Low-Cost Dreams
by Maximiliano Guzmán
In Recreo, Catamarca, there’s a family business that makes your humblest dreams come true at low cost. You pay what you can, and they make sure that teenage or youthful dream becomes real for thirty minutes.
Do you want to be a local theater actor?
A mechanic shop boss?
A hot dog vendor on Paseo Faustino Lazarte?
They make sure you touch the sky.
Just like they did with me, who wanted to become the most famous bolero singer in Barrio Centro, my neighborhood.
I was tired of singing in the shower, of my wife stuffing cotton in her ears and never telling me I could make it. That frustrated me. She was the mayor’s secretary. She had a good salary, better than mine sweeping the plazas. She loved me. And I, confused and bitter, loved that little fame that paying two hundred thousand pesos would give me—feeling like a local idol. I didn’t want much more; at fifty you don’t want much more. And I won’t talk about sex. If that’s what you expected, a singer like me has no memory. My wife did, but she was ashamed of this.
We needed the two hundred thousand pesos to pay the gas and electricity bills.
"I’ll work twenty‑four hours and get the money back. Do it for me, just once think about my dream." And she agreed. She made a reluctant grimace but agreed.
And I went like a child to the Roa Molina family’s house.
Geor opened the door and said:
"A dreamer."
It moved me that she said that.
She asked me my dream.
I told her my story about my mother who sang boleros, about my father who played piano. I cried remembering.
Geor hugged me and said:
"How much do you have for the dream?"
And I pulled out the wrinkled bills.
She counted them, and in a flash her daughter appeared with a group of her friends, the actors and organizers of the dream.
Luly, Roxana, Sonia, Juan Pablo, Natalia...
They carried me like a wave into the house.
They sat me in a chair and asked who I wanted to be.
I answered:
"Like me."
And the girls started to put makeup on me.
The boy handled the microphone.
"We’ll surprise you," said Geor, and after the makeup they put me in front of a wardrobe full of men’s clothes and said:
"Choose whatever you want. Return it washed." And I chose a red shirt with shoulder pads, a tie, a white beret, tight beige pants, and cowboy boots.
"You’re ready," the girls said all at once. Geor made a phone call for a few minutes. Then she signaled we were set to go.
I didn’t know what to do and started sweating.
"Now we’ll go together to 25 de Mayo Square and it will be your moment. You’ll do your magic."
"Really?" I asked.
They didn’t answer, and in a Ford we sped off to the square.
When we arrived, I found neighbors with signs asking for kisses, greetings, romance, beneath an improvised stage. A poster with my name presenting me as “The Goldfinch of La Paz”, I liked that nickname.
On the stage was an old standing microphone, a karaoke screen, and Juan Pablo with a notebook.
"Choose the songs. Only two," said Geor, controlling the dream’s time. Ten minutes left.
Nervous, goosebumps on my skin, I climbed onto the stage.
I saw my wife there with a sign that said “You’re my man” and I blew her a kiss and she jumped with joy.
Some filmed with their phones.
Geor spoke to a camera, presenting me as the greatest singer of the century, of the millennium, the voice of Recreo.
I told Juan Pablo what I wanted to sing.
In front of everyone, in Barrio Centro, in the main square.
The guitar music began…
And I lost my voice.
And the neighbors applauded while I, agitated, trembling, heart in my mouth, tried to sing but my throat was closed.
The chorus played:
"Que bonitos ojos tienes..."
La Malagueña blasted at full volume and I simply raised my hands, closed my eyes, and felt the love of the crowd.
I didn’t need much more.
They sang for me.
I was there for them.
And I felt happy hearing my wife shout:
"Tonight we’ll have milanesas for dinner!"
And the music stopped.
Geor climbed the stage with the girls.
They hugged me as a group.
The neighbors applauded for a few seconds.
Geor whispered in my ear:
"Tomorrow return the clothes. You were wonderful." And I knew she was lying. But I didn’t care…I had fulfilled my dream, even if it wasn’t how I imagined it.
Maximiliano Guzmán (b. 1991, Recreo, Catamarca, Argentina) is the author of the novella Hamacas (Zona Borde Editorial) He serves as an editor for the digital magazine La Tuerca Andante (Argentina) and has published short fiction across magazines in Argentina, Chile, Ecuador, Peru, Mexico, Uruguay, Cuba, Croatia, Canada and the United States. Recently published in Expat Press, HAD, Midcult , Hobart, Hawkeye, Don't submit and soon in Burial Magazine and more!
