Paparazzi by Erika Vanzin
Returning from the bathroom, I find Damian and Lilly making out in front of the stove, passionately kissing like two teenagers held hostage by their hormones, ignoring the fact that I’m in the room.
“For God’s sake! Do you two ever stop fondling each other like two teenagers?”
Since we returned from the tour, they haven’t been separated for more than five minutes, even going so far as to move in together to a much bigger apartment than Damian’s previous one. They built a classic love nest. They spend their evenings on the sofa, under the blanket, trying to watch a movie but never seeing the end of it because, after twenty minutes, they’ve already ripped their clothes off and become a tangle of limbs, sweat, and moans of pleasure.
I know this because they once invited me to a pizza and Netflix night, as they call it, and I went to make some microwave popcorn before staring at a show I didn’t want to watch. Two and a half minutes later, I returned to find my shirtless friend lying beneath Lilly as her tongue worked its way across every inch of his skin. I had to walk to the front door with my eyes closed before bolting out of the apartment and getting into the elevator at light speed.
Lilly glances up from their make-out session and giggles, giving me one of her contagious smiles that light up her eyes, then pushes Damian away, her hands on his chest. In response, my friend lets out a guttural grunt. Maybe I should have accepted Simon’s invitation to relax in his Connecticut home, reading books and looking at the greenhouse filled with bonsai and other plants whose names I don’t know.
“You only say that because you’re jealous.” Damian goes to the fridge and hands me a beer after uncorking it. His face is enlightened by an amused smile, making fun of me. He’s been doing this a lot lately since this woman came into his life and made him so happy.
I sit at the kitchen counter and sip from the bottle, watching Lilly manage the stove. She’s a fantastic musician, but she could burn a precooked dish in the microwave. She’s using a metal spatula to peel off the chicken breast she forgot to check—it’s so burnt I doubt it’s healthy to eat. I hope my friend comes to the rescue of our dinner and prepares something edible.
I glance at Damian and find him looking at her with adoring eyes. I had no idea how much a woman could change a man until I hung around these two. The stubbornness of this girl has capitulated even an unrepentant womanizer like my best friend. It’s a rare relationship, theirs. I’ve only seen it in a handful of couples, and I’ve come to the conclusion that love is an endangered experience. It exists here and there, I’m sure, but few are lucky enough to find it in a world full of masks and fake smiles, opportunism, and stabs in the back.
“No, not jealous. I have my share of sex. It’s not like I’ve become a priest,” I boast, even though the number of women coming on to me has been fewer lately.
The Jailbirds are eighty percent Damian, fifteen percent Michael—who with his brazenness and beauty manages to earn his space—and the remaining five percent I share with Simon. The groupies always want the damn front man who exudes sensuality and slams waves of testosterone in their faces. They don’t look at the drummer hidden behind a wall of instruments. When we walk into a club, the girls recognize Damian and Michael, while Simon and I have to be introduced as “the other bandmates.” Not that this prevents us from getting girls, but they usually settle for us because Damian chooses someone else.
“Don’t you miss having a steady companion?” Lilly’s question is as simple as it is complicated.
“Not exactly. With the life we have, it’s not easy to tell what women want from you. And since we don’t stay in the same place long enough to go out with someone more than three months in a row, my only option is the sex without strings attached.” It’s only a half-truth. Even if I didn’t have the tour, I still wouldn’t want anyone by my side. From the way he’s looking at me, I know Damian understands my reasoning.
“You’ve been here for a few months now,” says Lilly, who seems worried I won’t find a woman.
“Look, the right one should literally fall into my arms.” I chuckle while I sip my beer and pull out my cigarettes. I need to cut this conversation short before it completely spoils my evening. I’d rather not visit memories of a past that should just stay buried.
“Not in here!” Lilly glares at me and points her finger at the door.
Damian chuckles and shrugs his shoulders.
“I know, don’t get your panties in a twist. I’m going out to smoke.” I roll my eyes and stroll toward the front door.
