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STEEL DRUMS

He first heard the steel drums one night on the Riverwalk. They were part of the reality of the moment. In the middle of the Tex Mex culture suddenly there were steel drummers from the Caribbean. The three dreadlocked musicians established a beachhead on one of the stone bridges, set up their oil drums and barrels...laid a hat on the pavement...and hoped to entertain and to make a few dollars or pesos.

With something like the wonder of a child he took her hand and led her up stone steps to the bridge. They watched the musicians and listened as they slapped their drums with sticks and the calloused palms of their hands. Sometimes they sang in a patois too thick to be understood. He tried to sing their words and brought laughter from the woman.

And she, too, was part of the reality of the moment. He saw the Italian lights in the trees reflected in her eyes and imagined that he loved her. The river below them moved with the rhythm of their bodies. Maybe it was passion...maybe it was, what? Maybe it was just that she heard the music of the drums as he heard it.

Years later...

he again heard the steel drums . Miles and years away.

This time, on the shores of a lake.

A lifetime gone by...another stood by his side.

The boats rocked gently in their slips...anchored and tied to the pier...still rocking with the waves. Rigging slapping against steel or wooden masts....steel and brass couplings and snaps on ropes...making their own music in the night. He took her hand and asked her to listen. No Italian lights this time. There was only the moon...and it's beams never found her eyes. She raised a questioning eyebrow and shook her head slowly. Just ropes and rigging slapping against masts of sailboats at rest...nothing more. She rolled her eyes impatiently, breaking the mood with something typically negative and contrary. He was acutely aware that she would never understand. Once more, he gathered his needs, like billowing sails, to find a way to live without it.

Something died.

Years later...

the boats in their slips had been raised off the surface of the lake....immune to the rocking of the waves. Masts stood mute against the nightmoon sky. Rigging hung slack in mocking silence.

Alone, he turned his back to the lake, walked back to his car. One last look before he drove away. Maybe the music would play again.

Or maybe it never had.

Isnala Mani

April 15, 2001

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