Page 2 of Street of Dreams
“I take it ye were playin’ ye guitar on the street again?” Her Scottish accent amplified the disapproving tone of her voice.
“You know I’m trying to save every penny I can.” Which is exactly why, at 20 years old, he still lived with his parents.
She pursed her lips together and shook her head, clearly annoyed. “I don’t know why ye’re not content here. Chicago’s a lovely place.”
He looked at her as if she were crazy.
“Stop yer scowlin’,” she scolded.
His parents had acclimated, and just like everyone else in South Side, they loved the neighborhood and all of its imperfections. They were proud inhabitants and never dreamed of a better life, because their life was right here. Mac, on the other hand, couldn’t get out fast enough.
Even though his parents embraced the culture, he hated that they wanted to stay. “Can’t you at least move to the north side where it’s nicer? Safer? You don’t have to stay here with the gangs and the crime.”
Now she was the one to look at him as if he were crazy. “Me and yer da have a life here. We have a business to run. Who would take care of it? And don’t ye dare suggest we close down the pub. What would South Side be without Mackenzie’s Pub?”
He knew he’d never change her mind, especially since the pub did well. It was a business his parents built from nothing, shortly after they immigrated from Glasgow two years before he was born. The pub provided enough money to pay the mortgage, cover necessities and offer a few luxuries, although his parents never splurged on anything. By economic standards, they were probably better off than most in the area, but they didn’t desire anything more than they had, and they couldn’t understand why it wasn’t enough for him. He had dreams. Big dreams. Dreams that involved the stage.
He grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and walked through the kitchen toward the door that led to his basement apartment.
“Are ye joining us fer dinna?” his ma called to him.
“No. I’m meeting Skylar for barbecue. But save me a bowl. It smells delicious.”
She smiled at him, and the corners of her eyes crinkled with deep lines at the small compliment. “I’ll pack up a to-go container fer her.”
“She’ll love it.” He trotted down the stairs and placed his guitar case on the floor before he changed out of his kilt and threw on a pair of sweats. He chugged back some water and eyed the beauty in the corner of the room. The Gibson was his most expensive and cherished possession. It was his only extravagance. The rest of his money was tucked away in a shoebox in the back of his closet, not to be touched until the day he had enough saved to blow this town.
He gently picked up the instrument and lovingly ran his fingers over the bright starburst paint, careful not to leave a mark or a scratch, and sat on the sofa with it resting comfortably on his knee and plugged the guitar into the cabinet amp by his feet. His notebook, opened with a pen on the page, waited for him to finish the song he started last night.
He added two more verses and repeated the chorus, then played the song through several times. Happy with the way it turned out, he rested the guitar back on its stand and stared at the notes on the paper. He was self-taught, never having taken a vocal class or music lesson in his life, and he was damn proud of his songwriting ability and musical compositions. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and he picked up his phone to check the time. There were two missed calls from Skylar and a text message.
SKYLAR: Hellooooo? Are we still on for dinner or are you MIA?
MAC: I’m here. Give me an hour. Meet you at Lem’s?
The screen remained silent for almost a minute before a reply came.
SKYLAR: I almost gave up on you! See you there.
As he slipped his T-shirt over his head, he stretched his long arms up to the ceiling and flexed the muscles in his back. He’d hit the gym pretty hard this past week and standing with a guitar in his hands all day did a number on his aching muscles. A hot shower would soothe the tension knotting his shoulders, and he headed toward the bathroom, stopping for a brief moment to rest his hand on the headstock of his Gibson as he passed.
Once out of the shower, Mac dried his hair with the hair dryer, which took longer than expected. He stared at his reflection in the full-length mirror, wearing nothing but a pair of black briefs. His hair was past his shoulders now, and the bright orange color that made him stand out as a child had transformed into a beautiful burgundy over the years. The soft facial hair that made up his light mustache and goatee was the same rich shade of color. Hours spent outside playing for tips had turned his fair skin sun kissed. His eyes, which sometimes were a light sea green, looked dark emerald in the bathroom light. Time working the weight bench gave him the physique he wanted. Vanity had no play in the transformation from geeky freckled-faced carrot top to the person staring back at him in the mirror. He knew his appearance mattered if he was going to be a musician. Studio execs were looking for the total package, not a work in progress, so he reworked his external attributes.
When he arrived at Lem’s, he found Skylar sitting at a booth toward the back of the restaurant and slipped into the seat across from her.
“I thought you’d never get here,” she said, her eyes brightening. “I’m starving.”
“Sorry. I was out in the sun all day and needed to shower, but first I had to write a song.”
“You had to write a song? You say it like you had to change your socks or something.”
It really wasn’t that big of a deal. Songwriting and putting down tracks were second nature to Mac. He just wished everyone were as enamored by his ability as Skylar was. She was his number one cheerleader.
“What are we having?” he asked, because they always shared their meals.
“Tips and hot links?” she suggested, looking over the top of her menu.
“We should get a slab too. And potato salad and coleslaw.”
