punk

“Just go with it, just feel it out,” Joey insisted. I tried, I really did, but I couldn’t keep up with the furied chords. The sound of my snare grew faint, the thud of my kick drum dulled. I looked up desperately for a saving gaze, but it was too late – my stiff arms and gnarled fingers said no more. I stopped playing. Now all eyes were on me. Flush-faced I whispered, “I’m sorry, I can’t do this.” My drum sticks clacked on the concrete garage floor. Nowhere to hide, I cried silently in my friend Kaitlin’s musty Taurus. She was the keyboard player for this band, as well as the instigator of this whole ordeal. On the car ride home she looked over and gave me a pity pat, “It’s okay, you’ll get it next time.” But she was wrong, I didn’t get it next time or even the time after that. I actually didn’t get it for a really long time....