Even picking out frozen dinners reminds him he’s a one-hit wonder, a has-been. Walking down the aisle in a CVS, that song – the one song of his that everyone knows – comes on. A teenage girl groans and pretends to vomit.

As he opens the freezer door to grab a box of Stouffer’s Cream Chipped Beef, he sighs and wishes that he’d had more than one hit. Then he could afford to shop next door at the fancy co-op. Of his four albums, only one enjoyed success. In the summer of ‘98, he was big. 

Of course, it’s more than just wanting the fresh bread and grass-fed beef from the co-op. He wants the adulation of the masses again. He’s heard people say that dancing in rhythm with thousands of people can be a religious experience. Imagine being the one who wrote the music and is playing it. In that equation, you’re God.

The problem is that he has lost all confidence. His pants sag below his expanding gut, and every song he writes sounds like a cheap rip-off of his one hit. He buys an audiobook to help him through the block, one about how to write one song. He tries some of its exercises, trying to find new meaning in unexpected pairings of words. Artificial football. Saturated touchdown. But none of it works. It just reminds him that he’s not Jeff Tweedy.

Instead of writing, he starts playing Wilco songs. He stops dreaming of writing another hit. He stops thinking about what could come next. Over the next several weeks, he learns all of Wilco’s first four albums. He practices on his Washburn acoustic in his backyard. 

One Saturday afternoon, a few high schoolers in the neighboring yard listen. They crack beers and sing along. They clap after each song. “You’re pretty good, dude,” one with long, unshowered hair says. The man smiles. It’s not the summer of ‘98, but he’ll take it.

He’s back in the CVS that night, picking out a frozen dinner, and runs into the unshowered youth from that afternoon. “Hey, so, you’re Jeff Tweedy, right?” the kid says.

“Sure,” the man says. “I am an American aquarium drinker.” 

He gives the kid a high five and picks up a box of cream chipped beef. “Who needs the co-op?” he says, and tosses the frozen dinner into his cart.

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Michael Degnan lives on an island in Maine. His work has appeared in Maudlin House, Emerge Literary Journal, Flash Boulevard, and elsewhere.