The Ones Who Dream

Another Day of Sun

"Michael" said the nametag on the barman's white polo shirt, but he preferred Mika. That was what his mother had always called him, and that was what his family and friends called him too. He pondered this as he poured hot milk into a mug. He grabbed a blueberry muffin from the counter and laid it out as prettily as possible on a yellow-rimmed plate.

Why does the manager categorically refuse to change the stupid nametag? Mika thought while dipping a spoonful of coffee into the fuming mug. It wasn't going to cost or fortune or waste anyone's time. It was just a simple request, but it had been denied over and over.

A pink-clad blond came bouncing to the counter. 'Is that my order...' she hovered, her eyes searching for his nametag, '...Michael?'

Mika winced. 'Yes, it is. Enjoy,' he pushed the plate and the mug towards her with a tight smile.

'I love your accent,' she cooed at him, taking her coffee and muffin. 'Michael,' she added, giggling in girlish glee.

Stupid fucking nametag. This exact same scenario had played out a million times before. A bubbly Californian girl would hit on him, call him Michael and then leap into her convertible without leaving him a tip.

But the day was almost over and he'd finally be able to send that bloody CD that had been lying around his apartment for a week. He came to hate the sight of it; it was about time it got sent to a proper record label.

He had his heart set on Dove Records, but he hadn't found the address yet. The right address, mind you, not the official crap. He'd tried that a thousand times, the whole using-the-official-address thing, but with a little experience he'd discovered that it was a waste of time. You had to locate a manager or an agent or an impresario of some sort – someone related to the record company one way or another – then find their address and send them your demos. Not that this technique had produced any good results either. But yeah. It had to be better than the alternative.

When the afternoon sun faded and waned over the coffee shop's pastel-colored walls, Mika undid his apron and flung it over the kitchen worktop. He yawned and waved the manager goodbye. He walked out of the coffee shop and stood for a few moments in the warm light of the setting sun. He enjoyed the newfound sense of freedom he felt at the end of each and every day. He savored it, looking up at the name of his workplace written in bold letters on the front of the building: "Last Party". Mika always thought it could be the title of a very sad song.

When he finally shook himself out of the vapors of his own mind, he looked across the street and caught someone aiming a camera at him. It was a young man, probably Mika's age, with auburn hair sticking out in spikes around his head. The rest of his face was covered by the camera he was looking through; it was an old model, something Mika had seen his grandmother try to use once or twice. The stranger was wearing a bright blue shirt with the two top buttons missing and a pair of shabby-looking jeans. And he took his time, slowly shifting positions to take another picture, no matter how hard Mika glared at him.

'The nerve,' Mika finally exclaimed, holding his clenched fist up and shaking it at the stranger, 'What the fuck! Stop that!'

The young man lowered his camera and two bright blue eyes stared back at Mika with mild amusement. 'What are you smiling for?' Mika frowned, irritated. The stranger did not reply, instead he started walking away at an even pace, taking pictures of the sidewalk and some buildings on his way. Mika watched him turn around the corner and disappear into Los Angeles. 'Creep,' he whispered to himself.

*

It had been a week and two days since Mika had sent his demo CD to a manager who worked at a modest record label called Antonia Digital. He wasn't really expecting a reply anymore. And yet the moment he stepped into his apartment, his roommate Sarah came running through the kitchen door holding an envelope high in the air.

'Guess what I have,' she said in her charming Italian accent.

'No way,' Mika replied, dropping his keys into his pocket and reaching for the envelope.

'It came through the post this morning,' Sarah explained as she watched Mika nervously tear the packet and open the letter. It was printed text, neat and formal. They both peered at it and Sarah read aloud. 'Dear Mr. Penniman, thank you for submitting your tape of "Happy Ending" to Antonia Digital. We have listened with careful consideration, but feel it is not suitable for us at present.'

'Great,' Mika sighed heavily, crumpling the letter, 'Why am I not surprised?'

'Wait!' Sarah cried, 'There's something else in the envelope.'

Mika carefully extracted a smaller piece of paper from the now-empty envelope. It was a bit battered and something had been handwritten onto it. He read it out loud. 'Dear Mr. Penniman, I see great potential in the tape you have sent us. Please join us on Friday evening at the following address to further discuss your future career. Sincerely, Lorne Meyers'.

There was a small moment of utter silence. Then Sarah spoke. 'Um, what does that mean?'

'It means that the record company hated me, but this manager fellow is ready to defend me,' Mika said, a smile sneaking onto his face.

'You have to convince him you're worth it,' Sarah put her hands on her hips thoughtfully. 'You should take the day off on Friday. I want to make you presentable. You have to look like a star,' she added, nodding confidently.

'Whatever you say,' Mika shrugged, holding the tiny piece of paper between his fingers and grinning at it.

Finally. Fucking finally.