Chapter 1: The Drummer

"Has anyone seen my good pen?"

Steve, next to the cash register, momentarily pauses counting the bills inside to scan the wooden bar near him. A few steps away, Natasha likewise pauses her polishing of the bottles on the back wall shelves to look around.

"No," she says after a beat, and Steve echoes her. Clint sighs and goes back to digging through every nook and cranny behind the bar.

"Knowing my luck, it probably fell behind the cooler. Damn. I really liked that pen."

Now that the early shift silence is broken, though, Steve knows it's only a matter of time until Natasha's attention turns to him.

"You don't have to start," he offers.

"Oh, but I want to. Even though I know not starting is how you've been approaching the whole matter, that strategy doesn't work for everyone."

"Look, I just—I tried online dating, okay? Didn't work out."

"Jenny was nice."

"Jenny was nice," he agrees, "but she wasn't for me and I wasn't what she was looking for. Besides, Jenny was theonly nice one. Do I need to bring up Miranda again?"

Natasha has the decency to shudder. "Yeah, that was…that was my bad. At least we were around to help you escape."

"And witness that entire train wreck," Clint puts in. "Did you ever get that wine stain out of your shirt?"

"No, and thanks for the reminder. I liked that shirt."

"Maybe there's one just like it by my pen."

"Maybe." He refocuses on Natasha. "I'm fine, really. Taking a break."

"A break implies you intend for it to end."

"And I do. Eventually."

"You can't expect to find another Peggy. She's one of a kind."

"Believe me, I know."

Clint gives up on his search and stands, knuckling his back with a groan. "Okay, I tried."

"I'm sure the pen will forgive you."

"Eventually," adds Natasha, her sly little smile earning a performative roll of Steve's eyes.

Clint rolls his shoulder and glances at the racks with their glassware with a critical eye. "Thanks. I'm gonna go grab some extra glasses."

Natasha raises an eyebrow at him. "As long as you don't break them too."

"It was an accident!"

"Tell that to the glass I had to sweep up."

"I'm sensing a lack of trust. Fine. Steve, you mind? Apparently, I'm not trusted to carry glassware anymore."

Steve chuckles and sets aside the stack. "Sure. I just finished here, anyway."

"Trust me enough to check his work, Nat?"

"I'll allow it."

"You're too kind."

Their ribbing follows Steve back into the kitchen, where he exchanges nods with Dugan, Morita, Jones, and Falsworth. The four cooks are, as always, chaotic but effective in their work. Tony's establishment isn't renowned for its food, but no one ever complains about it either. Besides, it's easier to appreciate good music on a full stomach.

He goes to the shelves against the back wall and scans the wire racks until he finds the small box. As he'd suspected, the glasses haven't been cleaned. He sighs, picks up the box, and hauls it over to the dishwashing station.

"Hey," he offers to Scott. "Mind taking care of these?"

The guy straightens up and extracts his hands from what Steve can only assume is some kind of torture device given the amount of steam and how red his skin is above his gloves. But Scott doesn't seem to notice the state of himself and just grins. "Yeah, no problem. I thought we were a little light on glassware at the end of the night yesterday, and I wasn't even grabbing any this time. Clint struck again?"

"Clint struck again."

"Say no more, compadre. If you unpack 'em and set 'em over there, I'll have these ready in no time."

Steve does as asked, claps Scott on the back in appreciation, and wanders back out to the bar. Technically, he's only kind of an employee—he's on the payroll as a consultant solely so Tony doesn't catch flak for letting his friend wander all over the place. There's nothing in his nonexistent job description that requires him to lend a hand to whomever needs it. But he likes helping, and it sure beats sitting awkwardly in the back with a blank sketchbook waiting for the first band to roll in.

Speaking of, there is now a band up with Tony and Pepper by the stage. The sharply dressed owner and manager, respectively, are deep in conversation with the band members, though Tony's professional look is somewhat marred by the fact he's rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. Whatever they're talking about was even enough to distract Tony from tinkering with the machinery that makes the stage's many floor panels move. The band showing up means customers will start rolling in very soon, so Steve picks up the pace. He's gotta claim his usual table in the back before someone else does.

"No glasses?" Nat questions when Steve gets close.

"Scott's washing them now. They were still in the box."

"Aw," Clint groans, "knew there was something I forgot to do. Sorry, Nat. That's on me."

