In the Absence of a Drum Kit, Tabletops Are a Decent Substitute

By Kyle A. Massa

Substitute teachers are like proxy governors sent to rule annexed countries: Their efforts are futile and revolt is inevitable.

That’s why you have to admire anyone who tries. Drummer Guy was one of those who tried…in his own way.

He wore his hair in a ponytail, which my classmates and I found repulsive and intriguing, simultaneously. We decided there was nothing fundamentally improper about a man wearing a ponytail; it was just that Drummer Guy’s ponytail was greasy. The greasiness was gross, yet we couldn’t stop talking about how gross it was. Some of us even threatened to grow our own ponytails, then start a jam band. None of us did.

The first time Drummer Guy subbed, he remained still and silent at the head of the room, letting everyone file into their seats. We were high school freshmen and, as such, we feared everything—especially new teachers.

The bell rang. Drummer Guy closed the door. He turned to us. He said, “Class. Your teacher left some notes for today’s lesson.”

We deflated. Days with subs should be vacation days. Every teenager knows this.

Yet then, Drummer Guy raised a callused finger. “But I don’t think it’s gonna happen. So we’re gonna watch Cream’s farewell concert at the Royal Albert Hall instead. Cool?”

We were dumbfounded. Of the few students who found their voices, one whispered, “Cream? Does he mean ice cream?” Another asked, “Who is Royal Albert Hall?”

Being a classic rock fan, I knew exactly what Drummer Guy meant. The Hall was a place and Cream was a band—Drummer Guy’s favorite band, as it turned out.

We spent 15 of the 40-minute period watching a Ginger Baker drum solo, which was indeed cool, but at the same time kind of shocking. What did late-60s power trios have to do with To Kill a Mockingbird, anyway?

The answer was, of course, nothing. But Drummer Guy always spent the final five minutes of class drawing comparisons between the video and the subject. It was impressive how he made connections, however tenuous, between rock drumming and topics such as geometry, German verb conjugation, and the Mason-Dixon line.

In earth science class, he described the physical mechanics of his favorite activity. Or at least tried to.

“The harder you whack the snare,” Drummer Guy explained, “the more the drumhead vibrates, right? Which sends longer, louder sound waves into your dome.”

The explanation was clearly lifted from Wikipedia and he was using the wrong branch of science. But still, he really seemed to think he was teaching.

Drummer Guy subbed for many classes, which must’ve meant our district had no other options. Our teachers were always annoyed when they returned and discovered that instead of working on whatever it was we were supposed to be working on, we’d spent 40 minutes listening to Cream’s “Toad” and other songs. Yet still, every few weeks we’d enter a classroom to find Drummer Guy equipped with a DVD and his signature ponytail.

I loved Cream and classic rock, but even I found these lessons confounding. Shouldn’t we be learning real stuff? I’d ask myself as Drummer Guy rattled off the lineup from the Monterey Pop Festival. Will any of this be on the Regents?

There was something very anti-establishment about Drummer Guy. It was unclear if he was aware the Vietnam War ever ended. He didn’t seem like a fan of rules. Perhaps that explains his disinterest in conventional lesson plans, or plans in general. Instead, like a drummer thumping out a solo, he favored improvisation.

To continue the music metaphor, that ethos struck a chord with me. I’d never enjoyed school, always finding it more frustrating than educational. And New York State had especially strange educational standards.

For example, our class followed a statewide dual-unit system called “Math A/B.” Math A involved stuff like algebra (I think?), while Math B covered cosigns, imaginary numbers, and other nonsense. The strangest part was that Math A and B were each a year-and-a-half long, meaning halfway through sophomore year, we’d shift to a brand new curriculum. Eventually, even the Board of Regents realized this was a dumb idea; ours was the last class to use Math A/B.

All this is to say I’d decided long ago that school was bogus. And now here was Drummer Guy, a teacher (nominally, at least) who actually agreed with that sentiment. Plus, I appreciated his taste in music.

It all lent Drummer Guy a mythical quality. He appeared here and there throughout the year, sparing us from lessons I’d always wanted (but never had the courage) to skip. I wondered what he did on days when he wasn’t subbing. Did he have his own band? Did he spend his days in drum circles at the park? Did he smoke doobs in his basement while listening to Disraeli Gears on vinyl?

Probably. But that’s all conjecture. Here’s a fact: Drummer Guy put on his finest performance in English class, of all places.

We should’ve been discussing Steinbeck’s The Pearl (perhaps the most depressing book ever written), but Drummer Guy seemed more like a Salinger guy, anyway, so he commanded us to stow our books. Next, he produced a DVD from his messenger bag and began fiddling with the player. He was sharing some anecdote about Buddy Rich when he noticed a problem.

“Huh,” he said, prodding the DVD player’s buttons without response. “Looks like we’re down a machine.”

Now this was interesting. Had Drummer Guy ever subbed sans backup from Clapton and company? Was he even capable of state-approved teaching?

We watched. We waited. Drummer Guy’s bloodshot brown eyes swiveled about the room, searching for the solution to a problem he’d never yet encountered.

And then his gaze froze. His ponytail wagged like a dog’s tail.

“Can I borrow those for a sec?” he asked a student in the front row. He was pointing at a set of drumsticks.

The student’s name was Sean. He had jazz band the period prior, and though I dropped the subject after two lessons (because you can’t play Who songs on clarinet), I remember him being pretty skilled.

Sean swallowed. He knew you couldn’t deny a reasonable request from a teacher—even a weirdo teacher like Drummer Guy. With ill-disguised trepidation, he surrendered his sticks.

Drummer Guy took them. He inspected them. He twirled them in both hands like a pair of ceiling fans.

“Everybody watch closely,” he said.

We did. We hung on the edge of the moment. We were the sold-out crowd at the Royal Albert Hall, and he was Ginger Baker.

And then, Drummer Guy began to drum.

He drummed for half the class period. The tabletop was his snare, three textbooks were his toms, and two open drawers served as crash and high-hat. He rolled and grooved, sped up and slowed down, all with the deftness of a longtime pro. His greasy ponytail bounced with the beat. Just when we thought it was ending, he’d find some new rhythm, some varied pattern, and he’d be off again, pounding the table like he was the greatest in the world. For the rest of that period, he kind of was.

When he was finally finished, Drummer Guy returned Sean’s sticks, wiped his brow, and said, “Any questions?”

There were many, but nobody asked them. Instead, my friends and I sat in silent awe.

I’m lucky enough to remain close with almost all of those friends. None of us recall Drummer Guy’s real name, but we haven’t entirely forgotten him, either. Sometimes when we’re together, at a restaurant or at someone’s house, I’ll say, “Remember Drummer Guy? Remember that time he took the drumsticks and started freestyling?”

Some of them do, of course. And, looking back on that day and all the others he subbed for us, the strangest part wasn’t his drumming. It was his choice of lessons.

Because they were choices. Bad choices, maybe, or just plain lazy choices, but choices nonetheless. He had a plan. He had instructions on what to teach and how to teach it. Yet Drummer Guy always decided wooden sticks striking hollow drums was a subject more worthy of our time.

I suppose it was pretty cool that he tried to share his passion with us. He did try, in his own way, which was more than could be said of me, who expected a period free of education.

He taught us a lesson without realizing it, I think: Try something, anything, and keep trying it. If you do, no one will ever forget it.

Also: In the absence of a drum kit, tabletops are a decent substitute.

Previously appeared in Mild Buffoonery.