Dreambane


“Welcome back to the Dreambane where we’re discussing how Phillip Alba made all his dreams come true. We welcome you inside to live out your dreams,” a charming 1950s Frank Sinatra style voice fades as the TV returns to Static.

I have to be hearing things. I know your mind can start to play tricks on you when you’re tired, and this is probably one. There’s no way some repeat from some old black and white show would mention my name. If it did that had to be coincidence. It just doesn’t seem to be possible. I turn the TV off and stretch. Grabbing my phone, it’s time for bed. The time is almost three in the morning. I can’t stay up late like I used to back in college. What’s the point if I’m going to be watching old TV shows anyway?

I close my eyes and try to drift off to sleep. This pillow is a little uncomfortable, maybe if I just flip it to the cool side, I can get some rest. Perhaps it just isn’t providing enough support, I slide my arm beneath it just for a little boost. Still I can’t drift off to sleep. Glancing at my alarm clock it’s only been seven minutes since I got into bed. I’m still tired, but my body refuses to sleep like so many nights before.

I’m not thinking about things I’d done in the past, nor am I walking myself through the trauma of past regrets. Tonight, I can only think of one thing. Dreambane. I know that it was nothing but coincidence but my brain just won’t let it go. What if it is me? The question keeps playing on repeat but I know it isn’t even an option. I was looking at some static on TV. It wasn’t even a real channel. Still, I need to know. If only to put my brain to rest so that it isn’t thinking about what could have been.

I make my way back to the living room and turn on the television. This time there is no static. The host sits in a small room facing the audience. There’s no desk or anything like that. Just two chairs and some microphones on the stage. The audience is only feet away. The camera moves almost freely through the 1950s style audience without stopping. When the host, Tom, makes a joke, everyone laughs together. There isn’t anyone who doesn’t get the joke. There is no pause to determine if they should laugh or not.

They’re talking about a Phillip Alba who became a world-renowned singer. He mastered several genres and nothing would be able to trip him up. He was just that good with his singing. Still, he had fallen into a spell of addiction. He gave up his dream of singing, only to become a school teacher. I became a school teacher because I didn’t believe I could be a singer anymore. This is all too freaky. But it couldn’t be me that Tom is talking about, because I never reached the top like this Phillip. The second chair remains empty and I keep expecting someone to walk out and take a seat next to Tom. Perhaps the more famous Phillip is there. Still, the chair remains empty.

“We’re heading to our last commercial for the night. Later we’ll have a special guest, but don’t forget, you’re always invited to live out your dreams.” This whole thing is just way too messed up. Almost like I’m looking into another universe where all my dreams came true and I still ended up in the same situation. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t still have dreams of singing still, but I gave those up long ago. Occasionally I’ll have a dream or fantasy about how it would play out now if I became famous for singing tomorrow. It never goes any further than that. I stop it, wake up and come back to reality.

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