Pop Life

by Ryan Loveless

  The bouncer checked Keelin's ID. "You don't look twenty-three," he said.

  "Thank you." Keelin snatched his ID back and darted past him.

  Michael, Russell, and I were allowed to pass without hassle. Michael went directly to the bar. He squeezed his thin self between two equally thin women. One of them looked at him, but Michael kept his eyes on the bartender. I'd seen this act before. By the end of the night, one of those women would be infatuated. I turned to Keelin, who was tearing up the dance floor.

  "Wasn't that move popular back in 1985?" I shouted over the "Gangsta' Trippin." Russell shook his head, at a total loss for words.

  "Maybe it really has been forever since he went dancing last," I suggested.

  Russell stared at Keelin's oscillations. "I'm not sure I want to be seen with him now."

  "C'mon," I grabbed Russell's hand and led him into the fray.

  "Hiya guys! Watch this!" Keelin signaled the revelers around him to clear a path as he launched into the moonwalk.

  "That's… great, Keelin." Russell was trying not to laugh.

  I turned around and bit my hand until tears came to my eyes. When I turned back, Russell was dancing with Keelin, trying his best to look detached. He shrugged at me as if to say, "Hey, whatever keeps the nut happy."

  I wiggled, feeling like an upright worm. Keelin danced over to me. "That's it!" he said. "Come on!" I let him lead me onto the dance floor. Disembodied hands brushed my body as the heat soared. A redheaded girl shimmied in front of me. The club was packed. It was an effort just to turn around. The group twisted and shook like a writhing animal and scattered when Keelin occasionally broke out, flailing his arms in a Saturday Night Fever tribute that would put John Travolta to shame. Or into fits of laughter. When Keelin was subdued, usually by Russell, the dispersed group reconvened like flies to honey. In the midst of sweaty limbs and bouncing bodies, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  I spun around. I was face to face with a bodybuilder. "Wanna dance?" the guy asked.

  "Thanks, but you're not really my type." I tried to step back, but the dancing kids bumped me into the guy's chest.

  The guy nodded and started turning away. Then he said, "I don't really care." He grabbed my waist and ground himself against me. I bounced off the guy's thigh as he thudded into me. I tried to break away, but the guy's arm didn't budge.

  "You're a great dancer," the guy shouted.

  This was dancing? I was dizzy. The guy's leg kept hitting my crotch. And it hurt. I strained to see over the guy's shoulder, looking for an out. Any out. Russell was busy with Keelin, and I couldn't see through the crowd to Michael. God, would this song never end? What happened to the days when club mixes only lasted three minutes? I smiled weakly at my dancing partner out of a profound feeling that I'd get my head pounded if I didn't pretend to be enjoying myself.

  The song stopped, finally. I extracted myself from his grip. "Well, thanks. It was nice meeting you."

  The guy smiled. "Meeting doesn't have to be over yet, cutie."

  I gestured behind myself. "No, I've got a…"

  Right on cue, if not on time, Michael's arm slipped around me.

  "Hey, love," Michael said. He kissed my cheek. "What are you doing?"

  "Hi, honey," I said brightly. "Just dancing with my new friend."

  Michael shook the guy's hand. "Thanks for taking care of my baby for me."

  "No problem," he said. He looked at us as if were judging our qualities as a couple. Michael took my hand and rubbed his cheek with it. "Well, nice meeting you guys," the man said as Michael started touching my face, too.

  Michael waved our clasped hands at him as he backed away.

  I flung myself into Michael's arms. "I love you! Anytime you want me, I'm yours!"

  "Oh, for Chrissakes." Michael squeezed me, patted my head, and then waited with his arms around my back until I removed myself from the embrace. "Andrew? Do me a favor?"

  "What?"

  Michael arched his left eyebrow into a cool expression perfected before a mirror during his childhood infatuation with Sean Connery. "Keep your voice down."

  "Right. Sorry."

  Michael squeezed away from the wall. "Now, I'm off to convince those girls I'm not gay."

