The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [43]
“Dimas, prejudice will age you more than the passing of time. Inside, you’re older than many of them,” the dreamseller said.
“If it were up to me, I could solve their problems in about two minutes,” Bartholomew added. “I’d give ‘em a couple quarts of booze and get the party started.”
He immediately apologized. Edson and Solomon also didn’t know how to achieve the miracle of happiness. We were all at a loss.
Before we realized it, the dreamseller had already set off for some unknown destination. The group gathered, each one explained his ideas, we formulated a strategy and went in search of materials, returning two hours later.
Honeymouth was wearing a long wig and dark glasses and was chewing gum. Excited, he told us, “Guys, I’ve got it! We’ll pretend we’re normal.” We all burst out laughing.
We headed for the nursing home. Before I could say anything, Bartholomew again took the lead. He made up what sounded like a pretty good story to get us in.
“OK, here’s the deal. We’re a professional band of musicians and we want to put on a show for the people here. For free. We don’t need money but any donations are welcome.”
When he mentioned donations, I poked him. That wasn’t in the script. Dimas was wearing a red hat and dark Ray-Ban–type glasses. I had on a long pigtail wig. Solomon sported thick sideburns like Elvis Presley’s. Edson had a red ribbon on his head and a long collarless T-shirt. We borrowed the outfits saying we were putting on a fund-raiser and had promised to return them afterward.
The nursing home staff looked suspiciously at our costumes, but since young people rarely came to visit the elderly, the staff wanted to see what we had in store. I said to myself, “What are you doing here? This isn’t going to work.” An impromptu audience was arranged. More than a hundred retirees sat down quietly in front of our so-called band.
We had two battered guitars. The Miracle Worker, who claimed to have learned to play in his church band, played way out of tune. And Solomon, who had the other, wasn’t much better. I blew into a sax, trying to recall the handful of notes I had learned in a few classes with my grandfather. Dimas had a double bass and didn’t know what to do with it. Honeymouth was—what else?—on lead vocals. But he assured us that he could carry a tune and said he used to sing in nightclubs when he was more or less sober.
We played our first piece of music, a rock ballad. But we were nervous and stiff. Honeymouth’s voice was a disaster; he couldn’t keep up with the music and it probably would have been better if he had just danced along—not that he realized how awful he was. Our audience just watched us. We thought maybe things should be livelier. We stopped halfway through the first song and broke into a heavy metal jam. Oh, what a ruckus we made. We were really worked up, shaking our hips, jumping around the stage, but from the old folks? Nothing. Not even Honeymouth’s verbal gymnastics with that off-key voice drew a laugh.
I thought: “We’re toast. We’ve just made these people’s depression worse.” Bartholomew broke into his anthem, a samba, and we just tried to keep up: “I drink, yes I do, I’m livin’, there’s folks who don’t drink and are dyin’, I drink, yes I do.”
And he repeated the refrain, looking at the old people, believing a little alcohol in some form would get them moving.
But no one sang. Or clapped. Or smiled. Or so much as moved. Instead of selling dreams, we were selling embarrassment. We looked at the nursing staff and saw that they were motionless, too. Like us, they thought the elderly had one foot in the grave and were just waiting for death. Just when the afternoon was looking like one of the worst since we started following the dreamseller, he returned. When they saw him, several of the old men and women rushed to hug him passionately. That was when we realized that he was a frequent visitor here.
The dreamseller handed out our instruments to the audience, though they could barely hold them. We thought they wouldn’t even