There are hazards to befriending a drummer. You will be drummed upon frequently. Your knees, your forearms, the top of your head: anything within drumming distance is fair game.
For Christmas, he will use his drumsticks to knit you a scarf. He will make you mixtapes with metal songs oddly and wonderfully combined with the Jonas Brothers.
When you make scones, he'll smudge your forehead with batter before you're quick enough to stop him.
None of that encompasses the hazards of befriending a heavy metal screamer. He will send you the angrily beautiful lyrics he's written, and ask your opinion of them. He'll encourage you to write your own.
He'll send you haikus on scraps of paper in the mail. He'll give you tea and chocolate and music and advice. And in the dark of the movie theatre, when the White Orc appears suddenly onscreen, he'll grab your hand and bite it, and then grin at you in the silver light.
The very most dangerous hazard isn't any of these.
It's the 6 AM when you're alone in the airport with your feet propped up on your carry-on suitcase, and melancholy muzak dripping from the ceiling. You suddenly have to blink very hard, because 1,000 miles feels so real and tangible and solid all at once.
No one warns you of these perils in the beginning. But even if they did, it wouldn't change a thing. Sometimes friendships, like goldfish, grow to fill the space they occupy. And with that chance, 1,000 miles seems no less huge, but a little more golden.
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