He had a head full of demons - and they always had questions.
“WHY?” was the loudest.
Why did he do that?
Why didn’t he do that?
Then came the endless parade of shoulda-coulda-wouldas.
How and When appeared less often. The devil, he suspected, wasn’t nearly as interested in details as people liked to believe. Only if they served his twisted purpose.
He’d noticed a behavior pattern emerging among his aging contemporaries.
A desperate need to relive the same dreams they’d spent entire lifetimes chasing. They were all old men now, though some refused to accept it. Maybe they’d simply avoided the physical cruelties of time. Maybe they were more stubborn than he was. Or maybe they were too damned blind to see the world in front of them.
His own relevance had risen, dwindled, and changed shape more times than he could count. Most days he just wanted a nap. Another cup of coffee usually sufficed. He didn’t miss the hangovers, though he occasionally missed the feeling that induced them - that brief illusion of being fearless and alive.
He’d lived most of his dreams. Nobody could take that away from him, though plenty had tried. They questioned his memories, demanded proof. He still enjoyed the look on their faces when he provided it.
No, he was content to age as gracefully as life allowed. But watching old contemporaries drown themselves in weekly boxes of Just For Men and fistfuls of little blue pills embarrassed him.
Most were aging one-trick ponies who were never put out to stud. The lucky ones had already been sent to the glue factory. The rest kept trying to impress the world with the same tricks that worked two generations ago.
The kids were not impressed.
Even the crowds who once packed dance floors had mostly moved on. A few old-timers still showed up from time to time, usually hoping to relive some vanished magic moment from before bad backs and worse knees became permanent companions.
There’s nothing new under the sun. Scripture got that part right. There was definitely nothing new in these set lists.
“You might remember this one!”
If they had remembered it, the question wouldn’t need asked.
In time, the old tricks became parody. After that, they simply became sad.
The rooms grew smaller. So did the crowds. Eventually all that remained were pensioners, bored drunks, and people too stubborn to leave. He’d recognized it years earlier. As much as he once loved the lights, he planned a future without them.
Others didn’t.
Maybe they truly believed it would last forever.
He watched former artists slowly become beggars. The rooms shrank, the money shrank faster, but the bills somehow kept growing. Weekend warriors were willing to do the same job for beer money and a handshake. Why pay a dollar for something you could get for a dime?
He sat comfortably in his recliner, watching the whole sad circus unfold. Sometimes it made him laugh. Most days it just made him tired.
He’d been one bad decision away from the same fate himself.
The offers still arrived, but he always declined politely. He had already taken his final bow on that particular stage. No encore. No comeback. And he was perfectly fine with that.
If anyone truly wanted the old songs, they were still out there somewhere - buried in grainy photos, lo-res videos, and over-compressed mp3s floating through the internet like ghosts. He’d managed to leave - exit stage left even - mostly unscathed.
Mostly.
Tinnitus became the soundtrack awarded for a lifetime of sweat and distortion. His hands swelled. His knees barked complaints. His back frequently informed him that certain ambitions belonged to younger men.
But the ideas still came.
Melodies. Harmonies. Riffs. Rhythms. Entire albums still drifted endlessly through his head, and these days he was content to enjoy them quietly, alone.
Once upon a time, he’d known every trick of the trade. He invented a few that others later mistook for their own ideas. When in doubt, he could always hum a few bars and fake the rest.
The one-trick ponies, though - they were all still begging for one more ride.
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