Somebody's Listening

If walls could talk, I’d tell you of the girl with the guitar wearing bell bottom jeans. Her free-spirited eyes believe this city will make her. As her pen hits her diary, she writes of fairy tales and love stories, hoping this city doesn’t break her. I’d tell you of her sweet voice humming to new Eagles and Fleetwood. There’s a poster pinned to me of Stevie Nicks. She wishes she could be her.

Two years in, her smile fades. Twenty songs in with no one to listen. She set her sights on Hollywood but she lacked the vision. If walls could talk, I’d recite her phone calls to mom. Her eyes roll right when she says “nothing’s wrong.” She paces the floor back and forth as her mascara runs. Twenty songs in with no one to sing along. I’d sing back if somebody could listen.

She walks circles, humming her newest melody before deciding it’s not good enough. Deciding she’s not good enough. Deciding one day she had enough. If walls could talk I would’ve stopped her. Instead, I had to watch her. I’d scream for some to restrain her as a hundred pills left its container.

If walls could talk, I’d tell you of the man in the denim jeans and mohawk, laughing in the halls after sweet pleasantries with his neighbors. But as soon as his door shuts, he drops to the floor, rivers flowing from his eyes as he downs his first bottle of the night. Three years ago, he thought he’d live his dream. Today, he has no clue what he’s chasing.

First time living alone, he needed reflection. Spent his days binging Harold Ramis but he lacked direction. The world below, he stared in amazement. A brand new era under Reagan. Everybody ran circles around him. What was he chasing? First time alone, he sought redemption. Stripped me bare and painted me over. Bold tones of yellow, red, and orange long gone as a white glossed me entirely, like a blank canvas for him.

If walls could talk, I’d have a conversation. He’d down a pack a night but not from celebration.

I wish I could hug the man in the denim. So does the ghost of the girl in the bell bottom jeans who watches from the corner. He’ll never notice her. She’ll never notice me. He offers one last look before leaving me forever, luggage in hand, adorned in Kiss stickers.

If walls could talk, I’d tell you about the gentleman in the Kangol hat and Adidas sneakers, every night practicing rhymes in the mirror. He pictures a crowd of 20,000 staring back at him. But tonight it’s just his walkman, his dreams, and his fears. He pictured himself with a career that was much better, but there already lived a Prince the people thought was fresher. He hoped his rhymes would some day work, so he didn’t have to smell of burgers and fries right after work.

One day a girl comes along and this studio finally resembles a happy home. He told her someday he’d move them to the Hills for better views. His rhymes were getting better too. But she didn’t know what he got addicted to, and if I could talk I’d tell her, too.

I’d tell you about the night he lined up snow on the table and inhaled more than he could handle. Much more than he could before. His eyes fell to the back of his head a minute too long. His girlfriend stepped in five minutes too late. I’d tell you how she dialed 9-1-1 at 7:31, and the ambulance finally arrived 15 minutes after 8. They rushed him out on a gurney, and the music faded then. That was the last I ever saw of him.

OVER BLACK, naive footsteps enter the room, a sigh of relief acknowledging restored hope. Open on…an ACTRESS, 20’s, frosted tips and a Britney sweater. She puts down her bags and picks up a script. Her slender hands can barely handle its weight. As she recites lines in the mirror, it’s evident to me, an audience of one: she’s ninth grade theater at best. Maybe that’s all it takes. I’ve seen the big shots on the TV screen. Pretty faces who can scream. She compares herself to them all, skipping on breakfast and lunch to match the one on the poster. Asking herself in the mirror: Who's the loneliest of them all?

It’s Saturday night and she’s staying in, rehearsing lines in monotone execution. At least she’s better than last time. But as soon as reaches an emotional climax, she loses it, flopping onto her springy mattress in frustration. Imperfection is the death of her. If she doesn’t nail this role, she has to fly home, at least that’s what she promised daddy on the phone. Tonight is the fifth glass she’s thrown at me, wallowing in self-doubt. She takes a moment to breathe, leaning her face against me and staining me with her lipstick. She’s so over the ramen stacked in the corner. The broken AC says it’s time for her to land a gig. It’s been hitting ninety-eight degrees. The bills piling up on the counter aren’t fan mail. So she goes again. Getting to that peak I’m looking for…then she loses it. Maybe she hasn’t hurt enough, not at this young age. Where’s the heartache, the angst, the rage? Then, one day it came.

Glued to the screen on this September day. Her kitchen phone reaches as far as it can into the sleeping space, shaking in her hands as she watches with trepidation, her mother on the end. “What plane was daddy on again?” And there it is, the performance I’ve been looking for. She drops to her knees, fists clenched, bawling into her Backstreet sweater. The voice of her mother equally pained, letting me know the talent runs in the family. The TV crashes to the floor for extra measure. Maybe a bit heavy-handed, but I’ll take it. Two days later, she’d walk out on me. Wish I knew why, but I’m just a wall.

If walls could talk, I’d tell you about the man in the ripped jeans and guitar. His free-spirited eyes believe this city will make him. Glued to his phone at every second, endless postings and notifications. He strums his strings live for the world to see. A million people notice him.

If walls could talk, I’d detail how jealous the ghost in the corner is. A plate falls in the kitchen but he’s too busy streaming to notice it. But she digresses. A tough pill to swallow but the world today is not like the one she lived in.

If walls could talk, I’d tell you how a song that changed the world was written in this 600 square foot studio. I’d tell you about the call from his agent that changed his life forever, just hours after he received the worst news ever, but how his life is about to get better.

As he packs his suitcase to go off to somewhere grander, I admit I wish I got to know him. Every second was a performance with every moment of his life recorded. But good for him that he made it. Luckily, the city didn’t break him. As he streams his final exit, the ghost in the corner is all but faded.

Here I am alone again with my memories as my only friend. Perhaps another will take residence. A hundred thousand more stories to witness here as long as somebody’s listening. Who's the loneliest of them all?