In the midst of this silence Checker began to laugh. “Clap, you sons of bitches!” And they did.
Eaton excused himself to go to the men’s room. He leaned over the sink, bracing his hands on either side of the porcelain, panting. Looking up in the mirror, he found his usually handsome, narrow face pasty, with sweat at the hairline. Eaton leaned against the wall with his eyes closed and waited there through the entire break.
For the second set, Eaton could listen more clinically. He noted the tunes were original and several had to do with bicycling, of all things, like the name of the band: “Cotterless Cranks,” “Big Bottom Bracket,” “Flat without a Patchkit on the Palisades” “Cycle Killer” and “Blue Suede Brakeshoes.” Or “Perpendicular Grates,” to which Eaton caught most of the words:
Don’t jump your red tonight,
You big yellow Checker.
I’m coming through the light
At its last yellow flicker.
Shine your bulging brights
Right into my reflectors.
Listen close and you might
Hear my freewheel ticker-ticker.
Hey, city slickers:
Lay perpendicular grates!
Chuck those rectangular plates!
One pothole on Sixth Avenue
Goes all the way to China.
I am a midtown
Pedal pusher.
I am a traffic
Bushwhacker.
My brakes are clogged
With little children.
Greasy strays
Keep my gears workin’.
Doggies, watch your tails;
Old ladies, hold your bladders.
Scarvy starlets, trim your sails
Or choke on Isadora tatters.
Better step back to the curb—
Enough women are battered.
Brave Lolitas, round the curve,
You don’t want to be flatter.
Hey, hard-hatters:
Lay perpendicular grates!
Chuck those rectangular plates!
One pothole on Sixth Avenue
Goes all the way to China.
I am a midtown
Pedal-pusher.
I am a traffic
Bushwhacker.
My brakes are clogged
With little children.
Greasy strays
Keep my gears workin’ …
Eaton told himself that songs about bicycling were silly. He even managed to turn to Brinkley between tunes and advise him, “You know, technically, the guy’s a mess.” True, Checker played as if he’d never had a drum lesson in his life. He held his sticks like pencils. Yet Eaton had never seen such terrific independence, for Checker’s hands were like two drastically different children of the same parents—one could read in the corner while the other played football. What was Eaton going to do? Bitchy carping from the sidelines wouldn’t improve matters. And everyone looked so happy! The band and the audience together swayed on the tide of Checker Secretti’s rolling snare. How does he do it? Even the little singer, a perpetually dolorous girl by all appearances, had a quiet glow, like a night-light. Eaton actually wondered for one split second, since he knew percussion better than anyone in the club, why he wasn’t the happiest person here. But that moment passed, and had such a strange quality that he didn’t even retain a memory of it, until Eaton was left at the end of the last set wishing to plant Plato’s and everyone in it three miles deep in the Atlantic, safely buried below schools of barracuda, in airtight drums like toxic waste.
Yet, more or less, Eaton had decided what to do.
After the applause and catcalls had died down, Eaton turned to Brinkley and said severely, “Brink, you dungwad, you told me that Secretti was okay.”
“I didn’t say he, like, raised the dead or anything.”
“Could’ve been playing trash cans with chopsticks,” said Gilbert. “Not like Eat here. Now, Eat’s a drummer.”
“Uh-huh,” said Eaton, turning to Rad. “And what did you make of Secretti?”
Rad twisted a little. During the performance he’d been nodding his head and tapping the table with the heel of his beer. “Bang, bang. Another local band. They’ll be gone soon. The world won’t have changed much.”
Eaton surveyed his compatriots in silence. All three of them were nervous and weren’t sure why. “So you three”—Eaton rolled the ice around his glass—“think he sucks? Basically?”
They shuffled and nodded.
“Then you all have dicks for brains.”
“What?” they asked in unison.
“The man is brilliant. Steve Gadd raised to a goddamned power. One fresh piece of cake in a pile of stale Astoria corn muffins and you guys don’t know the difference.”
“But you said technically he’s a mess—”
“Unorthodox. May not have much training. All the more impressive, then. The man’s a genius.”
Eaton’s three henchmen were staring at their friend as if he’d just announced he was giving up rock and roll for polka music.
“Yeah, well,” said Brinkley. “I said he was okay, right?”
“Okay!” Eaton rolled his eyes and stood up. “With this crowd I need drink.” He walked away and didn’t come back.
“That was exemplary.”
Plato’s may never have heard the word “exemplary” before; its syllables queered against the walls.
“I was humbled,” Eaton went on, bent formally at the waist, as if he’d watched too much Masterpiece Theatre. “You’re a giant. And far better than these people know.”
“I think they know us just fine,” said Checker, looking disconcerted. Compliments made him queasy. Checker himself didn’t think about the way he played. He didn’t want to, either.
“You’re better than you know,” Eaton pressed. “It’s time someone told you. So, please.” Eaton handed Checker his card. “I know the names of some club owners in Manhattan. Or if you need anything at all, please call. Good night, all.” With a quick flourish Eaton made a swift departure. After all, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this up.
In the defined caste of high school, Eaton Striker had played a precise role, exactly shy of stardom. He passed that crucial test: more students knew his name than he knew theirs. He was The Drummer, and