The late November night is way too cold, even by New York standards. The smell of Manhattan is like a fog that seeps into your bones these days: a mixture of smog, ethnic cuisines, and dust. It’s not a bad smell. It’s what sets this city I love apart from any other. Simon loves to take refuge in his Connecticut home in the middle of nature as soon as he’s free from work commitments. I tried it too, really, but to me, it feels like something is missing there, that the air doesn’t smell of anything, even if it is healthier. And this time of year, this city is a sparkling feast of Christmas decorations that light up the streets. Every corner of this place is transformed into a world of magic and hope. On December first, the tree lights will light up in Rockefeller Center, officially kicking off the festivities. Tourists will invade the streets, with their eyes shining and their mouths open, enraptured by the decorations so realistic that they seem alive. Noses pointing upwards, they’ll wait impatiently for the snow that whitewashes everything and muffles the hustle and bustle of the city that never sleeps, making this corner of the world even more magical.
I can’t help but smile in this alley, hidden by empty trash cans, thinking about the city that adopted me and makes me feel at home. Illuminated by two street lights, this spot feels less sinister than the rest of the city. When I come to visit Damian and Lilly, I often take refuge in this alley. I don’t like to smoke in front of their apartment because sometimes people recognize me, take pictures, and I find myself in some gossip newspaper just for smoking in peace.
Here in the back alley, though, I’m always alone—or at least that’s what I thought until a metallic noise above my head makes me look upwards. I don’t even have time to figure out what’s going on before I find myself lying on the ground, some unknown person in my arms.
“What the hell...”
A mane of long, red, wavy hair moves above me, trying to get back on its feet with some difficulty. It takes me a few seconds to catch my breath and get up; my back is killing me.
“I’m so sorry! I slipped.” A woman’s sweet voice brings me back to reality.
I watch her swab her bloody knee with a napkin she’s pulled out of a bag emblazoned with the name “Iris” in giant bold letters. Probably written with a marker when she was a teenager, since it’s a little faded. There’s no doubt that this girl with legs for days, wrapped in a pair of tight black jeans and a figure-hugging jacket, is no longer a teenager. I stare at her like she’s an alien who’s came down to earth, swooping on me straight from the sky.
“Are you hurt?” I ask her, looking at the blood dripping from her knee.
She looks up at me and my breath catches in my throat. Two huge, green, fawn eyes stare at me, wide-eyed. Her face is covered in freckles, her pink-perfect lips slightly open in surprise. She has that familiar look of someone who recognizes me—but this time, I’m the one paralyzed by the breathtaking view in front of me.
“No, just a scratch…” Her voice comes out a little uncertain, but the smile on her lips is confident. She is not intimidated by my presence.
“How the hell did you fall from the sky?” I’m curious to know what she was doing up there, on the fire escape.
“Are you going to ask if I’m an angel now? And if I got hurt when I fell? Like one of those movie pick-up lines? You don’t seem like the type who needs jokes to pick up girls,” she teases as she finishes cleaning the blood from her knee and tosses her napkin into the trash can next to us.
I burst out in unexpected laughter. Clearly, she’s not fooled by the charm of a “famous” musician. “Apart from the fact that I already asked if you got hurt, no, I wasn’t going to hit on you. I don’t use those pick-up lines to impress women,” I admit, laughing and lighting another cigarette, as the first one ended up on the ground with my butt.
“Yes, I guess you have no difficulty with women. Do they usually let you to talk, or do they take off their panties as soon as they realize who they’re with? I’ve never been able to tell.”
The laugh spontaneously arises in my chest again. This girl doesn’t walk on eggshells. I like her bluntness, that she doesn’t go into respiratory crisis when she tries to put two words together. I love the fans who recognize me and surround me, but sometimes it’s too damn difficult to relate when they squeal, blush, freak out or ask me where Damian is. It’s a breath of fresh air to talk to a woman who’s not jumping on me or using me to get to my friend.
“If they’re brazen enough, they stick their tongues in my mouth without any talking. Or they ask to see the hands I hold the drumsticks with, or the strong shoulders that beat the drums,” I admit. Embarrassed, I take a deep draw from the cigarette, trying to hide my discomfort.
Her brow furrows for a few seconds, as though trying to figure out whether I’m kidding or not. Unfortunately, I’m not. My relationships are a continuous “What strong arms you have,” like I’m the big bad wolf in “The Little Red Riding Hood.”
“Are you serious? They really ask you those things?” It’s clear she’s holding back a laugh.
What a twisted irony of the universe: this beautiful girl who takes my breath away is also the only one who isn’t melting at my musician’s charm. I get the feeling a killer smile and two beefy biceps are not enough with her.
“Serious as death.” I rub the back of my neck, trying to drive away the embarrassment.
