Paparazzi by Erika Vanzin
It’s been a whole day, and Iris hasn’t posted her review yet. By now, I’m sure her name is Iris because once I discovered her blog, I read every single article she’s posted in recent years, all really great pieces, all signed with her name. There is no doubt this woman is a journalist, even if she says otherwise, and one of the good ones, competent both in her subject and her style. I can’t believe she never studied journalism.
Locked up in my apartment all day, sitting on the white leather sofa next to the window overlooking Central Park, reading and rereading the same articles, was not a great idea. I was so nervous that at one point, I gave in and cooked almost two hundred cookies and started decorating about fifty of them. Even though I had promised Claire, the assistant Evan found me, that I would never cook anything again—at least until Christmas. There was a time, right after the tour, when she spent whole days contacting associations that help the homeless to donate the decorated cookies I churned out in industrial quantities. At one point, she threatened to tell Evan and my friends if I didn’t stop immediately. She’s not going to be happy about helping me pack dozens of cookies to give to some good cause. But I was too anxious waiting for the verdict—I had to release some tension this way.
It didn’t help. My nervousness is still skyrocketing. I feel like a caged, chained lion who would bite its own paw off to get out of here. But I can’t run away, not from myself, at least. The truth is I’m terrified of the review she might write. Maybe she didn’t like the songs, and that’s why she doesn’t post anything. She’s playing for time. And yet yesterday, she reassured me before I walked out of that damn café. I’m paranoid. That girl got so under my skin I can’t have one rational thought anymore. It’s ridiculous!
I get up from the sofa and head to the kitchen to turn on the coffee machine. Maybe caffeine isn’t a great idea, considering how nervous I am. I’ll risk pulling an all-nighter. On the other hand, I’ve never been famous for my brilliant choices. I pour a steaming cup and go back to the couch where I left my laptop. I reload the blog page for the millionth time, and my heart almost stops.
The new post is there, with the name of our band clearly written in the title. I put down the laptop, grab the cup and go to the window to sip my coffee, trying to calm down. I don’t dare read it. It’s what I’ve been waiting for with trepidation all day, and now I can’t bring myself to read those lines. The problem is that I care too much about her opinion, and even the possibility that she didn’t like the songs scares me. If one of the kids in the room yesterday for the listening group wrote a bad review, I’d be displeased for sure, but it would only last a short time. It won’t be so easy to forget if she blasts it. I laugh at my total inability to be rational at something that is a non-problem.
I breathe deeply and take courage. I go back to the post and start reading it. At first, I feel so eager to get to the end that my brain can’t process the lines I’m reading. Then the words ‘magical,’ ‘higher level,’ ‘incredible quality’ enter my visual field. When I reread the article for the third time, I finally realize it’s praising our music. Every word is designed to emphasize the musical quality and the improvements we’ve made with this album.
When we sat down and started writing the new songs, we set out to satisfy our fans and take the next step, take what we’ve built so far and improve it, grow our artistry and not just our fame. Apparently, according to Iris and her article, we succeeded.
I’m so caught up in the enthusiastic comments starting to appear in the post that I share the link on Twitter without thinking twice.
@Thomas_Jailbirds
She likes the new songs! Read the Rocking in New York blog review!
Not even a minute goes by before the phone rings and Evan’s face appears on the screen. The euphoria I felt reading the post and sharing it is replaced by a cold shower.
“Can you tell me why the hell you tweeted that link?” His tone is unbelievably angry. I can almost see his red face and neck veins about to explode.
“Because it’s a good review?” I wish I was more sure of myself, but my voice comes out trembling.
Our manager expects such impulsive gestures from Michael or Damian, not from me, and I realize that I didn’t think for one second about whether what I was doing was right. I took it for granted that this article was excellent, and didn’t consider that it might not be approved by our press office.
“First, explain to me how the hell that blogger got to hear the singles. Second, explain to me how the hell you found that post. Third, explain to me why the hell you shared it without first consulting the press office!” He’s so angry his shouting sounds like he’s on speakerphone. It scares me.
Our public life is controlled by legions of press offices and marketers who scrutinize everything we post. Such an impulsive gesture will have triggered at least twenty alarms on the cell phones of those who take care of our image. It’s an excellent review, enthusiastic, precise, professional...but it was not authorized. Only now do I realize my mistake.
“What the hell did you think? What if that blogger puts the songs online?” he continues scolding me.
“It’s not possible. She only listened to them once from my phone.”
The silence that follows almost makes my blood freeze.
“You’re screwing this journalist and letting her write what she wants? Are you crazy? Thomas, what the hell are you up to? I expect to be called out of business hours for Michael’s bullshit, not yours.” The last few words come out so shrill that I’m afraid he’s ripped out his vocal cords.
“I’m not screwing her! And she’s not a journalist... It’s just, she has an excellent blog, and she’s a fan of ours.” I try to justify myself.
“Thomas, shut up. You’re digging your own grave,” he hisses.
I follow his advice and curl up in the couch cushions hoping this outburst will end soon.
“For Christ’s sake, now that Damian settled down, are you the one starting to screw up? Give me a break, guys, or I won’t live to see my forties. Is it at least a good review?” The tone of voice is calmer, but I know he is still angry.
Evan is the one who’s been watching our backs since the beginning, and when we mess up, he makes us pay for it. He’s not one to let things slip past him, especially when it comes to us. We were his first band, we grew up together, and he took charge of our past as if it were his. He’d do anything to protect us.
