ON BEING NORMAL

How far back was I? I counted - third in line and tapping my foot. Slowly though; I was relaxed. Thinking, what the hell, it would take as long as it took. All I was doing was beating the time of the latest fill I was trying to master on the drums. My Rolands, up in the loft, where, with headphones on, I drummed all my hard rock heroes. It’s what I did anywhere I was waiting, run the latest groove through my head tapping my foot and flicking my fingers. I was concentrating hard; this one had a complicated shift through the toms and ride cymbal. 

Still third in line. Why? The guy up front at the checkout held a scowl of despair as he packed his bags with the precision of an OCD. I looked at the steamy fella behind him - there was trouble coming for sure. The man turned, his eyes missed the lady behind him and locked onto me. Why me and not the lady I’m not sure. Perhaps he thought the words he was going to use wouldn’t suit a sweet old lady. That’s when he said, over the lady’s head, about dumb packers but not in such a nice way. I ignored him. Was that a mistake? Maybe, but I was on the way round the Rolands, hitting the skins but missed the beat when he said it all again but harsher. No problem, I reset my head and started over. Slowing it down, taking my time, staying real cool. 

The guy, he was fuming. His tapping was something else. Rattled the cashier’s screen as he slung bad words her way. Snapped a mean look at Mr OCD with implied threats of violence. I managed a knowing smile, a kind of chuckle of remembrance. Missed another beat but no problem, I realised the mistake I had made. 

More words and the checkout lady stopped scanning. She pressed the button and the light blinked. The one on the pole behind the till with the capital number eight on it. Now the man hit his stride big time. Boiling. So much heat his frozen stuff was in real danger. His trolley rammed with all the things I knew an angry man might eat and drink. Then the uniform appeared. A huge fella with a crew cut. No doubt about it, ex something military and obviously more than capable. Without too much fuss Mr Angry was shown the door, so to speak. 

Ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit, that’s what I knew my temperature was. Not a degree higher nor a degree lower. I was still tapping, ran the whole fill without a hitch and there it was, I had it sussed. When I got home, I knew all I needed to do was fire up the Rowlands and smash it out. Flat out and hard. 

You know, that was me a while back, a Mr Very Angry. Then, after I got slung out the store, I bought the kit and literally beat my anger from my system and that’s how I got the heat down to normal. How I got a calm into my household that changed my family’s life and saved my life from total meltdown. 

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