Earned time

BARRY'S SECRET

 

Barry pounds the drums, all kinds of drums. He's so loud when he plays with his sloppy, messy group that my teeth ache. When he got his first gig, he spent $30 of my money to buy himself a goofy black straw hat, punched out the crown enough so his hair flies out of it when he jumps around. Then he  hung two unused tea bags from the brim. They have become his trademark. In his asymmetric performances, his hat falls off, making the crowd stomp and scream. They love him the most. He's the leader, the star.

 

My husband, Thomas always, never Tom, is proud that Barry has become a star but admits to very few people that the kooky drummer on Saturday Night Live, who worked so hard to become a star, is his son.

 

In the beginning, Thomas knew his boy (our boy) was special and offered to get him a good teacher of drums. Barry's appreciation was evident as he already knew who he wanted, who the best teacher around was, Ivan Dinton. And so it came to pass that the lessons became eternally louder and longer. As soon as each lesson ends, Barry practices holding the sticks, feeling, always feeling what is pent up inside of him and letting it run free. Every clash of the cymbals makes the front door vibrate a little while Barry gloats with his virtuosity.

 

If this isn't enough to take, it grows worse. Barry's high school friend, Tony Maroni, has been taking bass lessons since he got to high school.  He plunks and plunks and seems to be very talented. They get together and form  a good alliance. Both have to drag their clumsy musical instruments to wherever a possible job exists. Mr. Dinton offers a suggestion that they find a super guitar player and work as a group. Thomas sees the logic in that and wants to do right by his son, but because Barry's drum set is so difficult to handle – practice time is always in his house, at least twice a week. Mr. & Mrs. Thomas Sharp leave the house those nights, plus Saturday afternoons. Bones,  whose real name is Jones, plays the guitar as if his fingers are made of feathers. His music can be heavenly or strident, depending on Barry, the leader of The Red Flyers.

 

Sometimes Tony and I think we have been dreaming too long. Where did the years go? When, how, did our noisy, rambunctious trio get this far? Stars we are. We are everywhere, t.v., on disc covers , in the scandal mags. Paparazzis, surround other paparazzis waiting to get candid shots of our group. They are looking for dirt and we don't give it to them. Boys, girls, women, some very young boys trail the group wherever they go. Barry doesn't complain and why should he? He's  independently wealthy and is too old for us to still warn him about sexual diseases, gold diggers. He knows far more than we do.

 

'No, thanks, Barry,' Thomas and I have said several times when he offers us a new home, a cruise to nowhere. He still stays with us for Thanksgiving, Christmas or just when he can manage to relax, get away from it all. The impossible happens. Barry disappears. Tony contacts the police. Every news program makes up stories. 'The Red Flyers split up: Barry jumped out the window in his Stanford suite: Barry and Tony are queers and have gone off together: Bones thinks Barry is having a hot affair with Glenda Robinson: Barry's parents are returning immediately from England.

 

The maid and the police enter Barry's suite first thing in the morning. Everything is in order. Music is soft. Old wax records are stacked on the cocktail table. Barry is wearing Dobbi sound ear pads and humming along with Frankie. His hands are busy with unseeable drum sticks. He is startled when tapped on his shoulder, seems to be in another world.

And he is. He orders everyone out. 'You are disturbing me and Frankie. He knew what good listening music was. Now get out of here, all of you. Let me be where I want to be, the way I want my life to be, soft, easy. I'm entitled to my cave, right?' The maid holds the door open for everyone. Barry waves 'toodleoo' and lies back and listens to music.