12 Drummers Thumbing

Chapter 1 AC: One star. Not bad looking, as long as he keeps his mouth shut. It was just after sunset on December 21. Stopped at the longest red light ever on highway Route 64 in Kentucky, even as he sang to the tune of “Jingle Bells,” AC was happy to leave winter and Christmas back in Vermont. “Going to Mex-i-co. Mexi-co-ho-ho!” Bundled up for the frigid air of the Northeast at the start of his journey, he had removed one article of clothing in each of the next several states as the weather had gotten warmer. Once his feet hit sand in Guadalajara, off would come the tank top and shorts he was already down to, leaving him to happily stroll around under warm sunny skies in nothing at all. “Oh, what fun it is to go with my cat to Mexi-co. Oh!” AC’s orange tabby, Spud, was at his hip in the old delivery van’s huge bench seat. No carrier, no leash, Spud loved to settle on the corner of his favorite blanket for a short trip to the grocery store or all the way to another country. They’d been to Mexico before. AC had Spud’s veterinary documentation at the ready. Nearly two thousand miles in two days, they would make only two overnight stops on the way, at the rest area they were pulling into now, just as darkness fell, and another in Texas the next day, to hook up with some random, Southern dudes. “Dashing from the snow, in my big truck feeling gay. Over the hills we go, laughing all the way! Gay! Gay! Gay!” AC knew the tune wouldn’t sound any good if he sang out. That was why he kept it all in his head. A winter wonderland yuletide held very little appeal for AC. No wreath, no stockings, no tree, no lights, no rum-pum-pum-pum, a glance up to the North Star to wish peace on Earth and good will to all at midnight on Christmas would be the only tradition he observed. It was something he’d done for the past few years. “Two whole weeks south of the border, Spudsy.” AC did speak those words aloud, though still not as they’d come in his brain. Spud didn’t seem to mind. He offered blinky eyes as he stood for a stretch, and then went at the kitty cat ornament that hung from the rearview mirror, batting it like a boxer’s speedbag. “Looks just like you, huh?” AC had sculpted and painted it himself, that one and hundreds more. He’d been up to his elbows in Christmas since just after Valentine’s Day, hand carving Santas, reindeer, snowmen, and angels in the solitude of his basement workroom. AC was an artist and sold more Christmas figurines than all other categories combined, though his cats were quickly gaining in popularity. Not yet on the level of Jim Shore, his pieces had been sold exclusively in small but swanky boutiques on the east coast, until a big deal with a huge online retailer was put into place just before Halloween. The best part of the job? AC never had to interact with one single human being face to face. All communication with vendors and buyers was done using a keyboard, not his voice. “You’re one of Daddy’s best sellers, because you’re so handsome.” Only about half of that thought came out verbally before AC gave up on his words and on “Jingle Bells.” The Beach Boys seemed more appropriate, considering, so he pulled them up on his phone and plugged it into the dash while still stopped at the light. A master mechanic, not only had AC kept his old van running well past 100,000 miles, he’d also upgraded its outdated audio system with Bluetooth. When a chirp interrupted the rock and roll harmonies almost immediately, he checked the screen, then smiled. John: Hot pic, bro. DTF. HMU wen u get 2 KY. AC changed a few lyrics while typing his response. “And I’ll get f****d, f****d, f****d, in Kentucky on the side of the ro-o-oad.” Once again, the internal singing and the actual sound differed greatly. Atticus: Hey, John. Just arrived. He’d set the stage for a couple of hookups days earlier by placing a few online ads. Dozens of guys had responded already. The possibility of a s****l fiesta awaited him in Mexico as well, with hombres who lived there and some that were visiting. Finding men to f**k wasn’t usually a problem for AC. If he included a face pic, the offers rolled in. If he included a photo of his c**k, he nearly broke the internet. To procure enough d**k for his trek down south plus the entire stay in Guadalajara, he’d skipped the face for full-on body shots, front and back. Kentucky John had reciprocated with some pics of his own. He was hairy, hung, and a top. That was all AC needed to know. Atticus: Definitely DTF. “Don’t look at me like that,” AC wanted to say to Spud. “It’s not my fault nobody wants me for anything but my dick.” He just kissed his fingertips and touched it to the cat’s head, instead. The rest stop was just a couple hundred yards past the traffic light. Stopping at the far end of the dirt lot, AC checked for John’s response. John: No bs. Now U CALL. No txt. 2 b sur ur 4 rel b4 I sho. John was stingy when it came to full words. AC wondered if his texting plan charged by the letter. Atticus: I don’t plan on flaking out. I told you, I’m already here. John: D c wat u plan, bud. CALL or no go. > 1 min frm u. U CALL, I c*m. Fuck it, AC decided. Even