“Ok, fine.”
“Thank you. As you know, I’ve been trying for a long time to get this group together. Ever since I was a kid I wanted to be in a band. The glory of being on stage, the hours of practicing to make just the right sound, the…”
“We know, we know…”
“I said let me finish!”
“Fine.”
“As I was saying, I always wanted to be in a band. But here’s the thing: the drummer doesn’t keep the beat. How can we be a band if our drummer doesn’t keep the beat?”
Everyone looked around sheepishly at one another. No one looked at the drummer.
“The Petty Tyrants will never stay together unless someone in this band learns how to play.”
Silence. The band members wondered if their lead singer and manager was done speaking.
“I’m finished,” he said. The room exhaled. “Does anyone else have anything to say?”
More silence. Then a hand rose in the air. It was the drummer.
“Yes, what is it?”
“I quit.”
“No, you can’t quit.”
“I quit. Why would you want me to stay?”
“Because…” the manager trailed off.
The drummer stood up, grabbed her drumsticks and walked out the door. The rest of the band followed.
“Shut up and let me finish!” the manager shouted. A cockroach skittered in the corner of the warehouse where they’d practiced. It skittered over to the drums. It hopped up on the snare. It beat out a perfect 120 bpm tempo. It leapt onto the tom-tom and crashed into the cymbal. It stopped. It sighed. It hopped down and skittered away.
The manager cried.
* * *
I think I’m finally ready to write about my friend Stephen Dodge who took his life 14 years ago. He was a sports reporter at the first newspaper I worked at. He was adorable, a man-child really. He was married and would always say children shouldn’t have children when people asked if they were going to have kids. He never had any kids. He died at 29. I was 25. I thought I’d never be as old as 29. He must have seen something about life I hadn’t understood yet.
Stephen’s funeral was packed with athletes because he was a sports reporter. He was the best writer on staff. This is what he told me once when I complimented his writing:
“I’m not a good writer.”
“What do you mean you’re not a good writer? You’re the best writer here. You’re smart. You would have gone to Stanford if your mom hadn’t gotten sick.”
“I’m not a good writer because I don’t write as well as Toni Morrison.”
I teach creativity classes now, which some people may say is frivolous and a waste of time for people who could otherwise be making good money at something else. One of the things we talk about is comparing ourselves to others and how harmful it can be. How destructive it can be to our writing, to ourselves. I think that’s what took Stephen’s life. It’s such a cliche, but he never felt good enough, and that feeling can extend to the depth of our being. That feeling can end our being.
He was beautiful, he was loved, and he always wore boat shoes without socks. He drove the same red Mustang his whole life. Toni Morrison could never say that.
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