With no one else at home, the sound of silence hurt my ears. The air needed tunes, so I went to the living room stereo. Willie Nelson’s record album, And Then I Wrote, lay on the turntable. I had played his songs so much I knew each one by heart. I slipped Willie’s album back into its jacket.
Listening was good, but I wanted to play with the band. Out of my stack of 45-rpm records, I pulled “Do You Believe in Magic?” by The Lovin’ Spoonful. I wanted to feel happy like an old time movie—to find release for my soul. When I pulled the start lever down and saw the tone arm slowly lift up and move toward the record, I had my cue to get ready. In seconds, I would be on stage.
I raced to the kitchen and slid my sock feet across the linoleum until I reached the storage closet where I grabbed the big straw broom. After three giant steps down the hall and a quick right turn, I was back in the living room, standing in front of the oval mirror on the wall. A crackling sound signaled the needle landing on the record. Show time!
With the wooden broom handle resting in the palm of my left hand, I lowered my forearm toward the floor, which raised the sweeping end to the level of my belt buckle. My right hand pressed the straw bristles against the right front pocket of my jeans. I brought my index finger and thumb together like I was holding a guitar pick, ready to rock.
In the mirror, I saw a celebrity—Wayne Johnson, playing the guitar with his band, just like Willie Nelson. The perfect notes I heard in my ear proved how skillfully I was playing. I strummed the straw while making imaginary chords on the smooth, round handle. I was good, very good.
The band sounded great. I nodded at the drummer, and he read my expression. I was thankful these guys had asked me to join their group. Beyond my imaginary stage, tables and chairs surrounded the dance floor. Carol Ann sat at the table reserved for the band. She and her girlfriend were laughing in obvious pleasure from my music. The moment she looked up and saw me, her lips broke into an unrestrained smile that said, I love you. Life couldn’t get any better.
As soon as the record finished playing, I stepped to the mike. “We’re going to take a short break. We’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
I leaned my broom guitar against the wall, ran back to the kitchen, and brought a chair from the table. The living room lamp had to be content with being alone on the floor next to the wall because I needed the end table for the center of the room. After a trip to the kitchen cupboard, I had two mugs in my hand and was ready to talk to Carol Ann face-to-face. “I brought us something to drink, babe.”
With a grateful smile, she took the mug from my hand and set it on the table. After I sat down and took a sip of beer, she looked at the other band members. “You guys sound good tonight.” She squeezed my hand.
“Thanks,” I said with the warmest smile I could produce.
“I am so proud of you. The club owner told me you were a really good guitar player. But that’s not the reason I love you.” She hesitated as if her words hadn’t come out exactly like she intended. “I love you because of who you are—a kind and gentle man who wants what is best for me.”
Her soft green eyes melted my heart into a puddle on the floor. Her flowing brown hair with soft curls fell perfectly upon her shoulders. Her skin was smooth and lightly tan. When she smiled at me, the room brightened. Still holding my hand, she rubbed her thumb across the skin. “Thank you being such a loving man, Wayne. I’m really proud of you.” She wouldn’t let me go. “I want you to know I love you.” Her words, although imagined, seemed more real than the stereo music. Indeed, they were music to my ears.
“I love you too, sweetie.”
She laid her hand over my arm. “I’ll always be there for you.”
From the other side of the table, I heard Barry say, “Wayne, we had a request for ‘King of the Road.’ Can you get around that one?”
“Sure,” I said, “but only if you do the singing”
“I’ll give it a ride, but we won’t know ’til we get there.”
The bass player bellowed, “Well if you guys are game, I’m in.”
“Break time is up, gents” Barry said. “The bandstand is calling.”
Carol Ann leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek. “I’m here, and I will never leave you.”
I pushed away from the table and thumbed through my stack of records. There it was, about halfway down.
With my new song on the turntable, I picked up my broom guitar. As soon as the music began, my daydream continued. I never stuttered—not once. I was a celebrity on stage, able to play the straw strings perfectly, never missing a chord. For as long as the record played, I played. My fears calmed and my success was assured.
I felt like I could walk on clouds because the beautiful Carol Ann loved me—right then—just the way I was.
My daydreams gave me hope during the times when I woke up frightened and feeling unappreciated. Could my dreams help me find a way toward satisfaction in life?
If they didn’t, they would be my greatest nightmares.