This conversation makes me look idiotic and, for some crazy reason, it annoys me to be seen like this by her. She’s a smart girl. Am I just an arrogant womanizer—or worse, a loser who can only get a woman because he’s a musician? I feel ridiculous, intimidated by the opinion of a perfect stranger.
“It’s a shame they miss everything you could say, just to have a trophy to add to their famous fuck shelf. You seem like someone who’s had more experience than most ordinary mortals on this earth.”
Her response, accompanied by a sincere smile, floors me. The women I’ve met have never treated me like more than a checkmark on a list of celebrities to brag about with their friends—and not even their first choice. I smile like a kid, looking down at my shoes—a feeling I haven’t experienced since fifth grade.
“Thank you. I take that as a compliment.” I take another drag from the cigarette to keep my lips busy, to prevent a frown from forming on my face.
The girl shrugs and smiles. “I don’t know if it’s a compliment, but for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re just a pretty face. You’re a phenomenal drummer, and I’d give anything to know the story behind that time you took the stage wearing a pair of jeans with one leg ripped off.” She laughs and I join her. Out of my entire musical career, the only thing people remember is the time I looked like a complete fool.
“Why the hell does everyone ask me about that? Damian took the stage in a much worse state than me, but all anyone remembers is my mishap,” I say with a laugh.
“Because you looked like someone out of an ‘80s pop video. All that was missing was a flowy wig, and you’d be perfect.”
“Aren’t you tired of hearing that same old story?” I reproach her good-naturedly, but I can tell she’s dying to know.
“I don’t think so...and most importantly, I don’t think that’s all you have to say about that.”
I nod and take another drag, trying to gather my thoughts before appearing to be a total moron as I tell the official version for the umpteenth time.
“We were at the festival, backstage waiting for the group before us to finish playing. A group of girls approached with their expensive all-access passes hanging around their necks. They wanted an autograph from the whole band, along with something that they could bring home as a trophy. Damian took off his shirt, Simon gave them four guitar picks, Michael...no, better you don’t know about him. They wanted my pants. Since I couldn’t get on stage in my underwear, I tore off a leg of my jeans. At the time, it seemed like a good idea; later, I realized I looked like a moron.” I still giggle at the memory I’ve told so many times to the press that reality and fiction are now forever confused in a foggy haze.
“I don’t believe you.”
Her affirmation is solemn. I didn’t think her green eyes could get any bigger, but here she is, proving me wrong, with two irises that seem to want to nail me for my lies. She really doesn’t believe the pre-approved PR bullshit I tell the press.
“That’s what happened that day...that’s what happens when you’re part of a world-famous band. Women just want to take a trophy home. Sometimes it’s a t-shirt; other times it’s something physical in another way.”
She smiles and shakes her head. “You’re lucky you’re a fantastic drummer because if you had to act to survive, you’d be starving.” She nails me in my bullshit without beating around the bush.
“I’m lucky I met those three idiots I’ve been hanging around with for years, I suppose.” I smile at her, hoping I didn’t ruin this strange connection between us.
The girl studies me for a few seconds. Her head is slightly tilted. “They’re the ones who are lucky to have met you. The Jailbirds wouldn’t be the same without their drummer.”
For the first time, she openly admits that she knows who I am, and I appreciate her straightforwardness. I smile at her and take another drag of my cigarette. My heart starts pumping against my chest when I see her wave and take a few steps away from me.
“Where are you going?” The words leave my lips before I realize what I’m saying. Anxiety assaults my stomach.
“It’s not like I usually spend my evenings in the alleys surrounded by garbage, even if the company is pleasant.” She nods at me, gesturing to the environment around us.
I look around and remember where we are. Talking to her transported me to another reality.
“Iris! Can I at least ask for your number?”
“So you can tell me another pre-approved story about how you ripped off your pants?” She smiles at my inability to answer coherently. She raises her hand, waves at me, and disappears through the streets and traffic of Manhattan, leaving me with a myriad of questions.
Is her real name Iris? Does she live nearby? And most importantly, why the hell did she fall from the fire escape? For the first time, I’ve met a woman I would like to talk to for hours, and I can’t come up with a convincing excuse to persuade her to stay. I hate feeling so unprepared, so inept at reading someone who intrigues me. I’d like to get lost again in her teasing smile and her curious, questioning eyes. I’d like to know everything about the only woman in years who has attracted my curiosity so much I’d give anything to talk to her—not just sleep with her.