12 Drummers Thumbing Read online

  JJ almost dropped the twelve cups of coffee. “Belle, come on!”

  “You, come on.” She tossed her apron at him. It hit the floor. “I’m ashamed of you, James, Jr.”

  AC stood as both Belle and Murphy made their way to the door. He quickly left a ten on the table for his breakfast, and then handed another one to Belle as he got outside. Six more customers followed, two couples, who’d been at the counter, and two men who had entered partway through the conversation.

  “I can’t take that, hon,” Bell said, trying to turn down the tip. “I don’t work here anymore.”

  “P-p-please.” AC insisted. “I-I-m g-g-gay, t-t-too.”

  Belle smiled. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  Murphy held out his hand. “Murphy Knowles. No relation, that I know of, but I’m not giving up. Someday, cousin Beyoncé might just join me onstage.”

  “I’m A-A-A C. J-j-just one A.” He forced a smile.

  “Nice to meet you, just one A AC.”

  As the other supposed drummers approached, AC started to tense. He didn’t want to have to introduce himself eleven more times, so he motioned for Murphy to join him over by the bus, as Belle began to relay to the others what had happened inside.

  The bus’s large engine seemed to be held together with duct tape and bubble gum. The whole thing was a mess. After a quick glance, AC got down on his knees to check out what was going on below. Things looked even worse under there.

  “I’m thinking maybe you know your way around this sort of thing?” Murphy asked, down in a squat.

  AC raised his thumb, as he tried not to notice the fact he could see up Murphy’s shorts.

  “Oh. There’s hope, then?”

  From what AC was seeing, there was none whatsoever. Hoses were leaking, the oil pan had a hole, and worse than all that, the transmission looked shot to hell. Upon sliding out, he turned his thumb the other way.

  “No good?”

  With a glum expression, AC shook his head side to side.

  “Anything we can fix, say, within the next eight hours or so?”

  The short answer to Murphy’s question was no. AC took his phone from his pocket and typed out a lengthier one as a text he’d delete after Murphy had read it.

  Atticus: The split hoses are repairable. The oil pan and brakes would be expensive but doable. Even after just a quick look, I’m certain the transmission won’t last from here to Vermont, though. Replacing it would cost a fortune and take days. Sorry I don’t have better news.

  Murphy sighed. “Well, thank you for checking it out for us.”

  Atticus: I wish I could do more.

  “You’re very kind.” Murphy looked up from AC’s phone screen. “And I like your voice and the name Atticus better.”

  AC bit the inside of his cheek. He considered his response, opened his mouth to offer it, but then when back to the keys.

  Atticus: It just takes me so long to spit anything out. This is more efficient. That word alone, efficient, would take forever.

  “I’m in no hurry. Seems like I’m gonna be stuck here quite a while.”

  AC returned the warm smile that came at him.

  “And you know what?” Murphy took his hand, “We all got something,” and then let it go. “Okay, drummers, gather ‘round.”

  The others followed the command.

  “Bad news,” Murphy said. “Old Wilma is kaput. This good-looking sweetheart, here, tells me our transmission doohickey and our whatchamacallit hoses are shot. It would appear Vermont isn’t going to happen. I guess we go our separate ways and just try to get back home. Bada-bing, bada-boom.”

  There it was.

  “Where’s home?” Belle asked.

  “All over,” Murphy told her, as the others muttered and murmured among themselves. “I’ve got guys from the east, the west, the north, and the south. We do this every year, play big gigs and small ones. Vermont was going to pay enough to get us all home by the day after Christmas.”

  “The day after?” Belle glanced at each drummer but looked back to Murphy for an answer. “Won’t you miss your families?”

  “Well, here’s the thing,” he said. “Most of these men have a reason to be away from family, a short separation or a permanent one, their doing or someone else’s. Though members come and go, we’re a family, too. Somehow, we all manage to get a whole month off from real life, get ourselves to the first concert, this year out in California, then zigzag all over the US. More often than not, most of us spend December 25 together in a cheap motel with alcohol and, if we’re lucky, TV. Profits are non-existent. In fact, Twelve Drummers Drumming always ends up in the hole. Sometimes we’re robbing Peter to pay Paul, or Mastercard to pay Visa, as it were, but we love each other.”

