Drummer Man

It was the Bicentennial year, and patriotic images transitioned within my fuzzy mind. The Declaration Of Independence. Paul Revere. George Washington. Mount Rushmore.

The scent of Gordon’s...yes, very familiar to me...permeated the final image, and the bright light made me squint. Those four faces stared with curiosity. Concern. They looked youthful.

“Are you okay mister?”

They hovered around me, like pigeons awaiting for stale bread to drop underneath the 480 freeway along the side of the bay. Wide-eyed. Peering. They asked questions amongst each other.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Should we tell the teacher?”

“He might be a wino, you know.”

“What’s a wino?”

My hand tried reaching forward, but merely dropped to the cold concrete floor below. A uniformed female face, with that same curious concern, mumbling for me to enjoy my time at the zoo...I tried reaching for my right-side coat pocket.

A metallic clink, and then the pressure of a butterfly upon my chest. I glanced downward; it looked like one of those newfangled quarters, with a nattily dressed drummer beating out a determined march. There was nothing like that to greet me several years ago, not that it would’ve made a difference, or perhaps...

“I don’t know, do you think that will be enough?”

“Yeah, I think so. Besides, I want one of those chocolate malts. The cart said fifty cents.”

“Yeah, malts! Let’s go back. Teach' is probably looking for us now.”

And then, Mount Rushmore was gone. Well, one face lingered. He looked Asian, though not Vietnamese; he was not threatening. He stared. Concerned. Curious. Perhaps a little scared.

I would’ve tried to reassure him, if I could. There was a time I could. But now, I needed to fade back to the darkness.