Paparazzi by Erika Vanzin
I’m not sure if I ended up in front of the Metropolitan Museum today or in the middle of a Christmas fairy tale. The stairway, covered by a vast white marquee that shelters the entrance, is covered with a pristine red carpet, despite people walking over it. But what makes the décor so spectacular are the giant Nutcracker characters that surround the staircase. Guards who look carved in ten-foot-tall wood stand beside Christmas balls the size of an armchair. Fake snow covers the entire area, giving the bright red and dazzling silver tones a magical, otherworldly feel.
The glitz has been meticulously displayed to make guests feel like they’ve stepped into a magical world. Tonight, high society’s most famous people on the globe, slipping into elegant, uncomfortable clothes in which they will freeze, come here to cough up considerable amounts of money. Everything will be done to make their evening beyond enjoyable—to let them know that large amounts of money have been spent on their entertainment so they’ll be more likely to open their designer wallets and sign fat checks.
But this is not a fairy tale, as the raw reality of the bitter cold air penetrates my bones. Despite being covered in countless layers of clothes, standing here waiting for the first guests to arrive has been like taking a bath in a frozen lake. Until a few days ago, I was supposed to be on the other side of the barricade, and now I’m groveling with all the nobodies, as if proving to Thomas what I really am. Just thinking about him makes my heart tighten in a grip.
Standing here for ten hours in front of the stairs to get an interview with the Red Velvet Curtains wasn’t a great idea. After Thomas’s outburst the other day, I thought the meeting would fall through. I was sure I’d get an email withdrawing the offer, and honestly, I expected it. I’m still stunned by our last meeting, unable to process the information that his ‘I don’t want to have anything to do with you anymore’ entails. I was used to seeing him pop over to my home at the most random moments, and my heart still hopes a little, despite reality.
My feet hurt, I’m tired, the barricades press against my ribs under the pressure of dozens of paparazzi squeezed up against them at the top of the red carpet. I’m not an official photographer for this event, entitled to a designated position on the stairway, so I’ve had to stand here since this morning with dozens of other second-class photographers who don’t have a pass. It’s been an hour since the minor stars came through, the ones for whom few flashes are unleashed but who are usually also the funniest to watch as they try to attract attention. A wave of shoves hit my back and ribs when Alicia arrived—the first big name to show up and a bad sign for an actress struggling to re-emerge after a scandal. Next year, she risks arriving completely unnoticed during the first hour of the red carpet, between the less famous stars or those who have fallen out of favor.
After that came a couple of well-known singers, but the big crush I’m feeling now is because the Jailbirds are here. The first limousine unloaded Thomas, Simon, and Michael, who waited as the second limousine with Damian and Lilly pulled up. As soon as the photographers realize who arrives, chaos erupts and they push against me until I’m out of breath, putting their cameras on my shoulders to take as many photos as possible. Guests at the gala don’t stop in front of us, so we have to take as many photos as possible as they walk by. I notice Lilly looking at us almost shyly and, when her gaze rests on mine for a fraction of a second, a slight smile appears on her lips. It’s a fleeting gesture, it lasts a few seconds, but it’s enough for me to lower my camera and look at her dumbfounded. I move my gaze to Thomas, and my heart skips a beat. With the black tuxedo fitting him like a glove, he looks like a model on a catwalk. Tall, slender, haughty-looking with a slight smile on his lips, he is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my life. The memory of what we had and what I threw away weighs like a boulder on my chest, and I find it difficult to swallow.
I’m so caught off guard seeing Lilly and Thomas, who doesn’t even look back at me, I don’t realize that paparazzi are pressing harder than usual, and the barrier on my rib is vibrating abnormally. The buzz of the cameras covers any other noise as one of the legs of the barrier gives way and takes away my only support.
