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STUCK BY A DRUMMER
This short work in progress orginally appeared on the RIGHT STUFF message board. Here it is in free-flowing, easy to read format!!
Stuck by a Drummer- The Adventure Continues
One of the first things I ever learned as a reporter was that you treat wacko humans like you do strange dogs- never show any fear. No matter how bizarre they look and act or how much eerie determination they showed by getting your home address. I glanced across the street as I parked the car and got out, noticing that some insomniac kids were playing basketball in thier driveway. Good- I had protection- or was that a few future witnesses at Taura Manson's murder trial?
"Fancy meeting you twice in one night, " I said, keeping my voice level. "Don't tell me you live in this building too."
She had gotten up off the doorstep at my arrival, and now dusted her tent dress off. "No," she grinned, "until my antique clothes business takes off, I couldn't afford to live in your trash compactor." She paused, and her eyes lit up. "I make the CRAZIEST clothes! Did Pete tell you that I named one of my retro lines after him once?"
"No," I said, smiling tightly, "we pretty much confined the conversation to the music."
"Really? Well, like I said, I PROMISE to buy a hundred issues if it will get DOA more coverage."
"Thank you." This aimless conversation was making me nervous. I decided to get to the point. At least the basketball game across the street was still going strong. "Miss Manson, I don't mean to be rude, but it's been a long night and I'm tired. I need to get some sleep before I can even THINK about writing an article."
"Oh, of course! OF course!! I'm so sorry if I scared you or am keeping you up."
"How did you find out where I live?" I had to ask.
She rummaged in her pocket, produced a square white paper, and held it out: I recognized one of my business cards. "Steve dropped this. Once again, sorry if I freaked you out."
"Its OK." I reasoned that she was more weird than dangerous- a hatchet or chainsaw had yet to make an appearance. "Well, if you don't mind, I'll just be going."
"Wait!!" She dug around in a patchwork shoulder bag that hung off her arm like a bag lady accessory, and produced a lavender envelope that stank of incense and was covered with fuchsia lip prints. "Will you please give this to Steve and Pete when you see them again?"
"Why didn't you give it to them tonight?"
She pouted: not a pretty sight with her thick black lips. "I was going to, but just after you drove off, that psycho promoter Lee came out of the club and made Pete and Steve go inside with him to count the money or some other bullshit excuse like that. A couple of bouncers were with him and wouldn't get me follow." Her voice deepened to a low growl. "Pete and Steve couldn't have wanted to do what he said- they know I'm their number one fan. But if they want to make headway in this country they have to swallow it and play along. I wanted to give this to them, but couldn't." She extended the envelope. "Can you PLEASE do it for me?"
"Who says I will be seeing them again?" I replied cautiously.
She smiled proudly. "I heard Steve ask you to call him. But to be honest, I didn't hear the name of the hotel where he's staying."
I took the envelope, knowing that I wouldn't get rid of her otherwise. "All right, I will."
"OMIGOD!! THANK YOU, KC!! May I call you KC?" She danced about a little, eyes shining. "If there's anything I can do for you, you let me know!! I work at Psycho Babble Antique Clothes on the Market. Call anytime and ask for Taura: everyone knows me."
Everyone except the administrators of the local wacky ward, unfortunately. "Thanks for the offer. Good night, Taura."
"Night, KC." Still in a giddy mood, she blew me a kiss and skipped off into the dark.
I waited for several minutes before breathing a deep sigh of relief. She seemed more loony than dangerous, but it wasn't until I was back in my loft apartment, behind a locked door, that I felt safe as well. I set the envelope on the kitchen counter, where it released its musky scent into the still air, and took a shower. Steve's cologne had still been lingering on my skin, and when the hot spray washed it off, I felt a curious sense of loss. He was definitely under my skin: there was no doubt about me calling him tomorrow.
The envelope was the first thing I saw and smelled when I came back into the kitchen for a pre-bed snack. For a fleeting second I debated throwing it out: Steve wouldn't appreciate me serving as Taura's messenger. But on second thought, bizarre humans have an entertaining, intriguing way of expressing themselves. After making a cheese sandwich, I sat down at the counter, tore the envelope open, and began to read its contents.
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