Paparazzi by Erika Vanzin
The club is packed, and we struggle to find the table Michael booked in the private section of this place they just opened in Midtown. The waitress approaches us wrapped in a short black dress so tight it leaves nothing to the imagination, carrying a tray with a bottle of whiskey and glasses my friends have requested upon our arrival. Her headband with fake reindeer horns attached puzzles me. Christmas? We haven’t even finished digesting our Thanksgiving turkey and this city is already enveloped in the dream-like world of Christmas.
I admit, I love this season. I have good memories of Christmas, and celebrating with my friends makes me happy, but sometimes it feels like we don’t have a minute to catch our breath. Every year, Halloween parties seem to multiply, and not just on one day, they now extend almost a week. If you’re in a famous band, the record company will throw at least four or five costume parties on you. Then, as soon as November begins, you’re thinking about Thanksgiving Day, and the next thing you know, it’s all about the Christmas events.
I remember as a child anxiously waiting for the moment when my mother, two weeks before Christmas, made the list of what she needed for the evening dinner and lunch the day after. A week earlier, we would go to buy the turkey. Then, in the week leading up to the festivity, we would start preparing what could be stored until Christmas Day, when we got up early to unwrap the presents and bake the turkey. I mashed the potatoes, my sister made cranberry sauce, my dad helped by basting the turkey while it cooked. It was a string of small rituals that culminated in the joy of that day. Now, you find yourself celebrating from the beginning of the month: the record company party, the charity gala, guest of honor at the fundraiser. It’s a continuous toast to a Christmas that, on December tenth, still seems far away, and when you finally get to the twenty-fifth, you’re too exhausted to celebrate because of all the events leading up to it.
“Why the hell are you walking like you have a pole up your butt?” Michael asks me.
“I slipped in the shower and slammed my back.”
“Jesus, you’re older than my grandpa.”
“Drop it, please. Did you see the waitress? How about those reindeer horns,” I laugh, trying to move the conversation from my bruise and Iris, if that’s really her name, to something Michael loves: sex.
For some stupid reason, I don’t want to talk about the redhead I met this afternoon. He would transform the conversation into something sexual and, for the first time in my life, I don’t want to. I haven’t had a decent conversation with a woman for I don’t know how long, and I’m a little protective of the moment we shared. I don’t want those few minutes to be dumbed down, making them seem like foreplay for sex.
“I hate Christmas in this city,” Michael complains. “You barely have time to get rid of the turkeys and pumpkins before you find sparkly trees and ornaments on every corner. Not to mention the damn songs. It’s a nightmare!” He slumps down on the sofa, sipping from his glass.
I burst out laughing and nod. I understand his aversion to the songs. It’s okay to hear them once, twice, even a week I can stand them, but thirty days in a row becomes a nightmare. A couple of years ago, a famous mall chain asked us to do a rock version of Mariah Carey’s song to revamp their repertoire in every store. We were so stunned we immediately thought it was a joke. Needless to say, we kindly declined the offer.
“Really? You hate Christmas?”
A blonde from a nearby table sits next to Michael with a pouty face. The tables are way too close in this place if you ask me; it’s too easy to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations. On the other hand, her friend sits next to me, so close she’s almost in my lap. I wanted a relaxed night with my friend—I don’t think this place was the right choice.
“I hate Christmas songs in November. It’s different,” Michael points out, stretching out his arm and making her sit on his lap.
One glance in their direction and I know I’m not going to spend this evening with him.
“Do you hate Christmas too?” the brunette asks me, still glued at my side.
I’d like to reply with a joke, just to be funny, but I notice her gaze wanders everywhere except my face. I don’t think she’s too involved. I sip from my glass and stare at her without hiding the irritation. I’ve already figured out what question will come next.
“Are you here alone, or will Damian join you two?”
Like clockwork, women’s attention is always directed at my best friend, even when he’s not physically in the room.
“He’s home with his woman. You know, the one he’s been living with in a steady relationship for months? The love of his life?” I reply, annoyed as I get up, ignoring her offended gaze. “But Michael will be more than happy to keep both you and your friend company.” I extend a hand toward my bandmate, who has already stuck his tongue in the blonde’s mouth.
“Where the hell are you going?” he asks when I catch his attention.
“Home. I don’t feel like spending the evening looking at you sticking your hands in places I don’t want to see.”
“What about her?” He nods toward the pouting brunette.
“She’s waiting for Damian, but I’m sure you’ll be able to make her forget about him.” I roll my eyes when a sly smile crosses his face.
“Come here, darling. There’s enough for both of you.” He pulls her in and, without wasting time, sticks his tongue in her mouth while her friend dives into his neck.