“It’s great.”
Yet another interminable silence.
“Evan?”
“Don’t post anything else about her. Don’t follow her on social media. Don’t do anything. And, Thomas, be careful. She’s still a journalist.”
His last words settle in my chest like a boulder. I know what he’s afraid of: it’s become increasingly difficult to keep our secrete from the world—that we’ve been in prison. Exposing ourselves to those who make a living doing research is not a good idea. When curiosity takes over, lies become unmanageable. But Iris is not a journalist, she is a blogger, or at least this is the lie I tell myself to indulge my obsession with her.
“Don’t worry, she’s not a journalist. She has this blog for passion. If you look at it, she doesn’t have ads on the site because she doesn’t care about the money. It just has reviews, no gossip. There’s only one post about Damian and Lilly when the tour scandal broke. She demanded her readers to leave them alone because she doesn’t want gossip about their private lives on her blog.”
“You’ve scrutinized her site well.” Evan’s observation is cautious, as if he wants to test what my connection is to Iris.
“I wanted to be sure she was a good person before I let her hear the songs,” I lie to my friend, something I never do.
Evan seems to think about it for a long time, then inhales thoroughly. “Okay, but be careful,” he tells me before hanging up.
The adrenaline I felt reading the article is a distant memory, and now I find myself back on the sofa scrolling through Iris’s Instagram photos. She’s very active in the music scene, and I’m surprised I’ve never noticed her before. At the end of the day, we frequent the same places, and suddenly I realize how different our worlds are. Although we both deal in music, we’re on different sides of the barricade. I move in the world of celebrities, the famous and glossy ones. She moves on the sidelines but perhaps it’s a more authentic world—one of genuine feelings and opinions, not filtered by the unwritten laws of this business.
I find myself scrolling through every single photo, and when I’m done, I put my finger on the screen and start Instagram stories. Her writing an article, the subway doors opening onto the Broadway-Lafayette station, her entering “The Bitter End” in Greenwich Village to listen to a band, her ordering a beer at the bar counter. The pictures keep flowing and, as if in a delirium, I grab my jacket and the black cap I wear to keep from being recognized, and slip into the private elevator before I can think twice about the bullshit I’m about to get into.
*
I look out the taxi window when we arrive in front of the club and realize that I look like a perfect idiot. The guy at the entrance is letting in the last people who stayed in line, and I’m pondering whether or not to get out.
“Have you decided what to do?” the taxi driver asks me in a slightly irritated tone, turning to me and staring, bored, from behind the plastic divider.
“Yes, sorry man, keep the change,” I tell him, handing him fifty dollars, which immediately alleviates his irritation, earning me an almost sincere smile.
I get out of the car and approach the entrance to the place, leaving some space between the people in front and me. When he sees me, the bouncer beckons me with his head to go in, and I find myself at the entrance, in front of a middle-aged woman inside the ticket office that is precisely the size of her person. I wonder how she can move or even just breathe in that space with a miserable little window she’s locked in.
“Who did you come to listen to?” she asks me with little enthusiasm, as if she has no desire to be in there and I can understand why.
I look at the poster for the evening and notice that there are three bands, all similarly unknown to me, so I shake my head. “None in particular.”
The woman marks something on a sheet of paper and then fastens a plastic paper bracelet on my wrist that serves as an entrance ticket. I feel sorry I didn’t give a name. If I had said one at random, they would have given the boys the percentage of the income instead of dividing it between the three groups and giving them a few pennies. We used to play like this, barely surviving. Things have changed radically for us, and I sometimes forget how hard it is to come up in this business. I take a picture of the poster so I don’t forget to check out their sites and buy t-shirts directly from them.
The place is dark and crowded so I approach the counter and order a beer. I look around and realize I have nothing in common with the people in here. They all look like hipsters in their perfect clothes that cost hundreds of dollars, and are eco-friendly and tailored in countries where there is no exploitation of child labor. I’m like a seal hunter in the middle of a PETA demonstration with my leather jacket and boots. I feel ridiculous with my cap down over my eyes and my head tucked into my shoulders, trying to blend with the dark wallpaper behind me.
“What the hell am I doing here?” I think as I grab the beer and approach the darkest corner of the room, away from the soft light of the lamps attached to the ceiling. On the small stage in front of me are several instruments, including double basses and trumpets. I don’t even have any idea what kind of music they’re playing here tonight.
I’m a crazy man for running out of my house, following the Instagram stories of a woman who has never given me a sign that she’s interested in me. She never told me her name, she didn’t give me her phone number, and most importantly, she didn’t invite me here tonight. I must have gone completely crazy if I think such idiotic behavior is normal. I’m usually the one who plans the outings with the others, so there are no problems with paparazzi; the one who reminds Damian to call the professional accounting firm that deals with his investments to manage his donations. For Christ’s sake! I’m the one who, when we were nobody, had a notebook to keep track of the group’s income and expenses and manage the money to be sure we could survive—because if it was up to the others, we would have starved to death.
I wouldn’t be surprised if a documentary came out on Netflix in a few years about me, with all those creepy stalkers I’m acting like right now. More ashamed of myself than I’ve been in a long time, I decide to drink my beer and leave before Iris realizes I’m here and runs for the hills.
Needless to say, luck isn’t on my side tonight. I look up and she’s there, at the bar counter, staring at me like she’s seeing an alien.