It took another hour, but finally all of the band members had been gathered
up, and loaded onto the buses. Even though there were only about 200 to 215
people, there were six buses, plus two large trailers, and, of course,
Kelter's Jeep. Mostly because it a twenty-three hour trip to the camp, but
also because, as the others explained to me, the band director had figured
that it was safer to separate the people that he wanted to separate, and
not to let us pick our own seats. So there were only around thirty people
in the bus that we were on. Unfortunately the rest of them were
percussionists, and even I knew what that meant. Tapping. Constant tapping.
Rit-tit-tit, tappa-tappa-tap. Da-da-da-dum, da-da-da-da-dum, da-di-dum. Ric- tic-tic, tappa-tappa-tap....
"Will you knock it off already!?!" Neal yelled out, loosing his temper after less the twenty minutes of the noise. "Did you hear me?!? I said knock it off!!! OW!!!" he cried out as he got hit in the head by a thrown drumstick. "All right. That's the last straw." he muttered under his breath as he stood up and began to advance upon the one who had thrown the 'stick. Only to quickly retreat under a hail of drumsticks.
Sinking deeply into his seat and using it as a blockade between him and the stick-throwing madmen, he muttered "stupid percussionists" and began to sulk.
Tat-tat-tat-tat, tat-tat-tat-tat, tat-tat-tum, tat-tat-tum. Rat-tata-tat, rit-tata-tat...
An hour later, the percussionists were still going strong. But possibly running out of the energy needed to play their material, because they had been playing the same five-minute piece for the last twenty minutes. Or perhaps they were just running out of ideas, because when I yelled out "Do you guys know 'Wayward Son' by Kansas?," I was not rewarded with a verbal answer, but instead by the first few notes of 'Carry on Wayward Son.'
Neal groaned and held his head in his hands. "You encouraged them. You're not supposed to encourage them!" he said, apparently shocked that I had not known even this most common of civil decencies. But even remembering to add his very own death-glare to his words; for all that it wasn't nearly as impressive or frightening as Wren's. But I had to give him credit for trying.
"Hey! Fire's giving her the glare!" Skink suddenly noticed the obvious and pointed it out to the entire bus.
"She walked right into receiving it too." piped up a female percussionist.
"It's like a moth to the flame..." Skink wondered aloud.
"Like a moth?" Neal repeated slowly, as if tasting the flavor of the words. "A moth...? Moth?" he said even slower, and then his eyes lit up. "Moth! Your name will be Moth!" he jumped up in his excitement, then promptly fell back down as his head smacked into the ceiling.
"That one hurt 'em." smirked a blue-haired percussionist, who was immediately subjected to Neal's death-glare, however useless it might be.
"Hmmm... Moth, that could work." Skink muttered, thinking out loud.
"What do you mean COULD?!? It will work, and with no help to you, you stupid lizard!" Neal shouted angrily.
"Lizard!?! Who are you calling a lizard you stupid insecticoide!" Skink shouted back.
Wren and Briar traded exasperated looks and shook their heads, Wren rolling her eyes as the two combatants tackled each other.
"Ummm... does this happen a lot?" I asked, slightly shocked by the sight of the guy's very strong and very angry reaction to each other's words.
"More often then you could possibly want to know," Moss replied dryly, watching the combatants with a slightly bemused expression upon his face.
As Neal held Skink in a stranglehold, the percussionists restarted their insistent drumming; bored already with the usual display of a fight between the two trumpets.
Rat-tat-tat, tika-tika-tik, tata-ta-ta, rika-tika-tik. Taka-taka-tik, ta-ta- ta-ta...
a/n- stupid percussionists. J.K. some of my good friends are percussionists, and I wouldn't give up their friendship, or our arguments for anything.
Rit-tit-tit, tappa-tappa-tap. Da-da-da-dum, da-da-da-da-dum, da-di-dum. Ric- tic-tic, tappa-tappa-tap....
"Will you knock it off already!?!" Neal yelled out, loosing his temper after less the twenty minutes of the noise. "Did you hear me?!? I said knock it off!!! OW!!!" he cried out as he got hit in the head by a thrown drumstick. "All right. That's the last straw." he muttered under his breath as he stood up and began to advance upon the one who had thrown the 'stick. Only to quickly retreat under a hail of drumsticks.
Sinking deeply into his seat and using it as a blockade between him and the stick-throwing madmen, he muttered "stupid percussionists" and began to sulk.
Tat-tat-tat-tat, tat-tat-tat-tat, tat-tat-tum, tat-tat-tum. Rat-tata-tat, rit-tata-tat...
An hour later, the percussionists were still going strong. But possibly running out of the energy needed to play their material, because they had been playing the same five-minute piece for the last twenty minutes. Or perhaps they were just running out of ideas, because when I yelled out "Do you guys know 'Wayward Son' by Kansas?," I was not rewarded with a verbal answer, but instead by the first few notes of 'Carry on Wayward Son.'
Neal groaned and held his head in his hands. "You encouraged them. You're not supposed to encourage them!" he said, apparently shocked that I had not known even this most common of civil decencies. But even remembering to add his very own death-glare to his words; for all that it wasn't nearly as impressive or frightening as Wren's. But I had to give him credit for trying.
"Hey! Fire's giving her the glare!" Skink suddenly noticed the obvious and pointed it out to the entire bus.
"She walked right into receiving it too." piped up a female percussionist.
"It's like a moth to the flame..." Skink wondered aloud.
"Like a moth?" Neal repeated slowly, as if tasting the flavor of the words. "A moth...? Moth?" he said even slower, and then his eyes lit up. "Moth! Your name will be Moth!" he jumped up in his excitement, then promptly fell back down as his head smacked into the ceiling.
"That one hurt 'em." smirked a blue-haired percussionist, who was immediately subjected to Neal's death-glare, however useless it might be.
"Hmmm... Moth, that could work." Skink muttered, thinking out loud.
"What do you mean COULD?!? It will work, and with no help to you, you stupid lizard!" Neal shouted angrily.
"Lizard!?! Who are you calling a lizard you stupid insecticoide!" Skink shouted back.
Wren and Briar traded exasperated looks and shook their heads, Wren rolling her eyes as the two combatants tackled each other.
"Ummm... does this happen a lot?" I asked, slightly shocked by the sight of the guy's very strong and very angry reaction to each other's words.
"More often then you could possibly want to know," Moss replied dryly, watching the combatants with a slightly bemused expression upon his face.
As Neal held Skink in a stranglehold, the percussionists restarted their insistent drumming; bored already with the usual display of a fight between the two trumpets.
Rat-tat-tat, tika-tika-tik, tata-ta-ta, rika-tika-tik. Taka-taka-tik, ta-ta- ta-ta...
a/n- stupid percussionists. J.K. some of my good friends are percussionists, and I wouldn't give up their friendship, or our arguments for anything.