There’s one thing we’re all sure of: sooner or later, Michael’s dick will fall off if he keeps using it with every woman he lays eyes on. I leave the club without feeling too guilty. Iris’s cascade of red hair and smart mouth has filled my thoughts since I laid eyes on her.
*
I sip my hot coffee while watching the city wake up beyond the window of my apartment. From the sixty-second floor, it looks so peaceful it’s hard to believe there are people down there who have been working for hours, who may not have gone to sleep yet, who keep the “city that never sleeps” alive. There’s always something open, something to do even at night, someone getting up when others go to sleep.
I didn’t sleep last night either, but not because of the club or the wild night I actually didn’t have. Nor is it the pain in my tailbone, where a purple bruise is spreading. No, I think what kept me awake is the fact that I can’t get my mind off a pair of sweet green eyes and a mass of red hair I’d like to stick my hands into. Never in my life have I spent a sleepless night over a woman, especially one who’s not even slipped into my bed.
I hope the coffee will wake me up soon, or they’ll have to punch me in the face to keep me awake in the studio today. Luckily, all I have to do is hang out with Damian while he finishes the vocals on a couple of songs. I go with him because I get bored staying at home. After the tour and recording the album, the drop in adrenaline leaves me bored and restless. I should find myself a hobby, but I never even had one as a kid. I ended up in prison too young to find out what I really liked. My adolescence was not like most kids’ and, despite coming out of it okay, I missed out on some things, like discovering what I like besides music.
The only passion I still have from childhood is decorating cookies, like I did with my mother when I was a kid. I get my artistic side from her, although I never told anyone—we still make fun of Michael for his passion for carving wood. I don’t want them to start with me too. This, however, is something I’m protective of and continue to carry on because it reminds me of my mother’s generosity. When I was a kid, we churned out huge batches of cookies during the holidays to give to those who couldn’t afford them. A tradition I continue, in the tranquility of my apartment, because the donations are still undoubtedly needed, but mostly for the gesture of giving to someone who does not expect it and cannot afford it. It puts a smile on the face of those who have nothing, and that makes me happy.
I finish my coffee and place the cup in the dishwasher of the ultramodern kitchen in my apartment. Everything in this place is brand new, high-tech, and a little sterile, to be honest, but I didn’t choose it. I bought this place sight unseen, and I didn’t have time to try to furnish it properly. Despite the fact that I’m always complaining about making this apartment a little more personal, when I sit down and think about it, I don’t have the energy to do it. Instead, I do everything but remodel.
The hot shower calms my nerves and relieves the tension headache hammering my head since last night. When I get dressed, bending down to put on my jeans, my back pain stops me in my tracks.
“This is a joke, right?” I whisper in a low voice, clenching my teeth and giggling like an idiot. I need to lean on my dresser just to slip on these damn pants. Walking around Manhattan in my underwear, as much as people are used to anything, including giving money to the half-naked cowboy in Times Square, is still not socially acceptable. I grit my teeth and take a deep breath. I’m a man, not a kid. Something like this can’t stop me. Or at least that’s what I keep repeating to myself to feel less like a decrepit wreck at twenty-six.
I call Max, our driver, to take me to the studio, and when I get in the car, I notice he is a little perplexed at of my inability to move. “I know, I can’t sit down. I swear if it doesn’t go away by tomorrow, I’ll go to the doctor,” I say when he notices that I’m all tilted in the seat to avoid putting weight on my tailbone.
Max looks at me for a few seconds before entering Manhattan traffic with his usual angelic calm. “My wife, when she gave birth, had hemorrhoids. If you want, I can lend you the donut pillow she sat on to relieve the pain,” he suggests out of the blue after a few minutes.
I look at him through the rearview mirror to see if he’s kidding, but his face is pretty damn serious. “Please don’t say the word hemorrhoids in my presence again. It hurts to hear you say it. And also, do I look like a woman who just gave birth?”
Max has been accompanying us everywhere like a shadow for years now; he’s become part of the family, but that doesn’t mean I want to talk to him about this.
“Can you sit your ass down or not? It seems to me you can’t, so maybe you shouldn’t be so picky about that pillow. Can you imagine the press photos of you walking with your legs all spread out or sitting all crooked?” he teases good-naturedly, as he usually does.
“Okay, all right, bring me the damn thing but don’t tell the others or they’ll drive me nuts with their jokes,” I mutter.
Max chuckles but says nothing. He’s a good guy, and I know that not a single word will come out of his lips about this conversation. He’s seen so many stupid things driving for us that he would have every right to judge, but he never has. Not only because he’s professional, but because in the end, he loves us as much as we love him, and he protects us like family.
“Do you think you can get out of the car, or do I have to help you?” he asks earnestly as he parks in the basement of the recording studio.