"It's fine, we have time before the rush. Did you track down that extra shaker?"

"Yup. Somehow rolled over there. Inside's still clean, though."

Sensing his role is done, Steve leaves them to their logistics, grabs his backpack from where he'd tucked it under the bar, and finds his table. Settling into a chair angled to give him a good view of the stage, he rifles in his backpack for his sketchbook, pencil, and eraser. Right as he's setting it all on the table in front of him, he sees one of the band members approaching him.

Steve greets the guy with a smile. "Hey, Tony point you to me?"

"You're Steve, right?"

"That's me." He stands and sticks out his hand. The kid—he can't be older than nineteen—takes it and shakes. "Interested in some art for your band?"

"Yeah, Mr. Stark said you give discounts to first-time acts?" It's a statement but he tilts the end like a question. Steve nods.

"I do, depending on the complexity of what you're asking for. Here, let me give you my card. It's got my website on it with more details about the commissioning process—when you're done with your set, talk to Tony and he'll give you the discount code. You can take a look at what I do, and if you like it, reach out to me with that code and we can talk details. How's that sound?"

He's gone digging in his backpack as he talks, and when he ends, he holds out one of his cards. The kid looks a little relieved that he doesn't have to hammer out all the details now and takes the card—a simple black-text-on-white-background affair on one side, but a riot of color on the other—with enthusiasm. "That sounds great, thank you so much!"

"Hey, not a problem. Good luck up there."

"Thanks!"

The kid jogs back to his bandmates, who are wrapping up their setup. Mic checks abound and Tony stays up there to troubleshoot any last-second issues, but Pepper wanders over to join Steve.

"Hello again," she declares, dropping into a chair.

"Hello again," he responds. "Long day?"

"Very long. Sysco is being," she twists her lips and then says diplomatically, "annoying this month. Plus there's the whole business with the safe pickup debacle, as though we control who decides to double-park on a one-way street." She blows out a breath. "That's mostly a problem for tomorrow, though. I'm washing my hands of it for now. How are you?"

"Better than you, it sounds like. Just working through commissions."

"I saw the band sent their singer to chat. Are they interested?"

"Interested, sure. Everyone wants a bit of art. Dunno if they'll follow through, though. I think most of them forget."

"Things come up," Pepper says with a shrug. "Such is life."

"It is what it is. I'll survive."

"Plenty of other commissions on the docket?"

"Honestly, I think I took too many. That's why I've been heading home early the last couple weeks; sorry I haven't been able to stay for the later bands. I just had work."

"No worries at all," she dismisses with a wave of her hand. "We usually put the returning acts later anyway; they know where to find you if they want your services. I think it's been a while since I last said it, so, I hope you know how much Tony and I appreciate you making yourself available like this. You've already done plenty for the venue."

"It's no problem. I really do enjoy commission work, and band logos and promotional art are pretty different than my usual fare. It's a nice change of pace."

She smiles and pats him on the shoulder as she stands. "Still, thank you. Now, I have a truly heinous number of emails waiting in my inbox, so I'll probably be in my office the rest of the night."

"I'll keep an eye on Tony."

"I really do appreciate you."

He grins as she heads for the short hallway in the back leading to the restrooms and, beyond that, the employee-only spaces that make any restaurant tick. Without anything else to do and anyone else asking for his attention, he pops open his sketchbook and starts on some warm-ups to get himself ready for whatever catches his eye tonight.

While he scratches away at the page, patrons trickle in. The bar is the first stop for most—a lot of the time, larger parties of four or more arrive in ones and twos, and the first to arrive hang out by the bar until the rest show up. Slowly but surely, though, the tables start to fill up too. Clint and Natasha are holding down the bar while the servers who are on tonight, Bruce and Thor, are working the tables without any signs of trouble.

Bruce catches Steve looking his way while he's walking back to the server's station next to the bar and waves. Steve waves back, then settles in his seat since Tony is getting back up on stage to greet the restaurant and introduce the first band. It's a routine Steve's observed so many times that he doesn't hear most of it until the band is launching into their first song.

