From the prompt: "Never stop searching..."
"Pulse"
It hadn't been too hard for Bob to escape the venue and walk the streets once the concert was over. He'd stuffed his gloves and wallet in his back pocketm dropped his drumsticks in the box and just waltzed out the door into the warm Orlando night. It was warmer than Calgary by far, but not unpleasantly so as he walked down the sidewalk, enjoying the sounds of the busy city. Sheila knew where he was, so he'd be safe from a parental tirade when he returned to the hotel.
As he wandered down the street, a breeze brought a sound to him, a rhythm. He immediately perked up and followed the sound. He stopped short at the mouth of a dark alley, gazing apprehensively at the open door that spilled golden warmth into the night. The sound was coming from beyond the door - he could hear the music clearly now. Staring at the door, he tried to decide. There was no sign above the door, no markings of identification. And he music floating out was...mellow. Jazzy. Not really Bob's type. More Dave's type, if anything. But the beat was unlike anything he'd ever heard. Whatever the band was playing in there, they had a fantastic drummer.
Bob took a step closer to the door. Then he strengthened hi stride. Screw 'stereotypical Bob', he wanted to see this drummer. He wanted to see this drummer. He pushed open the door and stepped into a brightly lit bar. Everything was bright and cheerful, hardly like the dim, smoky, artsy-type clubs they always showed on TV. He headed towards the stage, eyes intent on the musicians, when a hand come down on his shoulder.
An older guy stood behind him.
"ID, lad," he asked with a crisp British accent.
Bob reached into his pocket and grabbed his wallet, flipping it open to show his driver's license.
The guy examined it closely, then smiled, handing him a fluorescent orange bracelet with the words 'no alcohol' printed neatly around it. "You're a long way from hhome, Canuck. Welcome to the Open Stage. I'm the manager, Angel. Have a good time."
Bob pocketed his wallet, watching Angel move towards the door. He slipped on the bracelt and headed for the stage, eager to watch the drummer.
The rhythm was pounding through his body, willing him to move, dance. He almost laughed aloud at himself. He never wanted to dance. His spirits dropped a little when he realized he couldn't see the drummer. The guy must have been tiny dressed in black, hidden in the shadows like that. All he could see was shining cymbals as they rocked from each strike.
He moved over to the bar, weaving through the twirling bodies on the dancefloor. He leaned across the smooth antique qook, waving a ten-dollar bill and calling ouit the name of a unique-sounding fruit slushie when the red-headed bartender approached. Sipping the iciness, he craned his neck in an attempt to get a better view of the drummer. He blinked when a golden-tan wrist with a neon-orange wristband was thrust into his field of vision.
"Hi, you must be new here," a voice said. "I'm Jade." He was a curly-haired youth with bright blue eyes. Reaching out, he shook Bob's hand. "This is my friend, Kenny." The sandy-haired youth raised a blue umbrella-adorned slushie in salute.
"I'm Bob," he answered. "I'm only here for a night, tour stopping through. Say, do you know who the drummer of the band is? He's fantastic."
Jade shrugged apologetically. "Sorry, dunno. Probably one of Angel's kids."
Fire raced through Bob's veins when a new beat started up, solo.
Jade's eyes lit up. "Hey, let's go dance. Finish your drink, find a chick..."
Bob blushed, shaking his head. "Naw, I don't dance."
Jade shrugged. "Neither does Kenny. But this beat is happenin'!" He finished his drink in one go and headed out to the floor. Kenny shook his head and moved to follow.
"C'mon, Bob," he urged. "You don't have to ask a girl, but it'll be fun." He nodded towards the dancefloor where Jade was doing a modified garage hip-hop two-step. "Do your own thing."
Bob finished his drink. He didn't even know these guys, but so what? This night out was doing him good.
Out on the dancefloor, the beat seemed louder. The rhythm had a lot of bass, was funky and tribal. Primal. Bob let his eyes fall closed, surrendering himself, letting the rhythm flow through him and move his body. Pure, unadulterated beat. He was emptying his soul, the rhythm becoming his blood, feeding movement to him and through him. He felt the pounding bass rocking his body to the beat of his heart.
He let his head fall back, in complete surrender. The beat was pulsing in his veins, in his mind. He could almost feel he beat warring with his body for possession of his soul, driving the blackness out of him, leaving him, for a moment, pure and whole again.
He felt cold reality settle in when the beat stopped. He sighed. It wouldn't go away, would it? Waving half-heartedly at his two new friends, he headed for the door. Pausing, he glanced back at the stage. A shadow emerged from behind the drums. Golden eyes smiled.
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© Agent Duo 2004