3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
He was interesting to say the least. I won’t, however, say the least because saying the least is not as interesting as he was.
The first thing I remember about him was his hair; slicked back, tight against his head and all gathered up in the back and tied together like a bundle of wheat. He was balding, but his pattern consisted of two valley’s being forged on either side of his widows peak. The back was fine, which allowed him his loose, long brush of hair.
When I first saw him, he was playing drums for the band that was opening for the band everyone had come to see. His band had some non-conformist dada-esque name like “band” or “music group”, I can’t remember.
He was whipping that mop of hair around in a tank top which showed his all red tattoos. I’m not entirely sure, but guessing by his skin tone he was of nordic, European descent.
The other thing I noticed was the amount of sweat that dripped from him. It poured from his body like he had just been doused with a bucket full of water, striptease style. Every pound of the snare, Tom-Tom’s and cymbals looked like the grand finale of those killer whale shows. If not for the rest of the band in front of him, everyone in the mosh pit would have splash-zone seats.
That was the first time I saw him and it sparked an idea, that I wouldn’t realize until 10 years later.
I see on the news one of my favorite bands, “the Holysteens”, had a falling out with their drummer just before going on tour. I’m a little concerned only because I have tickets to a concert for one of their Los Angeles dates.
The replacement drummer is none other than sweaty McGee with the pony tail. His name was Tommy “Salt” Waters, go figure.
That’s when all my thoughts from that evening of watching him play come back to me. Sweat flying all over the drums, sweat pouring down his forearms and loosening his grip on the sticks, sweat forcing Tommy to blink and dab at his face every 2-3 seconds. The shear distraction of this human waterfall splashing in the middle of a concert.
I remember thinking, if he wore a thick, long sleeve shirt with a hood, the shirt would soak up the sweat and Tommy Waters could play without stopping.
I called it the Sweatshirt.
At the concert, I had a backstage pass and gave the sweatshirt to him, telling him the story. I had even sewed on the name of the band, The Holysteens, with their favorite art, a middle finger with a halo around it.
Long story short, I left the concert early. Tommy “Salt” Waters overheated, passed out and later died of exhaustion.
I came up with the sweatshirt but I could never reveal this while I lived. So if you’re reading this, it means I’m dead, somewhere with Tommy, or not, but that bastard took my job, so fuck him.