  "Good luck!" I wandered back over to Keelin and Russell. There was a time—in the very beginning when Michael and I had fresh dreams—when I would have gone through with it if Michael had wanted me.

  "Hey," I said to Russell. He was bobbing his head to the music. It was a sharp contrast to Keelin's self-modernized version of the Mashed Potato.

  Russell rolled his eyes. "I saw your dancing partner. Sorry I couldn't get over there. Had to watch Lords-a-Leaping here."

  As the music thump-thumped, Keelin crinkled his nose, rabbit-like, and shifted about.

  "What's wrong, Keelin?" Russell asked.

  "Why aren't you dancing?" Keelin shouted.

  "Oh, lord. Here we go again." Russell said. "Come on. I'm not doing this alone." He grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the fray with him.

  * * * *

  Despite Michael's claim that he'd convinced his potential future dates that he was not gay, the four of us returned home without any women. This turned out to be a good thing because one was waiting when we arrived. She sat on the cement stoop, primly pushing her cotton dress between her knees, with an overnight bag by her side. Russell and Keelin reached her first.

  "Hiya," Keelin said.

  "Hello, Keelin," she said.

  "Are you all right?" Russell asked.

  "Very well, thank you. It's good to see you both." She was looking past them, though, at Michael and me. We had stopped halfway between the car and the stoop. My hand disappeared into my pocket, grabbed two quarters, and stayed there. Michael positioned his elbow in front of my arm, as if he was shielding me.

  She stood up. "Hello, Drew."

  Michael coughed. She ignored him. No surprise there. "Are you going to look at me?"

  I took a breath and met her eyes.

  "Hello, Kate."

  * * * *

  Music Meter Magazine

  Jamie Webster is Not Feeling Well

  By Charlotte Snyder

  Published September 1999

  Jamie Webster is late to our interview. When he finally arrives, nearly two hours behind schedule, he bustles into the room in a torrent of assistants. He introduces himself (his handshake is firm, palms dry) and dismisses his posse. He does not apologize for his lateness. Instead, he says, "I haven't had a proper sleep in fuck all."

  Indeed, it seems that he has just woken up because his blue T-shirt has that recently-slept-in look, as does his hair.

  So why the insomnia? "I never sleep. I need certain things to fall asleep, and lately I haven't had that." Like what? "Safety, mainly. I need to feel safe. I've got the world's best security system, but it's just not doing it."

  Does he know what would do it? "Another person could do it." Does he have someone in mind? "Yeah." He does not elaborate. When I ask him about his recent mentions in Celebrity Spy, he rolls his eyes. "Oh, that is such crap. You shouldn't read that shit." So he *didn't* get into a brawl or have a ménage-a-cinq after clubbing in London? "No, I did. Well, I don't know that it was cinq. Might have been quatre or sept, actually. Look, what I'm saying is, you shouldn't read these magazines because they make half this shit up. With me, they don't have to because I do this crap to myself, and that's why they love me. I play right into their hands. But other celebrities… don't believe everything you see in print. I don't know why people don't get that."

  So doesn't he worry that the strangers he takes home are going to sell their stories? "I'm surprised they haven't, actually. A couple of years ago I was thinking of inviting The Big Breakfast into my bedroom since they were always talking to the girls anyway—usually before I even woke up. These new girls have been just as fucked up as me, though. And I don't mean that disrespectfully at all. One of them actually left me a goodbye note—in lipstick on my w
all. She had to have been more out of it than I was. It was all scribbles and weird symbols. She probably put a curse on me. What the fuck was that? I mean, Christ, giving me a thousand dollar cleaning bill is not really the way to my heart, you know? Not that I was out to have my heart captured." So what was he out for?

  He pauses. "Sleep. If I can't feel safe, then I'll settle for feeling so worn out that I can't help but sleep." And has it worked?

  He grins. "Not until last night." And thus he explains his lateness.

  And is he worried that the girl cursed him? "Why should I be? No one can do more damage to me than I've already done. If anyone is going to drive me into the ground, it will be me. I've got one hell of a head start at it."