  “When we’re not biting each other’s heads off.” The guy who said that was Manny, according to his T-shirt.

  “So, here’s hoping we can all just switch up our plane tickets to get us somewhere for Christmas, even if it won’t feel like Christmas.”

  AC thought about it only a moment. He pointed to his van, then mimicked driving.

  “What’s that?” Murphy asked.

  AC did the gesture again, then, feeling a bit like Lassie trying to tell the townsfolk Timmy fell down a well, typed his offer out on his phone.

  Atticus: I can drive you all to Vermont.

  “No!” Murphy, his hand over his heart, seemed quite moved. “Yeah?”

  AC nodded. He opened the back of the van, and then snatched up Spud, when the cat made his way over to check things out.

  “It’s a kitty cat,” one of the men cooed. “A great big, pretty kitty.”

  “We have to ride in the back of that thing?” Manny groused.

  “We don’t have to, you knucklehead. We get to,” Murphy said. “It’s super-sweet of Atticus to offer.”

  Atticus: Spud sits beside me, so the passenger seat is free. Maybe each of your guys could take a turn up front? It’s a long drive.

  Murphy nodded as he read. “Yes. Good deal. Atticus suggested we each take a turn up front. What a prince!”

  As the whole drum squad applauded, AC felt himself shrinking. He was already regretting his generosity. The next two days were going to be torturous. How was he going to make conversation with these guys when he couldn’t string three syllables together without turning them into ten or twenty?

  On the other hand, as seven of the twelve guys took a turn pulling him into a clinch, a plan was brewing. Mexico would have been awesome, but AC suddenly realized he still had a one in twelve chance of getting fucked by the time the holiday was over. Maybe better. Why not two or three drummers with big sticks banging him at once? Or what about a big old pa rum pa pum pum Christmas gangbang? Sure, taking the band to Vermont is the Christmassy thing to do. AC sized them all up. But maybe I can get something in return.

  He immediately started rating the guys in his head, one to five stars, to figure out which were hottest and most doable. Almost immediately, Maroon took the lead. Teal was good-looking, though, and Navy Blue. Sure, the guys’ actual names were on their shirts, by why bother learning them? This was about getting to Vermont and getting fucked now, nothing more.

  Chapter 2

  Manny: Three stars. Tomato red shirt. Grumpy. Dark hair and eyes. Decent build. Daddy type. Big bulge but bad attitude. Getting at that cock might be worth it, though.

  Instead of just keeping notes in his head, AC decided to write his ratings down in a little notebook he found in the glovebox. He studied all twelve men and worked to remember their names, despite his earlier thoughts. While they loaded most of their equipment onto the roof of the van, in order to leave as much space in back as possible, he sat under a tree and scribbled down his first impression of each.

  The approximate time for the return trip up north was calculated to be twenty-four hours in drive time. That meant each drummer would get to ride shotgun for two, and boy, did they plan on keeping track.

  “We better synch o
ur watches,” the one whose shirt said Rob insisted. “I don’t want to hear anyone claiming they were shortchanged.”

  Pulling over every one-hundred and twenty minutes was going to be rather annoying, AC figured. Once at the side of the road, someone would always have to piss, which would no doubt eat up another ten minutes, while those who had to did, and those who might or might not debated. As it was, the twelve bickering drummers were taking too long to get settled in. There were more than twelve instruments. They were lugging all sorts of drums, a xylophone, and several music stands, according to Murphy, everything concealed in hard leather for protection.

  AC was using the downtime wisely, though. Each guy had his own page, with comments about his fuck-abilty and demeanor.

  The first drummer to take the passenger seat was Manny. What a grouch! While transferring equipment, he did more cursing than anyone else. Nothing changed as he climbed up front with a huff. “Hey. I’m Manny, like you can’t read the stupid shirt.” He slammed the door, and finally, they were out of JJ’s parking lot. “A shirt that’s gonna smell pretty rank if we don’t get to shower for another whole day.”

  Belle waved goodbye, as if sending a ship off to war. AC tooted the horn. Manny continued to complain.

  “Does this thing have AC?”