It all happens in a matter of seconds which, to me, feel like hours. I’m shoved to the ground, trampled by the crowd behind me that falls with me when the front barrier collapses. With one arm stretched out, I try to stop the fall. With the other, I try to protect the camera and lens that cost me so much sweat and fatigue—my only source of livelihood. Unfortunately, I can’t hold the dozens of people rushing forward to escape the chaos behind them and I get trampled. The metal barrier presses into my side with a force that takes my breath away. The shoulder I tried to support myself with has crumpled under my weight, and the camera lens is jabbing into my side. In the confusion, I see several faces around me, including a worried Lilly trying to come to my rescue but being restrained by Damian. Then security makes its way among photographers who no longer know where to seek shelter. The last thing I see is the square face embedded on the big neck of a security guy wearing an earpiece. Then someone stumbles, kicking me in the face, between my nose and cheek, while another shoves a knee in my side, knocking what little air that was left in me out of my lungs. At this point, my body decides it’s had enough, and darkness falls over my eyes.
*
I open my eyelids and realize I’m in the emergency room. Overhead, neon lights blind and annoy me. To the side, I am greeted by a green curtain that divides the beds. I notice my clothes and camera, not in the best condition, in the chair. The lens dangles from the camera’s body, where I can see a thick crack in the plastic. I don’t who’s more banged up, the camera or me.
I try to sit up but the pain in my ribs and shoulder almost makes me cry out. “Great.” An annoyed hiss escapes my lips when I realize the damage could be severe.
“Where do you think you’re going?” asks a young, cute doctor, with dark, messy hair and two hazelnut eyes so wide he looks like I’ve just threatened him with a gun.
“Home,” I announce when I finally manage to sit up and realize that this damn hospital gown they put me in is open from behind.
“I don’t think so. You have a mild concussion, two cracked ribs, and a dislocated shoulder. We’re keeping you here for the night,” he announces as he waves a chart in front of my eyes.
I know he’s just doing his job, but he’s wasting my time. “And you found out all of this how?”
He frowns and studies me, perplexed for a few seconds. “With an MRI,” he says, like it’s obvious and I’m behaving like a crazy person.
“Perfect! How much will this cost me? Let’s see…fourteen hundred just for the ambulance ride, then twenty-five hundred for the MRI, a thousand for the X-rays, and I don’t know what other tests you’ve done on me. I’m leaving here with a bill of almost five thousand dollars already and I have news for you: I don’t have medical insurance, and staying here tonight costs me more than a room at the Ritz. So, unless I’m about to die any minute, please let me sign the damn discharge papers and stop wasting my time as well as yours?” I know I’m being rude, but I want to make it clear right away that I have no intention of being hospitalized.
“I can talk to the administrative office. They can set you up on a payment plan. There are other options you can consider…” His voice is almost imploring.
I watch him for a few seconds, and I realize he’s young—only a few years older than me, probably an intern who hasn’t seen a bed in at least twenty-four hours and likely working a weekend shift because he has no family. He’s seen mostly drunks and people stabbed in brawls, probably had to call security at least three times last night, and he doesn’t know what to do with a madwoman determined to get out of here as soon as possible.
I smile at him, get out of bed and rest a hand on his shoulder. “I have so many ‘installments’ to pay, I’d be paying thirty dollars a month for the next forty years to be able to afford to stay here tonight. I know you’re just doing your job, and I can assure you, I won’t be causing any problems. Just let me sign those papers and give me some painkillers. I know whenever the effect of what you gave me wears off, it’ll hurt like hell.”
He looks at me for a few seconds, then turns around without saying anything and approaches the nurses’ counter to talk to a blonde ponytailed woman in her fifties, undoubtedly his supervisor. He says something to her, pointing at me, and the woman throws a glance at me. They exchange a few more words then she spreads her arms and raises her shoulders. The young doctor lowers his defeated gaze and walks away to the nurses’ room.
The wait is endless, and I have now lost hope that they will let me sign those damn papers. I walk around the bed and start grabbing my stuff to get dressed, determined to get out of here with or without permission. It’s not easy with one arm hanging around my neck in a sling.
“Does the doctor know you’re leaving?” A woman’s voice startles me back to reality. She’s a dark-haired nurse in her forties with a slender figure.
I smile at her and nod. “I made him angry because I wanted to sign out and get discharged.”
She studies me for a few seconds, looking undecided about whether to help me.
“I don’t have insurance, and I can’t afford to stay at the Grand Hotel. I’m not dying. I just have a few cracked ribs and a dislocated shoulder. Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I explain, avoiding mentioning the concussion, the main reason they want to keep me here tonight.
