Drum Lessons with Diego: Twelve Drummers Drumming, #9

Chapter One

Bright, swirling lights from the disco ball matched the fast tempo of the 80s Hair Metal cover. Diego beat the drum set, his feet working the pedals like a man running from the law. The lead singer Valen ended the song with a drawn-out, belting scream. In her cheetah-print pants, teased blonde hair, and mesh-shirt, all eyes focused on the stage.

Diego tossed his drumsticks into the cheering audience. Part of his gimmick as the club’s drummer, anyone who caught a stick, received a free drink. Theme nights drew in the customers, and the 80s songs were popular. The crowd at Half-Cocked Hammer Dance and Bar, or simply Half-Cocked, was best in Buenos Aires. As they left the stage, the DJ controlled the music pumping through the speakers. Diego held onto his wig.

Two years ago, during the renovations, the owner built a room for performers. The Lounge was a mix between a dressing room and a practice area. Local talents Valen and her three bandmates of Cabalga con los Ángeles played at Half-Cocked once a week.

When are you joining the band, Diego? Javier asked, wiping the blue eyeshadow and glitter off his face. We need a drummer.

Standing at his locker, Diego used rosewater cloths to scrub at the stubborn eyeliner. His short dark brown hair clung to his head with sweat. The bamboo wig liners protected the 80s fabulous wig, and that’s what mattered. He spent a fortune on the costume. Where’s your contract with the music label?

Sasha, the bassist, laughed. Sit and spin, Diego.

He blew Sasha a kiss. The banter continued as they changed into their street clothes. No one stayed long after the show. Each had real jobs, except for Diego. He hustled, from sunrise to well past sunset, chasing perfection.

See you next week, Diego, Valen said. Without the makeup and clothes, she looked respectable—she was an orthopedic resident after all. A tiny crystal nose stud the single sign of her rebellious nature.

"Adios, Dr. Arellano."

Diego grabbed a faded black tee shirt and jeans. The Lounge had a private bathroom, and he took advantage of the privacy. Diego stripped out of his costume down to his boxer-briefs. He washed his hair under the sink’s tap and used a rough towel to dry off. What he needed was a shower to get rid of all the glitter and salty sweat. Styling gel, cologne, and a bit of swagger would have to suffice.

Half-Cocked closed at two o’clock. Diego left between two-thirty and three. Part owner, he showed up every shift. His business partner, and best friend, Antonella, lived behind the bar. She owned the majority of Half-Cocked but required extra collateral when the building came up for sale. Diego left the daily running to her and oversaw entertainment and special events. He had street smarts, not book smarts.

The music thumped with a packed dance floor. Refreshed, Diego went to the bustling bar. Antonella poured him the usual, a double shot of special tequila with a lime wedge. He downed it in one go. "Gracias, cariño. I needed that."

Antonella danced to the music. Her hips swayed and her head bobbed. After serving a customer, she poured him another drink. "I want you to meet someone, mi corazón."

Not tonight, no games tonight, he stated. The feisty woman schemed; it was in her blood.

She laughed. Her bright red lipstick glowed in the dim lighting. Diego! Don’t be rude. Pardon my friend, Juan Tomas. Antonella reached across the bar and plucked the earplug from Diego’s left ear. He wasn’t ignoring you, but he is an idiot.

Glancing to his side, Diego noticed a man in a pressed blue dress shirt and slacks. His blonde hair and gray eyes showed his strong European ancestry. Buenos Aires welcomed numerous waves of immigrants from European countries, which influenced the city’s culture. In this neighborhood, the majority of families claimed Spanish and indigenous heritage. A tall, blonde man stood out.

Diego Videla. He shook the stranger’s hand. Hearing loss. I’ve to protect what’s left.

Let’s go to the office, Antonella said above the music. She motioned for a bartender to cover her clients.

Diego downed his drink, and the tart lime coated his tongue. The tequila was spring water, served as an alcoholic beverage. Patrons bought him rounds, but he was a teetotaler. This was a suitable compromise.

Weaving through the dancers, drinkers, and lurkers, he followed Antonella and her acquaintance at a distance. Had something happened during his trip to the United States? Antonella pushed him to enter the international drummer competition, and he made it to the finals at Spring City, Kentucky. While he didn’t win, he came home with a cash prize—one he planned to invest in property for his Mamá and siblings. The trip cut into his vacation days, plus the upcoming dance competitions, Diego requested time off. Maybe he pissed Antonella off. They fought like siblings sometimes. A worrier, a fixer, Diego hated letting people down. What was she keeping from him?

The dance club and bar area were gaudy and trendy. The office had decent soundproofing, with the barest base notes in the background. They wanted a proper space for consultations. The decor was minimalist, sleek, and functional. Antonella grabbed a portfolio from her desk and three bottles of chilled water from the fridge. She motioned for them to sit at the rectangular table used for monthly in-house meetings.

We went through the details on the phone, she started, "but, since