Like my best friend, I asked for drums for Christmas, and got

Host: The evening smelled of beer, amp smoke, and the faint metallic tang of anticipation. A dive bar on the edge of town — one of those places that never bothered to renovate because the grime had become part of its character. A band was finishing their soundcheck on the low stage at the back. A flickering neon sign buzzed like an exhausted fly above the counter, throwing uneven light over the scuffed floorboards.

Jack sat slouched on a barstool, elbows on the counter, a beer bottle sweating between his hands. His eyes, cool and tired, watched the band without watching. Beside him, Jeeny leaned against the worn wood, a faint smile tugging at her mouth, her hair tied back, her eyes alive with the glimmer of nostalgia.

Host: The bartender passed them without speaking. The music started up — a messy, passionate tangle of drums, guitar, and too much ambition.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Greg Iles once said, ‘Like my best friend, I asked for drums for Christmas, and got them. But when he moved on to guitar, I realized two things: (1) guitar is a much more expressive instrument, (2) way more girls pay attention to guitar players than to drummers.’”

Jack: (chuckles) “So basically, the story of every man’s adolescence — start with rhythm, end with insecurity.”

Host: His laugh was dry, his eyes reflecting the amber light of the bottles behind the bar. The band shifted into a slow blues riff, the guitar’s voice bleeding emotion, the drummer’s beat steady but forgotten.

Jeeny: “You think he was being shallow?”

Jack: “No. Honest. We all want to believe we do things for art or expression — but half of what drives us is the hunger to be seen.”

Jeeny: “To be admired?”

Jack: “No, to be noticed. There’s a difference. Admiration’s distant. Attention’s immediate. The guitar sings — the drum just keeps time.”

Host: The bass vibrated through the floor, soft but insistent. Jack took a slow sip, eyes unfocused — listening, remembering.

Jeeny: “But isn’t the drummer the backbone of the whole thing? Without rhythm, the melody collapses.”

Jack: “Yeah, but nobody falls in love with the backbone. They fall in love with the hands that reach for the light.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve thought about this before.”

Jack: (grinning) “I was a drummer once. High school band. Thought the beat could carry the soul. Turns out the girls thought otherwise.”

Jeeny: “So you switched to guitar?”

Jack: “No. I just stopped performing.”

Host: His words landed soft, but they carried weight — like a memory pressing its thumb into a scar.

Jeeny: “You still play?”

Jack: “Not much. Got tired of trying to turn noise into meaning. These days I just listen.”

Jeeny: “You think Greg Iles meant that literally — about music — or was he talking about life?”

Jack: “Both. Drums are duty; guitar is desire. Some people are born to keep time; others, to take chances.”

Host: The band stumbled through their chorus, laughter erupting from the stage. A girl near the front shouted for the guitarist to play something slower. He grinned — and obliged. The room quieted.

Jeeny: “You’re saying rhythm is servitude and melody is freedom?”

Jack: “In a way. The drummer holds everyone else together, but never gets the spotlight. The guitarist — he gets to break hearts, not just keep them beating.”

Jeeny: “That sounds unfair.”

Jack: “It is. But that’s life. The world doesn’t clap for the ones who keep time — it claps for the ones who dare to fall out of it.”

Host: The music changed tempo — slower, warmer — the guitarist leaning into each note like it mattered, his fingers moving with a mix of precision and pain. The audience leaned closer, lost in the illusion that they were hearing something rare, when in truth, they were just hearing sincerity for once.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?”

Jack: “You usually tell me anyway.”

Jeeny: “I think both are love stories — the drummer’s and the guitarist’s. One’s about loyalty; the other’s about longing. One keeps the world steady, the other sets it on fire.”

Jack: “So which would you choose?”

Jeeny: “Depends on the night. Tonight, maybe the fire.”

Host: The light from the stage hit her face just then — her eyes gleaming gold for a heartbeat before dimming back into shadow. Jack studied her expression, half amusement, half honesty.

Jack: “You ever notice? The guitarist is chasing beauty. The drummer — he builds it. Maybe the problem isn’t who gets noticed. Maybe it’s who’s patient enough to keep the beat while everyone else takes credit.”

Jeeny: “That sounds like something a drummer would say.”

Jack: “Maybe I never stopped being one.”

Host: The song ended. The guitarist smiled, basking in the soft applause. The drummer wiped his face with a towel, barely noticed. A familiar story replaying in real time.

Jeeny: “Do you envy him?”

Jack: “Who? The guitarist?”

Jeeny: “No. The drummer. The one invisible enough to play without expectation.”

Host: Jack paused, the question catching him off guard. His fingers tapped unconsciously against the bar — a rhythm that didn’t need melody.

Jack: “Maybe. There’s peace in anonymity. The guitarist lives off reaction — the drummer lives off flow. No applause, no heartbreak.”

Jeeny: “You’re talking about life again, aren’t you?”

Jack: “Always.”

Host: The next song began — loud, confident, imperfect. The crowd clapped along, but only vaguely in time. Jeeny leaned back, her smile softening.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, though. Iles was talking about instruments, but he was really talking about envy — the way we measure ourselves by who’s seen, not who’s steady.”

Jack: “Exactly. We all want to be the melody, not the rhythm — even when the world needs both.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the tragedy of growing up. We stop wanting to play together.”

Jack: “And start competing for the solo.”

Host: The two sat in silence then, the music filling the space between them — not background anymore, but commentary. Jack’s eyes softened, the edge in his tone dissolving into thought.

Jack: “You know something? I used to think drumming was simple — just noise and timing. But it was the only place I ever felt honest. The beat never lies.”

Jeeny: “Neither does melody, when it’s played with heart.”

Jack: “True. Maybe the best songs are the ones where both listen to each other.”

Host: She smiled — slow, quiet, full of understanding.

Jeeny: “And maybe the best people are the same.”

Jack: “You mean — those who know when to take the lead and when to keep time?”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The band finished their set. The applause was light, polite, a brief shimmer of sound before conversation reclaimed the room. Outside, the rain had stopped. The pavement glistened under the amber glow of the streetlights.

Jack: (finishing his drink) “Guess in the end, it doesn’t matter who gets the attention — as long as the song keeps going.”

Jeeny: “That’s the wisdom of a true drummer.”

Host: They stood to leave, the echo of the final chord lingering in the air like the memory of youth — imperfect, necessary, real.

Host: And as they stepped into the cool night, the world outside seemed to pulse softly — not to the sound of melody or applause, but to rhythm itself: quiet, constant, alive — the heartbeat that carries everything unseen, everything uncelebrated, but everything true.