Like most bands that perform here, their sound isn't exactly polished, but it's got heart. It's a good choice for an opener; relatively light, erring on pop, with an energy that'll set up the act to follow nicely. He does a few quick studies of the lead singer posing with the mic, the guitarist sharing that mic for some brief duet verses, and a random couple dressed far and away fancier than any of the other patrons. They must've come from somewhere else, he figures, or they're just the type to enjoy dressing up. Either way, the woman's dress is a nice exercise in keeping a pattern symmetrical at an angle.

As the band is getting toward the end of their set, the next band is getting set up behind them. Tony's engineered the stage so bands with heavier equipment—especially drum kits—can slide out a panel, get their gear set up, and slide that panel back in without interrupting the current act. It works particularly well when bands with kits are going back-to-back, and with Tony right there supervising, it goes smoothly.

Steve's made it through several sketchbook pages and the second band of the night is wrapping up when Sam strolls in. He joins Steve at the back and they nod at each other, waiting to speak until the band is done and Tony has done his post-set thanking routine.

"Hey, sorry I'm late. Had to stay way too long to get ahold of an insurance company."

"What was it this time?"

"Coverage rejection for something they already covered last year. The usual bullshit. We're disputing it, but they're being ridiculous with the paperwork they're demanding."

"Think it'll work out?"

"Yeah, it's just going to be frustrating the whole time, and they'll probably pull the same thing next year. I didn't know what to tell the vet who's dealing with the fallout. We both know it's not gonna get better."

"I'm sorry."

Sam shrugs. "We just do what we can. So," he leans forward and props his elbow on the table. "Sitting here all by yourself, handsome?"

"Don't you start too. Pepper was here."

"Does Tony know?"

"Stop, good lord. You're gonna get me kicked out."

"All right, all right. I kid. How's the music tonight?"

"Pretty good. I liked the first band, and they took my card."

"This band didn't?"

"Probably not interested. They've already got a logo." Steve points with his pencil at the drummer's bass drum, which has some kind of mechanical part as a logo with the band name over it. Sam leans forward and squints.

"What does that…does that say 'Unsecured Lug Nut'?"

"It's a new one, for sure."

"I kinda like it."

"They opened with a Weird Al cover."

"That tracks, and now I'm sad I missed it."

They fall into light chatter. Steve learns about the progress Sam's sister is making on their parents' boat down in Louisiana, Sam's prowess with copy machine repairs, and the usual joys of New York's subway system. All the while the third band is getting set up, and Steve catches a brunette drummer out of the corner of his eye. His breath catches and he looks closer, only for reality to hit. The drummer is, for one, a woman, and for two, wearing a tube top and ankle-length skirt.

When he looks back at Sam, the man is giving him a knowing look. "Peripheral vision is a hell of a drug, huh?"

Steve feels his face getting red and buys himself a second by drinking the water Bruce was kind enough to drop off a while back.

"Look," Sam says, dropping his voice a little, "if me giving you a hard time about your love life is, y'know, overstepping or anything—"

"No, no, it's fine." Steve flips to a clean page. "It's been almost a decade. There was even Peggy in the middle. I should get over it. You and Nat and everyone else are perfectly in the right to poke me about pining after a guy who could be dead for all I know; I'm not gonna get mad."

"Your call. If it makes you feel any better, I think I finally ran out of quips about childhood friend Hallmark movie plots."

"That makes me feel so much better, thanks. Do you think Nat's run out too?"

"Absolutely not. Hey, look, she's even chatting up a guy right now."

Steve looks where Sam's looking and sure enough, Natasha is talking to another brunette at the bar while mixing drinks for other patrons. At least this one's a man. Steve can only see the guy's back from this angle, but those are some broad shoulders under the leather jacket. No wonder Nat's taken a liking to him. Unlike Steve, she's having no trouble attracting attention from interested parties, even though he knows she only does it for the extra tips it gets her. Clint is right there, after all.

That is a high-quality jacket, actually. Steve recognizes the brand; he had been eyeing it to replace the one he's got that's falling apart. He doesn't want to go biking in the New York summer in his heavy winter jacket because he's waited too long to replace his mesh one.

"Like what you see?"

"I recognize the jacket," Steve admits truthfully.

"Uh-huh, sure."

By the time the fourth band is puttering around the stage, Steve's exchanged his water for a beer and has filled another four pages of his sketchbook with drawings, some of which he even likes. A glance at the clock shows him it's getting late; the bands have been consistently running behind in their sets after the third act ran long and someone tripped over a power cable, so now it's almost eight.

