My drummer lived on the main floor in a sun room off of the kitchen and the vestigial dining room. His savage mane of hair and reasonably trimmed beard growing around his broken glasses seemingly defiant of his day to day. He kept himself busy with going to work at Guitar Center, practicing his drums, and wearing holes through his single pair of jeans, one shirt, or through his sole pair of boots.
He has been my rock in the band. He is reliable and usually more level-headed than I. After long days that finished with rehearsals we would ride home together on the 5 bus out to the Richmond. We would hope that there would be nobody occupying the living room so that we could have a moment of peace after these long days. I would roll us a cone while he put the meatballs in the oven and added spices to a sauce. We would eat and smoke in front of the TV. Relaxation was distorted by our anticipation of the impending onslaught of drunken revelry what could arrive at any moment.
Courtesy was on a sliding scale in our house. Tolerance was just as fluid. Just before my time was up at the house he finally got a curtain for the segmented glass door that made his privacy public to the living room. He lived as if he's ready to leave at any moment but tended to embrace change with the speed and willingness of a glacier. He still does. I appreciate his apprehension even to this day. It balances my overzealous nature.
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