  “I see what you did there,” AC would have said, if he didn’t hate his voice and was still the flirting type. Instead, he put the fan on high, and then turned the Beach Boys back on, keeping the volume low, as not to be rude. Glancing toward Manny’s crotch again, he licked his lips. Whatever Manny was packing behind his zipper, it was pushing hard to get out. He had a wispy little mustache and a hint of his Latin heritage in his accent when he spoke.

  “They all think I’m lucky that I got ride up front first. Yeah. Big effing deal,” Manny went on. “That means I’m stuck back there for twenty-two hours straight for the rest of the trip. Nimrods.” He took a breath. “So, I guess AC stands for something.”

  “Air conditioning.” AC didn’t say that either. He just pointed to a hat on the dashboard with his name on it, Atticus, in white thread on a navy background. It had been a gift from his brother, Gabriel, from Christmas 2017. Gabriel had a seven figure bank account and ended up buying his brother a ten dollar hat. The generosity was astounding.

  “That’s right. Murph said that. Atticus, as in To Kill a Mocking Bird?” Manny wanted to know.

  AC nodded. His father was a high-powered lawyer who happened to love that book. Part of AC wished he could say all of that.

  “Cool. I was supposed to read that in high school. Never did. The only subject I liked in those days was chorus.” Manny must have been expecting a response. He asked, “You don’t like to talk, huh?”

  AC shook his head no.

  “We all got something, amigo.”

  That made two guys who’d said those same words. AC wondered what Manny had, other than a sexy accent, a huge cock, and a pissy attitude, one that kept on giving.

  “It’s my first year with these eleven pains in the ass. Twelve men do not belong on a bus together, I tell ya. The cologne alone will make you dizzy. It’s going to be even worse back there.” The jerk jerked a thumb toward the rear. “No windows, no heat or AC, depending on which we need. I should have fucking quit and gone home.”

  AC wanted to ask, “Why didn’t you?”

  “They need me for harmony, Murphy claims.”

  “Y-you st-still s-s-ing?”

  “We all do. A little singing, a lot of banging, even a poem or two. I’ve always liked performing. Did my first solo at school when I was five. ‘Burrito Sabanero.’”

  “The Little Savannah Donkey”.

  “You know it.”

  Recognition must have shown. AC confirmed it with a nod.

  “Tuqui, tuqui…” Manny sang the whole thing. It was a short, peppy tune, kind of like “Jingle Bells,” with lots of repetition, all about a donkey going to Bethlehem. “Felt like a big deal at the time, I suppose. I peed my pants. My classmates called me ‘El bebe! El bebe!’ for years. ‘Baby! Baby!’”

  AC got that, too.

  “We weren’t terribly clever bullies. Can you imagine?”

  * * * *

  AC flashed back to his kindergarten days, to what was supposed to have been his first time in the spotlight.

  “Everyone will have a part in the Christmas pageant,” Miss Blake, his teacher said.

  Atticus was very excited for Christmas. His mom had decked the halls at home the day after Thanksgiving. He wasn’t much into school, but finally, because of the Yuletide season, they were doing something fun. First, they’d cut out paper snowflakes, and now, they were planning a show.

  “For this poem, I need Lily, Jordan, Kimmie, Brett.” Miss Blake smiled. “And Atticus.” All the kids gathered up front at her big desk. She said, “Now, it’s important you memorize this, but there are only a few words for each of you. It’s a poem called ‘Reindeer in My Kitchen’ and it’s about a mommy who gets up in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve and finds a big surprise downstairs.” Miss Blake smiled again. She smiled a lot. “Lily, you will start things off by saying, ‘There are reindeer in my kitchen. Who are they? Who are they?’ Can you say all that?” Miss Blake repeated it, then Lily recited it back perfectly in her high, squeaky voice.

  “There are reindeer in my kitchen. Who are they? Who are they?”

  “Excellent!” Miss Blake clapped her hands. “Now, each one of you will say two names. Jordan, you will say, ‘Dasher, Dancer.’ Brett, you say, ‘Prancer, Vixen.’ Atticus, you say ‘Comet, Cupid,’ and finally, Kimmie will say ‘Donder and Blitzen, all in the kitchen.’ Can you do that?”

  All the children nodded, even Atticus, though his knees were shaking, and he felt as if he was about to cry.

