Paparazzi by Erika Vanzin
Michael is the only one of us who never decided to buy a house here in New York. While Simon, Damian, and I needed something of our own—a retreat where we could stay when we’re in town—Michael prefers the perks and convenience of a hotel: presidential suites, room service, and discretion. He’s lived for a while at the Four Seasons, The Mandarin Oriental, and even the Plaza, but the tourists those places attract have made him opt for the Royal Suite at the Park Hyatt during the last few months.
I tip the guy who brought me through the private elevator, and I enter his living room, hoping Michael isn’t naked with a woman somewhere. Everyone in the band, including Evan, is on the guest list with access at any time, but I’m regretting not calling him before showing up. In all honesty, since Iris’s story exploded like a bomb in our lives, I’ve avoided him. I feel guilty about seeing her because I still have vivid memories of the photos of Michael unconscious inside the car in the underground parking lot: the model collapsed next to him, the coke strips on the dashboard. I remember the rush to the hospital like it was yesterday, with the model almost dying and the subsequent months in rehab for Michael. It was the worst time not only in our career as a band, but in our lives, when we, as his friends, didn’t realize how serious his addiction was. We always believed him. We always closed our eyes at his vices, thinking it was “rock star” life, but we didn’t fully understand how deep he was in it. Guilt has devoured me for months, and it came back after Iris’s betrayal.
“Michael, are you naked? Do I have to cover my eyes?” I shout when I don’t see him in the living room.
“I’m getting dressed! Damian’s the one who has to show off his dick every time he gets the chance, not me,” he jokes from the other room.
He joins me a few minutes later, wearing sweat pants and a short sleeve t-shirt, and sits on the couch in front of me. “Do you want a beer or whisky?”
“It’s ten o’clock in the morning. Better make it a soda.” I raise an eyebrow scolding him as he stands again and approaches the bar. I’ll never get used to the unbridled luxury Michael loves to surround himself with.
“So why have you been avoiding me for three days? Is it because of the paparazzo thing? Iris?” he asks, handing me a Dr. Pepper.
“Can’t say you don’t get straight to the point.”
“Cut the bullshit and tell me why you’re here with that puppy-dog face.” One thing you can say about Michael, for better or for worse: he never beats around the bush. He’s a straight shooter and demands the same from you.
“I wanted to apologize for sleeping with Iris,” I admit.
“Was the sex so bad you felt the need to apologize even to me?” he teases me with a laugh.
“Come on, man. Be serious for once. I screwed up, and I’m apologizing.”
He looks at me with a puzzled gaze, as if he’s trying but can’t discern my intentions. “Because you sleep with a paparazzo? Unless she photographed your dick and sent it to every media outlet, I don’t see what the problem is, really.”
“She’s the one who took and sold the pictures of you and Kim in the garage. She’s not just any paparazzo. She hurt you and almost ruined our career!” Incredibly, I have to clarify these things with him.
Michael bursts out laughing, and the reaction both confuses me and makes me angry. “I know who Iris is, and when I meet her, I want to thank her.”
I’m dumbfounded, waiting for him to say more. Is he crazy?
“The one who risked ruining our career was me, not her. I started doing coke, and I crossed the line with that model. If Iris hadn’t been in that garage, if she hadn’t taken the pictures and then called the ambulance, I’d have died in that car. By selling those pictures, putting them in those magazines, she opened my eyes and slammed reality in my face. I thought I had the situation under control. I thought I could stop whenever I wanted, like I did with alcohol, but that wasn’t the case. I could never have gotten myself out of that shit I was in. Iris actually saved my life, and now that I have a face to go with the person I think of as my guardian angel, I want to thank her. And I should have had the balls to apologize to you for the mess I made.”
His confession leaves me stunned. I spent years hating the faceless paparazzo who took those pictures—and the whole group of them in general—and now he tells me it was all for nothing? “Do you know what happened to my family?” I ask him.
“You never told me.”
“Three days after the sentence that sent me to jail, my father died of a heart attack. He fought so hard to get me out of trouble that, when he couldn’t, his heart literally gave out by breaking in two. My mother let herself go that day. Within a week, she had lost her son and husband, and in a couple of months, she fell ill with cancer. Maybe that would have happened anyway, but she didn’t fight it. She let herself die while I was in prison, when I couldn’t do anything. My sister stood by her when I couldn’t. She died a year later. I couldn’t even go to her funeral. When I got out of prison, I found out my sister had completely disowned me. After years and an avalanche of money in private investigators, I discovered she had moved to Australia, changing her name and setting up a family, never letting me meet any of her children. I have three nieces or nephews, and I will never see them grow. I don’t even think they know I exist.”
“Wow, you never told me all of this,” Michael whispers.
“Women have never been sincere with me. They always took something from me—never gave me anything.”
“That’s bullshit.”
I turn to my friend and glare at him.
“Don’t look at me like that. You know it’s not true. Rita took everything you had. She only wanted to use you. But Iris is the exact opposite: she tried to stay away from you because she didn’t want you to think she was using you. Iris gave me my life back, and she gave you back a friend you’d been losing over time. And honestly, she also gave you some happiness that you never had. Have you even paused to think about how happy you’ve been lately? Everyone can see it!”
