The house is pretty quiet now that you’re a widow so you bought a new drum set and put it together up in the attic. Go up there today and pound on that shit as loud as those early-golden-year wrists can manage. Punish those drums, find a beat and keep it going for hours and hours, waking up everything that ever even thought about getting some rest. Keep going until you wake the dead.
A cold wind will blow through the attic and you’ll look up and see the translucent, ghostly image of your dead husband standing before you, frowning in judgment.
“Rock music is a direct phone line to the devil,” he’ll say. “You’re thumbing your nose at Jesus.”
Stop your playing for a second and tell your husband, “It really pissed me off that you got all into Jesus the last five years of your life.”
Your husband will shrug. “Times got hard. I needed something to lean on.”
“How’s death?” ask him.
“Easy-peasy,” he’ll say.
Nod and smile. “I’m glad,” tell him. “Save your Jesus crap okay?”
Your dead husband will smile at you the way he used to, back when he was young and all he wanted was to find a basement or a backseat or the crook of a tree where he could get you alone for a few minutes. Kiss the tip of your drumstick and flick it to him. He’ll catch your kiss and disappear back into the other side and you’ll go back to abusing those skins.
Happy Play Your New Drums As Loud As You Can, Until You See Your Dead Husband Again Day!
