When to Self Reflect - Ep. 2

I had just turned 23 years old, and the quiet, country Virginia winter had taken grip of my spirit.

As someone that enjoys alone time, I seemed to have found my limit after a full season of solitude. I began to miss the buzz of the Nashville music agency, where I had quit my job as an assistant four months prior, seeking cheaper rent and more time to work on my own artistic ambitions.

I had been surviving on eggs, rice, and cheap cigarettes. All funded by odd jobs found on Craigslist, unloading moving trucks, and selling the occasional hip-hop beat. So I was thrilled when I received a job offer from a large music corporation that tracks and collects publishing and royalties. It was listed as part time and paying $18 an hour, giving me optimism that I could save a few dollars and get myself out of there.

The job was for me to visit assigned bars and restaurants in my rural area, pretend to be a normal customer, and quietly create a log of the music being played. This log became a report, which was to be sent back to the company, so they could catch offending businesses who were not paying the required licensing fees. Snitching on local restaurants did not appeal to me, but being paid above minimum wage to eat seasoned food and listen to music sounded miles better than my existing options.

My first assignment was to visit a nearby pub. It was filled with old looking regulars. I did my best to act natural, but I could tell everyone was suspicious of the young hipster eating alone, playing on his phone, and tapping out little notes.The bartender stopped by to ask me what I was doing, a question I was somehow not prepared to answer. “Oh, uh, just some work” was my vague, guilt-ridden response. The bartender seemed torn between being scared of me, and wanting to scare me. They begrudgingly served me some fish and chips, and I could see them conferring with other staff behind the bar about my presence. The regulars seemed to relax after I stepped outside and shared my Pall Malls with the other smokers, but I’m still pretty sure everyone there thought I worked for the government. Perhaps this is why I escaped alive, thinking this was far more uncomfortable than I had pictured.

The following week, I received my next task from the corporation. I was to drive over an hour away to Roanoke, where I would track the music being played at a karaoke bar on a Tuesday night. Naturally, I was concerned. I’m the sort of guy who could eat by myself at a restaurant, no problem. Showing up alone to a random karaoke night would surely challenge my dignity. I knowingly looked at my measly bank account before hopping in the old Honda, praying this would be less weird than it sounded.

I arrived in downtown Roanoke at 7 PM, an hour after the event had supposedly begun. I had no problem parking on the street, right in front of the venue, whose large glass storefront windows were blacked out. As I got out of my car, I heard the Diana Ross disco hit “Upside Down” blaring from the inside. “Well, at least they’re playing decent music.” I thought as I headed to the front door.

I stepped inside to find a completely empty room with sprawling black pleather sofas and a small dance floor. There was a bar, but no bartender. A karaoke booth, but no DJ.

I was the only one there.

A roving strobe light hit my eyes as the beloved Diana Ross classic took on an eerie tone. Just as I thought to leave, a burly middle aged man with big, brown, spiky-gelled hair burst through the kitchen doors from behind the bar. He looked like an angry version of Guy Fieri.

“Can I help you?” he asked, visibly confused that someone was there.

“Oh, I’m just waiting for a friend” I told him, slightly more prepared to handle the inquisitions about the strange behavior required to do this job. The man’s face lingered for a moment, showing a blended expression of disappointment and wariness. He asked no further questions and meandered his way to the DJ booth. I slid into the closest seat, assuming someone would stop by to take a drink order.

The man used one hand to work his laptop, while the other helped him sip on an unreasonably large, clear cocktail of some kind. I started to conclude that he was the bartender and the DJ, and no one was going to be taking my order.

When “Upside Down” ended, there was a brief, awkward pause. The man snapped to attention and started to type furiously on the laptop. Suddenly, a theatrical chorus erupted from the speakers in a thick, harmonious layer of aggressively angelic singing, shouting “We Built this City, We built this city on rock and roll”. I found myself torn between laughing and crying when the introduction dropped into the most 1980s beat and bass line. I gathered myself before using the Shazam app on my phone to identify this song was by a band called “Starship”, and appropriately titled “We Built this City”.

