by Tara Ellis
Mr. Artemis Sebring awoke in a luxury hotel in the city of Detroit. He felt the same weight as somebody emerging out of a pool; his legs were weak and his arms were heavy. He couldn’t get his eyes open, he almost didn’t care. Sleeping in 1000 count cotton sheets has an intoxicating tranquility. He heard someone shout his name. “Aw’ hell,” he thought. Right then he was too relaxed. Living life constantly going to bed in different cities can have an insomniac effect. But this was a rare moment for him, being subdued by the sleeping bug. He heard his name again. Please go away, he thought. It came once more. He forced himself to sit up on the bed. Aches and pains came to greet him for the morning. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a window; he scoffed at the sight of the old man. Deep breath, slow exhale.
There was a knock on the door. Someone called for him again. He groaned. He tried to wait, to see if they would leave, but whoever didn’t. “Give it a rest. Come back in fifteen minutes,” he shouted. He hated shouting; he thought it made him seem more like a grumpy old man.
He decided he couldn’t deal with the morning. He reached for the brown baggy to get a bump. With the tip of his pinky finger he scooped out a little powder and snorted. Then the sweet morning sunshine beamed into his hotel room. The aches and pains drifted away and the feeling of goodness came upon him. It was as if something inside of him was singing. He practically bound out of bed. Artemis was ready for a new day.
He headed over to the bathroom to start the usual morning rituals. He saw his shadow with its arms crossed, shaking its head in disapproval. “Seriously, don’t bug me this morning,” he said. “I just need to wake myself up. That dosage was harmless; it is practically the equivalent to a cup of coffee.” He took his morning wiz then started the shower.
After he got himself all squeaky clean the knock on the door came back. He opened it with just a towel around him. It was Steve his personal assistant. He was a scrawny kid from the suburbs who grew up watching Artemis’s specials on television; now living a fantasy working for his childhood idol.
“Artemis,” he said. “I came to tell you, that there is only twenty minutes left until your interview with channel 9.” That was right, careless old fool, how could you forget?
He hurried into a costume that was set aside last night; scrambled out of the hotel and into the car; speeding towards Cobo Arena.
“We were waiting for you to get up,” said Steven.
“Well, what can I say? I had some good sleep. Get my wife on the phone. Tell her, if I can’t make it, start without me.”
By the time he got there, he had missed his interview entirely. The reporter was already gone and there was no film crew, which dented his mood. He never was around a camera he didn’t like. Sometimes fame can have that effect on you; make you a total whore for attention. Mr Sebring desired the same amount of attention as a teenage girl, and acted as such if he didn’t get it. Well, when he was alive.
But, his wife went through the interview smoothly; she looked elegant and spoke articulately. She made El Circo de fantasias brand look good.
Mrs. Natalie Sebring is the wife of Artemis. For both of them this is a second marriage. Their relationship was based on complete vanity, how she looked on his arm and what social ladder he could place her on. But, they both were unaware of the others true motives for nuptials. She wanted to branch off his fame, he wanted a bragging piece.
He helped raise her daughter Scarlett from a previous marriage. At this point Scarlett was already in her teens. And, she wasn’t the biggest fan of the old man’s work, and she let him know. It didn’t bother Scarlett that her mother was married to a black man that was 32 years older than her. It bothered her because Mr. Sebring was a total freak. However, Artemis chose to keep blind of this reality.
Deep down, he knew his wife was only interested in money and his stepchild hated him. But, with every huff of cocaine, that little voice of rationality gets smothered and muffled.
Vanessa awoke in a motel room, the walls dingy and the air had a muggy odor. She at least had decent cable channels that distracted her from the reality of the situation. She was in the Knight’s Inn Motel on the outskirts of the city. It was practically four walls and a bathroom, but it only cost forty dollars a night, so she couldn’t complain.
It had been six days since she last saw any of her family members. She missed them, though she wouldn’t admit it to herself. Nevertheless, she did. When you live with the same people you know for your entire life, you can’t help to grow comfortable to their faces. She was picturing them in her mind. And, that’s where they stayed, when she was gone; all of them, in her head. Most of all, she missed her little sister Brenda. She missed the way Brenda would follow her like a lost puppy when she would leave a room. She came to the realization that Brenda was, after all, her best friend, and she felt sad, coming late to that conclusion. She should have treated her better like a good sister would, should have shown her appreciation. Should, would, could… but she didn’t.
