LONELY DREAMS
A SHORT STORY BY ASH CAP OF ASHCAPVISIONS
It’s only me tonight. Other than the bartender and a couple of college kids at the bar. It’s not much of an audience, but I’d do practically anything short of selling myself out to get people to listen to my music. I set my stage—it’s simple really: a microphone, a stool, and my guitar stand. My guitar, an acoustic Fender, is my pride and joy, the closest thing I have to a girlfriend. I laugh to myself and order a drink before I start to play.
“Water with a little ice and a lemon, thanks,” I say to the bartender. I’m tired and in a depressed mood, but I know once I get my guitar in my hands, everything I’m feeling will just slip away. There’s no other feeling in the world quite like it; the music takes me places I’ve never been before. When I’m playing my guitar, all my worries disappear.
I remember the first time I held a guitar, a naive twelve-year-old boy dreaming about becoming a rock star; the thought of fame and money never crossed my mind. The thought of me changing people’s lives through my music was what really mattered. I reluctantly finished high school—even went to college. Harvard as a matter of fact. Dad always wanted me to be a lawyer living in Malibu taking on some of the most important cases in the world. I never wanted that life though, and I dropped out sophomore year. That was two years ago, but it still seems like it all happened yesterday. Now that I think about it, the only reason I went to college was for Jenna. Deep in thought, I’m startled when the bartender hands me my drink.
“Thanks”, I say. He nods his head and walks away. I take a couple of sips and head to the stage. I step up to the microphone and imagine how people like John Mayer, Dave Matthews, and Chris Carrabba feel when they walk on stage. There are thousands of people in their audience, chanting their name. It must be incredible. I hear one of the kids yell and snap back to reality.
“Hey guys, my name is Chris Rider, and I’m gonna play a couple of songs for ya tonight.” I strum my guitar to make sure it’s in tune. “This song’s about a girl, a girl who told me she loved me when she didn’t even know what love was. She was my first love and my first heartbreak. This one’s for you, Jenna.”
The song opens with a soft beat, slow but catchy, a perfect opener. I play the notes over and over again, until I’m ready to sing. When I start the first verse, I notice the girls at the bar staring in awe. I sing to the beat, on key, almost in whispers, with a deep raspiness to my voice. I sing to the emotions in the words. With every word, the memories come back; it’s just me and her now, and tears form in my eyes. I shut them and finish the song. The kids are applauding and yelling; I open my eyes and wipe my tears. The college kids have moved to a table right in front of the stage. I smile and get ready for my next song.
Whenever a relationship ends, people go through stages to get over their loss. You can hear it all in my music. Writing is therapeutic for me, so every song is full of different feelings and emotions, different stages; changes I’ve gone through. And the next song I am going to play I wrote during my angry stage, I hated everything and everyone who was to blame for the way I was feeling.
The song starts out fast, rough and raw—a real head banger. No pick for this song, just my fingers. I stand up and kick the stool to the side of the stage. I attack the strings, making the notes louder and louder. My entire body becomes numb. I think I’m screaming now, but it’s hard to tell. Everyone is staring at me with the same look of disgust she gave me when she walked out the door. My teeth clench, my jaw locks, and I move to the microphone. I’m so close my lips are touching it, screaming, my eyes shut, screaming, guitar solo. I’m all over the stage—jumping, sliding, kicking, lost in time. Last line, I walk to the microphone, my hair is sweaty and hanging over my eyes. My eyes, baby blue, like ice. She told me I had the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen. The only movement is a bead of sweat rolling down my forehead. The only noise is my heavy breathing into the microphone. I blink and realize I’m shaking. I whisper the last line of the song with my eyes closed. It’s over. I run off the stage and slam my fist on the back door. I hear a shattering noise and a sharp pain shoots up my arm like lightning. I cringe in pain as the door slams. I get to my car and slide in quickly. I use my functioning hand to wipe the sweat from my forehead. I can see my breath. I’m still sweating and I can see my breath, how funny. There’s a shadow at my window and a soft tapping. It’s one of the college girls and three of her friends standing behind her. I catch my breath and slip out of the car. She’s smiling and I can’t help but smile back.
“Hey, umm, my name is Jamie and well, this is a little awkward, but I thought your performance was amazing. You have a beautiful voice and even more beautiful eyes,” she blushes.
I smile and laugh—there’s a slight desperation in my laugh.
“Thanks,” I say, “I really appreciate it.”
“No problem. I was wondering if I could get an autograph and maybe a hug.”
“Yeah, sure.” I sign something for her, a piece of paper or a napkin, and she embraces me. I can smell her perfume, I’ll never forget that smell. She pulls away.
“Thank you so much!” she exclaims and runs to her girlfriends squealing.
I watch them walk away, and then I get back into my car. I start the engine and turn the heat on and shove my right hand, my good hand, into my pocket and feel a piece of paper that wasn’t there before. My heart begins to beat faster, I take a deep breath and smile.