My latest story. This one will be a continuing one. (oh and for those who have been waiting I've just about finished the story about the dream salesman.)
--Sam sighed under his breath. Life just wasn’t the same anymore. He had been so excited when he first arrived in New York City. At nineteen years old, the bright lights, laughter and carefree attitudes of the city’s inhabitants had exhilarated him. He had walked off the bus that day full of hope. The city was intoxicating. As if the sights weren’t enough, the smells and sounds permeated his entire being. Within a few short months Sam tasted the sweetly addicting wine of fame and fortune. This had been his time and he had intended to make the most of it. Drunk with the excitement of all the big apple had to offer, he set off to fulfill his musical dreams.
Several futile visits to record companies, a number of failed attempts to send demos in, too many open mike nights to count, and years of coffee house tips later, the buzz had begun to fade away. Now, ten years later, Sam couldn’t remember why he had come to New York City. Oh sure there was the easy answer. He had wanted to be a star. Everyone could become famous here so why not him? When he was a teenager that seemed to be reason enough. Today, a few days before he turned thirty, the glowing neon lights in the distance weren’t enough.
Sam walked in the door of his apartment in Brooklyn, dusty and disheveled after a long construction shift. If there was something glamorous about dry wall it would be up to the poets to write about it. All Sam wanted was a hot shower and a way to ignore this empty void inside him. A little later, Sam reached into his refrigerator, grabbed a cold bottle of Coors Light and headed up to the roof. That was one good thing about his apartment. He had better access to the roof than anyone and there was something soothing about retreating to it. From there the stars didn’t seem so far away and Sam’s mind would revert back to his childhood and a simpler time. But it wasn’t working so well today. There was a restlessness in Sam and he couldn’t figure out what it was.
He ducked back into his apartment and grabbed his guitar. Maybe if he played a little he could come up with a new song. Playing his guitar used to make him happy.
Sam played a few chords, then strummed the opening to an old rock song. But the thrill wasn’t there anymore. Whatever it was that used to excite him and made him come to New York in the first place wasn’t there. And if Sam was being honest with himself the joy of playing hadn’t been there for a long time. Somewhere in the midst of business deals and the game of making money, his guitar had lost its touch. Sam gave a half-hearted attempt to bring back the memory of his artist days and shortly after threw down his guitar in frustration. It was time to accept the truth. He was nothing but a construction worker and other than the possibility of supervisor there wasn’t much hope for upward movement. Sam stormed back into his apartment yet again.
This time he was going to get rid of all his old music equipment. It was ridiculous to have all that paraphernalia just sitting in his closet, mocking him, taunting him, reminding him of his failure. The sooner he threw it out the sooner he could move on with his life. Sam began chucking things into the living room left and right. First the guitars went twanging into the hall and next the amplifiers bounced their way in as well. Song lyrics, picks, straps, mikes, everything was being dumped. Sam cleared out most of the boxes and equipment and was straining to grab the last thing that was stuck in a back corner of the closet.
He reached upward and pulled out a small black case. Sam frowned slightly. He couldn’t remember what this was exactly. Curiousity got the better of him and he opened the latches and carefully raised the lid. The sight of old fuschia velvet caught his eye first and then the scent of aged poplar wood reached his nostrils. Sam sighed and gently lifted out his old fiddle. He had forgotten he had this. He’d stopped playing around the age of 17 when he discovered the world of rock music. The day he left for New York his mother had insisted he take it. She said he might appreciate it one day if he didn’t now. Sam picked up the bow and drew it lightly over the strings. Something was wrong though. The sound didn’t fit the disaster that was his living room. He picked up the fiddle and bow and headed back to the roof.
Once there Sam slid the fiddle to its proper spot under his chin. It rested there as if it had never left. There was something soothing about the feel of the old wood against his skin. Sam again drew the bow over his strings. One note then two and Sam’s mind went back to the heartland of Texas. As he played slowly and then with growing confidence as his skills returned, Sam remembered days of sitting on an old front porch drinking lemonade. His mind’s eye saw a rope swinging loosely over a small creek and a few small trees dotting the landscape. His fingers began to pluck out the notes first of “Orange Blossom Special”, then “Sweet Marie”, and finally to his mother’s favorite “The Yellow Rose of Texas.” The fiddle seemed to bring back that love for music that Sam had once had. It was as though the joy had always been there but was waiting to be brought back to life by an instrument that played best when played alone. When played with heart and with love.
Sam ended the final strains of the song and set the fiddle down. His eyes glistened with tears from memories long past. He returned to his apartment and reopened the fiddle case, carefully setting his newfound treasure inside. Sam began to clasp the latches and stopped. He lifted the lid yet again and glanced at the old fiddle. His throat tightened and he closed the case once more, this time picking it up when he finished. Sam looked around the room for a moment and sighed. Then he turned and walked quickly towards the door, fiddle in one hand and car keys in another. For the first time the emptiness in his soul had been momentarily relieved. He wasn’t sure what had done it but Sam knew he wanted to find out. As he reached his car and set the fiddle on his front seat, he had just a few lyrics playing in his mind. “There’s a yellow rose in Texas, I’m going home to see.” Sam knew he was being rash but he also knew he needed to do this. And so he drove south, singing ever so softly under his breath.
