Selfie Boy

20161224_170631Cheating on Christmas food caused incredible unrest in my sleep last night, lots of snoring on my back, so I relaxed and concentrated at the same time before sinking into my next, last dream…

The dream isn’t relaxing or comforting.

I hate these dreams.

I’m in the middle of a set, kind of observing how it goes. The band plays my song in the same dragging way, behind the original cover. But the lead singer is a new recruit, hired more for her looks than talent. She takes charge, making sure the songs in the set suit her slower pace than fulfill content or, heaven forbid, artistic integrity.

After the gig, killer here casually turns to me in front of the rest of the band, “Your song didn’t do much for me. It was kind of bland.”

The rest of the band, including this bassist friend who I thought was always on my side, turned and walked away behind her — not saying a word.

I drank the rest of my water and went reluctantly in the car with my mom to go home. I wanted to cajole, beg and plead, emotionally manipulate the band into remembering who I am and that the new lead singer has got me all wrong. I wanted them, any of them, to step forward and say that much at least, “You don’t know Carol, you’re wrong about her. She didn’t do this, you did.”

But people follow the money, they don’t care about friendship or kindness or talent, not in the end.

It wouldn’t matter what I said. The second I spoke up in my own defense, I have lost the fight. I felt utterly pathetic.

I talked to my mom instead.

I made one last plea to her, by remembering how kind, how incredibly talented and versatile this sideman was, and how much I did to make sure others knew. “It didn’t matter what the song was, mom, he did something special with it. You would’ve loved his version of ‘Besame Mucho.’ He played it like a guitarist.”

Then despair took over me.

“Why didn’t he care enough, mom?” I cried. “He didn’t have to say much. He could’ve just taken me aside, away from the band, five seconds max. Just been decent. Remember me.”

“He said you were a good writer.”

At that moment, I saw his sad face turning away. I would never speak to him again.

It didn’t help.

Back on the treadmill.

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