Paparazzi by Erika Vanzin
I reluctantly wake up when Dexter begins to tap my face with his paw, meowing as if I haven’t fed him in weeks. I look at the clock. It’s only five-thirty.
“I hope you’ve finished every single piece of dry food inside your bowl, or I swear this time I’ll use your tail as a candle wick.”
The meow of protest is more of a mockery than a real moan of terror at my vain threats. I could never lay a finger on him, and he takes advantage of it by waking me up at impossible times and making me do whatever he wants. I’ve never accepted anyone running my life or giving me orders, and here I am, succumbing to a cat I love who doesn’t reciprocate. He is the only male who commands me simply by putting his nose to my face and rubbing himself, giving me some love, five minutes at a time, one day a month, only during leap years. And I’m cleaning his litter box morning and night.
I put the dry food in the bowl, which, as I already knew, is full on the sides but empty in the middle. I give Dexter the stink eye, but he looks at me with those huge, sweet eyes that make me speechless.
“Betrayer,” I whisper as I put water inside the coffee machine and half the amount of usual coffee, since I don’t have much left and I have to survive until the next time I get paid.
I turn on my laptop while I wait for it to brew, scrolling through email alerts about famous people in New York, and immediately notice that today’s hot news is about the Jailbirds. A week ago, they launched a new competition for their fans, and the winners will get to listen to the three unreleased songs from their upcoming album. Officially, the first release date is next week, but the luckiest fans on earth were airlifted, first-class, and put up in one of New York’s most luxurious hotels to listen to the three songs this morning.
I confess that I enrolled in that contest, so I could have written the review today on my blog, but my luck ran out two weeks ago when I swooped into Thomas’ arms. I’ve never been a finalist for any competition, let alone win one. The embarrassing thing, though, is that I’m not entirely sure I enrolled in that contest for the review or because I was hoping to see Thomas and his blue eyes again. Since bumping into him, he has become my obsession, awakening the sixteen-year-old in me, fantasies included. He brought to life again that crush that I had long dismissed as irrational and typical of teenagers who fall in love with their idols. I’ll really start to worry when I start sticking the band’s posters on my walls.
I decide to show up in front of the record company building, regardless. There will undoubtedly be a lot of photographers there. It’s one of those classic over-advertised events, with a final press conference included, almost an official invitation for the paparazzi in the area. I’ll take some pictures of the winners, who will have their five minutes of fame. I’ll try and take a few shots of the Jailbirds, and then I’ll go home and continue my life as usual: looking for the unlucky star to be photographed in some awkward situation.
When the coffee machine starts bubbling and the glass carafe is filled, I pour a cup. I’d like to add some creamer, but I remember finishing it a few days ago. Dexter climbs to the kitchen counter, smells my mug, and looks at me disgusted.
“You better save the dry food in your bowl because we’re poor, and we need to ration.” Not that I’ve ever left my cat without food, but lately, I can’t afford to buy him too many of the treats that he loves so much.
I go back to my computer and take advantage of the early morning to finish a manual for one of my older clients. Their company produces cardboard packaging and needs to update internal manuals for employees at least a couple of times a year. It’s a job I hate—it’s boring and requires a massive effort of concentration, but they pay a few hundred dollars for a few hours of work, so every time they call, I accept without thinking twice.
“Admit it, you woke me up so early because you knew I had to finish this document today.”
Dexter meows as he rubs his nose against the corner of my laptop.
“You’re afraid to be left without food, aren’t you?” I almost challenge him with half a smile.
I have so few friends, beyond Emily, that often, the only conversations I have during the day are with my cat, and I’m not even sure he pays attention to what I say. In fact, he turns around, shows me his backside, and jumps from the coffee table to go to snuggle between the sheets.
*
As I predicted, the mob of photographers in front of the record company is impressive. I’m surprised the police aren’t already here to get us out of the way of traffic. With all the tourists in New York City during this festive time, a gathering like this is immediately kept an eye on by law enforcement to prevent someone ending up under a car. The barricades have already been placed, confirming that all this staging has been prepared for some time. There’s even a banner with the record company’s logo, sponsors, and a couple of big clothing brands, so winners can take selfies in front of it and post their photos on Instagram. I’m surprised they haven’t thought of a hashtag for the occasion. I should write to their press office and remind them of the basic rules of marketing.
“Hi Jack, how are you doing? How is Annabelle?”
Jack is a married man of over sixty with two grown children. At night, he works in a warehouse as a security guard, and during the day, he sleeps a few hours and then hangs out on the streets of New York to be a paparazzo. We often find ourselves at events like this, and, over time, I have gotten to know him better. Not that it’s his greatest aspiration to be out here photographing celebrities, but his wife Annabelle fell ill with cancer a few years ago, and to cover the expenses the insurance company refused to pay, he had to find a second job.
