“EXCUSE ME MA'AM, I’m a musician,” he says. Their eyes meet. It’s like being swept up in a vortex of longing and renewal. “Thank God you’re here,” she sighs. He rattles a primitive rhythm with a tin of curiously strong mints in his hand. “Everybody’s doing a brand new dance now!” he shouts. Every person in the room stands and sings out the response: “Come on baby! Do the Locomotion!” He can’t remember the next line. He wakes up soaking wet on a moldy couch in a strange living room. He’s wearing unfamiliar clothes. But still, he has his dreams.

.