He should probably head out now—he promised himself he wouldn't stay past eight and he doesn't want to leave while someone's playing

"Huh, looks like something's wrong."

Steve follows Sam's gaze to where one of the next band's members is talking to Tony, the both of them looking pretty pensive. The band before them wrapped up already, leaving the restaurant soundscape holding just the quiet murmur of conversation and radio music.

"Wonder what."

"Probably a numbers thing. They're down a man—guitarist, bassist, uh, accordion player, but I don't see someone paying any attention to those drums."

Tony gestures, says something, gestures more, and so on until the band member is nodding. Tony claps him on the shoulder, grabs a mic, and hops up onto the stage. He turns it on and taps the end a couple times to get the room's attention.

"Hello, hello, sorry to interrupt your conversations but we have an unexpected opportunity for audience participation tonight. No, this isn't karaoke night, you can save that excitement for Tuesdays. Our friends here usually bring a drummer with them, but thanks to unfortunately urgent personal reasons, they are now without. They have his equipment, as you can see, so if anyone here is a drummer who feels up to performing live…?"

Sam sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Pretty sure I had nightmares about that kind of thing as a kid. Surprise, you're presenting in front of the whole school and you didn't see it coming."

One of the other bandmembers taps Tony's shoulder and whispers something too quiet for the mic to catch. Tony nods.

"Right, they can do popular covers, they say, so you won't be flying completely blind. Well, any takers? C'mon, I recognize some of you. Look at me. Not you, Coulson, I know you don't play."

Nervous laughter, in which Steve participates. Coulson, an older server who got called in about an hour ago when the rush proved heavier than expected for a weekday, offers a self-deprecating shrug and smile. Tony keeps working the crowd, trying to ease the tension to make it less intimidating for any volunteers.

"Zimmer? Nah, we don't need a whole orchestra. They've already got an accordion. Hey, worst-case, I get on that stage and wow all of you with my killer triangle skills. How about cowbell? I do a mean slide whistle."

Nothing but awkward silence answers him. The band members wince.

There's a bit of motion at the bar, a hissed "hey!" Steve looks over to see Natasha raising someone else's arm—one of the patrons, that brunette Steve noticed before. Steve's spot in the rear of the place still isn't conducive to getting a good look at anything other than his back, but he can imagine the surprised and probably annoyed look on his face based on that one hey alone.

"Do we have a taker?" Tony asks, an undertone to his voice when he frowns at Natasha. The band members all perk up. "Please, don't let my second favorite redhead bully you into doing anything you don't want to do. She isn't the one who pays if I get sued."

More scattered laughter and a clear invitation to back down if he wants.

Natasha lets the brunette's hand go and Steve just knows Tony's going to have red pepper flakes dumped into his next drink. That hand stays up for a second more before sinking back down. The brunette himself, though, stands. A grin splits Tony's face.

"Is that a yes?"

"Yeah." The man's voice is rough but smooths out when he clears his throat. "Yeah, I can help out."

Cheers go up. Sam raises his glass with an appreciative hoot that Steve echoes.

"Amazing!" Tony declares. "You, sir, are the savior of this next hour's entertainment. Gentlemen," he turns to the band, "take five to get yourselves introduced and sorted out. The rest of you," he turns that perfectly polished smile on the restaurant, "one free drink from the board on me, should you want it, as an apology for this snafu."

Another even more enthusiastic cheer goes up. Steve eyes "the board"—a blackboard mounted above the bar with the specially discounted drinks for the night. Usually bottom-shelf, Tony keeps things interesting by occasionally including something nicer. Looks like there isn't anything his wallet will actually feel tonight, though.

"Want anything?" Sam asks.

"Nah, I'll stick with my beer."

"C'mon, that stuff is basically water."

"Suits me fine. I still have work I need to get done tonight."

"Right, right, gotta draw sober and all that."

"I'm not working on non-digital commissions drunk," Steve laughs. "I learned my lesson after doing the bathroom."

"I fail to see how that would make you not do that, but fair enough. Be back in a sec."

He refocuses on his sketch of the empty stage. There's enough room left on the page for more of the scene, so he puts in the rough shapes of the band huddled off to one side, the leather-clad brunette awkwardly extending the circle. It's still a bad angle, but at least now Steve can see part of his face. He's got stubble, but Steve's too far away to pick out eye color or much beyond his profile under the hair escaping from its bun. Still, he sketches what he can before the band finishes their prep and scatters to their instruments.