I first met him in front of a barricade, alone, looking like a lost puppy. I felt so bad for him, I introduced him to my narrow circle of trusted colleagues. There are so many places to cover, to take good shots, that we come together in small groups and divide into different areas. We let the others know when we spot a celebrity. Working alone becomes too complicated and expensive, in terms of energy and money, to think about surviving doing this job. Jack wouldn’t go far, so I tried to teach him as quickly as possible how to move. Over time, he’s become something like a friend.
“Baby Doll! What a pleasure to see you here. Annabelle’s fine. I took her for her check-up last week, and the cancer still doesn’t show up. It’s been two years now.” He tells me this with the happiness that only a person who has risked losing what is dearest in life can have. Now he can devote himself with less concern to paying off the debts that her illness incurred.
“I’m so glad! One of these days, I’ll come by and bring her that lemon cake Emily makes that she likes so much.” I’m barely able to tell him this before being swallowed up by the noise and turmoil rising among us. Apparently, a limousine with the lucky winners inside has just stopped in front of the red carpet and is letting the occupants out; they’re mostly teenage girls dressed like they’re at the Oscars, their phones ready in hand to document every single second. This event is more fake than my worst expectations. I imagined it would be a waste of time, but I didn’t think they would arrange something so far from the authentic, almost rough, image of the Jailbirds.
I take some photos; the kids parade practically all in a group. Within five minutes, the show is over, and it is clear the Jailbirds will never walk this carpet. They are already inside enjoying the show from some window upstairs.
“Quick and painless,” Jack laughs as we move away from the mob.
I already know this morning’s shots are entirely useless. No newspaper will pay for an agency picture when you just have to be here with a cellphone or fish from the winning kids’ social networks to find better photos than ours. It was still worth a try. If, out of a hundred tries, ninety-nine are bad, but one gives you the shot of the century, it will always be worth it.
“At least you can go home and spend some time with Annabelle. Did you sleep a few hours last night?” I ask him worriedly, taking in the deep, dark circles around his eyes and his hollowed-out face.
Jack smiles softly and rests his hand on my shoulder, and then pulls me into a hug. “We’re fine, Baby Doll, don’t worry, okay?”
I nod and watch him walk away to the nearest subway stop, among pedestrians who bump him without caring for the expensive camera inside his crossbody bag. They’re oblivious to the fact that this is actually one of his livelihoods and the reason Annabelle is still alive. I’d like to shout at them to be careful, not to break it.
I enter one of the alleys behind the record company, an area of Manhattan where you can breathe a little more, far from tourists. The difference between visitors and people working here, in the center of the world, is all in the walking. Tourists stroll, looking around with their noses up among the enormous skyscrapers, stopping suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk to look at the map on their cell phones or take a picture. The festively decorated shop windows create annoying traffic jams, with everyone stopping to immortalize the engineering masterpieces that fly the reindeer of Santa’s sleigh or run trains laden with presents inside fake tunnels, artificial snow descending at an almost hypnotic pace.
The people who live and work in Manhattan, on the other hand, walk fast without ever turning around, looking at people in front of them, unconsciously calculating trajectories and traffic light times. Months of trampling the same sidewalk make them experts on the subway-office journey, where even a single second can change the entire working day. If you have a job in this city, among these skyscrapers, they expect you to be available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. You can never pull the plug, and even that miserable minute between the subway car and the office is a minute you could use to do something constructive. Whether it’s Christmas, New Year’s Eve, or the middle of summer, the people who work here don’t care how beautiful and magical this city is. They don’t have the time.
That’s why I love this café nestled between the walls of the offices, practically invisible. They are efficient, quick to serve you. You are in line behind people who know exactly what they want and do not even look at the price list on the wall behind the counter. Christmas decorations are also few and essential: a tree with warm lights and some garlands hanging on the walls. Some call it minimalist. I just see something simple and quick to set up, so as not to waste too much employees’ time. I’m pleased when I order my black coffee. I sit at one of the ample modern white counters next to the entrance and start working on my new blog post.
“So, you can survive even with your feet on the ground. You don’t have to be suspended over other people’s heads.”
A voice I recognize makes me raise my head. Next to me, holding a tray with four cups in his hand, Thomas is looking at me as if I were his favorite dish. I don’t know if I’m flattered or intimidated. He’s looking at me curiously, lingering on every inch of my face, like a photograph he wants to imprint in his memory, freckles included. It is not a lustful look. On the contrary, he seems genuinely happy to see me again, making my legs tremble and my stomach tighten.
“I thought one of the perks of being rich and famous was that you had an assistant who gets your coffee,” I reply, pointing at the tray.
He bursts out laughing, closing those blue eyes that choke my breath in my throat every time, and showing his perfect pearly whites. He grabs the stool next to me with a smooth gesture, sits, and rests the tray next to my laptop.