before the sign for the pull off had come into view in his headlights, he’d made up his mind to blow the whole thing off. John could f**k himself for all he cared. “We’re outta here, Spud.” With the van still running, AC shifted into reverse. He checked the side mirror to see if they were clear, but the van never moved. The tingle in AC’s c**k was relentless. With a hearty grunt, he shoved the gear shift to park, then snatched up the phone and dialed. John picked up after two rings. “Yeah?” AC took a breath, “It’s M-m-me. A-At-At…It’s AC. Come n-n-n-now.” “Dude!” John laughed. “Relax. You sound nervous.” “N-nah.” “This’ll be fun. Already on the way. See you in a minute.” It was twenty degrees warmer than it would have been back home, but still a little chilly, because of the late hour and the crystal clear skies. AC, pacing outside the van, was thinking about slipping on a hoodie when John arrived. The rest stop was well lit. John looked a bit different than his picture, older, heavier, but fuckable, for sure. “Early thirties, black hair, blue eyes, muscles.” John took stock of the basics AC had listed in the Grindr headline, “Check, check, check, check,” and seemed to approve. “Let’s hope the c**k measures up to the pic.” He brazenly cupped the khaki fabric at AC’s crotch. “Feels about right.” In an instant, they were pressed against the side of the van. “Oh, yeah.” John’s mouth was all over AC’s. AC wasn’t much into kissing strangers, but he went along with it in this case, just to get what he really wanted. “Your ass feels so tight, man!” John banged on the side of the van. “I want my d**k in it.” Bang! Bang! Bang! AC stopped him. “D-don’t.” “What’s the matter, bud? You afraid we’re gonna get caught?” One hand on the button securing AC’s shorts, John smacked the steel wall again. Bang! Bang! Bang! “S-s-stop. My c-c-cat is in th-there.” John stepped back and stared. “C-c-c-cat?” “D-d-d-don’t m-m…” AC gave up partway through the sentence. “Don’t make fun of me,” had been the intention. “You look good, dude, but when you open your mouth…” AC had heard that before and tried to say so. “N-n-never m-m-ind.” That was all he could get out. “Nah. It’s good.” John unzipped. “I won’t bang on the van and you won’t talk. How’s that?” “N-n-no.” AC shoved John away. “No? No, what? No f**k?” “J-just g-go.” “Jesus. Sensitive much?” Though AC thought he might be pummeled, John just zipped up and turned. “Merry Christmas, asshole,” he hollered on the way back in his Honda CRV. “And don’t return the sentiment, or we’ll be here ‘til the Fourth of J-J-July.” AC offered a silent “f**k you!” His finger worked, even if his voice didn’t. After gathering himself, he opened the van door for Spud. “Sorry about the noise.” Spud allowed himself to be picked up and cuddled. “The guy was a tool. You must have been so scared.” If only the words could come out like they sounded in thought form. “We g-good?” Two of the best things about cats, AC thought, was their willingness to sleep anytime, anywhere and their willingness to forgive. Spud was purring away. After a short walk around the rest stop—Spud was great on a leash outside—AC hit the outdoor shower, dressed, and then settled in for a long winter’s nap. Up with the sun, he and Spud were on the road before six. A new dawn and the bittersweet feeling of solo s****l release inspired a “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” redux. “Get ready hor-ny gentlemen in Texas, here I come.” He hoped his hookup would go better there. Nineteen hours, over a thousand miles, several short stops, a long one, and dozens of songs later, the duo arrived in Brownsville. AC and Spud slept away what was left of the night and the first hour of daylight in a McDonald’s parking lot right at the border between Texas and Mexico. The bitter coffee from the drive-thru he guzzled for breakfast or the scene with Kentucky John the day before, one left a bad taste in his mouth. Though AC did check the Grindr app first, he decided the need for real food and better java was more immediate than his desire for cowboy c**k. Fortunately, five-star grub was right around the corner, according to Siri. Exactly three minutes later, his morning wood under control, AC pulled into JJ’s Diner, ready to satiate at least one of his hungers. “I’ll bring you out some bacon, Spudsy.” AC’s promise was nowhere near as eloquent as he wanted it to be. “S-see you in a l-l-little b-bit.” JJ’s diner looked exactly like a diner should, red vinyl booths, gray Formica counter with chrome trim up front, and a jukebox. They even had a waitress in a starched pink uniform. Her hair bun with a pencil stuck in it was the piece de resistance. JJ, or whoever ran the place, had way too much Christmas spirit, though. There was a little tree on every table, a wreath on the door, silver tinsel garland over the counter, and Andy Williams in holiday mode blaring over the din of clinking cups and silverware in back. “Sit anywhere, hon.” The waitress looked close to retirement age. Her nametag read Belle and was the same color as her hair, sky blue. “Know what you’re in the mood for?” AC pointed to the pancake breakfast pictured