by Erika Vanzin
“I can talk to the administrative office. They can set you up on a payment plan. There are other options you can consider…” His voice is almost imploring.
I watch him for a few seconds, and I realize he’s young—only a few years older than me, probably an intern who hasn’t seen a bed in at least twenty-four hours and likely working a weekend shift because he has no family. He’s seen mostly drunks and people stabbed in brawls, probably had to call security at least three times last night, and he doesn’t know what to do with a madwoman determined to get out of here as soon as possible.
I smile at him, get out of bed and rest a hand on his shoulder. “I have so many ‘installments’ to pay, I’d be paying thirty dollars a month for the next forty years to be able to afford to stay here tonight. I know you’re just doing your job, and I can assure you, I won’t be causing any problems. Just let me sign those papers and give me some painkillers. I know whenever the effect of what you gave me wears off, it’ll hurt like hell.”
He looks at me for a few seconds, then turns around without saying anything and approaches the nurses’ counter to talk to a blonde ponytailed woman in her fifties, undoubtedly his supervisor. He says something to her, pointing at me, and the woman throws a glance at me. They exchange a few more words then she spreads her arms and raises her shoulders. The young doctor lowers his defeated gaze and walks away to the nurses’ room.
The wait is endless, and I have now lost hope that they will let me sign those damn papers. I walk around the bed and start grabbing my stuff to get dressed, determined to get out of here with or without permission. It’s not easy with one arm hanging around my neck in a sling.
“Does the doctor know you’re leaving?” A woman’s voice startles me back to reality. She’s a dark-haired nurse in her forties with a slender figure.
I smile at her and nod. “I made him angry because I wanted to sign out and get discharged.”
She studies me for a few seconds, looking undecided about whether to help me.
“I don’t have insurance, and I can’t afford to stay at the Grand Hotel. I’m not dying. I just have a few cracked ribs and a dislocated shoulder. Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I explain, avoiding mentioning the concussion, the main reason they want to keep me here tonight.
The nurse looks doubtful for a long moment that seems like an hour, but then she approaches to help me, which I thank her for because I can’t seem to manage it alone.
“Take a couple of these if your shoulder hurts, but never more than six a day and at least four hours apart,” the doctor, who has finally returned, tells me, handing me an orange bottle with my name on it and some pills inside. “These are the papers you need to sign. This is a prescription for more pills if you need them.”
I sign and grab the papers and put them in my pocket. “Thank you.” I say, approaching the chair to get my camera back.
“Promise me that if you feel sick, if you experience nausea or vomiting, or severe dizziness, you will immediately come back here? Even a strong headache…or if you have trouble speaking or maintaining your balance,” he begs me as I’m about to leave.
“Yes, of course.” The sarcasm in my voice is so obvious both he and the nurse look worried.
I wave goodbye and fly out the door before he changes his mind about my discharge. I walk through the emergency room as fast as my condition allows, which is somewhere between a limp and a marathon runner on the last mile. This place goes on forever and it takes way too long for me to get through it.
When I finally get to the entrance, then across the street to where I can find a taxi, I realize it’s now midnight. Four hours I was locked up in Lennox Hill Hospital, five minutes by car from the Met, two by ambulance. Most expensive drive in the history of the Big Apple—I could’ve walked and saved fourteen hundred dollars! In the car, I allow myself to breathe a sigh of relief, though not too big, given the pain in my rib. I pull out my phone to look at the latest news, as the Met event seems to have continued smoothly after clearing up the red carpet accident. When I get to my emails, one immediately stands out. Lilly asks me how I am. I smile and reply that I’m home now and the interview can go on as planned.
My heart sinks when I realize Thomas hasn’t even tried to contact me. I could have died in that hospital bed, and he went on with his evening like nothing happened. Maybe it’s too much to hope for a visit to the emergency room, but at least a message on social media, some kind of sign that before I ruined everything, he cared about me.
*
The following morning my body feels traumatized. Not a single bone or muscle isn’t sore. I open my eyes and realize I’m in the same position I fell asleep in. This time, though, Dexter is next to me and hasn’t even started in on his dose of dry food.
“Then you’re not always an asshole.” I smile at him as I carefully get out of bed and start getting ready for the interview.
With everything that happened, I didn’t even have time to get anxious about it. Normally, I would have spent the night awake thinking up an excuse to cancel the interview. As soon as I get to my computer, I see a new email from Lilly confirming their location and telling me to feel free to cancel if I’m not well.
In the bathroom mirror, I see I might have a legitimate reason to back out. The left side of my face, where someone kicked me, is purple under the eye and on the side of my nose. I look closely at my face and immediately realize I will not be able to wear makeup to cover it, nor will I even be able to dress decently with my arm in this sling. So I opt for the runaway look: I slip my head and healthy arm into a wide sweater, leaving the hurt one tucked inside, then put on a pair of tracksuit pants and rubber boots without laces or socks. I’m going to get blisters, but it’s better than the pain of putting on socks.