“I volunteered to come and get them. If they had forced me to smile for another selfie, I would have risked paralysis,” he explains, amused.
“Your working day must be really hard, all those smiles, the cameras. A real ordeal.” It’s so natural to talk to him that I become brazen in making fun of him. Of course, I don’t typically restrain myself when it comes to being ironic and sarcastic, but I do it with Emily, a person I’ve known for years, not a stranger.
Luckily for me, Thomas laughs. He seems really comfortable staying here chatting with me, and I can’t help but gloat a little bit.
“Don’t get me wrong, I like it, just sometimes I don’t know if these people are here to take a picture with us or to really listen to our music. Every time we release a new song, I get a lump in my stomach because I think, ‘What if people think it sucks?’ Having an idea of the public’s reaction before being thrown into the lion’s den helps me to be more prepared, that’s all.”
“You’re a perfectionist.”
Thomas crinkles his nose. “Not exactly. I like to be aware of things to solve problems when they arise. Having some of the information in advance helps me better cope with what life throws at me.”
I smile at his response. It’s clear that he wants to have things under control, and I honestly understand. It must not be easy to live at his level of fame. Something gets out of hand, and everything is immediately magnified to the point of crushing you.
“If I had won the contest, you could have read the review on my blog. Too bad I didn’t win.” The words slip from my lips before I can connect my tongue to my brain. I don’t want him to know what I write. But it’s too late to pretend I said nothing. His eyes seem to light up.
“You have a blog?”
There was no chance he would miss that part. “Yes, I like music, so I thought I’d take advantage of living in a city where I can find it until I get tired and write about what I like. Concerts I go to, up-and-coming bands, album reviews...nothing different from what everyone else does.” I try to downplay it. I don’t want to make a big fuss about a successful blog; it’s certainly not comparable to an industry magazine.
He nods, looking me in the eye as if he really cares about what I’m saying. “Are you a journalist? Who do you work for?’
“No, I’m not a journalist. I’m a simple music lover who was lucky enough to build a following online, that’s all.”
He nods, and, luckily for me, he doesn’t investigate any further. “And have you tried to enroll in the contest?”
I look down, a little ashamed. Why did I say anything? Looks like I’m whimpering because I didn’t get what I wanted. “Yes, but I’m not worried about it. I’m going to write a blog post about the event. I came here to take some pictures, so I could put out original content instead of the usual old photos from the internet.”
“What’s the name of the blog?”
“Rocking in New York, why?”
He pulls out his cellphone, and I watch him type something on the screen. “Man, you’ve got a lot of followers. Are you sure you’re not a journalist?”
I burst out laughing and shake my head. “I am not, trust me. I don’t earn anything from that blog.”
Thomas looks at me, puzzled. “Really? With that following, you should be able to monetize.”
“I decided to keep it without ads or affiliations. I don’t want to feel tied up because someone pays me to review a certain product or band. It was born out of my need to talk about music, and I want to have the freedom to say what I think.”
Thomas nods and smiles. He seems to think about it. He looks at his cell phone, scrolling in search of something. He motions for me to stay where I am. And why would I move? I don’t think my legs would hold me for two steps. I’ll have to sit here for the rest of the day to recover from this second meeting. If I was thrilled to see him in the first place, I’m on cloud nine for sharing something so personal with him. This goes way beyond knowing things about him through his public image: this feels profound.
A few seconds later, a smile brightens his face, highlighting two small dimples covered with a few days’ beard scruff. He grabs his earphones from his pants pocket and hands them to me. I stay still, puzzled for a few seconds at his gesture.
“Do you or don’t you want to write the review of these singles?”
It takes several seconds, staring at him like a complete idiot, before I realize he’s actually proposing I listen to their music. “Are you serious? Look, my blog isn’t a magazine. I don’t have any credibility in the industry... I’m not someone who can give you visibility or anything...I mean, you don’t get anything out of what I write... I’m just a loser who has a blog and zero social life.”
Thomas’s thunderous laugh makes me stop my inconclusive blabbering and utterly embarrassing stuttering. “We don’t need publicity, trust me, for that we have legions of agencies. But it would be nice to have an opinion from someone who listens to music out of passion and not just for work.”
“Considering that I liked ‘Sunshine’ from your very first album, I may be biased when it comes to your music.”
Thomas looks at me wide-eyed, with such surprise he almost seems speechless. “But we didn’t even put that song on the album for the label. It was part of a demo we recorded in the beginning so Evan could represent us!” he exclaims, stunned.
I raise my shoulders and smile at him. “I’ve been following you for a while.”
He shakes his head with an incredulous smile and invites me to listen to the new pieces. I grab his earphone with trembling hands, take the notebook and pen from the bag, open them, and motion for him to hit play.
