12 Drummers Thumbing

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

Manny: Three stars. Tomato red shirt. Grumpy. Dark hair and eyes. Decent build. Daddy type. Big bulge but bad attitude. Getting at that c**k might be worth it, though.

Instead of just keeping notes in his head, AC decided to write his ratings down in a little notebook he found in the glovebox. He studied all twelve men and worked to remember their names, despite his earlier thoughts. While they loaded most of their equipment onto the roof of the van, in order to leave as much space in back as possible, he sat under a tree and scribbled down his first impression of each.

The approximate time for the return trip up north was calculated to be twenty-four hours in drive time. That meant each drummer would get to ride shotgun for two, and boy, did they plan on keeping track.

“We better synch our watches,” the one whose shirt said Rob insisted. “I don’t want to hear anyone claiming they were shortchanged.”

Pulling over every one-hundred and twenty minutes was going to be rather annoying, AC figured. Once at the side of the road, someone would always have to piss, which would no doubt eat up another ten minutes, while those who had to did, and those who might or might not debated. As it was, the twelve bickering drummers were taking too long to get settled in. There were more than twelve instruments. They were lugging all sorts of drums, a xylophone, and several music stands, according to Murphy, everything concealed in hard leather for protection.

AC was using the downtime wisely, though. Each guy had his own page, with comments about his f**k-abilty and demeanor.

The first drummer to take the passenger seat was Manny. What a grouch! While transferring equipment, he did more cursing than anyone else. Nothing changed as he climbed up front with a huff. “Hey. I’m Manny, like you can’t read the stupid shirt.” He slammed the door, and finally, they were out of JJ’s parking lot. “A shirt that’s gonna smell pretty rank if we don’t get to shower for another whole day.”

Belle waved goodbye, as if sending a ship off to war. AC tooted the horn. Manny continued to complain.

“Does this thing have AC?”

“I see what you did there,” AC would have said, if he didn’t hate his voice and was still the flirting type. Instead, he put the fan on high, and then turned the Beach Boys back on, keeping the volume low, as not to be rude. Glancing toward Manny’s crotch again, he licked his lips. Whatever Manny was packing behind his zipper, it was pushing hard to get out. He had a wispy little mustache and a hint of his Latin heritage in his accent when he spoke.

“They all think I’m lucky that I got ride up front first. Yeah. Big effing deal,” Manny went on. “That means I’m stuck back there for twenty-two hours straight for the rest of the trip. Nimrods.” He took a breath. “So, I guess AC stands for something.”

“Air conditioning.” AC didn’t say that either. He just pointed to a hat on the dashboard with his name on it, Atticus, in white thread on a navy background. It had been a gift from his brother, Gabriel, from Christmas 2017. Gabriel had a seven figure bank account and ended up buying his brother a ten dollar hat. The generosity was astounding.

“That’s right. Murph said that. Atticus, as in To Kill a Mocking Bird?” Manny wanted to know.

AC nodded. His father was a high-powered lawyer who happened to love that book. Part of AC wished he could say all of that.

“Cool. I was supposed to read that in high school. Never did. The only subject I liked in those days was chorus.” Manny must have been expecting a response. He asked, “You don’t like to talk, huh?”

AC shook his head no.

“We all got something, amigo.”

That made two guys who’d said those same words. AC wondered what Manny had, other than a sexy accent, a huge c**k, and a pissy attitude, one that kept on giving.

“It’s my first year with these eleven pains in the ass. Twelve men do not belong on a bus together, I tell ya. The cologne alone will make you dizzy. It’s going to be even worse back there.” The jerk jerked a thumb toward the rear. “No windows, no heat or AC, depending on which we need. I should have f*****g quit and gone home.”

AC wanted to ask, “Why didn’t you?”

“They need me for harmony, Murphy claims.”

“Y-you st-still s-s-ing?”

“We all do. A little singing, a lot of banging, even a poem or two. I’ve always liked performing. Did my first solo at school when I was five. ‘Burrito Sabanero.’”

“The Little Savannah Donkey”.

“You know it.”

Recognition must have shown. AC confirmed it with a nod.

“Tuqui, tuqui…” Manny sang the whole thing. It was a short, peppy tune, kind of like “Jingle Bells,” with lots of repetition, all about a donkey going to Bethlehem. “Felt like a big deal at the time, I suppose. I peed my pants. My classmates called me ‘El bebe! El bebe!’ for years. ‘Baby! Baby!’”

AC got that, too.

“We weren’t terribly clever bullies. Can you imagine?”