After a couple minutes, he cross-faded into “Buy U A Drank” by T-Pain. I appreciated hearing something familiar and relatively mellow. This small sense of relief was broken when I noticed the DJ taking a huge gulp from his drink and glancing sideways at me, as if he was trying to confirm that I was, in fact, still there. Next, he played “I’m Too Sexy” by Right Said Fred. I wished I had needed to look it up. With each passing song I sensed the volume creeping up towards ridiculous, ear-splitting levels.

I began to understand that this DJ and I were engaged in a sort of war of attrition. I yearned for a crowd to enter and fill the room. I fantasized that I was at least halfway through my two hour assignment. I looked at my phone to see it had been 16 minutes, and a sense of panic settled in my gut.

The DJ then put on “The Final Countdown”. He looked over with a nervous side eye, as if he was about to do something illicit. I pretended to look away, and out of my periphery saw him lean forward and again turn up the volume on his mixer before scurrying behind the bar. I felt the synth bass line fill the subwoofer and shake the room, drowning my chest in vibrations. My heart rate increased as I wondered if the shabby drop ceiling tiles would be falling on me.My anxiety began to crescendo towards a full on panic attack, when suddenly, I felt a strange sensory, overload-driven serenity wash over me. It was as if the intense, physical frequencies had flushed out my everyday mental systems, penetrating throughout my body and transporting me to another place. As the chaos of the outside world melted away, I entered a brief meditative state, and closed my eyes. I stopped taking stock of my absurd surroundings and found myself reflecting on the state and direction of my life.

In my mind, I heard that Talking Heads song…“How did I get here?”. I didn’t have an answer, but the question rang heavily between my ears. My rational brain then reminded me that I had pressing, immediate matters to handle. “How did I get here?” turned into “How do I get out of here?”

I considered my bank account.

“You barely have enough cash and gas to make it home tonight, let alone move to a different state. You need this money.” I thought to myself. But as I pondered my options, I concluded that many fates were preferable to sitting alone in an empty Karaoke Bar on a Tuesday night in downtown Roanoke, having a staring contest with an angry, inscrutable DJ. Before the man could return from behind the bar, I shuffled out the front door. I contemplated if I could fabricate the rest of my assigned music log before realizing I had not obtained a receipt of purchase, required to prove my attendance to the music corporation and get paid.

There was no going back in. That much was for sure.

*****

On the long drive home, the self-reflective voice continued to speak to me. It felt like an old, good friend I had not seen in years, who stopped by unannounced. I started to acknowledge that I had been moving off of instinct for several years, chasing what was right in front of me, without evaluating my actions, or how they aligned with my spirit.

As I passed farm after farm on a dark, winding country road, I began to see how my life had been swept up in social desires, avoidance, and submission to external pressure. I was making choices, but they didn’t really feel like my own. The German poet Hölderlin once wrote “Man is a god when he dreams, a beggar when he reflects”. That long car ride home showed me that Hölderlin was at least partially wrong. Dreaming without reflection might work for some people, but it landed me alone in the worst karaoke bar on planet earth.

The next day, I was promptly fired from the music corporation for not completing my assignment. I made no attempt to excuse myself or salvage the situation. Within a few months, I would scrape together just enough funds to drive my old Honda to Chicago, where the plan was to crash on my brother’s couch for a few months before getting on my feet. I didn’t yet know that my naive excitement would be muted in that bustling metropolis. Lonely, underpaid jobs and myself would continue to find each other. Jobs where I would learn about the other side of self-reflection — the ways it can weigh you down, or steer your wrong.

But as I drove through the mysterious hills of Appalachia and emerged into the flat open Midwest, I felt a special sense of pride reserved for someone making an honest change.By the time the Indiana plains gave way to Chicago’s monstrous skyline, I felt I was a different person altogether. No, the self-reflection had not provided me with a magical epiphany. There was no thundering external voice providing me with an exact map or recipe for success.

What it did was allow me to see through the top layer of my bullshit. It helped remind me about a few of the doors in my heart that I had closed off. It helped me see what not to do. To give myself permission to take a risk, and try something new.

To walk through a different door.