January 18th.
He was relaxed until a group of off-duty firefighters in uniforms came, sitting on the outdoor table beside him. He didn't know when, but they became his idols at a young age. However, he never had the courage to even approach what they do. His body was weak. His immune system couldn't support him in severe environments. He loved music. The only muscular parts were his arms, especially his forearms.
Firefighters are Buddy's idols. He couldn't stay relaxed anymore after doing the opposite of rescuing years ago.
He finished his spicy peanut noodles, checked his watch, and wondered if the firefighters ever felt tired at twelve a.m.
It was winter, so their heavy uniforms weren't significant burdens. Their faces were dirty, but their smiles weren't. Alcohol was strictly forbidden; the coffee at twelve a.m. signified a short rest before duty again.
"I'll pay for Table Eight." Buddy scanned the QR code indoors, but the shop owner looked at him funny.
"Just pay for your table."
"No, I'll pay for them, too. How much—"
"Their table is on the house."
"...Aw... Alright."
"Your table is thirteen Yuan." The owner turned around and continued his stir-frying.
The shop had no cashier, only a QR code on a metal table between the open kitchen and the entrance. There were no indoor seats.
"Boss, how much is Table Six?" A tiny girl stepped into the kitchen. Her height was below Craycray's chest.
"Nine Yuan!"
"How about Table Eight?"
...
"It's paid." The owner laughed and piled the fried noodles into the plate, seeing Buddy amateurishly using the new everyday technology to scan the code.
"Oh. Add two plates of dumplings for Table Eight, count the bill on my table." The young girl made Buddy turn to her.
"Pfft, alright. That will be 21 Yuan, then."
"Are you traveling?" Buddy asked.
The girl wore square glasses. The blond short hair was stylish and foreign, but her below-average-looking face didn't support it. The most notable object was the giant bag that her tiny body carried.
"I'm... Yes." Her grimace pulled her look further down.
"You look like a wanderer. I used to travel like that, too."
"Really!?" Her eyes promptly lit.
"Yep! I used to be an indie band's drummer, and we traveled around China to perform."
"That's so cool!! Where have you traveled!? Did you—"
"Excuse me!" The owner waited to deliver the dumplings to the firefighters, but Buddy and the girl clogged the narrow shop.
"Let's talk outside."
No matter how she looked, she looked beautiful without that grimace. Well, that didn't matter, too, because she'd proved her beautiful heart.
The firefighters—a job title that never received a bad comment—were forced to accept the free dumplings.
"I've been traveling for almost two years now, but I've only covered four cities."
"YOU WALKED!?!?" For the third time, Buddy checked this question.
"Yes..." She said only four cities, but she walked her way through them. "And I'm documenting my experiences in my diary. I have no dream career or interests. Walking through China is my only dream."
"And you're...21?"
"Mhm. I saved all my pocket money for this, but in Jinhua, I ran out, so I stayed and worked for seven months."
"Your parents didn't support you?"
"Yes. We never met on a mutual agreement, so I ran away with my bag."
"..."
"How about you? Why did you stop trav…uh… Why did you stop and stay in the convenience stores?"
"Well, I've been fixing what I did wrong, so I've paused my journey."
"Huh? So you're finding that mutual agreement. I'm the opposite. I chose to chase my dream."
"Haha, well..." Buddy shouldn't have a dream. "In my case, the mutual agreement must be found. And I'm not dreamless! I'm still trying to write the perfect lyrics!"
"Aw, okay."
They stopped in front of a cheap hotel. Today was the girl, Karen, her first day in Hangzhou, and this hotel was where she would stay.
"I'm uh...actually out of money to travel again." Karen scratched her chin. "Is there anything I can do at your convenience store?"
"Ha! We're terribly shorthanded, mostly because every staff slacks off."
"Ye? I can do anything and extra shifts." She couldn't wait to walk to the next city, so she needed enough money in a short period.
"First, don't work too overboard. Second…" And she was exactly who Buddy needed. "Two staff members and I in that convenience store are in a school band now."
"Oho?"
"So, if we leave and practice, can you do all that work? I'll pay you double in our band practice hours."
"Yes! I'm very capable!!"
...Karen had a tough time getting used to Craycray.
February 8th.
