Instantly his blood pressure skyrockets. “What the hell?!?!?” He scrounges around in all his pockets frantically and finds nothing. The day is turning sour quickly.
He traces his steps and looks on the floors of all the places he thought he went. The restroom, the food table, the jazz area, the table he ate at, the wine bar where he got ripped off for a glass of wine, and nothing.
He sees Darryl outside, loading up his van. He’s got another gig he must go to so he’s in a hurry.
“Hey, I think I lost that hundred you gave me,” he says with a subtle sadness. It’s the look on someones face when they’re extremely distraught but trying to hide it, a bit of a reddish eye and a fake smile.
“Oh! Uh, did you check your pockets?”
“Yeah, nothing,” As he re-checks them.
“Oh, man. That sucks. Did you look around?”
“Yeah I fucking looked around!” He can sense himself starting to lose it.
“You know, I gotta get going, but, shoot, that sucks.”
“Yeah, man. I’ll call you.”
“Good luck!”
Forrestt goes inside and asks one of the waitresses on the catering team.
“Hey, I lost a hundred dollar bill around here, I was just wondering if you’ve heard of anyone finding it.”
“You lost a what?!”
The words ‘lost hundred dollar bill’ catches far more ears than he had hoped the wait staff starts to come over. His face is slowly turning red.
“Whoah, that’s crazy!”
“How’d you manage to do that?!”
“I’ll keep an eye out for it, okay?” Says the very nice waitress who had helped him earlier with his food.
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
He struggles to maintain his cool as he’s left alone to finish loading his equipment into his vehicle. In the process he bumps his head and smashes his finger. Once inside his car he yells obscenities to the world as he speeds down the street to his house.
He walks inside and almost breaks his hand punching the wall and yelling. He throws his cell phone on the ground with all his frustrated fury, breaking it into a dozen pieces. “Damn hardwood floors,” he thinks.
He sits on the edge of his bed, rests his face in his hands and tries to regain his composure. He’s got a rehearsal later that night, and he doesn’t want to be THAT guy, the guy who’s whining about how he’s down on his luck just to receive the forced sympathy that follows.
“Okay, get it together. It’s just a hundred bucks.” But then his mind sabotages him, and he thinks about how behind he is on all his bills, and Christmas is coming up. “Dammit, I could have used that money…”
The best thing to do in these situations is to practice the drums, for the drums are more than just an instrument, they are therapy. Pounding away on the toms, smacking the snare as hard as possible, limbs flailing madly about - if professional therapists were this much fun, they’d make a hell of a lot more money.
