What has brought me here? He thinks it while entering the posh lobby. He’s following what might very well be a reverie, and he knows it, but he’s going to try anyway. He has to. He’s just seen this man, this legend, perform a concert. He soared to the rafters with the crowd as the thumping bass and slashing guitars and crackle-pop drums rose to thundering crescendos. He bowed his head in somber acknowledgement when the legend stepped to the front, alone, bathed in purple light, and rang out redemption on an acoustic guitar.
What am I even doing here? He thinks it as he exits the elevator to the big-money floor. Sure, he’s seen his share of rock stars. They flitter in and out of the clothing store where he works. It’s a hip spot, the center of the scene that’s beginning to percolate around town. Some nights after work he DJs at a popular club. Lately he’s been experimenting, taking his favorite genre of music, dub reggae, and jamming it together with the punk rock that’s been jumping out of the row-house windows and howling from the streets.
What am I even going to say? He thinks it as he walks up to the door, the number ingrained in his head as he walked the twelve city blocks, the product of a well-informed rumor. Honeybees are buzzing around inside him. He takes a few steps back, retreating toward the elevator, composing himself. He needs a few more seconds to plot out what he’ll do if that door opens and the mystical, dreadlocked wizard of his dreams happens to pull it open and appear before him.
Who am I to him? He thinks it as he sits on a bench, facing the elevator, biding time while constructing a plan in case he is miraculously allowed into the room. Maybe you’ve seen me at Acme, he thinks he’ll say first. Maybe you know I’m an aspiring musician, he thinks he’ll add later. Maybe you know I’m an aspiring filmmaker who would like to one day do a documentary with you, he thinks he might arrive at if things are going well after an hour or so.
Who is he to me? He thinks it as he begins the slow, inevitable slog through the carpeted corridor back to the door. He wonders if he even belongs in this same compartmentalized, apportioned, limited space with genius — no background noise or societal distractions to break up the quiet, no obstacles on the field of conversation.
What else do I have to lose? He thinks it as he knocks on the door, and he doesn’t have to wait long for his answer. The exalted, regal target opens it with no resistance, no hesitation, no question from behind the barrier as to who has come and what he might be seeking, and looks squarely at the visitor who’s traveled all this way to see him, and smiles a legendary smile before saying, “Hello, mon. Come in.”
***
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