on the first page of the menu, then glanced out at the sky from the booth seat by the window. Grays, reds, and golden rays breaking over brown mountains, only now did he take a moment to appreciate its beauty, as he sang along in his head to “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” A whole group of men in the parking lot—one, two, three, AC counted twelve in all—milling about in colorful T-shirts pulled him away from melodic refrains about nearby loved ones. 12 Drummers Drumming was inscribed on the bus the men circled. Its sides and top were painted in a variety of colors that matched their attire. The hood, currently raised, was bright turquoise, with a golden drum and rainbow striped drumsticks emblazoned upon it. AC mouthed, “Thank you,” when Belle delivered his meal. Words came out right when mouthed for some reason. It was the addition of sound that f****d everything up. “Hey!” One of the twelve drummers entered. Murphy was his name, if the yellow lettering on the tight maroon shirt that molded itself to his chiseled torso was to be believed. “Anyone in here know anything about engines?” There were only seven other people in the diner—counting Belle and the cook. “Anyone?” AC lowered his head and shoveled in another bite of pancake. “We’re in a spot here.” Murphy put his bare leg up on the rung of a stool and flexed every muscle, thigh to ankle. He had the body of a superhero, V-shaped top, nice ass, “Up a creek without a bus,” and spoke with a New York accent. The th digraph was nonexistent in his speech, replaced with a D sound in most cases. AC knew words like digraph from many years of unsuccessful speech therapy. “We have a gig way up in Vermont day after tomorrow on Christmas Eve, and our transportation went kerflooey.” His hair hung in straw-colored waves, just long enough to catch the airflow from the diner’s heat vent. “I can get you some free coffee,” JJ offered. “In the spirit of the season. How many of you are there?” Apparently, JJ hadn’t read the side of the bus. “Twelve,” Murphy said. “And that’s mighty nice of you. We’ll still be stranded, but at least we’ll be awake.” AC gripped his fork tighter. Peace on Earth, he thought. Good will toward men. He almost stood to offer help. “I guess we’ll have to call a tow truck.” Murphy sighed, his dark eyes cast down. There you go. AC settled back in. He liked that idea. Call a tow truck. “Except…” “Except, what?” Belle asked. “Well, the organizers stiffed us on our last gig,” Murphy told her. “We’re kind of broke.” AC kept expecting the words “Bada-bing” at the end of every sentence. “Who stiffed you?” Belle took Murphy’s elbow, like a doting mom. “We did a concert last night in New Mexico. Our contract stipulates we get paid at the end of the show, which they agreed to with a signature. Then, after the final bows, ‘The check’s in the mail,’ the venue’s owner says. The way things work, payment for one show gets us to the next. Sure, our entire existence is built on a financial house of cards, but we don’t do it for the Benjamins. We do it for the music. Make a joyful noise.” AC had come to hate that phrase. Looking out the window, he didn’t think any of the other eleven men looked the least bit joyful, either. “No concert here in Texas?” Belle asked. “No. We’re just passing through,” Murphy explained. “We could have one!” she said. “A benefit. You could play. We’ll have a donation pot. Maybe you’ll raise enough money to get your bus fixed and get you to Vermont.” It sounded good to AC. He’d drop in a twenty on his way out the door and that would be that. “Belle, can I see you a minute?” JJ had come to the window with the coffee carafe in his hand. “Sure thing, boss.” AC, trying to eavesdrop on them, didn’t turn away quickly enough when Murphy glanced over. “How’s it going? Merry Christmas.” A smile and a nod was the best AC had to offer back. “My guys are gonna be happy when I go back out there with coffee and good news.” AC nodded again, then stared when Murphy sang out, along with the jukebox. “Merry, merry, merry, merry Christmas, to-o you.” The guy’s voice was like velvet, like fine, smooth scotch going down, like a warm embrace or a soft kiss. It made AC shiver. He smiled again and almost spoke, but then he didn’t. JJ returned, balancing three cup holders with four foam coffee cups in each. “Um, sorry,” he said, “but we can’t really do the benefit thing. I, uh…I wish we could.” “No, you don’t.” Belle reentered then, taking off her apron. “James Jr. thinks a benefit for gay drummers would send the wrong message to his clientele,” she said. “Is that true?” Murphy asked. “It’s not me,” JJ insisted. “We…we get some rough and rowdy types in here. I just don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.” “Oh.” When Murphy hung his head, his boyish blond bangs almost covered his eyes. “Rough and rowdy and prejudice.” “I think he’s full of it.” Belle glared. “All the rough and rowdy guys I know who come in here wouldn’t turn their back on any man in trouble. I quit.” 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 f****d 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 f****d now, nothing more.