I look at him without being able to say a word. Some of the assumptions I’ve had for years begin to vanish, taking with them some of the anger and hatred that was tearing me up inside.
*
“So, she does it because she needs money?” I ask Lilly.
She’s just called me after doing the interview with Iris. At first, I was mad at her for still wanting to do it despite knowing the truth, but I finally gave in when I realized she wanted to find out why Iris was in the alley outside their house.
“Yes, she was candid with me. She is simply a girl who decided to be a paparazzo instead of becoming an escort. From what I understand, she needs a lot more money than a normal job pays, and she chose this path. She seems like a really nice girl. Imagine, during the interview, she made no reference to the Jailbirds. Luke, Martin, and Taylor are crazy about her.”
“Really?” My surprise is so evident that Lilly chuckles amusedly.
“I’m serious. She was very professional, and it was delightful to talk to her.”
The guilt that assaults me for the way I treated her almost makes me faint, forcing me to move away from the window where I’m admiring Manhattan to sit in the armchair that looks like the Space Shuttle. Iris is a paparazzo. She’s the one who sold out Michael. She’s the one who climbed a fire escape to take pictures of my friends and then sell them. I’ve always hated paparazzi. I’ve always hated what they did to Michael, what she did to Michael. This awareness has been tearing my heart apart for three days, trampling over any other feelings I’ve had for her. I shouldn’t feel guilty. I shouldn’t feel like a jerk for not going to see how she’s doing. I shouldn’t have felt so scared when I saw her crushed by dozens of people.
“That doesn’t change the fact that she lied to me.” I become defensive, and I hate myself for it.
Lilly inhales deeply, and I’m sure if she was here instead of on the phone, she’d have punched me already. “Thomas, think about before you found out. Do you really think she wanted to exploit you? She didn’t even give you her phone number. You followed her, remember that. And now she can’t possibly take any pictures of you because her camera is destroyed. I don’t think she has the money to buy another one. She walked out of the café crying when we spoke about it. I think that’s really the only job that keeps her alive.”
The sigh I let out expresses all the guilt invading my stomach and brain. “All you need is a cell phone to take a picture.” I continue with my idiotic defense like a kid who no longer has an argument to stand on.
“Thomas, don’t make me come over and kick your ass. Don’t be an asshole. She doesn’t deserve that.” Lilly’s voice is annoyed and amused at the same time.
“I know, I know. You don’t need to scold me.”
“Then don’t act like an idiot.”
I smile and shake my head. Since this girl entered our lives, it’s been like a breath of fresh air. “Alright, go back to Damian. We spent so much time on the phone it’s going to be him kicking my ass. And I’m sorry to say I’m a lot more scared of that.” She hates it when I tell her she wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Lilly snorts and, in response, hangs up without even saying goodbye. I smile and look out the window, partly relieved, partly weighed down by guilt. On top of that, I’m worried because Lilly said Iris was in really bad shape this morning. Last night, after seeing her get trampled by all those people and then transported to the hospital unconscious, I spent the evening glued to the news for fear that she was seriously hurt or even dead. For the first time I have no idea what happened at an event—and not because I was drunk.
I turn to the kitchen and see the mountain of cookies I baked after my conversation with Michael. I’ve already decorated about fifty of them, and I haven’t even made a dent in the pile. “Claire is gonna kill me this time,” I whisper to myself thinking about the mess I’ve made.
‘Claire, I have a few dozen cookies to donate,’ I text her.
She answers right away: ‘I had to take the last ones to New Jersey because no one in Manhattan wants them anymore. Please stop! I’ll pay for your therapy but stop baking cookies!’
I burst out laughing because I can just see her, grandchildren in tow, bringing cookies to all the homeless shelters on the East Coast, muttering like a grandmother who no longer knows how to rein in her grandson.
I grab my laptop and check out the location of electronics stores in Manhattan. To my surprise, I find one not too far from here. I call Max and, when he gets here, I ask him to drive me there.
*
I walk to the door of her building, noticing one of the bars in the window has been damaged in an attempt to force it. The more I spend time in this neighborhood, the more I realize it’s a long way from the safe streets I’m used to living in.
The usual smell of urine welcomes me in the lobby, making my nose wrinkle. The blankets near the stairs where Charlie sleeps prove that he, in fact, lives here, among the cockroaches and dirt, he’s not just passing by. He’s even got a small suitcase in the corner with his stuff in it. No building with a decent property manager would have allowed such a thing. Making my way up to the third floor, I peek down the other hallways. Garbage in the corners, a bicycle without wheels resting on a wall, and an eviction notice on one of the doors. Only if you’re desperate to save money would you look for a roof over your head in this place. I’m a perfect idiot. How did I not notice? How did it not occur to me that someone who lives in a dump like this does not have any money? After all, when we were just out of prison, without a penny, we lived in places like this too.
