“What’re you in for?” A short, slightly older Black woman asked me, although I knew she knew why: my reason was the same as her’s.

“I gave up,” I replied, sitting down on one of the cracked blue plastic chairs. It gave an awkwardly loud creak as I sat down.

“Same,” said the Black woman, and she sat down beside me. “My name’s Mary Kate.”

“I’m Angel.” I smiled, but it quickly turned back into a frown. I looked around: the large circle of blue plastic chairs was quickly filling up with sad and sick-looking men and women, and even some children or teenagers.

The meeting began at precisely noon, and the various people began to speak about their dreams. Or, should I say, ex-dreams.

“Once, when I was just a teen,” began an old, feeble man, who sat across from me in the circle. “I saw Black Sabbath and I just knew I’d have to be the next Ozzy Osbourne. I felt it in my bones, and I was so sure of it… It was fate, it was destiny… And five years later…” His nostalgia, almost hopeful, tone abruptly fell into a dismal sigh, and he continued, “And five years later, I was getting rejected from record label after record label, and by the time I was twenty-five, my band broke up and told me to stop living in a fantasy. So… I guess I did. And now I’m here… I’ve been coming here for the past thirty-seven years…”

“Yes, I’ve been here for almost thirty years…” a woman started up, almost as soon as the older man finished. “My band- er, bands- all dropped me to the curb as soon as they found a more talented drummer… I’ve got no sense of rhythm, why the hell did I ever even dream of being Dave Grohl?”

A bleach-blonde girl, younger than I, added with a sniff, “And I had to deal with sexism in the industry… In the big 25! No rock bands want a chick to play bass.”

Mary Kate, beside me, piped up, “And racism! My band was all white guys, but they liked my singing, but they dropped me because- years ago, this is- no record label wanted a grunge band with a Black woman as a singer. The drummer, on the other hand- well, of course, he went off to be in a famous grunge band… All white guys, too.”

“Oh, I lost my career to drugs,” a lean, sniffling middle-aged man with a large, outdated hairdo, started up, changing the whole topic. “Who knewv benders wrecked the music? My manager dropped the whole band because of my habit-“

He was interrupted by another man, around the same age: “Yeah, thanks a fuckin’ million, Neil!”

I looked around the whole circle. There were probably around twenty, thirty, maybe even as many as fifty people there, all frowning and bitter, nostalgia turned to regret.

My curls spun around my head as I looked around, everywhere, at everyone. Is this my life now? I wondered, heart sinking. I want my old life back…

Then, interrupting another dismal speaker, I burst out: “I quit quitting! I’m going back! I’m gonna be a musician again!”

This was met with a loud, almost angry, response of, “You can’t do that!” And, “What?”

I stood up, kicked over the stupid, cheap plastic chair, and strode out of the small building. I headed back to my stupid, cheap apartment and picked up my stupid, cheap guitar.