She pictured Brenda in her bed jumping up and down. “I don’t mind,” she said to an empty room. “It’s all yours now.” She caught herself talking to nobody, which scared her a little. Everyone talks to themselves, everyone. It’s just scary to walk upon someone when they’re doing it. She caught her own reality like it was a virus, and this fever got worse every day. She knew she wasn’t going back home. She was on her own, at the age of sixteen. Kicked out the nest like a baby bird.
On the night of her family giving her the boot, she spent those lonely cold hours at a 24hr Wal-mart. The third shift employees noticed her, in the same position - on the floor in Isle 9 - but not one said a word to her. Neither a ‘can I help with anything miss?’ nor a ‘are you looking for something?’ Not even a ‘hello, how are you doing?’ She stayed quiet with magazines. She never read them; she just looked at all the pretty faces.
That was another habit of hers. Every time Daddy had an outing for the supermarket Vanessa would tag along and follow him through the isle with her nose in the magazines. Daddy knew she wasn’t reading any of them. He knew that she liked all the pretty boys. It sometimes worried him because at times she would be in a fantasy with these images. But he shook it off; he didn’t want to start an argument.
Beanie caps, high waist jeans and t shirts with ironic statements were sprawled all over the floor. Her favorite t-shirt read ‘World’s Greatest Soccer Mom’. Vanessa liked it because that was her little subliminal message. I Will Grow Up To Be a Better Mom Then You. Her mother would scorn every time she saw Vanessa in it.
Vanessa switched on the laptop and browsed for music. She just needed a distraction from her thoughts. She found a few artists who are out of the mainstream eye. She listened to Santigold, Yacht, Animal Collective, Odd Future, Best Coast, Childish Gambino and Joanna Newsom. Practically artists you never heard of. She believed their music had the ability to identify with her individualism. Heaven forbid if her indie darlings ever get played on top forty radio, she would disown them, dropping them like hot potatoes. Because the idea of relating to the majority appalled her. Strange isn’t it? She was a nonconformist. The best nonconformist around, she didn’t even associate with other nonconformists, because nonconformist of today’s generation have a habit of imitating one another. That was a little excuse she would tell herself. An excuse for her loneliness. Truth is Vanessa didn’t make friends or have a casual acquaintance like a person with normal social skills would have had. She was a little awkward when socializing. She was the type of girl that had to struggle to make friends. As we all know how school children tend to be, they don’t take kindly to the awkward. So for years she was to herself. Mix this formula with her already dysfunctional family and that resulted in a tormenting isolation.
As the music played she opened another web browser. Went on PerezHilton and browsed through all the pretty faces.
She was lost and she knew it, she felt it. She felt li
ke she was lost in an author’s imagination; a wicked and cruel author who bullied his characters, making their lives harder with every turn of the page. And in the end the main protagonist would end their own misery, either dropping out of a ten story building or walking in front of a bus; or something cliché and dramatic. But no, this was her reality. It was just hard for her to process.
She touched the side of her face where Daddy slapped her. There was no pain but she still winced at it.
Timsley O’Brian walked over to Artemis and tapped his shoulder with a rolled up newspaper. “This is all for your amusement isn’t it,” he asked. “You just want to see me work hard, bust me hide and slave. Do you?”
“I don’t like watching you sweat believe me,” said Artemis. “Because I know your body musk lingers afterwards.”
Two good old friends for decades, way before your time; Timsley was one of Artemis’s first employees, back when he was getting the brand off the ground. A straight go to guy. Timsley was the head theater technician.
“Then why are you tryin’ to set me up for failure,” Timsley asked.
“I don’t set you up for failure,” retorted Artemis. “You’re just prone to fail and I just laugh when you do it. You’re a failure, you fail, get away from me. I don’t want your lack of success to rub off on me.”
Don’t let their tones fool you. They respected their positions towards one another on the job, but after that they bickered like brothers.