The lights in the restaurant dim a little while those by the stage brighten. Steve's breath catches.

"Something wrong?" Sam asks quietly as he drops back into his seat.

"No, no." There's no possible way he can say the random drummer looks like a grown version of his childhood friend without sounding desperate and lonely. He's just sensitive about it because both Natasha and Sam have been needling him lately and because of that other drummer earlier. Besides, even as a kid, Bucky had been meticulous about his looks. The long hair and stubble aren't his style.

Then again, Steve thinks dryly, it's been a decade. What the hell does he know about Bucky's style anymore? It's not like he dresses the same as he did at fourteen. There's way more plaid now and far fewer sports jerseys…though the latter is probably just because he's no longer getting hand-me-downs from Bucky.

As the band starts on a cover of Pull the Pin by Hydra—he just knows he's going to hear Clint groaning about uninspired choices later, the song's popularity and good odds of being known by random drummers be damned—Steve wonders if the Bucky of today would recognize him. He was a scrawny kid, after all, and if not for that experimental gene therapy to thin out the long list of maladies he enrolled in when he turned eighteen, he'd probably still be scrawny. He's not exactly being hunted for a spot in any weightlifting contests these days, but he's six feet tall and strong. People look at him and think college athlete. Natasha of all people thought he played lacrosse in college, and she'd somehow correctly pegged Sam as a psychology and psychiatry double major and VA counselor after all of five minutes.

So, yeah. Compared to when he risked an asthma attack just going up the stairs, his current existence is a little crazy. It's been a few years since he last got the feeling, but there was a time he struggled to recognize himself. Bucky wouldn't stand a chance.

He's finished the sketch. The empty stage and the huddled band with their new recruit don't fit the current reality; the stage is full of life while the band works through their opening song. They're not the best Steve's ever heard perform here, and they're a little awkward up on stage, but they're solid enough. When they wrap up Pull the Pin, they check on something with the drummer, who nods.

What comes next has to be an original song because Steve's never heard it before and because it prominently features that accordion. Steve raises his eyebrows when the drummer participates with barely a beat of hesitation once the bass kicks in for the intro. He's truly, actually improvising on the spot; after Pull the Pin, Steve had expected more covers. Apparently, that was just the warm-up so they could all get a feel for each other.

Sam lets out a quiet whistle. "He's good."

"Yeah." Steve feels bad—this is supposed to be about the band, not their surprise guest feature—but he can't help watching the drummer. His expression is one of total focus. His eyes occasionally dart up from his kit to check on the rest of the band like a soldier assessing the battlefield so he can adjust his sound accordingly. The singer steps back and breathes deep for a sudden surge; the drummer notices, effortlessly transitions to a fill, and then matches that energy for—

"He's doing a goddamn polyrhythm," Tony complains, dropping into one of the open seats at their table. Steve hadn't even seen him walking over. "Scratch that, multiple polyrhythms and mixing in syncopations too, all on the fly. Look at him. He's barely even trying and he's playing circles around them."

"Kinda rude, isn't it?" asks Sam. "Showing them up like that."

Steve shakes his head, still looking at that expression of pure concentration, at the attention he's paying to the band, the way he's matching nearly their every move and anticipating the rest. He's keeping time perfectly no matter how complicated his playing gets. He's a machine. "I think that's just how he plays. It works for the song." Hell, he thinks to himself, it elevates the damn thing. "Where'd you find this guy, Tony?"

"Me? The bar. Ask Natasha if you want his life story. She was the one chatting him up."

Natasha is still dealing with people taking up Tony's offer of a free drink. Steve will have to ask her later. If the guy is part of his own band, Steve's inclined to offer him a free piece of promo art as thanks for stepping up like this. And maybe, just maybe, Steve wants to know more about the guy who keeps making him think of Bucky. The play style is different—Bucky had always been a bit wild, throwing his arms and sticks around and putting his whole body into his playing with a beaming grin on his face when it all came together, but this guy is perfectly controlled even as he pulls off combinations that would have lesser drummers throwing their sticks in frustration. The one concession Steve can see to reality is the barest of smirks curling his lips. Or maybe he's imagining it, using the distance to the stage to see what isn't there.

