The kid stops by the old man's place on his way out of town. His band’s first real show. Opening spot, three states away, in front of people he’s never met.

The house smells like cardamom coffee, old books, tube amps, and leather that has played more shows with more bands than the kid even cares to know. There’s an area on the back porch where he grows mescal and peyote cactus, though the kid doesn’t know what those are yet. The kid flops down on the couch and starts scrolling.

The old man asks, “You good? Is that important?”

“Yeah. It’s about this gig.”

“What's the gig?”

“Opening slot. I don't know anybody there. Nobody's gonna come out for us.”

The old man points at a framed flyer from a basement show in 1986. Not sold out; no one really came out.

“Good, enjoy these shows, and save the flyer.”

“Why is that one framed and not any of your huge sold-out shows?”

“Hipster high ground. The masses don’t know what’s good; they just do what they’re told. That flyer is to music as buying Apple stock in the 80s is to tech.”

The old man pours some tea.

“You know why you don't know anybody?”

“Because it's my first show out of town.”

“No. You don't know anybody because you're full. You care too much about who cares. Your mind is like a room that’s packed with other people and other shit that you think is important.”

“I just want to do good. We got lucky on this gig.”

“Yeah, but you're not here right now. You're on your phone, stressing out, and you think you’re on my couch, but in your mind, you’re onstage already bombing. You got lucky; say thanks, but they did too. They found a band that’s willing to travel for free and just play for exposure.”

“Did you ever do gigs like this? For exposure?”

“Oh yeah!” He gets up to make some hot water. “We’ve all done those gigs. It never works, and we never learn. Now you're stressing, trying to figure out what people want, right? You want to get something out of this, to make it work for you, right?”

The kid looks up. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Every kid under 40 says yes to gigs like this. Then, that damn Eminem song starts playing in their head backstage. You know that Lose Yourself song. They all think that if they just puke and cry in the mirror and put too much pressure on themselves, they’ll win some championship or record deal.”

“Ahah, I love that song.”

“Of course you do, it’s a great song, but you’re not having fun anymore.”

“What did you do?”

“I do what I know, and I give the crowd what I own. You are trying to please a room full of strangers and predict what they want before you've met them. You’ve filled your head before you’ve even stepped into the room. There's no space for your new fans. You know your songs, and you’re good. Are you going to play the hell out of them, or are you going to show people how serious you take yourself?”

“Yeah, we have a good set now. We’re ready.”

“If you want to connect with people. You need to clear that room in your head first. Because right now you're so busy performing confidence, nobody can see you. The worst thing in the world to be is a fucking poser. Especially in this scene.”

The old man pauses, sits up, and says, “Great performers think they need to be good, but really, your job is to be believed.”

“So you're telling me no one's in the “room” with you?”

The old man smiled, “Did you just airquotes at me?”

“Yeah, you sound like my friends’ weird moms with their new age stuff. Are we going to have a sound bath or hold crystals right now?”

The old guy reaches over and drops a small crystal in the kid’s teacup, “There ya go, moonbeam. Make friends with those new age chicks now, when you’re on tour, they’re the ones up front dancing, and you’ll never smell better than the first time you shower at a rich hippie girl’s house.”

“Aha, so you never answered my question. Are you saying your room is empty?”

“No way, the room in my head is very full. I had to walk people out right before you got here. I do it a couple times a day.”

He sits down.

“Here's who walked in this morning. The voice that says I'm not as good as I used to be. The version of me from thirty years ago who could do things I can't do anymore. The kid I used to teach who made it big, and I didn't. A girl I haven't talked to in twenty years. The fear that I'm irrelevant. The part of me that wants you to think I've got it all figured out.”

“That's a lot.”

“That's normal, man. Everyone is walking around with their own shit, and a room full of people they think are telling them to get their shit figured out, but I'm not trying to evict them anymore. They're just wacky neighbors to me. They come, they go. I'm actually happy to see them now, because they remind me I'm not perfect. And I'd rather not be.”

The kid didn’t say anything.

“You know what happens to the perfect people? The ones who can't admit they're insecure? They wind up depressed, trying to escape their made-up stories, and many of them just end up blowing their brains out. Or they become addicts, and they just disappear. Drugs will definitely clear the room and leave nothing behind until you’re just a ghost giving your best impression of a human person.”

The old man slurps his tea and asks, “So, who's in your room right now?”

The kid starts naming them. His dad, who he hasn't talked to in weeks. A girl from his school, he’s trying to impress without admitting it to himself. The promoter he’s emailed twice and not heard anything back. Other musicians on the show he’s never met. A guy with three million followers who posted something about “making it.” His mom was telling him to be careful, but also his mom telling him he wasn’t trying hard enough; somehow both. It’s like she was the smooth jazz version of that Eminem song. “Lose yourself, but be careful and in bed by 9.”

“Good. That's a full room. Now — do they need to be there when you're playing?”