  Jamie Webster begins the European leg of his tour in October.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "How are you?" I handed Kate a cup of tea. She balanced it in her hands. Her elbows did not touch the table. We were alone in the kitchen. Michael had ushered Russell and Keelin upstairs.

  "I'm good. I'm sorry to come by so late."

  "It's not late." It was past three in the morning.

  "It's just that I didn't have any place to go."

  I stopped to let this sink in. I had not seen Kate for two years, and now she was claiming that I was her only reserve? "I don't understand," I said. "Your mother…"

  "She passed away." She set the cup down, still holding it loosely.

  "I'm sorry." I crouched next to her. She leaned towards me.

  "Last week. It was… sudden." She put her head against mine. For a moment, I thought the mental weight would push me into the floor. I shifted and stood.

  "You can stay tonight if you want."

  "Thank you."

  "I'll make up the guest room. Keelin has been in there, but he probably won't sleep tonight. He and Russell are leaving in a few hours. You used to like talking to Keelin."

  Kate's hesitant smile faltered at the mention of a guest room. "He's, yes, Keelin's a nice boy. I wanted to ask… if maybe we could give it another try. I… miss you, Andrew." She had always been abrupt about serious matters. Out with it, as her grandmother would say. I thought of Jamie saying "I killed a girl" with that same abruptness.

  I had moved over to the sink. Now I leaned against it. The counter hit my back at the indent of my waist. "Why?" I asked after staring at her for half a minute.

  She swept a strand of red hair behind her ear. "I need you right now, Andrew. This has been difficult for me. I don't… know anyone here, not really."

  "I'm convenient. You want me because I'm convenient." I scraped my heel against the base of the cabinet. She did not notice the ironic bitterness in my tone or action.

  "No."

  I looked at her. "Habit, then?"

  She sighed. "Perhaps." She walked around the table towards me. I slid myself onto the counter before she could reach me. "I want you back, Andrew."

  I put my head back and blinked at the ceiling. "I haven't changed, you know," I said. "You're fooling yourself if you think I have."

  "I hope you haven't," she said. "I was the one who needed to change."

  I shook my head. "No. You were always perfect, Kate. Always."

  We stopped talking for three minutes so Kate could cry.

  "I have to tell you something," I said when she finished wiping her nose on a tea towel. "I…. There's someone else in my life right now, Kate." When she looked at me, I felt like I had been caught speaking another language. I reviewed the statement mentally to make sure I had said it in English. I had. "So, even if I was interested in getting back with you, I couldn't."

  "Who… who is she?"

  I winced. "It's not a… It's Jamie Webster."

  She laughed. Gales of it rolled out of her. She pushed her hand against the soft fabric of her dress and hunched forward. "The singer? You're kidding, right?"

  I had never told her about the Grammy's. She'd had her bag packed when I got back to the hotel and one foot out the door. "I know what it sounds like. But it's… I'm pretty sure he feels the same way." If he didn't, he wouldn't have told me his secret, would he? I turned my back on her and emptied her cold tea into the sink. I did not look at her again until the cup was in the dishwasher, and the dishwasher was on. "There's something I have to tell you," I said to the wall.

  "Something else? I can't wait." That was the coldness I remembered, the other side of the practicality. I heard a chair scrape against the linoleum as she sat down. I knew without looking that she was crossing her legs, right over left, and folding her hands in her lap.

  I turned around. "Do you remember the day you hit me? When we were eight years old?"

  "No."

  "I pulled your hair in class. You turned around and slugged me."

  "Okay." She drew the word out, as if she was trying to guess what I was going to say by the time she finished.

  I rocked on my feet. "That was when I fell in love with you." I had tried to explain it to her before, but Kate had always laughed at me. It had not been a childish thing to me. It had been real and grown up.

  "I'm sorry." We were all sorry these days, me and Jamie and Paeder and Keelin and now Kate. All of us filled with the habit of sorry.