As he's watching—not staring—he catches a glint of silver around the man's neck. A necklace? It's tucked under his shirt, and even Steve can't excuse the amount of ogling required to puzzle out the shape of the pendant pressing through the fabric.

The song wraps up and even the band is taking a second to slap their drummer on the back and shoulders, enthusiastically hyping him up while the crowd voices its appreciation. The drummer takes it all with a thin, somewhat strained smile. Steve's fingers twitch with the urge to capture that smile. He wonders what it looks like when he smiles big and wide and true.

He wonders when, exactly, he lost his goddamn mind.

Halfway through the next song, another original the drummer is backing in stride with less technical wizardry than the last, he looks up to do another one of his scans. Only, this time, the singer is positioned so when the drummer looks at the singer, his eyes seem to look straight at Steve. They really seem to catch.

He fumbles his rhythm.

One beat, two, and then he's looking back at his kit and drumming like nothing happened but Steve's heart is pounding in his chest. A glance at Sam shows the other man noticed the stutter too. What was that? He resists the urge to look behind him. Probably just a stumble from looking away from his kit while reaching far for a crash cymbal.

But the drummer's eyes keep going to him throughout the song, and then the next, and the next. Quick and fleeting, and he doesn't stumble again, but Steve sure does. His sketch of the drummer jamming away that he doesn't even remember starting gets even messier. He keeps looking up wondering if he's about to catch his eye again. And he does.

"Dude," Sam says when the band takes a short water break just past the halfway point in their set, "you're staring."

Steve resolutely points his eyes at his sketchbook and not the drummer, who'd been draining a water bottle offered by one of his temporary bandmates. Good thing Tony had to go deal with some issue in the kitchen or this would be unbearably mortifying. "No, I'm not."

"You are." Sam leans forward, a cheeky grin tugging at his lips. "So is he."

Steve doesn't take the bait and look. He doesn't. But he almost does. "Real mature."

"I'm telling the truth! We've finally found one who caught your eye."

"That's not what's going on."

Grin widening, Sam sits back and holds up his phone. The time flashes on screen: eight-thirty-seven. Over half an hour after Steve's self-imposed limit for the night. He should be at home working on commissions right now.

"It's not like that," Steve tries. "I just want to stay to support them. It had to be embarrassing, realizing they didn't have a drummer."

A handful of people had walked out when Tony made that pronouncement. Steve never wants to be that person if he can help it.

"Right, which is why you're doing the very normal thing of packing up and quietly ducking out during a break." Sam stops and pointedly raises an eyebrow at Steve's lack of action. "Admit it: it's like that."

"It's not," Steve insists.

"Yeah? Let's see that sketchbook. C'mon, lemme look. I bet I won't find anything featuring our leather-clad friend."

Steve pointedly flips his sketchbook closed and shoves it into his bag. He drinks his water and just as pointedly ignores Sam's victorious grin.

Steve spends the rest of the set continuing to ignore Sam and trying to be very normal about watching a band play. That's all this is: a band playing. He's witnessed this dozens and dozens of times. This time doesn't have to be special if he doesn't want it to be. So what if the drummer is far and away the most technically gifted drummer to ever hit that stage? So what if he sometimes looks like he's looking right at Steve? With the lights and the whole restaurant between them, he could be looking at the wall for all Steve knows. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't. He's not that lonely and he's definitely not that desperate.

When the final song wraps up and the applause dies down, Tony strolls up onto the stage to make the transition into some downtime while the next band gets set up.

"All right, all right. Love the enthusiasm. Thank you, Neighbor of the Beast, for that great set! Talk about the devil's luck, huh?" He gets a few strained chuckles for that one. Steve debates throwing his pencil and decides against it; the pencil's too nice. "And a special shoutout to our brave drummer," Tony pauses and glances behind him, but that volunteer doesn't step forward. In fact, he's nowhere to be seen. "Who voluntarily did something that is I'm sure a recurring nightmare for some of us, and did it excellently," Tony recovers smoothly. "Once again, Neighbor of the Beast!"

Applause goes up around the whole place one more time while the band awkwardly mixes salutes and waves and bows. They'll have to work on their endings, Steve muses absently, but his attention roams the whole front end of the room. Where'd the drummer go?