“No, I’m going to get out of here alone...or I hope so, anyway.”
The walk through the hallways to the recording room goes quickly, despite my pain. When I arrive, I am surprised to find the sound technician and Lilly sitting in a corner writing on her laptop.
“Good morning!” She looks up from the keyboard and smiles at me as soon as she sees me coming in.
“Good morning. Did Damian drag you out of bed this morning too?” I look for a fairly comfortable chair to sit on without attracting attention; my friends are oblivious to my encounter yesterday because my back didn’t hurt so bad when I went back to their apartment. They were so busy kissing they didn’t even notice my presence. After a quick dinner, it’s normal for me to run to Michael’s. This is one of the problems you have when your best friend is in the “honeymoon” phase.
“I had nothing to do this morning, so I thought I’d come here and do some work for the band. There are thousands of fan emails.” Her eyes widen in disbelief.
Lilly insists on wanting to reply to the messages herself because she wants to be more in touch with fans, but she will soon realize that they’re becoming so famous they’re going to need press offices and assistants.
“How’s the album going?” I ask.
“We’re almost finished. I’m meeting with the others this afternoon to decide whether or not to include a couple of songs we’re not sure about.”
“If you need another opinion, you can always count on us,” I offer sincerely.
The friendship that grew with these guys started when Damian screwed up, requiring us to announce a contest which they ended up winning. But I think it was the best mistake my friend ever made. It’s nice to have someone around who’s still excited about the novelty of this business, who’s not jaded by fame and money.
“I know, thank you. If we’re still stuck this afternoon, we’ll call you for sure.”
“Don’t tell me he’s still recording ‘Rise,’” I whisper when I hear the song’s first notes.
Lilly rolled her eyes desperately. “He doesn’t like the way the chorus came out. He says he’s not gritty enough and blames me for softening him.”
I burst into hysterical laughter. “For Christ’s Sake, it’s getting worse than ‘Jude,’ which we’ve heard a million times too many.”
“Imagine having to deal with this at home too.”
Arthur turns to us and smiles, clearly desperate. He’s our sound engineer for the album. Even Adam, our producer, doesn’t want to see us in the studio anymore.
“How many times have you heard it?” I ask him when the expression on his face looks halfway between amused and desperate.
“Let’s just say I’ve never had more bass tracks than an entire fifteen-song album,” Arthur replies diplomatically before returning to focus on my friend on the other side of the glass.
“Simon ordered a whole truck of new bonsai plants just to relax after Damian slaughtered him with this song,” I laugh with Lilly and Arthur.
When you record an album, the various tracks are usually done separately: vocals, bass, guitar, and drums. Everyone does their part, and then the multiple tracks are mixed together, cleaned up, enriched with effects, if necessary, and perfected to create the song that will then be recorded on the album, the one that everyone will eventually listen to. Each track can be recorded multiple times, so you get the best possible result. When you work with Damian, this process can be murder. I don’t think I’ve ever met more of a perfectionist than he is. Simon wasn’t able to play the bass part Damian had in mind and he made us stay in the studio late into the night for weeks. One day Simon didn’t show up at the studio, and Evan, our manager, told us that he had been spending time in Connecticut, relaxing before he ended up in jail for murder. Simon, the man who has the patience of a saint, ran away so as not to kill my best friend. Michael and I probably would have helped him hide the body.
“Should I get out of here before he makes me do the chorus again?” I ask worriedly.
“Don’t even joke like that!” Lilly threatens me before she gets back to work.
When she goes back to what she was doing, and on the other side of the glass Damian keeps recording, I open my laptop and do something I’ve never done in my life. I type in the Google search field ‘Iris’and ‘redhead.’ I don’t even know if that’s her name or if the bag she was wearing belonged to a little sister or a friend. I don’t even know why I’m looking for an excuse to tell myself, maybe because I realize that I look like a crazy maniac.
The number of photos that appear on the screen is overwhelming—from flowers to women dressed in skimpy clothes—so I narrow the research with keywords like ‘New York,’ realizing that I know so little about her that I could put in completely different terms and receive the same results.
“Are you looking for an escort?” Damian’s voice behind me almost blows me off the chair.
When I turn around, he’s smiling like an idiot and my heart is pumping hard in my chest. He caught me like a kid watching porn. When the hell did he get out of that room? I was so focused I didn’t even realize it.
“No, are you kidding?” My lack of explanation makes me appear even more guilty, and Lilly gets up from her seat and leans behind Damian’s big shoulders to snoop. I feel like a kid getting caught sneaking on the internet with his father’s password.
