The Internet Strikes Again

Every night, without fail, I sing a half hour or more of my songs. To this day, I clear out my living room and put my microphone stand in the middle of the room. The west wall—the one without windows—is my stage. I put together a set list, I announce myself to the wall, and I perform a full set. I thank the wall between songs, I mind the fourth wall with every step, I choreograph my moves in synchronization with the invisible musicians in the room with me. I consider it my aerobic exercise for the day, as I'm always drenched in sweat by the end, after giving my all to the performance. My throat is sore, my arms are tired, my neighbors are irritated by me singing full throttle, full dance moves, thrashing into the ground with the music.

I haven't performed my own material to a real audience in six years. I don't have the hair for it anymore anyway. I don't have real band mates. The only people in this city who have even heard my music are my ex-girlfriends and friends who knew me from back when. My old bandmate lives here, but we don't play together anymore. I don't think his wife has ever heard my music. He sits with me at the bar sometimes and talks about how bored he gets, but he never calls to invite me over.

I manifest myself to the public as an employee for a mid-sized insurance company. I was in a kid's musical this summer—one of my coworkers happened to see me perform- her input was "it's great to have hobbies outside of work," like that shouldn't be a given. Like I don't spend ten hours a day letting my life waste a way, and just half an hour a night reliving the times when it wasn't.

An old groupie found me online the other day. She was my biggest fan ten years ago. She was fourteen, I think. She used to call me and invite me over. She listened to my music every night. Once, online, she gushed to some guy online about what an enormous crush she had on me, only to find out that she was actually talking to me (she got her screen names confused).

She's doing well. She's twenty four, living in Boulder. She's the lead singer of a band. She called me on video chat. I remembered her, referred to her by the name I used to call her, forgetting that it wasn't her real name. She laughed and said she remembered the night I gave her that name, every detail of it. "I was such a girl then," she said. Then she went on about all the things going on in her life, all the music she's playing, the people who come out to see her perform.

When I was her age, I was playing shows, too. In fact, I was just getting ready to move to Portland, ready to show my music to the big city. That year, the band broke up. Over the phone, no less. I was already living in Portland, and was driving back home for a show. I still wanted the band to make it. I'd travel for shows, no sweat. My bandmate, the one who lives here now, called me to see if I was already on the road. The show had been cancelled. I found out later it had never been booked; they just didn't have the nerve to tell me. And anyway, the drummer quit. He said that he didn't feel my heart was in it anymore, or I would have stayed with the band.

I never played with a band again.

Luckily, she didn't ask how I was doing, what I was up to. I mentioned something in passing that I had done a little acting, but I think she just assumed that I had gone on to be a successful Portland musician. Why wouldn't I? I was her hero, after all. I'm the one she looked up to, that made her decide to be a lead singer too. She was living the dream.

What would she say if she knew I'd given up music and got a job at an insurance company? How would she look at me then? Would it scare her? I could tell by her voice, the way she worded her sentences, that although she was grown up now and realized I was just some guy, she still respected me. I don't care about the respect, not from my side of it anyway. I'm just worried about how that would change her life view.

I'm not saying she'll be a successful musician. I'm not even saying her band won't break up soon too. I just want to make sure that she stays onstage long enough to inspire some fourteen year old in the audience, like I inspired her. Eventually, one of us will make it, and one of us will enhance people's lives. It won't be me, but I still want to be a part of that. I don't want to break the chain.