Last Chance at the Open Mic

A SEEMINGLY ENDLESS dream set me on this crazy path, which I’ll now describe, but first, it might be useful to recount the dream. After scraping out the last of the overpriced hummus from its plastic grocery store container, I struggled to clean the container to a pristine elegance. And then, in fact (dream logic) recreate the empty hummus container—not a drawing, but the actual container. Upon waking, I tried to dismiss this nonsense, but I was compelled, nonetheless, to take a bus to a local musical instrument store (the only one accessible by bus after he recent reduction of bus lines) and purchase an acoustic guitar—quite against my better (financial) judgment. Alas, I have been working on a story (admittedly, a novel) where the protagonist is writing a new, pandemic inspired love song and vows to play at the local open mic, when it reopens. Even though we no longer have an open mic along our drastically reduced bus lines, I have made the same vow, and thus opted for the fine guitar I can’t afford (a 1970s, Japanese, “Will Travis Signature” Alvarez acoustic) in order to give me a fighting chance at success. I was able to charge the purchase on my (relatively) new Burj Khalifa Onyx credit card which recently offered me a promotional 0% interest rate for six months, after which it will revert to “variable market equivalent rate”—which is a polite way of saying, “like the deal you get from a loan shark.” Six months is no-time-at-all—so I feel an urgency to write, rehearse, record, and start making money with those songs. I put the BK Onyx card back in its cedar shipping box once the purchase was made—it’s an elegant, black card, chip-enabled, of course, but fashioned from the world’s hardest substance (the material’s name escapes me) so the card feels like metal but is actually an indestructible glass-like stone. I needed to remove all my other cards (except for bus card) from my wallet so that it would fit, and even then, it made my wallet feel like I had a half pound slab of aged cheddar in my back pocket. So, anyway, I’ll have to pay off the guitar before using the card again. Once home, I inspected the instrument, which, except for a few well repaired “anger dents” in the wooden body (I wish I was able to identify wood types) is in fine shape. It also included a “hard shell” case, which sweetened the deal, especially as I’ve heard stories of people ripping out the linings of secondhand guitar cases to find caches of cash hidden there. (Apparently, a popular hiding place for musicians to skirt the the IRS—but then passing away without having alerted the heirs to the treasure within—the instrument is sold off with no one the wiser.) I had no reason to expect that… in “this case.” And I didn’t want to ruin the fine fuzzy interior or faux-leather exterior by exploring it—but I did doublecheck that little compartment that you find in most guitar cases right under the support for the neck. People usually keep things in there—like strings, picks, slides, tuners, mojos—what have you—so they tell me. Anyway, this one was well cleaned out, no doubt by the music store, and empty—but upon closer examination I found that there was a false bottom in the compartment which revealed a shallow hidden hollow just big enough for a glassine envelope filled with approximately one ounce of white powder. I’m not sure if the envelope was actually “glassine”—I don’t know what that is. It was probably more accurately a “plastic bag.” What was the white powder? Not labeled. I’ve seen guys, in movies, dip a finger in the white powder and taste it—I guess to see if it’s cocaine, or heroin—but how do they know? If it’s, say, coke, does it make you whistle zip-a-di-do-da? I’d be able to detect powdered sugar, or baking soda, or Johnson’s Baby Powder—but not any kind of drugs. And what if it was rat poison, do you want to be tasting that? I considered that I should go to the police—but no one in books or movies ever does that. So my solution was to go to the pharmacy and, claiming I was a diabetic, pick up a supply of syringes. Then I heated the white powder in a very large spoon (actually, a stainless-steel ladle) over my gas stove burner, until it turned into a clear liquid. Then I injected it, syringe after syringe, into the vein in my left arm. I’ve seen all this in movies—so it was surprisingly second nature. Now here… I have to interject. Kids (of all ages) don’t do this! It will probably kill you—regardless of what the substance is! Me? How did it make me feel? I don’t know—and I was able to get away with such a stupid move because, just at that moment… I woke up. It seems the acoustic guitar dream was just an extension of the hummus container dream. But definitely a much better dream. The End.

—R. Speen 9.19.24