My Last Drum Circle
Chief explained to a tourist onlooker what was happening. “One of our elders fell today,” he said solemnly, ragged flag in hand. That is how he described the massive heart attack that knocked this familiar always-sober 70-year-old out of his folding chair and into the sand. To their credit, it wasn’t long after the man fell that the black and whites were there and calling for lifeguards who would be able to drive their emergency vehicles on the beach to take him to an ambulance. But there was a problem, with the hundreds of drums playing, the cops could not make their voices heard over their radios to call for help. They yelled for people to stop playing and some did, but most continued – Such is fucking Venice Beach. And so Chief in his leather frill and I, in my pink sarong, attempted to quell the noise, telling the drummers in increasingly agitated tones that a guy was dying for chrissakes, shut the fuck up! To which one guy responded, “He’s been dying 10 minutes already. Get him the fuck out of here so we can drum already.”