“You’re looking for ‘Iris’ and ‘redhead.’ You must have a great explanation that I can’t wait to hear,” my friend teases me with a raised eyebrow. Lilly is quivering with curiosity next to him, and I can’t avoid explaining what happened yesterday afternoon.
“What the hell was she doing on a fire escape?” Damian’s expression is both perplexed and amused.
“I don’t know...she didn’t say,” I confess with embarrassment.
“And her name is Iris?” asks Lilly.
I feel like a kid getting questioned in class. “I assume so. It was written on her bag.”
“Didn’t you even ask what her name was?” Damian is increasingly amused.
“I asked for her name and number, but she was very good at glossing over the answer.” I’m a little nervous.
“And does your butt hurt from the fall? Is that why you’ve been sitting all wrong in that chair since this morning?” asks Lilly, giggling.
“I knew if I told you, you’d make fun of me. I’m going to go get a coffee while you keep squealing behind me.” I wink at her and leave the room before the embarrassment makes me blush, giving them one more reason to keep it up.
*
I’ve been sitting at one of the tables for a few minutes when Lilly comes in and, seeing me, orders a coffee and sits next to me.
“Are you offended by our teasing?” she asks bluntly.
“No, I don’t know. Not that I’m offended, but... For Christ’s sake, I don’t even know,” I confess.
Lilly smiles and sips some of her coffee. “When you told us that the right woman had to fall into your arms, I didn’t think you meant it literally,” she says, trying to play it down.
I burst out laughing, covering my mouth to avoid attention from the few customers inside this small cafe. I like this place because it’s intimate, nestled between rows of offices that no one knows about. It’s not the usual tourist trap you find in Manhattan; here I can relax without putting a thousand layers of clothes on to hide.
“Now let’s not overdo it. She’s not the woman of my life.”
“But she intrigues you. I’ve never seen you so fascinated by a woman.”
It’s not an accusation, just a simple observation that points out evidence I have decided to ignore. “I don’t know. I do think it’s different this time, but not because she’s different. I don’t know her enough to tell if that’s the case. But she’s one of the rare women who didn’t ask me about Damian, who seemed really interested in what I had to say. For the first time in a long time, I was just Thomas Simons, drummer of the Jailbirds and not ‘The Drummer of Damian’s Band.’ She caught my attention because of it. Does that make sense, or do I sound like a fool?”
“She didn’t ask you about Damian. I already like this Iris.”
I look her in the eye, and she’s smiling. The first time I met her, I thought she was just a kid full of insecurities. Instead, I found a true friend. Not just because she’s my best friend’s girlfriend, but because I feel comfortable with Lilly.
“Thomas, I must congratulate you. You have officially become an adult. You got your act together,” she announces solemnly.
I bump shoulders with her slightly. “Do you know you’re more idiotic than Damian sometimes?”
“That’s why we’re so good together.”
I smile and shake my head. These two will drive me crazy.
“Seriously, maybe this girl got your attention because she doesn’t treat you like a superstar. The way you described her, she seems like a smart girl, not jumping on you as soon as she recognized you. Maybe that’s what enthralls you about her.”
“That doesn’t justify me being glued to the internet like a maniac looking for her.”
“Or maybe you’re just helping fate since they’re the only clues you have, and it’s not that easy to find someone in a city like New York. She could be anywhere.”
Lilly’s words don’t help me. Knowing the chances of us meeting again by accident are so slim shatters all my hopes. What disturbs me, however, is precisely the fact that I’m hoping for it. I haven’t invested so much energy in someone since I was a teenager. At the time, I didn’t understand anything.
“I don’t believe in destiny,” I reply. “I believe that life is just a series of choices and consequences.”
“Please, don’t abandon your cynicism. You might actually become a human being capable of loving!” Lilly teases, raising her hands as a sign of surrender.
I like how straightforward she is. Daily, it amazes me how she can stand all our bullshit without falling for a second for the moronic things we say. She must really be a saint, or she’s crazier than all of us together.
“A couple of years in this business, and you’ll see—you’re going to agree with me,” I chuckle as I finish my coffee.
“Probably, but I’ll never admit it. I’d rather tear my vocal cords apart than give you the satisfaction,” she says, rising.
I laugh heartily and follow her out of the cafe and onto Manhattan’s busy streets. “Do you think Damian is finished laughing at what I told you two?”
Lilly looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Do you know Damian? Do you think it’s possible that he could let go of something like this? He’s probably already called Michael and Simon to tell them the details, adding some of his own, and they’ll all make fun of you until you’re old.”
Her words confirm my fears. I’ve known these guys all my life, they’ll never miss an opportunity like this, and I laugh a little because I would do precisely the same if I were in their situation. I open the back door to the recording studio and let Lilly in before following her. It’s going to be a long day.