I breathe deeply. I take courage and knock on Iris’s door. I hear the sound of the latch, then the door opens a few inches until the chain strains.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
The answer dies on my lips when I see the tension on her face, like she’s not particularly happy to see me. I certainly can’t blame her. The last time I spoke to her, I was extremely rude and told her I would have her arrested. I look down at the floor, shaking my head, and exhale a disappointed sigh. The moment she closes the door, my heart sinks into my stomach. I almost turn around to leave when I hear the sound of the latch, and she appears wrapped up in a jumble of clothing. Holy cow! Her face is bruised and swollen, and her shoulder is in a sling. Lilly told me she had obvious bruises, but I had no idea the extent of her injuries until now.
“Can I come in?” I ask ashamedly.
Iris hesitates for a second, then she steps aside and lets me walk in, closing the door behind us.
Dexter catches up with me and rubs on my pants, purring. “And how are you?” I ask him, lowering and scratching his back.
Iris beckons me to sit on one of the two stools, and I gladly accept. Better than standing like a jerk in the middle of her house.
“Do you want coffee?” she asks, pointing to the machine.
I gladly accept. I notice her tampering with the pot, grumbling, exasperated when she can’t turn on the faucet. I get up and help her. At first, she stiffens but then makes room for me by pointing to the cupboard where I find the coffee I bought her a few days ago. I take a few seconds to look in the cabinet and see only the stuff I bought her. How could I not notice that basic things like food are missing in this house? I was so focused on her I didn’t see anything else.
Iris looks at me from a distance. Neither of us talk and, while we wait for the hot liquid to fill the pot, I observe my surroundings. Most of her stuff looks like discarded objects which she painstakingly restored. Iris has done a great job of making it all look presentable, but when you look a little closer, you see the curtains are worn and ripped in some places, the bookshelves are made of old vegetable boxes held together by metal wire. Most of the containers are nothing more than boxes of food cleaned and used for other purposes, like storing brushes. Or canned food tins used as pots for plants. Nothing in this place is new.
“You never told me what you’re doing here,” she says when we finally both sit at the table.
I scratch my neck and take a deep breath. “I was really worried about you when I saw them take you away in an ambulance the other night,” I admit with sincerity.
Iris smiles and shakes her head slightly. “Really? Because I must have missed your messages asking me how I’m doing,” she reproaches, irritated.
I’m ashamed because I deserve it, but I can’t tell her. “I couldn’t text because I don’t have your number.”
A smile slips from her lips as she lowers her gaze and shakes her head annoyed. “Lilly didn’t either, yet she found a way to message me not even half an hour after the accident. Try another excuse.”
I look down because I don’t know what to answer. I know I was an asshole, but I was pissed off. I felt betrayed, and these are things I can’t get over by snapping my fingers.
I feel her inhale with difficulty and, when I look up, she seems less angry. She seems almost resigned. “Did you come here just for this? You could have asked Lilly.”
“I spoke to her, but she didn’t reassure me much. I wanted to see with my own eyes how you are. Anyway, I didn’t come here just to find out about your condition. I also have this,” I tell her, raising the bag I’d brought and put aside when I got here. I place it on the table in front of us.
Iris peeks in it and, after a puzzled moment, widens her eyes as if diamonds were inside. “Beautiful, is it yours?”
I frown, surprised. “No, it’s for you. I know yours broke. I thought you’d like to have another one.”
Iris looks up sternly at me, and I see she’s not pleasantly impressed by my gesture. “I don’t want your charity. What is it with you? You think I live like Charlie in the basement? With a filthy blanket and clothes that smell like urine?” She gets up and goes to the sink and spills her cup out, then turns and leans on the counter, annoyed. I expected anything but this reaction.
“It’s not charity. It’s just that I thought you’d like it. You work with your camera, and I thought... I don’t know, I guess it’s my way of telling you that I accept what you do. I talked to Michael, and he opened my eyes about what happened. I’ve been harboring anger for so many years, and maybe that wasn’t the only feeling I had to carry. But until he showed me the situation from another perspective, I was mad at you, period. So I’m apologizing,” I snap, annoyed by her reaction to a gesture that was meant to be positive.
“Not everyone needs a superstar to give them gifts. People can survive without the help of ridiculously rich people’s charity. I don’t want your pity. What am I? Your new social project?” She continues angrily as if she hadn’t heard a word I said.
“No, you’re not my new project!” I get angry too, more hurt than annoyed. “I just wanted to do something nice.”
“You got mad because I lied to you, but who are you? The sweet and caring Thomas I knew until three days ago or the ruthless man who threatened me in front of my house and didn’t let me explain?” she screams angrily, and her tone pisses me off.
I burst into exasperated laughter. “Are you really reducing it to this level? Do we want to compare who’s done the most damage? Because I’d like to point out that you’re no saint either. And as much as you need money, what you did was petty, even if the consequences worked out well for everyone. And you know what? Hell, if you want that camera, good. Otherwise, throw it away, sell it, do whatever you want!”
I stand up furiously and stomp out the door, slamming it behind me.