--Sam sighed under his breath. Life just wasn’t the same anymore. He had been so excited when he first arrived in New York City. At nineteen years old, the bright lights, laughter and carefree attitudes of the city’s inhabitants had exhilarated him. He had walked off the bus that day full of hope. The city was intoxicating. As if the sights weren’t enough, the smells and sounds permeated his entire being. Within a few short months Sam tasted the sweetly addicting wine of fame and fortune. This had been his time and he had intended to make the most of it. Drunk with the excitement of all the big apple had to offer, he set off to fulfill his musical dreams.
Several futile visits to record companies, a number of failed attempts to send demos in, too many open mike nights to count, and years of coffee house tips later, the buzz had begun to fade away. Now, ten years later, Sam couldn’t remember why he had come to New York City. Oh sure there was the easy answer. He had wanted to be a star. Everyone could become famous here so why not him? When he was a teenager that seemed to be reason enough. Today, a few days before he turned thirty, the glowing neon lights in the distance weren’t enough.
Sam walked in the door of his apartment in Brooklyn, dusty and disheveled after a long construction shift. If there was something glamorous about dry wall it would be up to the poets to write about it. All Sam wanted was a hot shower and a way to ignore this empty void inside him. A little later, Sam reached into his refrigerator, grabbed a cold bottle of Coors Light and headed up to the roof. That was one good thing about his apartment. He had better access to the roof than anyone and there was something soothing about retreating to it. From there the stars didn’t seem so far away and Sam’s mind would revert back to his childhood and a simpler time. But it wasn’t working so well today. There was a restlessness in Sam and he couldn’t figure out what it was.
He ducked back into his apartment and grabbed his guitar. Maybe if he played a little he could come up with a new song. Playing his guitar used to make him happy.
Sam played a few chords, then strummed the opening to an old rock song. But the thrill wasn’t there anymore. Whatever it was that used to excite him and made him come to New York in the first place wasn’t there. And if Sam was being honest with himself the joy of playing hadn’t been there for a long time. Somewhere in the midst of business deals and the game of making money, his guitar had lost its touch. Sam gave a half-hearted attempt to bring back the memory of his artist days and shortly after threw down his guitar in frustration. It was time to accept the truth. He was nothing but a construction worker and other than the possibility of supervisor there wasn’t much hope for upward movement. Sam stormed back into his apartment yet again.
This time he was going to get rid of all his old music equipment. It was ridiculous to have all that paraphernalia just sitting in his closet, mocking him, taunting him, reminding him of his failure. The sooner he threw it out the sooner he could move on with his life. Sam began chucking things into the living room left and right. First the guitars went twanging into the hall and next the amplifiers bounced their way in as well. Song lyrics, picks, straps, mikes, everything was being dumped. Sam cleared out most of the boxes and equipment and was straining to grab the last thing that was stuck in a back corner of the closet.
He reached upward and pulled out a small black case. Sam frowned slightly. He couldn’t remember what this was exactly. Curiousity got the better of him and he opened the latches and carefully raised the lid. The sight of old fuschia velvet caught his eye first and then the scent of aged poplar wood reached his nostrils. Sam sighed and gently lifted out his old fiddle. He had forgotten he had this. He’d stopped playing around the age of 17 when he discovered the world of rock music. The day he left for New York his mother had insisted he take it. She said he might appreciate it one day if he didn’t now. Sam picked up the bow and drew it lightly over the strings. Something was wrong though. The sound didn’t fit the disaster that was his living room. He picked up the fiddle and bow and headed back to the roof.
Once there Sam slid the fiddle to its proper spot under his chin. It rested there as if it had never left. There was something soothing about the feel of the old wood against his skin. Sam again drew the bow over his strings. One note then two and Sam’s mind went back to the heartland of Texas. As he played slowly and then with growing confidence as his skills returned, Sam remembered days of sitting on an old front porch drinking lemonade. His mind’s eye saw a rope swinging loosely over a small creek and a few small trees dotting the landscape. His fingers began to pluck out the notes first of “Orange Blossom Special”, then “Sweet Marie”, and finally to his mother’s favorite “The Yellow Rose of Texas.” The fiddle seemed to bring back that love for music that Sam had once had. It was as though the joy had always been there but was waiting to be brought back to life by an instrument that played best when played alone. When played with heart and with love.
Sam ended the final strains of the song and set the fiddle down. His eyes glistened with tears from memories long past. He returned to his apartment and reopened the fiddle case, carefully setting his newfound treasure inside. Sam began to clasp the latches and stopped. He lifted the lid yet again and glanced at the old fiddle. His throat tightened and he closed the case once more, this time picking it up when he finished. Sam looked around the room for a moment and sighed. Then he turned and walked quickly towards the door, fiddle in one hand and car keys in another. For the first time the emptiness in his soul had been momentarily relieved. He wasn’t sure what had done it but Sam knew he wanted to find out. As he reached his car and set the fiddle on his front seat, he had just a few lyrics playing in his mind. “There’s a yellow rose in Texas, I’m going home to see.” Sam knew he was being rash but he also knew he needed to do this. And so he drove south, singing ever so softly under his breath.