The first one out of the earphones is so overwhelming I find it hard to sit back and take notes. I want to get off this stool, move to the beat, and sing along—even if I don’t know the words. It’s a rhythm that overwhelms in every sense, and it shows how much they’ve grown and matured musically since the last album. It’s hard rock, sometimes a bit dirty. Damian’s voice is dreary and scratchy. It gets into your gut and holds you in a grip. The rhythm is hectic, overwhelming, does not let you breathe. It’s that classic concert song that gets you up, jumping frantically and falling, exhausted, at the end, burned of all the energy in your body. I can’t wait to hear it played from a stage, with Thomas’s arms frantically beating on the drums, sweat dripping from his forehead and gluing those dark curls to his face. I want to see Simon and Michael’s fingers flying all over their instruments in the frenzy of the moment, setting and breaking the rules with every refrain. I want to see Damian wriggle on that stage as if possessed, unleashing a hormonal storm in every single woman in the stadium.
The second song is slower than the first. Still, it vibrates inside you, dragging you to the underworld with low tones, and leaving you there to agonize under the lashes of Damian’s voice accompanied by dry, almost violent drum shots. It’s a march that guides you into the darkest corners of the soul and brings out agonizing emotions. I have never heard Simon go so violently on the strings of that bass; he’s usually the quiet one, the one who almost softens the rough sound of their music. Not this time. He seems to want to destroy the instrument, to emphasize the rawness of the lyrics of this song. It’s a song of revenge, of payback, almost of hatred toward those who hurt you.
The third song is the one that surprises me the most—a slow ballad. The lyrics unfold into a story about a violent, suffocating, toxic love. The sweetness of the music clashes with Damian’s rough voice; the words envelop your heart and tighten until it stops. With the last verse, you feel your heart stop like the woman’s life between those lines. Red as the love you desired, red as blood on your grave. I have to swallow a couple of times before I can knock down the knot in my throat.
They’ve come a long way from the first album full of passion and anger. In moments that seem all too short, the three songs end and Thomas stops the music, takes back his earphones, and looks at me as if my opinion alone will decree whether this album will be a success or not. They are a world-famous band, with this album they will ascend the Olympus of music, becoming part of the history of the greats, of legends.
“So?” he asks me hopefully.
“So, you’re going to wait for my review like everyone else,” I say, unfazed, as if this were a respectable professional meeting. The reality is my heart and mind are so distressed with emotions I would not be able to formulate a coherent sentence, let alone a sensible opinion.
Thomas widens his eyes and looks at me as if horns had grown in my forehead. “Are you serious?”
“Of course I am. Do you think I pulled out this notebook to give you a ridiculous, incomplete review on the spot?”
He furrows his brows and seems almost disappointed by my answer, or perhaps even frightened.
“I knew you were serious, but I was hoping you’d give me at least a general idea... Look, it doesn’t matter, I still have to bring this coffee to those three before they think someone kidnapped me,” he says, standing up and making me feel terribly guilty.
He really expected to hear my opinion, and I didn’t dare to give it to him. The smile he gives me before standing up never reaches his eyes.
“Thomas,” I call before he leaves. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be anxious about my opinion. It’s definitely positive, I just don’t have anyone read my articles before they’re finished...you know, I’m a perfectionist too.” This time his eyes light up with his smile, and what looks like a weight rising from his chest. “You have to give me the song titles if you want the article to be complete.”
“If you give me your phone number, I can send you a text,” he smiles slyly.
I burst out laughing at his attempt, and then hand him my pen and paper. “Or you can write them here. What do you say?”
“And you’d miss the chance to hear the story of how I took the stage with my pants ripped in half?”
“Do you mean that what I heard from your own lips is not the real one?”
He pretends to think about it, scratching his chin. “I told you the one where—during a spiritual session—my pants caught fire on a candle, and I had to cut off the leg of the jeans just before I took the stage, right?”
I burst into amused laughter. “Those were not the words, but I get the feeling I’ll never have the real version of that story. Or am I wrong?”
“You can give me your number and find out,” he tries again.
“Or you can write the titles of those songs here and keep that aura of mystery a rock star needs to survive.” I push the notepad toward him again.
He says nothing, nods a couple of times as if he wants to say something, but then stops. He grabs the paper and writes down the titles. “Will you ever tell me why you don’t want to give me your number? Do I scare you or something?”
“You meet a lot of women. How do I know you don’t ask for all of their numbers? After all, you didn’t tell me why you want it.” I smile at him, but I don’t add anything else. The truth is, I’m beyond nervous about this whole situation and making excuses is the only possible solution I can see.
As before, Thomas seems to hold back a thought, picks up the now lukewarm coffees, and makes his way to the door. He throws me one last look and a smile, then waves and disappears into the streets of Manhattan carrying with him all the air I had in my lungs.