Well, then suppose said drummer unloaded his equipment back onto the sidewalk in order to get to the spare tire compartment, struggled with the puny jack, got his hands and knees soaking wet and filthy, but indeed got the tire changed and the equipment (now thoroughly soaked) back in the car. Thinking the spare looked like it could use some air, he might head to the convenience store next door to air up the spare, only to have it continuously deflate so the last hundred feet to the air pump the car is obviously riding on the rim. One of the other band members has kindly offered to hang around in case the spare had problems, so they slowly drive back to the club parking lot and load the (soaking wet) drum equipment a third time, into the other’s SUV.

While we’re speculating here, suppose the club is about 30 miles from the drummer’s home, and after unloading the equipment the other musician mentions his girlfriend is out of town for the weekend and he’s got nothing to do; producing a small bottle of Jack Daniels from his jacket, he proposes listening to some tunes. The drummer, similarly having nothing else to do, and wishing to express some form of gratitude for the help, acquiesces. One might also speculate it has been one of “those” weekends at the club, in which people continuously buy shots for the band for unknown reasons. Unlike the drummer, the rest of the band can successfully drink and play at the same time, so they have not let said shots go to waste.

The drummer might think his friend is in a particularly good mood, and obligingly crank up iTunes, whereupon the other player might be, shall we say, somewhat gaga over the sound of his speakers in the carefully tuned room, especially when one turns up the volume. And then turns it up again. Sure, maybe a little more. Much listening to, and genuflecting before the genius of, the band XTC might logically ensue. The Jack Daniels and Boulevard Irish Ale might tend to disappear, as well as quantities of vodka and grapefruit juice from the drummer’s refrigerator. It even seems possible that a plate of nachos was involved. Suddenly, without warning, it might be 4:30 in the morning. A drummer would likely encourage his friend to go home and call him in the morning to arrange tire repair and transport back to his car.

Said phone call might materialize at 11:00 the next morning, although the other musician did not. A phone call by the drummer several hours later could elicit a tale of more genuflection, this time before a particular porcelain god. Faced with this situation, a drummer could conceivably begin racking his brain to think of people he might call out of the blue, people who might be willing to give up a chunk of their Sunday in order to help him out. One might say that if Gary Paredes were to be nominated for sainthood, it would not be looked upon unkindly in certain quarters around here.

It could be that things improved from there; that the Amoco station had someone available to repair the tire immediately, and that, though the weather was even colder and extremely windy, the tire was remounted without incident. One might say that a happy ending was achieved by late afternoon. Happy except for the pile of work that remains unaccomplished, forlorn and neglected upon the desk.

There’s been a large amount of speculation here. The question is, if a drummer were to go through all this, would he feel as if his whole body should be covered with the markings of tires such as might be found on large interstate trucks? Might his head hurt and his legs tremble? Might he be tempted to partake of the analgesic substances of his choice? Would the thought of doing anything at all productive be completely out of the question? Sadly, we’ll never know.