Polaroids and Postcards | ✔️

Chapter 1: New York Dreaming (EDITED)

"We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams..."

•••

Playing guitar on a street corner in New York City was not exactly where I pictured myself when I moved there. I had imagined playing in bars every night and having sold-out shows in all of the local hotspots.

People back home said I was good. My mom said I was good—my brother too. More than that, I knew I was good. When you work your tail off for an extended period of time, you expect to see results. Granted, the results I wanted weren't turning up at that point, but I still stood by the fact that the right person just hadn't heard me play yet. After all, people say it's roughly ten percent talent and ninety percent luck in the music business. My awareness that the numbers were decidedly against me only pushed me harder.

Still, playing covers of sappy love songs next to a pizza parlor wasn't what I expected. I also didn't expect my wallet to be quite as light as it was, but there I stood, singing like an idiot and hoping people would stop to listen.

"Thanks!" I shouted to a passerby who threw a handful of change into my guitar case.

The guy simply waved without turning around.

Solid guy. He, however, was in the minority.

You see, here's the thing you have to understand about New York: New York doesn't care about your problems. Nor does it care about your dreams. Sure, all of the movies say otherwise, but New York is one of the many places where dreams go to die. Morbid, I know, but it's not far from the truth. So many artists of various mediums have crossed into the fairyland that is the "Big Apple" and ended up being sucked into a minimum-wage pit of busing tables or washing dishes, trying to justify it with keeping the dream alive—falling into a rotating-door lifestyle with no way out.

I refused to let myself disappear like that. Even when I waited tables, scrubbed dishes, and occasionally sang at Open Mic nights, I knew that it was merely a stepping stone. All of it was a networking experience. Meet the right people, find the right moment, play the right song... It was simple.

"Hey, Jason." The owner of the pizza place, Mr. Valentino, finally stepped outside. "Keep it down, will ya? We have the radio on inside."

"Got it," I said, slamming the lid on my guitar case. There was only five dollars in there anyway.

"Oh, and by the way!" Mr. Valentino popped his head back outside the door at me. "Your shift starts in five. If you clock in late again, it's coming out of your paycheck."

I rolled my eyes and latched the guitar case shut. It wasn't like I meant to clock in late.

"Hey, Mr. Valentino!" I hurried after him, letting the door swing shut behind me.

"What, Jason?" he groaned, disappearing back into the kitchen. He was fast for a short, stalky Italian man. I towered over his barely five-foot frame by a good foot and three inches, made up of little more than slim limbs and curly hair.

"Did you think about my suggestion?"

"Which one?" he snorted, slinging a pile of dough onto the counter. "The one about how our pizza-making techniques aren't efficient enough or the one about how my anchovy sauce recipe is—and I quote—trash, and we should toss it? That sauce is a family recipe, idiot! It wouldn't be Valentino's without it."

I cringed. He wasn't supposed to know about that last one.

"The one about letting me play here some nights. I really think having live music here would really—"