*This is a work of fiction…alas any names, events, places used in this story are fictitious in nature*
Two years ago, I sat in my sophomore English class, doodling on my lined notebook page as Mr. Olson went on and on about Death of a Salesman. He asked us what kind of people the Lomans were, about the symbols throughout the book, and then the big question arose: what does this tell us about the American dream? People debated back and forth. I sat back and quietly observed. I never said a word about what I thought, but here’s what I think: it’s not worth it.
The American dream that’s placed atop marble pedestals in stories like The Great Gatsby isn’t all it’s talked up to be. Daisy Buchanan and Jay Gatsby naively dressed to the nines, lounged by pools, heavily drank in expensive hotel rooms, and went about their days without too hard of labor. They may have been free of a life of hard labor and low wages, but they had problems of their own. The extremity of their problems compared to the problems of the impoverished differed, of course, but even the desired rags to riches story that everyone seems so infatuated with can lead to issues. No one’s life is perfect. Not even now, in the era of face value.
Cities are full of people robotically going to and from their corporate jobs. Phones are super glued to people’s hands. Some people care more about the lighting in their current profile picture than how long they spend with their loved ones. The number of likes on their newest post means more to people than the three little words everyone longs to hear from their partner. There are more social media profiles than there are people in the world. Do you know how many people there are in the world? Seven billion.
Fame is like a double edged sword. Yeah, it’s really cool to wake up and know that I can make music and accumulate money doing that for as long as I want to, basically. But on the other hand, aside from dealing with acne and always needing more sleep, now a little trip to the store for me could be broadcast on E! News whether I like it or not, juxtaposed next to an unselfish gym teacher from Kansas who just won twelve million dollars and plans to put it into his work place to help the students. Without a doubt, the selfless gym teacher wins the cool award over me, who is dressed in pajamas and gives the paparazzi a strange look for asking about my box of tampons.
When the whole world seems to be watching what you do, it feels like you can’t hide from anyone. It took time, but a filter had to be developed somewhere along the way. Part of that is my manager, always giving me tips and telling me how to contain somewhat of a normal life in the shadows. When you have three million followers and start to have cameras following you unannounced to the gynecologist, secrets are the most valuable possession you have. Especially when the whole world seems to be up on your business. Two years ago, no one cared what Samantha Richards was doing. Now everyone wants to know what brand of soy milk I buy from Whole Foods.
I was average. Average grades. Average height. Average upbringing. My family of five lived in the suburbs in a cookie cutter, white picket fenced house with a new SUV parked outside. My mom and dad were both accountants and loved it, and they were stellar at their jobs. My younger brother and sister were both geniuses, whereas I was the one who struggled a bit. I didn’t like school. My favorite class was lunch…and music theory.
Music was the one thing I excelled at out of all the classes I was forced to attend. The best present I ever received was my own controller and mixer so I could mix my own tunes together. I never had a desire to post them on YouTube. I didn’t even have a YouTube profile. The only thing that mattered is that I liked what I made, and sharing it with thousands of people was irrelevant. My mixes became famous by accident.
It was September of a brand new school year. I was only a junior and while everyone was already thinking about what colleges they were going to apply to, I was researching the best equipment I could afford to make cooler sounds, and just how long it would take to save up for them.
Every day after school, my best friend and I would go back to my house, to study and talk. We had the house to ourselves, which usually meant making new songs on my computer instead of homework. Ken, my best friend, wasn’t as much into music as I was, but he always gave good insight as to what blended together best.
“So do you want to like be a DJ when you are older? Or is this just a hobby?” Ken asked as he tapped his fingers against my desk. I ran my thumb over top of the buttons on my launchpad.
“Who knows. If my parents have it their way, I’ll go and study business or something,” I said as I handed him the pad. He tapped gently on a few of the buttons and my computer hummed to his rhythm. I unplugged the headphones from my Macbook and the sound of synthetic drums filled the room. I clicked a few buttons to save his beat.
“You know, it’d be a shame if you didn’t at least try to share your stuff,” Ken said with a smile as he twisted in my black office chair. Under the fading sunlight, his brown eyes went from chocolate to hazel. I leaned back against my bed.
“Maybe if I was good enough,” I stood up and glanced at him. “If I went for music, you’d have to go for your writing.”
“Oh heck yes,” he laughed and put down my launchpad. “If you never try, you never know.”
From in the hallway, the sound of the phone ringing echoed. I hurried down the hall, snatching the cordless phone from the receiver just in time before I missed the call entirely.
“Hello?”
“Sam, it’s Mom,” my mom’s voice sounded as soft as velvet. “Are Josh and Candice home yet?”
“No, they still have robotics lab. Where are you?” I waited. On the other end, the sound of keyboards and papers shuffling around already told me her answer. She was pulling a late night. For the third time this month.
“I am going to be home late. Your father is on his way home with some dinner he picked up from Jewel. Can you save me a plate before he eats all the chicken wings?” She said and shuffled more papers on her desk.
“Of course, Mom,” I turned, looking down the long creamed colored hallway. From my bedroom, I heard some rapid typing on the keyboard. Last time I had left Ken in the room unattended, he had wrote “I like hot dogs” on my Facebook page, leading to at least twenty likes and inappropriate comments before I even noticed it. He better not do that again.
“I love you.”
“Love you too,” I told Mom. The line clicked off and I hung up the phone, hurrying back down the hallway. Ken was sitting, leaned over my laptop. He looked ghostly white when he whipped his head around to see me.
“What are you doing?” I asked him. Ken pointed to the blank computer screen.
“Just researching some writing magazines, that’s all,” he delicately twisted his thumb drive in his hand. Before I could say another word, he tossed it in his backpack and zipped it up. “Shall we get some studying done?”
I nodded, letting Ken chatter on and on about the history exam and how harsh Mrs. Cincero was with her grading on the document based question essays. Most of his words went in one ear and out the other.
Taking out my notebook and textbook, Ken got up to lay lazily across the bed. Lifting my head, my eyes locked on one little folder on the bottom right of my screen that I hadn’t noticed before and wasn’t something I had created: Sam’s Songs.
To be continued
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