The nurse looks doubtful for a long moment that seems like an hour, but then she approaches to help me, which I thank her for because I can’t seem to manage it alone.
“Take a couple of these if your shoulder hurts, but never more than six a day and at least four hours apart,” the doctor, who has finally returned, tells me, handing me an orange bottle with my name on it and some pills inside. “These are the papers you need to sign. This is a prescription for more pills if you need them.”
I sign and grab the papers and put them in my pocket. “Thank you.” I say, approaching the chair to get my camera back.
“Promise me that if you feel sick, if you experience nausea or vomiting, or severe dizziness, you will immediately come back here? Even a strong headache…or if you have trouble speaking or maintaining your balance,” he begs me as I’m about to leave.
“Yes, of course.” The sarcasm in my voice is so obvious both he and the nurse look worried.
I wave goodbye and fly out the door before he changes his mind about my discharge. I walk through the emergency room as fast as my condition allows, which is somewhere between a limp and a marathon runner on the last mile. This place goes on forever and it takes way too long for me to get through it.
When I finally get to the entrance, then across the street to where I can find a taxi, I realize it’s now midnight. Four hours I was locked up in Lennox Hill Hospital, five minutes by car from the Met, two by ambulance. Most expensive drive in the history of the Big Apple—I could’ve walked and saved fourteen hundred dollars! In the car, I allow myself to breathe a sigh of relief, though not too big, given the pain in my rib. I pull out my phone to look at the latest news, as the Met event seems to have continued smoothly after clearing up the red carpet accident. When I get to my emails, one immediately stands out. Lilly asks me how I am. I smile and reply that I’m home now and the interview can go on as planned.
My heart sinks when I realize Thomas hasn’t even tried to contact me. I could have died in that hospital bed, and he went on with his evening like nothing happened. Maybe it’s too much to hope for a visit to the emergency room, but at least a message on social media, some kind of sign that before I ruined everything, he cared about me.
*
The following morning my body feels traumatized. Not a single bone or muscle isn’t sore. I open my eyes and realize I’m in the same position I fell asleep in. This time, though, Dexter is next to me and hasn’t even started in on his dose of dry food.
“Then you’re not always an asshole.” I smile at him as I carefully get out of bed and start getting ready for the interview.
With everything that happened, I didn’t even have time to get anxious about it. Normally, I would have spent the night awake thinking up an excuse to cancel the interview. As soon as I get to my computer, I see a new email from Lilly confirming their location and telling me to feel free to cancel if I’m not well.
In the bathroom mirror, I see I might have a legitimate reason to back out. The left side of my face, where someone kicked me, is purple under the eye and on the side of my nose. I look closely at my face and immediately realize I will not be able to wear makeup to cover it, nor will I even be able to dress decently with my arm in this sling. So I opt for the runaway look: I slip my head and healthy arm into a wide sweater, leaving the hurt one tucked inside, then put on a pair of tracksuit pants and rubber boots without laces or socks. I’m going to get blisters, but it’s better than the pain of putting on socks.
I give Dexter the dry food, slip on a beanie, leave my windbreaker open in the front, and look for a scarf big enough to cover the rest of me. I grab my notepad and phone and put them in my bag, not bothering to look at the camera as the fall broke both the lens and the body. When I put my bag on my good shoulder, I have to lean on the coffee table to catch my breath. My legs tremble with exhaustion.
I arrive at my usual café and find the band at a secluded table waiting for me. Emily closed off public access with a rope normally used to close the bathrooms during cleaning. Emily tries to stop me to ask me what happened, but I motion that I’ll tell her later and approach the table.
Martin is the first to notice me and his eyes widen. “Holy cow, I didn’t think it was that bad,” he says, drawing the attention of the others who have more or less the same reaction to my appearance.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Lilly asks worriedly.
I smile and sit down, starting to pull out my notepad with the questions. “It looks worse than it is,” I say, trying to play it down.
Luke studies me for a few seconds. “Is that why you’re moving like Robocop?” he teases gently, making the others laugh too.