“I quit,” said Timsley. He then acted like he was walking off.
“You better not quit I own you. You signed you soul to me remember?”
A few heads turned and then refocused to whatever they were doing.
Timsley as Artemis would describe was the most Irish person he had ever met. And this isn’t only because of his stocky body, drywall white skin or his burning hair. It’s that he embodied all the stereotypes associated with being Irish. Excessive drinking; he drank Guinness for breakfast. Nobody can remember a time, working with him; they can recall Timsley eating anything besides potatoes, bacon or cabbage. His family back in the mother country was sheep herders. And he actually owned a pair of bagpipes he would sometimes practice in his quarters back on the train. The only thing anybody wasn’t sure of if he believed in little green people at the end of the rainbow.
“Why did you fire my techie without consulting me?” asked Timsley.
“I didn’t fire Rob, he quit. Because he was caught…. Wait, wait a minute. I don’t consult you, you consult to me.”
“He quit,” Timsley’s mouth popped. “He didn’t put in a two weeks’ notice.”
“Don’t tell anybody else this. But…” Timsley nodded his head while Artemis spoke with discretion. “Rob was caught having sex with one of the tightrope girls.”
“Which one?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“It was Corey wasn’t it?”
“Damn you be quiet. Britney walked in on them so she…”
“Britney was there too?!”
“Shut the hell up.” Artemis shuffled his head around to see if anyone was still paying them attention. No one was. “So she fired Corey, and Rob ran off with her, supposedly.”
“Oh I liked Rob,” Timsley said like a boy who lost his toy.
“Me too. He was funny as hell. I didn’t care for Cory at all, just whiny spoiled little girl.”
“I know. It’s weird thinking that they hooked up together.”
They paused for a second. And then shuddered.
“Is it going to be hard replacing him,” Artemis asked.
Timsley told him that a craigslist ad was put up; he received a few phone calls and gave brief phone interviews. One person had seemed to have good qualifications, but his hopes weren’t up. He told the ringmaster there was a sit-down interview scheduled in about thirty minutes.
“I’m going with you, I don’t need another freak on my train,” said Artemis. Timsley’s eyes went wide and he scuffed just a little.
“Alright, well, um, were going to be meeting her at a Starbucks. I told her to bring a resume.” Timsley said. “Can your little errand boy Steve drive us?”
“I have him doing other errand boy things at the moment. I don’t need him right now. I brought Shelby.” A smile perked up Timsley’s face so genuinely the ringmaster couldn’t help but to smile back.
They walked out the arena doors and entered the parking lot where Shelby awaited them. He turned the ignition and Shelby awoken from her slumber. Artemis slammed on the pedal and shifted gears. Shelby howled like a banshee. Smoke casted from the rolling tires, Timsley could smell them burning. Artemis’s head threw back. And they were gone. A cloud raised itself to the sky. Two black streaks were left behind.
Any car collector would vouch, that a 1968 GT500 Shelby Cobra Mustang was a rare breed. Top notch American muscle. Artemis’s bought his Shelby 2 years ago for 150,000 dollars. It was fully restored with a new engine. It was originally a candy painted blue, but Artemis switched it for a red color.
“Where were you hiding this?” Timsley asked.
“I tucked it away in the last compartment. Before the tour began,” said Artemis.
Artemis approached a stop light, two older white males in an opposite lane gave him a stare and Artemis replied with a wink.
Before the job interview they grabbed a quick bite to eat at McDonald’s and resumed on their way. They blasted some good old Jimmy Hendrix on the iPod deck. When all along the watchtower faded out, Timsley noticed a peculiar ticking from the car.
“What the hell is that?” asked Artemis.
“Sounds like your car is taking a dump,” replied Timsley.
“Thank you for articulating that for me, Timsley,” retorted Artemis.
“Glad to help.”
He didn’t have any time with the tour to take it to a mechanic. He hated to hear his baby whine. He also hated the feeling of his hands being tide. When it came to automotives Artemis’s was just a rich kid who could buy a lot of toys. When it came to repairs, he knew nothing of the sorts. Timsley didn’t know much either. Artemis asked if Timsley could send one of his techies to give it a glance. Timsley figured he could.
Interview
