When I was in college, I wanted to be an English Literature professor living and teaching somewhere in Europe. I pictured myself living in a small flat with a dog, walking to and from campus. My doggie would sit in my office on his doggy pillow while I inspired young minds to question, search, think, and find their voice. On my way back to my flat, I would stop at the grocer and pick up supper, or maybe stop and a small out of the way café’ and enjoy a small meal while I read a book before going home. I’d write intriguing novels on the side, and do book reading and promotional tours in my spare time. I know how far fetched the last part is now. Teachers do not have spare time. Ever.
When I was in high school, I used to pretend to be a lounge singer, acoustic of course. On nights that my parents would be gone, I would go into my dad’s office (we called it his playroom because it was a bedroom converted into an office/recording studio) and grab one of Dad’s acoustic guitars. He had this elaborate stereo system and had the sound system wired throughout the house.
We were never allowed to go in there.
We were never allowed to touch anything.
That’s why I had to wait until they were gone.
I would grab one of the cushioned barstools, a microphone, microphone stand, and one of his acoustic guitars, and set up stage in the middle of the living room facing the east wall where all 28 grand- and great-grandchildren’s pictures hung. They were my audience.
I popped one of my cassettes into his stereo and turned up the speakers in every room of the house. Then I turned up the stereo, pushed play, propped my butt on the bar stool with guitar at the ready, and waited for the music to start thundering through the house so I could entertain my captive audience.
I pretended to play songs from America, Nazareth, Loverboy, Taylor Dane, and I’d throw in some Oak Ridge Boys or Willy just to make it eclectic.
I was good.
The applause was deafening.
The crowd loved me. They really, really loved me.
After my set, I’d thank the crowd for coming out and to remember to tip the wait staff. I would put everything back into Dad’s playroom, pulled the door shut, sat on the couch, and acted like I watched t.v. all night.
Little did they know.
I guess being a lounge singer is really my “dream” job. I can’t play the guitar, and I can’t sing.