Chances Are

"Cockroaches. Everywhere, cockroaches!" the boy hissed as he sped passed us toward destination unknown.

We had been apartment hunting in LA for three days and it had not been a success. One apartment labeled "One Bedroom with New York style loft" had turned out to be a small studio with a cheap shelving unit separating the living space. Others had bars on windows, and signs that said "Clearly not for a young white couples." We had scoured the papers, hit every bulletin board and even paid $50 for an apartment search service.

After hours of driving quickly through the ghettos, not making eye contact, we came upon a beautiful little neighborhood only to be told that the listing was ten years old and the actual rent was nearly triple the price of the listing.

Awesome.

Then finally we settled on this okay looking complex, not too far from the freeway, and the minute we began talking to the Rental Agent this boy in his early twenties who could easily have been a model in a Gap ad, interrupted our genial greetings in order to make a few well worded complaints.

He seemed polite and calm while describing the broken appliances, the broken locks, and the pool of water that was mysteriously turning his living room into a swamp. It was early July after all.

"I'll be with you after I show these two around" the agent said, trying to contain both her anger and embarrassment.

What she showed us was frankly, acceptable. Acceptable if it was just me and the blushing bride and we really didn't have many needs beyond clean water and a suitable roof. But there was the ten year old to think about. God only knows how long it was going to be before I sold some songs and the place was dark, dingy, and damp. It was only one room, which meant that the ten year old was going to have to sleep on a couch, and it was just slightly beyond our price range which meant the ten year old was going to have to adjust from fresh italian gourmet cooking to ramen noodles and the occasional macaroni and cheese around pay day.

My brand new wife and I looked at each other with the fresh gaze of understanding.

"We'll make it work" that gaze said.

"We'll follow our dreams and we'll make it work, god dammit!"

Remember, six months before, I had told this woman that I had quit my job and was going to be running to LA for three weeks with another woman to record some songs.

She didn't even blink an eye.

In fact her only stipulation was that I break down an get a cell phone because she wanted to make sure I was okay during the long drive.

Love, dude, love.

The agent finished describing to us how nice the neighborhood is and how we should leave a $30 check along with our application. She told us that she had some errands to run and that we should just drop the application in her mailbox before she scurried away.

And she did scurry. No doubt about it. Like a mouse in the middle of the night when the kitchen light turns on.

We paused in the center of the square long enough to take a breath and decide what we were going to say to each other when we reached the safety of the car when the nice looking boy in his early twenties sped past us in a brisk walk.

"Cockroaches. Everywhere, cockroaches." he said.

"Don't do it." he said.

"Run. Cockroaches."

And then he too was gone.

And our will faltered. Our courage failed. We hurried back to our little car speechless and broken.

"Well?" she said.

"Nope." I answered.

"What do we do now?" she asked.

"We come back next week, I guess." I said as we began to make the 8 hour journey home.

But there was no next week.

On the long drive home, my blushing bride noticed a lump on her neck that months later turned out to be an innocent little cyst on her thyroid, but solidified the fact that we don't can't comfortably live without some type of health insurance. And the project that we dreamed would lead to a recording contract and full scale album teetered in development and eventually faded from sight. We decided it was better to be poor in Roseville than poor in LA and that I can write music anywhere. I went back to work broken but grateful that they would take me back, and internally joyous that I was at least doing something I loved.

And I never stopped making music. A year or two later I had recorded most of my first album. The baby came. The ten year old went crazy. We bought a house. We struggled to keep food on the table and smiles on our faces. I finished the first album with the baby on my lap and the neighbors gently rapping on the walls when the hour got too late. I started performing again. I started being again.

My little son began to talk. My big step-son began to take control of his life. My writing matured. My voice matured. I am the best I have ever been. There's no need for me to wish any longer because I am living the perfect life.

Perfect life.

Perfect Life.

Career Professional. Beautiful wife. Healthy brilliant children. Comfortable house in the safe quiet suburbs. Studio in the garage, and an upcoming album that has greatly surpassed any of my previous projects.

Perfect life.

Perfect Life.

Last night. It's late. I've probably had a few too many glasses of wine. I get a text.

My friend, manager, greatest fan, tells me that Bravo is hosting auditions for a songwriting competition. I apply on line immediately. American Idol for songwriters. It was in fact an idea I had the first season of American Idol when an expensive recording session was paused so that all the musicians could gather around and see that night's episode. There I was, starving like a fat kid during lent and wishing that part of the contest included songwriters. I'd dreamed of this. I was desperate to be a part of it.

But there wasn't enough wine in the house for me to forget reality. My application would be one among thousands. And even if I was chosen for a second round, is there enough magic in the world to see me through. And even if I made the final cut, what would happen if I had to make the choice between the life I've built and a few swings at glory. And even if my skill as a tunesmith pushed me to the next level. And I won the competition and was given a publishing deal and got to spent the following months penning songs for Brittany Spears and Kelly Clarkson, I might have to drag my wife apartment hunting in LA. But this time with a sensitive four year old and a freakishly lazy seventeen year old. Even resounding success would be a cautionary tale.

But it was late. It was time for bed.

And then I go to sleep. And dream the kind of dreams I dreamt before life made me a man. The future is an empty void of possibility and in that empty void I dream of introducing myself as "Joshua Macrae . . . Songwriter"

Luck made me smart. My parents made me capable. Luck made me talented. Hard work made me prolific. Luck gave me some good songs. Tenacity allowed me to make them real.

Chances are that by this time next week I'll have received a very nice letter of rejection and I can go about dreaming my other dreams.

Chances are that by this time next week I'll get over that rejection and write my songs.

Chances are that someone will hear my songs and be moved by them.

Chances are.