Continued from Drum Circles – Part 3.
In this last and final installment, our hero attempts to save mankind from the drum pods…
When I open the door, a breath of summer air washes over me, hot and humid. I place a foot on the first step, gently pressing as though I’m easing out into a busy intersection. The smell of marijuana overpowers me. There’s more ganja than a reggae recording session.
The red lights brighten the more I descend. A pool of marijuana smoke covers the last steps. I can’t see bottom. I torque my neck to look at the ceiling. Infrared, hydroponic grow lights hang and illuminate the murky depths. My eyes adjust and I can make out vague cylindrical shapes. There’s no turning back. I break the surface and submerge.
What I see shakes me like a maraca. Row after row of enormous djembes fill the cellar. I’ve never seen drums this large before. Not one is the same, I notice as I walk between rows. Some are narrow, some wide; some lighter, some darker; some taller, some smaller. They all differ somehow in design or appearance.
I stop to wipe humidity off my brow and pull at my shirt to unstick it. I feel the monotonous beat through the ceiling, and I can hear shouts and laughter. I smell the raw earth under me. The pot smoke is making me dizzy. It’s too strange. This is a mystery I don’t know if I can solve. I turn down the last row and stop.
These djembe are moving!
I stand in place and watch them expand and contract, the wooden barrels pushing outwards, then sucking back in. It’s a slow, steady pulse, and it’s not until I become cognizant of my own breathing that I realize: that’s what they’re doing! My nerves stretch tighter than a drumhead.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?”
My nerves detonate and my body jerks in a spastic motion. I turn in the direction of the voice. Frank stands at the base of the stairs, his expression shrouded by the shade of Malian straw. My heart’s pounding. “So this is how you do it,” I say.
“We mean you no harm.”
“No harm?” I spread my arms. “Replacing our human bodies with drum pods? Ruining the world’s rhythm? The long-term damage to musical taste is incalculable.”
“Want a puff?” Frank extends a joint. “It’s medicinal.”
“Let me guess. You get an occasional headache?”
“Makes me want to lie down.”
“They have aspirin for that.”
“It irritates my stomach.”
“Do you pod-drummers even have stomachs?”
“We’re lifelike in every way.”
“Except for your Tito Puente cover versions!” I take hold of two blossoming images resembling my wife and me and topple them to the ground where they smash to pieces. I hear a scream upstairs. My wife is back to her old self. I shove Frank aside and leap upstairs two at a time to return to the living room.
Lana’s climbing over oblivious drummers, who continue to play their monotonous rhythms and smile. “Let’s go,” I say, grabbing her hand. Before we race for the door, I play my ace and pull a thin magazine out of my back pocket. “Here’s a music course!” I say, tossing it into their midst. “It covers basic chords and scales.”
Their cries are so horrific, we have to cover our ears as we dash out the door.
The next morning, boards cover the neighbor’s windows. We see no sign of Frank or Sue. Weeks pass and the house remains unoccupied, until one day a “For Sale” sign appears.
What happened to Frank and Sue? No one seems to know. Have they found another home in another neighborhood? Another city they can populate with pod drummers? Who can say? I know we barely made a dent in their population.
I see the pod drummers sometimes at music festivals. I avoid them when I can. There’s no sense risking contamination. Be on the lookout though: they may move into your neighborhood!
Boy, did this post get out of hand. Thanks for sticking with it. Let me know what you think of it.
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