Ezra and Buddy went to PowerDragon Mall again. Like usual, coffee first, because coffee always reminded them of the tiny sweetness within the bitterness.
"A student buying me coffee? I'm ashamed of myself…" Buddy failed to reject Ezra's kindness. "But he's probably just trying to buy me into staying in the band for longer."
He'd proposed that he would leave as soon as Ezra and Dumdum find another drummer. Indeed, Ezra, with his school bag, squinted back at him covertly.
"Aw, they play such intense jazz at a café?" Ezra pointed out
"Cuz it's crowded, I guess. This café ain't too calm."
"What's your opinion on jazz drummers?"
"Here we go." Buddy closed his eyes. "They are insanely skillful. Once any instrumentalists get into jazz, they can come out and play any genre."
"I can't really tell their grooves, though."
"Heh, it seems like they play a different groove every bar, right? That's their versatility, their skill in freestyle. They utilize their left foot more often than any other genre. They can use brushes…"
"Uh huh?" Ezra smiled.
"They can switch to double time swing effortlessly. I still can't play with the traditional grip. Triple-stroke two hundred beats per minute is like nothing to them. They are so loose in slow jazz, and they are sweating in fast jazz!"
"After Craycray mentioned vibe in music, I realized that's in every jazz genre."
"Exactly! You swing left and right in, obviously, swing jazz, ey?"
"Haha." He stopped walking to smile at me. The escalator was right there. He could've stopped there.
"He's acknowledging that I'm enthusiastic about drum, huh?" Buddy stared back at this scheming kid. "I am enthusiastic. I eye the drummers on the live stages. I watch videos of jazz drummers."
"By the way, I brought this." Ezra unzipped his bag.
"However, I haven't played drums in ten years, and getting myself back on would take too long and too much effort for someone my age."
"I just thought it would be funny…" Ezra reached into his bag.
"Especially when I'm still fixing the mess I've caused. My younger daughter is still fragile, so drums? I can never…"
"...To bring this." Ezra grabbed the thing out.
"...Go back to the…drums…"
...
It was a pair of drastically chipped drumsticks. Buddy gazed at the chewed, blasted, splintered drumstick tips.
"A jazz drummer in our grade is very poor, but our school provides him with free drumsticks. However, they're mad that he breaks a pair every two or three weeks, haha."
"..." Buddy didn't notice that Ezra's friendly smile turned into confidence.
"And they're quite sturdy and heavy, too! Just how many times does he have to smash the drums until they turn into these?"
Below the school stage, Buddy saw a young man burning on stage. The sweat, the blood… He wasn't the support for his band members. His band members were playing after him.
"So, what do you think?"
The burning young man, his drumsticks smashed all of the doubters out.
...
"So, what are you looking for?"
Buddy nodded, laughed, and joked about the sticks. Nothing else happened before they came to the instrument shop.
"Guitar! I'm planning to buy one for Pollen."
"Buy one for her!?"
"Yep."
"Guitars ain't cheap! I know you're a band, but…even if you'll be permanent band members, you don't have to spend such money for each other. At least, does she know that you're buying one for her?"
They both knew Pollen didn't want to be in Firefighter Desires and only joined wholly because of Craycray. Buying that guitar without informing her would basically be kidnapping her with his kindness.
"She doesn't know."
"Tha... Exactly! That's like you saying, 'Pollen, I brought this guitar for you, so you should at least be active in the band,' but that's done without her consent!"
Ezra smiled again. It perplexed Buddy entirely, because what he didn't know was that Ezra had spoken with Craycray one day ago, and…
"Pollen asked me what guitar and amplifier she should buy."
Of course, Ezra wouldn't do such a lowly trick. He wished every member could join willingly. Thus, when he passed the shop's only four drum sets, he stopped at the most expensive one.
"Come on, you should at least ask Poll—"
"Woah…"
"..."
The beige-colored drum bodies, the golden cymbals gave them a brightness. The paint coat was thin and simple. It wouldn't give the drums' tone too much impurity while maintaining the powerful penetrating tone. The cymbals, too…
"The bodies are made with top-quality mahogany wood." The shop owner joined. "That makes it super durable. The mid and low tones are perfect, crazy powerful for rock. Maybe not for heavy metal or punk, though."