“Don’t worry, I’m fine. Shall we start? I don’t want to take up too much of your time.” I try to change the subject in a hurry. This interview is making me nervous.
The band doesn’t seem bothered by the change of subject and immediately gets comfortable. I start with the early days of their career—the concerts they did in Brooklyn clubs, their relationship with the fans—and I notice their surprise at the amount of research I’ve done. They laugh when I ask about a few anecdotes I found on their Instagram page and launch into new ones, joking like it happened right then and there. The hour passes pleasantly, and I slowly relax too.
“Do you mind if I take some photos with my phone to put on the blog?” I ask, wrapping it up. “Unfortunately, my camera is not usable at the moment.”
“Are you serious? No questions about the Jailbirds?’ Martin asks, puzzled as Lilly tenses next to him and throws him a look that could kill.
“No, why should there be? It’s your interview. I want to know about you, not about them.”
Luke smiles at me, and the others seem flattered. Even Lilly struggles to hide a smile.
“I like you, girl,” Luke says, satisfied.
“Usually, half of our interviews are about the Jailbirds,” Taylor explains.
“Because the journalists who interview you are idiots,” I say without thinking, and they burst out laughing.
When we’re done, the guys get up to order something to eat and have a chat with Emily, who seems more than ecstatic. Only Lilly stays at the table and helps me put my stuff away. “Can I ask you a question?”
I expected this moment to come, but I’m still nervous about what she’s going to ask. I nod, holding my breath in fear.
“What were you doing on the fire escape near our apartment that day?”
She’s straightforward, just like I expected. I smile at her and lean back in the chair I’m sitting in. “The truth? I was hoping to get some pictures of you and Damian that could earn me some money. But don’t worry, I couldn’t see inside your apartment from that location. I didn’t shoot anything compromising. And I would never sell something that could ruin your personal life or your career,” I admit with sincerity.
Something about Lilly seems genuine, and my natural response in her presence is to be honest in return.
“Why should I trust you? You sold Michael’s pictures. How do I know you won’t sell more when you need money?”
“You can’t be sure. You can only trust me. When I sold those photos, I was desperate. But as soon as I saw what happened, I made a promise to myself to never do it again, even if I’m starving. I know it’s not a great guarantee, but it’s the only one I can give you. All I can do is be honest with you.”
“Why do you even do this job? You don’t look like a person who enjoys hurting people,” she asks.
“Many of us do it because we need money. In my case, even if I had three good jobs, I wouldn’t be able to earn the same level of compensation,” I answer ashamedly.
Lilly frowns and studies me for a few seconds. “Are you in trouble? Is that why you need so much cash?”
I burst out laughing, and then grimace in pain when my ribs remind me that certain things have not yet been able to heal. “No, I’m not in trouble. Not everyone who needs money is in trouble...sometimes, life just puts you in situations where you have no choice. Or rather, you can only choose between bad and worse. I’m not a bad person, you have to believe me, and I never hung out with Thomas for personal profit. I turned down giving him my phone number several times, for Christ’s sake, because I didn’t want to mess up our relationship. I realize I don’t have the luxury of having a normal relationship with someone like him. I know it could never work. But I took the chance to dream about it for a while and paid the consequences.”
Lilly struggles to find the words to respond to my solemn little speech and I feel embarrassed confessing all of those things to her. “But you don’t have to worry about me and my work anymore. I can’t afford to do it now, given the condition of my camera.” I try to downplay it, but I’m sure my smile comes out like a bitter grimace.
“Is it that damaged?” she probes.
“It’s literally trashed, I have to throw it away,” I tell her, saying a quick goodbye and getting up to leave before the thought of a camera I don’t have the money to replace makes me burst into tears.
The air that hits me when I’m outside cools my cheeks, leaving a wet wake where the tears are coming down. The shop window next door is illuminated with the decorative lights of a Christmas tree. A smiling reindeer attracts customers with his red nose and a festive attitude that electrifies the season. But not for me. As much as I’ve always tried to be strong in life, this time, I don’t know how I’m going to get through it. That camera was how I survived. With the hospital bills looming, the idea of prostitution doesn’t seem all that crazy to me anymore.