The scene: Austin, Texas, an off-campus house party filled with college students. Early summer, with finals almost over. Reason enough for a party. Cheap beer and empty conversation flowed freely.
Jason's band had finished playing their set a half-hour ago, and he was half a beer away from taking off. The band's gear was already in his truck. He'd loaded it himself, since his drum kit was the biggest part of it, and besides, he didn't trust his bandmates with his drum kit. Or his truck for that matter.
Jason Sturmer. Musical prodigy at age five, All-State Band Percussionist at age 18, college dropout at age 20, vagabond drummer-for-hire ever since. Currently the drummer with the neo-shoegaze-trip-hop local band Lazy Cunts.
Jason didn't care much for parties like this. At 25, he felt he was getting a little old for the company. College students, they seemed like such little kids, even though the difference between their ages and his wasn't that great. He knew wasn't going to make any sort of meaningful connections tonight. His bandmates, the same age as Jason, had other ideas, and were milking their temporary celebrity for all it was worth.
At least it was a paying gig. Fifty bucks apiece, except for Percy, who got seventy-five and all the Lone Star they could drink. They'd played on the back lawn of the house for almost two hours, and the crowd seemed to dig it, even though Jason thought they sounded like crap. But it was a gig, and he always enjoyed playing for an audience.
Jason sat inside the house, on a tatty brown couch that was older than he was. He was inside because, although it was kind of stuffy, it was cooler than outside, and less crowded to boot. He was just cooling down, after the gig and the roadie work. The Lone Star was helping as much as lukewarm beer could, but it was on the house, so there you go.
A woman's voice came from the other end of the couch. "Are you troubled?" she said.
Jason looked to see who had spoken. He didn't recognize her. She was older than most of the other party folk, maybe late twenties. Olive-complexioned, foreign-looking but he couldn't place it. Middle-eastern, maybe? Her wavy black hair framed a cute round face, like a pixie's, and she had wide, almond-shaped eyes with coffee-colored irises. She wore no makeup that Jason could see, but her lips were round and pink and full, with a natural pout to them.
Her outfit was nothing remarkable, jeans and a white v-neck tee shirt. Over that she wore a zippered black leather vest that did little to hide the fact that she was blessed with large breasts, at least E-cups, putting her out of the range of casual bra-shopping. Probably explained the vest. He wondered if she was even wearing a bra underneath.
"Life of a drummer, is all," Jason said, answering her question. "Not the easiest gig in the world."
"What's so bad about it?" the woman said. "You get to play your little songs, and for that you receive the accolades of your peers. What more could a human want?"
Jason cocked an eyebrow. The inferred condescension was one thing, but her voice...something about her voice was...off. Her voice was sort of nasally, but it sounded affected. And the way she spoke. Quickly and precisely. Kind of nerdy, or rather, like she was trying to sound nerdy. Like she was trying to hide her real voice for some reason, and didn't think he'd notice.
Whatever, Jason thought. Maybe she was a TA at the college or something. And this was some sort of 'live experiment'. He could play along.
"Well, lemme tell you," Jason began, "It's like this." he gestured with his beer at a small crowd of people across the room.
"See that guy over there?" he said. "The one doing the leg-up against the wall, surrounded by all the teenybopper freshmen? That's Percy Blevins. Stage name's 'One Love'. He's the lead singer of my band. He writes the lyrics, too. Here's the thing. He's a shit singer, and his songs are terrible. Like 'written by toddlers' bad. But, he's good-looking and he's the lead singer, and that's all the fans care about. He gets first share of the accolades."
The woman nodded, somewhat blankly. "Okay," she said.
"Over there," he gestured towards the kitchen, "Is Aiden. He's lead guitar. He mostly plays power chords, and although he thinks he's awesome, he has trouble keeping up. But he's decently attractive, and he plays guitar in a band, so he's next on the pecking order for attention."
"I see," the woman said. "So your other bandmates..."
"Pecking order," Jason repeated. "Keyboards, bass...and at the bottom you have the drummer."
"Why would this be so?" said the woman. She twisted her mouth into a pout that, despite her strange speech, was adorable. "Is it not the idea of a band that all members must work together to produce harmony?"
She seemed genuinely puzzled. "Oh, that's the theory," Jason said. "But practice is whole 'nother thing. Different levels of prestige for different roles. Me, I blame the Stones, god bless 'em anyway."
The woman considered, then nodded. Jason ventured, "You're in academia, right? It's probably like that there too, amirite?"
"Academia...roles..." the woman said absentmindedly, "Yes, I have experienced..." She broke off, paused and then said, "So your band mates are bad musicians. Am I to assume that you yourself are inept?"
Jason snorted. "Are you shitting me? Girl, I'm the only one who's any good! The other guys got into it for the pussy and the money. Me, I've been drumming since before I could talk. Practice daily whether I want to or not. Didn't you see me playing out there?"
"I missed the performance," the woman admitted.
"I'm the only thing holding those guys together," Jason said. "Folks like to talk about how drum machines and synthesizers made live drummers obsolete, but let's see a machine adapt to those lunkheads and make them sound decent."
"So you are an adept?" the woman asked.
"I'd fuckin' say so," Jason said. "I'm like Buddy Rich had a baby with Charlie Watts, and Ringo Starr's the godfather. If I could hook up with a decent band..."
"So," the woman said, "why don't you do that? Hook up with such a band of adepts?"
