and a wrinkled nose, and sets his attention towards
the drums. He slides his hat on backwards before picking up the sticks and
getting down to business.
The place comes
alive again with the rapid drum solo from the song “Wipe Out.” Let me tell you,
that’s one long and fast drum solo. I’m almost certain the boy didn’t miss one
beat in it either. I see a fine sheen to his skin as though the music is
seeping out of his pores. That wild drum performance made me tired just
watching it, but seems to energize him even more.
“Woo-hoo!” I
shout, and he stands and bows dramatically before placing the sticks back on
the floor beside the humble drum set that he just made sound like a million
bucks.
Dillon pauses
long enough to fumble with the pearl snap buttons on his cuffs and roll up the
sleeves of his black-and-white plaid shirt, but not long enough to catch his
breath. I still see the energy bouncing around his deep-blue eyes and know this
performance isn’t over quite yet.
My friend has
saved the best for last, hands down. He straps on the old black electric guitar
and turns the amp on low. Testing the chords, he adjusts the strings before
turning towards me. He strums the first few chords, and I know immediately he
is playing one of my favorites, “Alive” by Pearl Jam. Dillon croons the lyrics in
a velvety rasp, and I am in awe.
His voice is
just as brilliant as Eddie Vedder’s. I say that reverently because I’m in love
with Eddie Vedder, and Dillon knows this. He gives me this small, exclusive
gift tonight, and I am reminded of how dear he has become to me over the years.
He is my best friend, even though I am a little bit older than him. I know our
friendship is not common, but as I’ve stated before, our circumstance has bound
us together. We have always had a deep connection.
The song eases
to a close and I quietly ask for just one more. Dillon says nothing, just takes
off into another one of my favorites by Pearl Jam, “Black.” I let the melody
and lyrics overtake me. I appreciate the moody intensity that alternative rock
bands create in their melodies and lyrics. It feels more real to me than the
cheesy pops songs my generation seems to crave. Not me. I live in a harsh, real
world, so I guess I can relate more to this music. Pearl Jam, Creed, and
Soundgarden are some of my favorites. Creed’s front man, Scott Strapp’s deep
voice is another one I could listen to all day. Dillon can sing one of their
songs, and I swear he sounds just like Strapp. Dillon owns all of their stuff
and says Creed creates the type of music he wants to be able to create one day.
I personally think Dillon already does. He is definitely a Pearl Jam fan as
well, due to me, I think. All the guys have had to listen to whatever I want in
my car over the last few years, and most of the time, it’s been Pearl Jam all
the way. I close my eyes and listen to Dillon drone out lyrics full of a somber
mood. It makes me think about disappointments and regrets and desires and
confusion, how some are rewarded with a beautiful life and not understanding
why others do not.
As the song fades,
I open my eyes and find his staring back at me. A sly shudder creeps along my
body and makes me feel uneasy. I know one day, and I feel like it’s going to be
sooner rather than later, Dillon Bleu will walk out of my life and on towards a
better one. He’s too talented not to. This little moment between us is
bittersweet for me and causes tears to prick at my eyes.
He seems to pick
up on it too and decides to make a joke instead of us addressing it seriously.
“I wasn’t that bad, Jewels. Don’t get all weepy about it.” He rolls his eyes as
he puts the guitar away. I grab a hymnal and hurl it towards his head, but he
catches it in midair and grins at me. “No need in getting physical. You already
beat me up one time tonight. Now how’s about you chauffeur me home?”
We make it
outside and I take a deep breath of the cool, crisp night
the drums. He slides his hat on backwards before picking up the sticks and
getting down to business.
The place comes
alive again with the rapid drum solo from the song “Wipe Out.” Let me tell you,
that’s one long and fast drum solo. I’m almost certain the boy didn’t miss one
beat in it either. I see a fine sheen to his skin as though the music is
seeping out of his pores. That wild drum performance made me tired just
watching it, but seems to energize him even more.
“Woo-hoo!” I
shout, and he stands and bows dramatically before placing the sticks back on
the floor beside the humble drum set that he just made sound like a million
bucks.
Dillon pauses
long enough to fumble with the pearl snap buttons on his cuffs and roll up the
sleeves of his black-and-white plaid shirt, but not long enough to catch his
breath. I still see the energy bouncing around his deep-blue eyes and know this
performance isn’t over quite yet.
My friend has
saved the best for last, hands down. He straps on the old black electric guitar
and turns the amp on low. Testing the chords, he adjusts the strings before
turning towards me. He strums the first few chords, and I know immediately he
is playing one of my favorites, “Alive” by Pearl Jam. Dillon croons the lyrics in
a velvety rasp, and I am in awe.
His voice is
just as brilliant as Eddie Vedder’s. I say that reverently because I’m in love
with Eddie Vedder, and Dillon knows this. He gives me this small, exclusive
gift tonight, and I am reminded of how dear he has become to me over the years.
He is my best friend, even though I am a little bit older than him. I know our
friendship is not common, but as I’ve stated before, our circumstance has bound
us together. We have always had a deep connection.
The song eases
to a close and I quietly ask for just one more. Dillon says nothing, just takes
off into another one of my favorites by Pearl Jam, “Black.” I let the melody
and lyrics overtake me. I appreciate the moody intensity that alternative rock
bands create in their melodies and lyrics. It feels more real to me than the
cheesy pops songs my generation seems to crave. Not me. I live in a harsh, real
world, so I guess I can relate more to this music. Pearl Jam, Creed, and
Soundgarden are some of my favorites. Creed’s front man, Scott Strapp’s deep
voice is another one I could listen to all day. Dillon can sing one of their
songs, and I swear he sounds just like Strapp. Dillon owns all of their stuff
and says Creed creates the type of music he wants to be able to create one day.
I personally think Dillon already does. He is definitely a Pearl Jam fan as
well, due to me, I think. All the guys have had to listen to whatever I want in
my car over the last few years, and most of the time, it’s been Pearl Jam all
the way. I close my eyes and listen to Dillon drone out lyrics full of a somber
mood. It makes me think about disappointments and regrets and desires and
confusion, how some are rewarded with a beautiful life and not understanding
why others do not.
As the song fades,
I open my eyes and find his staring back at me. A sly shudder creeps along my
body and makes me feel uneasy. I know one day, and I feel like it’s going to be
sooner rather than later, Dillon Bleu will walk out of my life and on towards a
better one. He’s too talented not to. This little moment between us is
bittersweet for me and causes tears to prick at my eyes.
He seems to pick
up on it too and decides to make a joke instead of us addressing it seriously.
“I wasn’t that bad, Jewels. Don’t get all weepy about it.” He rolls his eyes as
he puts the guitar away. I grab a hymnal and hurl it towards his head, but he
catches it in midair and grins at me. “No need in getting physical. You already
beat me up one time tonight. Now how’s about you chauffeur me home?”
We make it
outside and I take a deep breath of the cool, crisp night
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