Chapter Text
CANNONBALL ADDERLEY QUINTET - Arriving Soon (Vinson)
Top: The first beat of the first measure.
In a cavernous room, dark except for a small area lit from overhead by a single lamp, there's a drum set positioned near the open door of a practice space. Like any standard jazz setup, it's got a bass drum with a middle tom attached, flanked by a floor tom and a snare. A pair of high-hats, a crash cymbal, and a ride cymbal complete the menagerie, reflecting a golden glow out into the expanse. Simple but functional, it is free of all the flashy accoutrements musicians of another breed might have included.
Crisp, sharp hits of drumsticks on drum heads fire out like gunfire and echo down the hall, made by a boy of nineteen, head down and eyes closed in concentration. His slight figure fits into the drummer's throne like he was born to be there. This is his safest and most cherished place. He's skinny except for his arms, lean with thick cords of muscle built from years and years of drumming. They bulge out slightly from under the sleeves of his light blue dress shirt, neatly folded and cuffed up to his elbows. Sweat fastens brown curls onto his temples and forehead, framing his pretty face to a slightly amatory effect. The black earphones he's listening to blare “Arriving Soon” from The Cannonball Adderley Quintet as he plays along. He's in the middle of improvising his own solo, folded perfectly into the turnaround at the third section of the tune. Suddenly, a man enters the practice room. Adam stops drumming, rips out his earphones, and stands, startled.
Adam's speech pattern is distinct, with minimal intonation, but still expressing emotion in his own way. “This room isn't reserved from seven-thirty onwards. I usually practice here...I thought...” He falters in his own awkwardness. He makes to move towards the door, drumsticks in hand.
“It's quite alright, I don't need to use the space. Stay there.” His accent winds around his words like smoke, and his smile is half snarl. He's tall, mid-forties, clad in a cool ensemble: black T-shirt, black slacks, black shoes. His hair is all wispy, dirty-blonde locks draping onto his face. He's got cheekbones that could cut fucking glass and a thick set of lips with a soft cupid's bow. He leans his shoulder against a nearby cabinet, folds his arms across his chest, and stares straight into the hazel aquamarine of Adam's eyes. And then, softly (because he's one of those people whose whispers are enough to make anyone shit themselves):
“What's your name?”
“Adam Raki.”
“What year are you?”
“I'm a first-year.”
“You know who I am?”
“Yes...”
“You're aware then, of what I do?”
“Yes...”
“So you know I'm looking for players.”
“Yes...”1
“Then why did you stop playing?” Nigel's tone is flat and his face expressionless as he says this. Silence fills the room.
Adam's left thumb begins to stroke at the smooth surface of one of his drumsticks. He starts trying to identify his feelings so he can react appropriately. It's not helping that he is keenly aware of how much he is and has been attracted to this man with whom he's often watched but never spoken to. Adam's head becomes a potent mixture of apprehension, bravado, and an erotic need-to-please, and then holy hell he gets it and without second guessing himself he sits back down in the drummer's throne and starts playing again.
He's really showing off this time – six-stroke rolls blur into fills blur into speedy-stick work blur into light taps on cymbals blur into the shimmering strikes against a ride cymbal, finally crescendoing into a big fucking thunderous bang down onto the crash cymbal – and Adam is bursting with confidence as he stares right at Nigel and smiles, panting and waiting for him to comment.
“Did I say to commence playing again?”
Adam looks not at him, but just off to the side of his face out of embarrassment. “I thought,” and then, blanching, “I misunderstood...”
“I asked you why you stopped playing. Your version of an answer was to turn into a wind-up drummer monkey.”
Adam tries to answer the first question he misjudged so terribly, “I stopped playing because-” Then Nigel holds up a hand, cueing him to stop talking.
After removing his coat and folding it neatly over the back of a nearby chair, Nigel moves to a few paces in front of the drum set, standing rigid and tall, while the single light fixture above exaggerates the hollows of his eye sockets and cheekbones, producing a truly terrifying image. He lets a few beats go by and then instructs Adam, his voice deep, authoritative, “Show me your rudiments.”
At this, Adam becomes perplexingly rock hard in his slacks. He's pretty sure that this is not an appropriate response for the circumstances, but there's no time to dwell on such thoughts, because he's got to show the band leader what he can do.
Adam finally nods and sits, then plays one rudiment after another: double-stroke roll, paradiddle, ratamacue, flam, flamadiddle. Nigel snaps his fist up in cue for Adam to stop. “Alright, now. Double-time swing.” He cues Adam with a downturn of his right wrist and then begins clapping his hands in time, faster and faster, and Adam plays. “No. Double-time. Double it. Bop-bop-bop-bop-bop-bop-bop.” Adam tries doubling the tempo, but he can't. Nigel stops clapping – the sign of death – as Adam keeps playing, now with his eyes closed. Next, he hears the distinct sound of the door of the practice room closing. Adam stops playing and looks up to see that Nigel has gone, and his stomach sinks down to the floor. Adam starts stroking the drumstick in his left hand and looks down at his erection tenting in his pants. He thinks to himself that it's a good thing the middle tom is sitting where it is.
Suddenly, Nigel comes back and opens the door. Adam's face lights up with momentary hope – maybe it's not over?
Nigel goes to the chair near the doorway, “Silly me. Forgot my coat,” and then he's gone again.
Painfully aroused and completely deflated, Adam is left alone. He thinks to himself, 'It's over.'
1. The first time Adam saw Nigel, the jazz instructor and notorious band leader had backed a visibly shaken and particularly meek-looking saxophonist into a corner in the Studio Band room. The door to the room had been left open for all passers-by to witness this exceptionally brutal humiliation. Adam was one of five such lucky passers-by, as he was on his way to the Nassau Band room which he had started to use every weekday from seven-thirty in the evening to ten-thirty at night since his first semester at the conservatory began. His fellow fortunates whispered amongst themselves as to the identity of the ruthless man who acted with such vicious impunity.
With a fist grappling deep into the collar of the blubbering boy's polo shirt, Nigel was addressing the musician as 'Mr. Runty Cunt Saxophonist' and threatening to throw him out of his band, lest he get his fucking pitch right, and his face was pure intimidation and scars and wounded animal eyes, and, looking at his fearsome profile, it struck Adam that this was the most beautiful person he'd ever seen.↩