Narrative #1

The dark brown color melts into a warm maple as it approaches the center. My hand grazes over the neck, plucking each string as it goes by. Every cord-- every note sounds like something made from the music Gods. Tonight is the night, my night, my chance to show everyone what I am made out of. I place the strap over my shoulder and play a few cords-- perfect. It needs no tuning. I can feel that this is going to be the best show I have ever played. I can see it-my dream coming true. My name in the lights, lines a mile and a half down the street-all of them there to see me play, to hear my music. With each opening band, the crowd grows more and more restless. I can hear them now chanting my name. I can feel the floor rattle as the crowd beings to stop their feet in unison. Now, I give the crowd what they want, walking across the stage, the crowd breaks into a roaring cheer, screaming my name-screaming for me. During each song, they dance and sing along, knowing every word. Crowd surfers working their way through the hundreds of people just to get a little bit closer to the stage-- to me. Security pulling them out of the crowd and as they go by they scream “I love you!”. During the slow songs the crowd pulls out their lighters illuminating the venue swaying together as the song goes on. This will not just be a dream it will be my reality. This is the night, the night that is gunna make me or break me. This is it-- I can’t blow it. I can do this-- I will do this. My hands begin to shake. I’m not nervous I tell my self over and over-- I’m not. I can do this. I begin to practice a bit-- Damn I missed that note. I hear someone yelling my name from the far corner of the room. The pre-party is loud, I’m surprised I could hear my own thoughts, never mind the man in the corner. I look up and see man dressing in tattered clothes with a few of my band mates circled around him. The man in ragged clothing gestures with his head for me to come over. I carefully put my guitar on the stand and work my way threw the crowd of dancing groupies. They through themselves at me, I laugh and tell them I’ll be right back as I brush them off. I make it to the corner, we all exchange friendly head nods and I listen to what the shabby man has to say. “It’s the best stuff out on the market right now”, from his pocket he pulls out the good stuff, a tiny bag filled with white powder. My mouth waters, my hands begin to shake again-- No not tonight, I can’t. I shove my hands into pockets to hide the fact that I’m shaking. And just tell the tattered man thanks, but I’m clean now. He chuckles-- they all laugh as I turn to walk away. He knows-- they all know, they can see through me, they can see that I don‘t want it-- I need it. He says just loud enough for me to hear, it will calm my nerves. I turn back and look at him, holding the bag to his face mouthing “top of the line”. I can’t, I promised myself. I go to turn away and think to myself, what’s could one little, tiny hit do? They welcome me back to the group and we walk towards the backroom. 20 minutes and 4 lines later, it is time-show time, I‘m ready, I can do this. We run out the stage-its just how I always imagined.
The best show yet to come. Its 4 am, and the hotel room is spinning, my head-- feels like an elephant is sitting on top of it. My nose burns, eyes burning and watering. I do a few more lines till I pass out on the bed and see a beautiful light, that warms my cold worn body.