A short story told by an old ride
I’ve been hit a lot.
In every sense of the word.
Clubs. Festivals. Weddings. Church basements.
Sometimes brushes, sometimes sticks.
Sometimes hands too young to know better.
Sometimes hands too quiet to say what they meant.
But I kept time.
I always keep time.
I wasn’t always the ride.
In my early years, I was a crash — loud, bright, disposable.
The exclamation point in a bar band’s third set.
The punctuation mark in a drummer’s storm.
They hit me hard.
So hard, I lost some shimmer.
Some players noticed.
Most didn’t.
Until one day, someone didn’t crash me.
They rode me.
Like I was meant to last, not just explode.
They heard what was still inside me.
I’ve seen drum kits come and go.
Snares with identities.
Toms like utility workers — always there, rarely thanked.
Hi-hats that know everything and aren’t afraid to whisper when the lights are low.
Hardware evolved like it was chasing flight.
Flat-based, then double-braced, then racks.
Now aluminum.
Soon? Mars suits, probably.
Doesn’t matter.
They all squeak eventually.
But me?
I just keep ringing.
My surface holds fingerprints.
My edge holds hesitation.
I remember players who needed me more than they realized.
He’s aging now — the one who rides me.
He used to gig five nights a week.
Now he stares at the wall more than drums.
His hands still know the spot, but the grip is looser.
He says less, but feels more.
Sometimes, late at night,
he sets me on the stand.
Not to perform.
Just to remember.
We don’t measure time in minutes.
We measure it in revolutions.
The stick circles back.
The rhythm returns.
Not the same place.
But always close.
He plays me like he’s whispering to an old friend.
One who never left.
I know what’s next.
The estate sale.
The bargain bin.
The kid who picks me up and calls me a crash.
They won’t know the weight I carry.
The rooms I’ve heard.
The hands I’ve held.
The silence after grief.
They’ll tape me up.
Mount me too high.
Hit me like I was never loved.
But maybe — just maybe —
I’ll find another rider.
Someone who listens.
Someone who knows:
I’m not just a piece of gear.
I’m an archive.
I was never here to crash.
I was built to remember.
And still —
I ring.