Little Drummer Boy

“I hate her!” Jesse whispered to the empty room. "I f-f-fucking hate her. Shame and excitement roiled through his eleven-year-old body, "I fucking hate her," he repeated, not wanting to let go of this feeling. His face felt hot, as if he'd been standing in front of the basement furnace. It was a familiar feeling. The anger and the heat. Tears escaping like steam. If he'd stop to think about it, Jesse would be hard-pressed to remember a week when she hadn't done some petty, cruel act that set him off. It was a ritual in his young life. Anger, heat, tears, then resignation. But this was different. Today Jesse’s system was broken and he continued to run hot no matter how many tears he shed.

One Saturday—just this one day—was all he asked. Everyone was going to be at the carnival tonight. Even Joey Turner and his mom never let him go anywhere. Jesse kicked a toy fire truck on his floor, sending it spinning across the floor crashing into his cymbal stand. The cymbal clanged lightly in protest. For a second, Jesse had an urge to kick to push the whole drum set over, and beat on it like one of those old rock stars he'd seen on Youtube. He'd never do it, of course. He loved those drums more than just about anything. The Yahama 5-piece had been a gift from his dad years ago. The last thing he'd ever given Jesse before the accident.

Probably her fault. The thought faded, but didn't disappear, instead repeating itself, keeping tempo with Jesse's frustration. 

At the same time, the drums were, in a way, responsible for his current rage. 

God, he hated her! It was so unfair!

“You need to practice. The concert’s Monday, you know." His mom was already into her third cocktail. "It's five o'clock somewhere," she would say every time she mixed herself a drink. Gin, ice, tonic, and lemon, always in the same cheap, green sea glass tumbler. 

"Besides, you know how I feel about carnivals. Deathtraps, all of them.” She stood there, cigarette in hand, filled with enough gin to keep her swaying like a tree in a stiff wind.

“It’s just one night. I’ve been practicing all week, mom!” Jesse angrily wiped the first of that day’s tears from his cheek.  “Please mom!” Jesse was shouting now, something he never did. In this neighborhood the walls were thin and the neighbors were all eyes and ears. His mother’s 'habits' did enough to keep them knee-deep in shame. It was hard enough living in a small town with a young mom, no dad and a bottle. Even a kid like Jesse knew shouting matches at Surrey Lane would only add unneeded grist to the local rumor mill. 

 “Indoor voice,” she’d said quietly, with hardly a slur. 

Probably...  

Jesse knew it was hopeless. But they each had their role to play. 

“One night, mom!”

...her fault. 

“I said ‘no’.”

That's when the floodgates opened. 

"GOD! I HATE DRUMS! I HATE YOU!"

And that was that. Jesse had played his ace, and his mom had called his bluff. There would be no carnival, and probably no dinner, tonight. Sobbing turned to hiccoughs and eventually, he fell asleep, half-dreaming of running away and joining the carnival, relishing the pain and anger that would cause her.

It was near dark when woke, the pillow case damp with sweat. His mother's exaggerated laughter shot up through the floorboards filling the room as if she were hiding under Jesse's bed. Drunk again.

“Come on, baby.” A man’s voice. “You can’t get me worked up like that and then just turn off the juice.  

Jesse heard what sounded like a bottle tip over, followed by more laughter. 

Probably her fault. 

It made him feel ill. Without thinking he got up and went to his drums.

”Sorry handsome, show’s over. My son’s upstairs in his room. Another time.”

Jesse sat down and started tapping out a soft rhythm. Should have let me go to the carnival. You could have had the whole house to yourself.

“Hey! Enough with the fast hands. I said no. Not tonight.”

Jesse's foot found the base drum pedal and a steady boom, filled the room. It wasn't enough to drown out the voices, but it was enough o let his mom know he was awake. Maybe she'd do the right thing and send the jerk home. He started hitting the snare faster. All her fault.  

“You should be nice to me.” The man’s voice still could be heard over the drums. Jesse didn't recognize it. But why would he. This was probably his first time here. His mother (Probably...) wasn't big on second dates, and he'd long since given up trying to remember their names or faces, let alone what they sounded like. (...all her fault). The stranger's voice was louder, as if he were trying to talk over the drums.

“If you’re nice, I’ll be nice. But if you’re not –“

Jesse heard his mother raise her voice. She was shouting, more in anger than fear. Neither Jesse nor his mom thought about the neighbors. He should go down there. Jesse wasn't an idiot. He didn't have to know what the man looked like, to know he wasn't going to let some kid push him out the door. But he might feel ashamed, or scared, if there was a witness. In history class, they had learned about de-escalation, where one party did something to cool things down. Jesse was pretty sure if he went downstairs, he could de-escalate things, and the guy would just leave. Probably.

all her fault

He started in on the symbols, really building up a head of steam. He heard something crash downstairs and his mother screamed again. He kept playing.

All her fault...rat-a-tat-tat ... all her fault.   

He beat out a hard, fast roll on the snare. Sweat started to bead on his forehead and his palms felt warm and damp. But he felt good. He could barely hear anything other than the drums now.  

Another muted crash. Something heavy, heavier than a bottle. A lot of noise from downstairs. He wasn't sure, but he thought maybe he heard his name. It was probably too late to go downstairs now. There was another phrase that Jesse had learned when his teacher, Mr. Sullivan, was talking about the Civil War. He said that the election of Abraham Lincoln was a tipping point. A point in time where, even if no one wants to do something, there's nothing that can be done to stop it. Or something like that. Jesse felt that a tipping point had been reached downstairs. The idea didn't scare him. It gave him comfort. It absolved him. It - 

all her fault.

Jesse went into a long ‘fill,’ breaking out of the rhythm and going wild on the drums and symbols. Eyes closed, arms flailing, drumsticks everywhere. He was a beast! He played better, faster, longer and louder than he’d ever done before. Heat came off him in waves now, sweat soaking through his shirt. He kept up his fevered drumming, the base pedal a blur; until the house itself was vibrating - shaking in rhythm. Everything felt good. Everything was working. 

The walls are thin and the neighbors are all eyes and ears. and it's all her fault. all her fault. 

Jesse played his drums, a boy possessed. He kept playing until he felt a uniformed policewoman place her hands on his shoulders. He was soaked and gasping for air. 

Outside, there were lots of lights. Not carnival lights, but they made Jesse smile anyway