"I tried metal, uh…as in material. Metal drums for blues and art rock, and it isn't appropriate at all, so wood is.... Wow... 85,000 RMB."
"I apologize that I can't give you a sound test. But, if you do, you might fall in love."
Buddy didn't realize that the owner and Ezra winked at each other. "
"The size is also designed for rock. Nowadays, most drums are made to fit all genres."
"Yes, exactly! And the rim?"
"And the hoop, too."
"The hi-hat is crisp when it closes."
"Good-old B20 cymbals."
"Look, even when you pinch the ride cymbal like this, you can still hit a bright 'ding' sound."
That was when Ezra passed the wounded drumsticks to the owner for him to tap the cymbal, and Buddy couldn't tell if he was hallucinating, because he didn't even know what that burning young drummer looked like.
"Honestly, I would buy this drum set for that jazz drummer. His name is David, by the way. David can for sure play the worth out of this drum."
"He's a jazz drummer, though."
"Exactly. Jazz drummer can play rock, no problem."
Why was there a seat behind this for-sell drum set? The seat was luring Buddy to sit on it.
"He's worth buying this drum for, and so is Pollen. She didn't perform well last time, but consider that she has only played guitar for less than thirty hours? She has infinite potential."
On that seat, with David's broken drumsticks…
"I'm just here to select a guitar for her, though, not buy, since she said she's prepared herself to play wholeheartedly for this band."
...Buddy saw David, a boy he'd never seen, smashing the full potential out of the crash, ride, hi-hat, snare, toms, and kick. That pair of broken drumsticks was holding on for his dream.
"Quality instruments really make a difference, don't they?" And Ezra, he passed Buddy a new pair of drumsticks.
A pair of traditional, 2b, hickory drumsticks.
"Since we're here, let's play something, shall we?"
...
Smooth, brand new, just like the first gift his wife ever brought him, Buddy stared at the sticks as the owner adjusted the electric drum.
They were in the biggest practice room was designed for bands with strings or other uncommon band instruments. The sound could spread. The spaciousness transmits well. Thus, the electric drum could be set as loud as possible.
Ezra told the owner yesterday that Buddy said he didn't want to deafen everyone in that tight little room, so he set the drum quieter than usual.
"Now, will this be alright?"
Buddy sat and hit the electric right crash cymbal.
"There's a little bit of that rubber sound still."
"Okay." The owner adjusted again. "Now?"
When the heavy stick crashed into the rubber, somehow, a thin metal was splashed. The sound rang. The air vibrated. It hissed like a snake in an echoey room.
"This is the most real-sounding electric drum I've ever heard!" Buddy praised.
"It's an expensive one. Moreover, not many instrument sellers or even tuners know how to tune this set like me." The shop owner was a hidden gem.
However...
"Can you make it louder?" Ezra asked.
"Louder? This is enough."
The owner ignored Buddy and raised the volume.
"Hit it again."
Buddy peered but followed. He raised the stick. His arm and wrist, led by the stick's heft, slammed onto what was supposed to be rubber. But, it sounded like the Big Bang, an explosion from his favorite action movie, a love at first sight.
Buddy couldn't see his own widened smile.
"It's three bars away from maximum. Let me just raise the volume by one more bar."
"Buddy, this time..."
Buddy had drummed for way longer than writing lyrics.
"Hit both crashes at the same time."
And then, the crowd under the stage began cheering, jumping, applauding, and shouting his name. He thought he was watching David play, but no, he took over the drumsticks, playing on that 85,000 RMB drum set.
The drummers, they can easily be the most prominent on the stage, including him.
...
"100 BPM (beats per minute) was what David played, not the entire song, though," Ezra said, referring to an iconic rock song that emphasized the drum. "And that was sixteenth notes for the hi-hat."
"Sixteenth for this song? Why?"
"We were just joking around. He didn't play it seriously."
"That is quite fast, then. That's 400 hits per minute with one hand."
"It is." Ezra smiled maliciously. "Can you play faster than that?"
"Without playing steadily throughout a whole song, 110 BPM with sixteenth used to be nothing with a standard groove, but it can be challenging now."
"110!? Do you want to give it a try?"