I give Dexter the dry food, slip on a beanie, leave my windbreaker open in the front, and look for a scarf big enough to cover the rest of me. I grab my notepad and phone and put them in my bag, not bothering to look at the camera as the fall broke both the lens and the body. When I put my bag on my good shoulder, I have to lean on the coffee table to catch my breath. My legs tremble with exhaustion.
I arrive at my usual café and find the band at a secluded table waiting for me. Emily closed off public access with a rope normally used to close the bathrooms during cleaning. Emily tries to stop me to ask me what happened, but I motion that I’ll tell her later and approach the table.
Martin is the first to notice me and his eyes widen. “Holy cow, I didn’t think it was that bad,” he says, drawing the attention of the others who have more or less the same reaction to my appearance.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Lilly asks worriedly.
I smile and sit down, starting to pull out my notepad with the questions. “It looks worse than it is,” I say, trying to play it down.
Luke studies me for a few seconds. “Is that why you’re moving like Robocop?” he teases gently, making the others laugh too.
“Don’t worry, I’m fine. Shall we start? I don’t want to take up too much of your time.” I try to change the subject in a hurry. This interview is making me nervous.
The band doesn’t seem bothered by the change of subject and immediately gets comfortable. I start with the early days of their career—the concerts they did in Brooklyn clubs, their relationship with the fans—and I notice their surprise at the amount of research I’ve done. They laugh when I ask about a few anecdotes I found on their Instagram page and launch into new ones, joking like it happened right then and there. The hour passes pleasantly, and I slowly relax too.
“Do you mind if I take some photos with my phone to put on the blog?” I ask, wrapping it up. “Unfortunately, my camera is not usable at the moment.”
“Are you serious? No questions about the Jailbirds?’ Martin asks, puzzled as Lilly tenses next to him and throws him a look that could kill.
“No
, why should there be? It’s your interview. I want to know about you, not about them.”
Luke smiles at me, and the others seem flattered. Even Lilly struggles to hide a smile.
“I like you, girl,” Luke says, satisfied.
“Usually, half of our interviews are about the Jailbirds,” Taylor explains.
“Because the journalists who interview you are idiots,” I say without thinking, and they burst out laughing.
When we’re done, the guys get up to order something to eat and have a chat with Emily, who seems more than ecstatic. Only Lilly stays at the table and helps me put my stuff away. “Can I ask you a question?”
I expected this moment to come, but I’m still nervous about what she’s going to ask. I nod, holding my breath in fear.
“What were you doing on the fire escape near our apartment that day?”
She’s straightforward, just like I expected. I smile at her and lean back in the chair I’m sitting in. “The truth? I was hoping to get some pictures of you and Damian that could earn me some money. But don’t worry, I couldn’t see inside your apartment from that location. I didn’t shoot anything compromising. And I would never sell something that could ruin your personal life or your career,” I admit with sincerity.
Something about Lilly seems genuine, and my natural response in her presence is to be honest in return.
“Why should I trust you? You sold Michael’s pictures. How do I know you won’t sell more when you need money?”
“You can’t be sure. You can only trust me. When I sold those photos, I was desperate. But as soon as I saw what happened, I made a promise to myself to never do it again, even if I’m starving. I know it’s not a great guarantee, but it’s the only one I can give you. All I can do is be honest with you.”
“Why do you even do this job? You don’t look like a person who enjoys hurting people,” she asks.
“Many of us do it because we need money. In my case, even if I had three good jobs, I wouldn’t be able to earn the same level of compensation,” I answer ashamedly.
Lilly frowns and studies me for a few seconds. “Are you in trouble? Is that why you need so much cash?”
I burst out laughing, and then grimace in pain when my ribs remind me that certain things have not yet been able to heal. “No, I’m not in trouble. Not everyone who needs money is in trouble...sometimes, life just puts you in situations where you have no choice. Or rather, you can only choose between bad and worse. I’m not a bad person, you have to believe me, and I never hung out with Thomas for personal profit. I turned down giving him my phone number several times, for Christ’s sake, because I didn’t want to mess up our relationship. I realize I don’t have the luxury of having a normal relationship with someone like him. I know it could never work. But I took the chance to dream about it for a while and paid the consequences.”
Lilly struggles to find the words to respond to my solemn little speech and I feel embarrassed confessing all of those things to her. “But you don’t have to worry about me and my work anymore. I can’t afford to do it now, given the condition of my camera.” I try to downplay it, but I’m sure my smile comes out like a bitter grimace.
“Is it that damaged?” she probes.
“It’s literally trashed, I have to throw it away,” I tell her, saying a quick goodbye and getting up to leave before the thought of a camera I don’t have the money to replace makes me burst into tears.
The air that hits me when I’m outside cools my cheeks, leaving a wet wake where the tears are coming down. The shop window next door is illuminated with the decorative lights of a Christmas tree. A smiling reindeer attracts customers with his red nose and a festive attitude that electrifies the season. But not for me. As much as I’ve always tried to be strong in life, this time, I don’t know how I’m going to get through it. That camera was how I survived. With the hospital bills looming, the idea of prostitution doesn’t seem all that crazy to me anymore.
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!”