  “It might be hard.” Miss Blake looked right at him. “But if you practice it over and over in your head before you say your line, I know you can do it.”

  Atticus believed Miss Blake. She was really nice.

  “Let’s try.” She went through the entire poem three times. “Now you. Go.”

  Lily was almost spot on. “There are reindeers in my kitchen. Who are they? Who are they?” She even added hand gestures, turning both palms upward.

  Comet, Cupid. Comet, Cupid. Comet, Cupid. Atticus practiced silently.

  Jordan fumbled his line, but just for a second. “Um, Dasher, Dancer.”

  Brett never messed up anything. “Prancer, Vixen.” His poetry reciting was no exception.

  “Good!” Miss Blake clapped again. “Atticus?”

  He took a deep breath. “C-c-c-comet…C-c-comet. Cu-cu-cu…” Atticus tried so hard to say it right.

  “He’s messing it all up,” Kimmie shrieked. “We’ll never get to my turn.”

  “Kimmie! That’s not nice. Atticus can’t help it.” Miss Blake put a hand on his shoulder. “Just relax, Atticus. You’ll get it.” She knelt down in front of him. “If not today, before the show. All you have to do is practice and try to stay calm.” For weeks, all of kindergarten, really, that was Miss Blake’s advice. “Can you do that?”

  Atticus nodded, though his doubt was overwhelming.

  Just one day before the pageant, they went over the poem for what seemed like the ten thousandth time.

  “There are reindeer in my kitchen. Who are they? Who are they?”

  “Dasher, dancer.”

  “Prancer, Vixen.”

  “C-c-c-omet. C-c-c-”

  “Miss Blake!” Kimmie got pissed, just like always.

  “I know, Kimmie.” Miss Blake was no longer smiling. “I know.”

  Atticus hated that stupid poem. He hated Kimmie. By December of his very first year, he hated school.

  “C-c-c-comet, C-c-c-cupid.”

  That afternoon, Atticus’s line was given to Billy Nichols, who would now be in two scenes. The night of the performance, Atticus was stuck in green felt and painted cardboard as a pine tree. All he got to do was stand at the ba
ck of the stage throwing powdery snow in the air. At first, he was miserable. It turned out to be kind of fun, though, plus, Atticus got to be onstage the whole time, more than Billy, even. Still, he hoped someday he’d be able to do something else. Miss Blake promised his stutter would go away when he got bigger. Atticus believed her.

  * * * *

  When AC came back from the past, Manny was back to complaining. “As if the whole world wouldn’t know we’re gay, someone had the bright idea to make us a rainbow of T-shirt colors while on tour.” Manny paused again, but just for a second. “Mexico?”

  AC looked over at him.

  “That’s where you were going?”

  AC nodded.

  “You speak Spanish?”

  The space between AC’s thumb and index finger fluctuated as he tried to decide how much.

  “Uno piquito?”

  Nodding was getting old already and they’d barely moved five miles.

  “El hombre es hermoso. Esos ojos, esos labios, el regalo que deseo abrir en la mañana de Navidad o tal vez antes. El hombre es hermoso. I just made that up. It sucks. I write poetry like a third grader. Do you know what I said?”

  AC loved the Spanish language when spoken by someone fluent. He had understood the words, more or less, but shook his head no, since he wasn’t a hundred percent sure. This made Manny smile for the first time since he’d sat down.

  “Maybe I’ll tell you later,” he said.

  AC knew it was something like, “He is beautiful, those eyes, those lips, it’s the gift I want to open Christmas morning or maybe before. He is beautiful.” He just didn’t know who it was about.

  “I was born near Mexico City. My parents are still down there, small town, quite a distance away, actually. It’s like when someone says they’re from New York, and then picks either New York City or Albany to say where they’re closer to. Anyway, I met an American woman one summer and came up here when we got married. Legally, for love, in case you were wondering.”

  AC hadn’t been.

  “Six kids. Speak to two now.”

  AC had five brothers. He spoke to all of them, but not very often.

  “It all fell apart quite recently. It’s my third Christmas without the wife but my first without the kids. See, even though the marriage fell apart before I admitted to myself I’m bisexual, everyone has decided it’s my fault it did. I never cheated on her. I loved her, and I said that already. Why should you believe me, either?”