  "It was a fluke," I said, "because Tony Warburg was out that day."

  "What?"

  "Do you remember he always wore that necklace made out of those really shiny plastic beads?"

  "No."

  "Well, he did. He sat right next to you, and I could reach either of you just as easy. It was so hard for me, you don't even know. You can't imagine how hard it was for me to sit behind you two and not be able to touch you. You both shone. The sparkly ribbons your mother put into your hair, and Tony's necklace—I could feel them." I jabbed a finger towards my eyes. "Here. Reflecting. Calling to me. I wanted to touch them so badly." I faltered as she stared at me. "I'm sorry. I must sound insane. I'm trying to tell you how it was when I was a little boy. It wouldn't be the same today. I've outgrown sparkly things."

  "Go on," she said, though from the look on her face I didn't think she believed me about outgrowing those things.

  "I couldn't stand sitting so close and not having that shine. That's why I pulled your hair that day. I wanted the sparkles." I paused and looked at an old water stain on the wall behind her. It was shaped like an upside-down hand. "I never had any of my own."

  "So… you're saying that maybe you would have fallen love with Tony Warburg, chased Tony Warburg throughout ten years of school, and married Tony Warburg if only he had been present that day and you had pulled his necklace instead of my hair, causing him to slap you?"

  "I don't know," I said. "But I have wondered."

  "I see," Kate said. Her hands shook. She pressed them into her lap.

  I knelt beside her and put my hand on the back of her chair. "I love Jamie. He's not a case of wrong place, wrong time. He needs me." I stared at her stomach. "I need him."

  The phone rang, startling both of us.

  "Michael will get it." We waited. It stopped after two rings.

  "I don't know what to say. I needed you, too." Kate was crying again. "When will you stop breaking my heart?"

  I looked away. My eyes burned, and I almost laughed. Who was she to talk about breaking hearts?

  "Andrew, pick up the phone." Michael entered the kitchen, striding towards us without preamble.

  "What is it?"

  "Pick up the phone." He pointed at the old-fashioned plastic off-white model mounted on the wall.

  I grabbed it. "Hello?"

  "Is that Andrew?"

  "Yes." I squinted at Michael, who was listening on the handheld.

  "It's Audrey, Jamie Webster's assistant. I'm sorry to call so late, but I have some unpleasant news." She paused, as if to give me time to brace myself. I did, anticipating that she was going to say that Jamie had died. I almost gave the phone back to Michael, not wanting to hear. He silently shook his head and signaled that I should keep listening.

  "Ja
mie's missing," Audrey said.

  I wavered, almost falling from the relief. Missing. I could handle missing… for now. "How long?"

  "Five days," Audrey said.

  "Five days? Why didn't you call sooner?"

  "Well, he's usually back by now. We just started getting worried after day three, really. So, we wanted to call you and tell you to keep an eye out for him." Her voice shook.

  "Why me?"

  She hesitated, and then plundered on. "Because last time I saw him, he asked me where you lived."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "I told him I would find out, but… but that was the last time I saw him."

  "Do you think he's hurt?" Michael asked.

  Audrey took a breath. "I… I don't know. Please, if you guys hear from him…"

  "Yes, of course," Michael said.

  "Audrey," I said, "what has anyone else said about it?" I leaned over the sink, using it to keep myself upright.

  "We've kept it out of the press so far. As for everyone here, they say… they say, 'at least he finished the tour this time.'"

  "I have to go to England," I said when we ended the call.

  "I'll go change our tickets. We'll leave in the morning," Michael said. He looked at Kate for the first time. "Help him pack, will you?"

  Kate nodded. She gathered the folds of her dress around herself. "All right. I'll help you."

  My smile wavered as tears splashed over my cheeks. Kate left me alone to cry. She found her way into my bedroom and began to pack a suitcase for me. When I came and sat on the bed, we did not speak. She smiled at me, and I reached out and held her hand for a few seconds, and that was the end of it.

  Part Three

  * * * *

  "You can say we're a waste of time

  You can say we were never on the same line