“I guess not.”

“No, man, they don’t need to be in the room when you need to be your most honest self. Do they need to be there when you're taking a shit, jerking off, or needing to be exactly who you are, honest and raw?”

The kid laughs.

“I'm not joking. Do they need to be in there when you're in the shower? When you're falling asleep? When you're trying to write something?”

“No.”

“Then those rooms are closed to them. Imagine you walk them out of the room in your head. And if they won't leave, you leave. Go somewhere they can't follow. Because trust me, they'll show back up. They always do. Get to a place where you're free of their influence long enough to actually create something that is you. That's where it happens. Not in a room full of people you think are judging or you’re trying to impress or please. Get to the empty room.”

“So you're saying I shouldn’t think of my dad when I’m in the shower?”

“No, you should always think of your dad when you’re in the shower, and he’s having sex with your mom.”

The kid laughs again, but something just landed.

“Tonight, before you go to sleep, imagine that you walk all these people out of the room in your head. Then go to sleep empty and clear. Sleep is how we practice dying. Because you sort of are. You die every night. Let it all go.”

“Ha, I never thought of it like that, and then?”

“Then wake up new. It’s like doing reps of reincarnation. Do it all again, and then you do it again. Every day it repeats, but you will notice when and who enters and exits your mind’s room a little more each day. Do it when you wake, sleep, call your girl, and do it before you go on stage. Repeat it like you practice your songs or do pushups.”

“They're just gonna keep coming back.”

“Yeah. They're your neighbors, they’re your family, they’re your people and stories. They live in your mind. You're just deciding which rooms they get to hang out in. You’re no longer infested with weird stories that you’re making up. Are you ready for this moonbeam? You ready to clear the room?”

“Yeah”

“Look down at your crystal. Do you see it?”

“Ahah, yeah”

“Imagine walking all those people out of the room in your head.”

There was a heavy pause; they rarely sit this long in silence together.

“Did you do it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re now a little more conscious. Just a little, though. It takes practice, so stay consistent and don’t get cocky.”

The kid left for the show.

He did it that night in the motel. Naming people, walking them out. His dad took a while; he didn’t want to leave because he hates his politics and always wants to tell him that. The girl wouldn't leave for a long time, but she eventually did, and then she walked right back in, and he laughed in the dark because he kinda wanted her to stay, but he imagined taking her hand and walking her out again.

He even noticed that he was thinking about people he didn’t even know existed as he was lying in bed in that cheap motel, smelling smoke and bad cleaning products, thinking, “What kind of sick shit goes on in this motel?” Then he remembered to do more than just let it go, he practiced dying.

He woke up new, and that new feeling lasted for about two minutes of pure clarity. Then he checked his phone, and his room was packed before his feet hit the floor.

He cleared the room again. Then thought about his mentor,  “Shit, now he’s in the room.” He was starting to get it.

At the venue, he saw it for the first time. Every person there was carrying their own room full of people and stories in their heads. The headliner, the sound guy,  two kids near the merch table, the girl taking photos by the bar. We were all performing to a made-up audience, and none of us knew it.

The kid stood by the stage and just watched.

Minutes before he was about to go on, he was in the standard punk rock issue backstage bathroom, wallpapered with band stickers and graffiti, and for some reason, always painted black or dark blue. He looked at himself in the mirror, then that damn Eminem song came on in his head. He laughed and said, “Get outta my head, Em!”

Minutes later, his band was playing their first out-of-town set in a scene they’d never been in before, to a crowd that wasn’t theirs. Vibrating like a crystal dropped in a teacup. They were crushing it! The old rockers in the back uncrossed their arms as the people at the bar turned around in their barstools and stopped talking. Then the girls walked up towards the stage; the guys followed. 

Halfway through the second song, he thought about the girl back home. His room started to fill back up, his playing got small, and people in the crowd started talking. He felt the crowd starting to disconnect. Then he remembered, “Clear the fucking room.” He walked her out mid-song, and the songs became huge.

Afterward, someone he’d never met asked if he wanted to come back next month to play a show and do an interview for the college radio station.

Then a girl from the crowd came up to him.

“You guys were great, but those last songs… Something changed. What happened?”

He almost lied. Almost performed something.

“My head was full, and then it cleared out.”

She laughed. “That's weird.”

“Oh, it’s much weirder than that.”

“I like it though.”

They stood there in the venue, and the crowd left as his room slowly filled back up. He noticed it was full of the same people, but now he wanted to share with them. He wanted to hug his parents. He wished his friends back home could have seen the show. Then he cleared the room again. He heard his mentor reminding him, “Even praise is judgment, just enjoy the feeling, it’s yours.” 

He texted the old man in the morning. “It worked!”

The old man texted back later. “What? The crystal in the tea?”

“No, clearing the room.”

“No shit, do it again.”

“LOL, WTF”

“Great work, kid!”