I am bootleg Frank Sinatra. I am inside a Las Vegas hotel. They are paying me to host their grand opening. Men in suits and women in dresses fill the banquet hall. A live band plays in the background while people dance and drink. I am the life of the party. Everyone wants to shake my hand, greet me and buy me a drink. I quickly grow tired of everyone. However, I am obligated to host the night. More and more people approach me. Photos, handshakes, drinks. Gorgeous women in low cut dresses and men with perfectly coiffed hair all want my attention. I break away and take to the stage.
With Count Basie's orchestra behind me, I sing two charmless songs and receive a standing ovation. The night never finishes. As I wade through more people, I notice a something bizarre: A girl, simply dressed, sits on a wooden stool in the middle of the dance floor. She has no makeup on. Her hair, in a simple bun. I focus entirely on her. My body begins collapsing as I near her. I fall to my knees and continue approaching. When I reach her, I lay my head on her chest. She warmly holds me. The attendees, ignoring us, continue to drink and dance. The music, the chattering and the clinking glass fades away. I wake up.