"Sixteenth note hi-hat will sound bizarre, though."
"That'll be fun, though!"
"Fine."
Crossing his arms, the right stick hung above the hi-hat, and the left above the snare, Buddy steadied his shaking leg onto the kick drum's pedal.
...440 hits in one minute? He used to challenge himself like this back then. Even in prison, his cellmates couldn't hear the individual hits on the plastic basket when he played double stroke roll.
Thus, he joined Ezra's guitar after a fill-in, and then allocated half of his attention to his right hand. The first hit on the hi-hat was crisp like a dry leaf.
"Keep going!"
With all four fingers stabilizing the stick, he hit the hi-hat with the same velocity instead of alternating between a hard and a light hit. It lacked realism, but he couldn't ask for much when playing that fast.
"I'm increasing it to 111!" The owner announced with a metronome.
"What!?"
The groove sounded terrible with sixteenth hi-hat even with the common snare and kick drums.
"113!"
Why was he here today?
"115!!"
He didn't plan to sweat today. And, with the song that originally had 99 BPM, Ezra kept up with his guitar.
"I played guitar way before Dumdum. I can't let him catch up to me!" Ezra clenched every muscle of his except for his hands.
"How is he talking and playing!?"
"117! Also, Buddy, the drumsticks are yours!!"
"What the hell!? I can't…" He slowed, so his four fingers promptly gripped back. "I can't take that for free!"
"It's a gift from Ezra. He bought it yesterday."
Buddy would glare if he could move away from his current posture. Regardless, he wasn't obliged to accept a gift he didn't ask for.
"How are you holding up, Buddy?" Ezra laughed.
"I hate..." If he were doing a drumroll with multiple strokes, he could do it easily. But his left hand and leg were also focused on the groove. "YOU!!!"
"Haha~"
"I'm not joking! Why…" A man who hasn't fixed himself shouldn't have a dream.
No… How dare he have a dream when both his daughters are crumpled?
Let everything flow as his family returns to the correct track, as they find mutual agreement. Having Palakala turn his lyrics into musical notes already contented him. Perhaps, posting them on the social media platforms that didn't exist when his wife was alive could be fun, and he might be spotted by more musicians.
Right, just wait for luck at home like the teenagers now. He shouldn't be like Karen or Dumdum. He shouldn't be a dream catcher.
...
"I think 119 is a great name for our band. Guys! What do you think of this name? Buddy thought of it!!"
...
He shouldn't be.
...
"120!!"
Buddy didn't forget the drum-fill. The mahogany toms responded as loud as his heartbeat. He destroyed the B20 cymbals. The listeners below the stage stood on their feet, tossing their light sticks in the air, chanting, rocking, and shouting the name, "119."
The right hand returned to the hi-hat. He almost returned to the original eighth notes. However, with the veins popping on his right forearm, he smashed 480 times per minute.
"The jazz prodigy, David…"
"Is he crying or sweating?" Ezra couldn't disperse his attention, either.
"...Is 100...the fastest you can play!?"
An entire minute, not one out of the 480 was missing.
The left crash, the right crash, two kicks, and eight snare hits in half a second, they finished the song.
...And David, he was below the stage. And Buddy, he panted, wiped his sweat, and sat on the stage. His performance earned a roar of applause.
"That was awesome!!" Ezra neared, but Buddy tossed his unwanted gift back to Ezra.
"Urania..."
"Hahaha~ No regrets."
"...Are you watching from above, Urania?" Buddy swung his cramped right hand. His forearm was congested.
Now, with the drumsticks in Ezra's hand, Ezra took out his phone.
"Sorry, Buddy. I lied to you. When I said David played with 100 BPM, he only played 72 BPM."
It was a video that Ezra showed Buddy. But, instead of David drumming on the phone, Buddy saw David stepping back onto the stage again.
"David played 72 BPM in 32nd notes."
...
David snatched away the drumsticks.
But no, there was no stage. The drumsticks were in Ezra's hands as Ezra held them out to Buddy in the practice room.
...
"Motherfuckers..." So, Buddy snatched the drumsticks back. "576 per minute, ey? I'll do that for you."
My name is Craycray. Why did my dad hang out with Ezra alone on February 8th? I got cucked by my own dad!!