet. His foot is tapping counterpoint. The book is open, but his eyes are roaming the room. He is looking anywhere but down; he is anywhere but here. His hands and feet are pulling him into some wild elsewhere.

My voice is mild, a gentle correction. "Mike. Hon, would you mind? It's hard to concentrate."

The drumming abruptly ceases, and his eyes snap back to me, sheepish smile on his lips. "Sorry, Ms. T.--it's just the beat. Can’t stop hearing it."

I know. I hear it too.

Pow-Wow

There’s part of me that always responds to the native beat of the drums at a pow-wow, as if it didn’t get the memo on my being the palest of pale white chicks. Mostly. Because there’s always a little pause, like when I check The Box. Checking just Caucasian feels like another lie, and my God, haven’t there been enough? But if I don’t have the pain, I shouldn’t take the name.(And our brothers at the tribe wanted seven hundred dollars to list us. Thanks, brothers, although it really does make me feel related to you.)

The women next to us seem nice, until one of them mentions that she’d like...private instruction from one of the hoop dancers, who, admittedly is a warrior fantasy come to life. But they’re groupies, shagging their way through the Western states in a very dick-grabbing fashion that makes me hope nobody thinks we’re like...with them or anything. My pale skin blushes, and I concentrate on the drums.

Another great drabble, erika. Love the bits about the memo and The Box. I didn't know you were part Indian. Native American. Whichever.

Not really here, just popping in to ask Steph - could we have a "last time" challenge (to bookend the "first time" one) eventually?

My grandfather was half Muskegon(Creek) Polter-Cow. When you get into eighths though it doesn't come up that much. But I am a direct descendant which is different from trying to get into a sweat lodge from three generations back...or thinking I'm a reincarnated shaman princess or something.

Ah yes, the dreaded Cherokee princess syndrome. I can relate to having a heritage that doesn't show up in your phenotype from the opposite side--people who guess my ancestry always guess Irish, Indian, or both. I think if you actually parsed out all my ancestry, I'd be at least half Scots-Irish, but that's Not The Same Thing At All, and I only recently discovered that I do in fact have the usual dollop of Indian blood (Creek, too) that makes lots of Southerners claim the Cherokee princess thing.

I'm 100% Indian. Nyah nyah.

snerk.