Where Stars go to Die

IV. Just a Number

        There used to be idols that deserved the fame; they were truly talented, authentic, raw, and pure people. Now, we have traded talent for complacency and originality for the ugliest thing in the world: fabrication, art that is only created for profit. There is no soul in today’s celebrities; there is no honor in mass-produced junk. Garbage, labeled and sold as “popular culture,” as if corporations decide on what is popular; what have we come to? We’ve traded Hepburn for any attractive, talentless, interchangeable blonde, and Sinatra for random, pitch-shifted reality T.V. pop stars.  Emotion is trumped by profit and marketability; oh, what have we done? I know there are great musicians, graceful dancers, and talented actors; they just perform their art to a limited audience that corporations don’t, and can’t, control; they are the counter-culture; they are my idols; they get my respect.

            But Claire wanted it all; she wanted to keep her soul dancing with the counter-culture while selling millions with the corporations’ rubber stamp. She just didn’t realize, she can’t have them both; the establishment will take your soul, if not all at once, then piece by piece, compromise by compromise, until years later, you regretfully wake up, an empty shell of what you once where; all the strikingly, spectacular things that made you unique, Big Entertainment just packaged, mass-produced, and then sold for cost. So Claire, my love, no, you cannot have them both.

            It had been a week since Claire moved in and my place had never looked so clean. There was something about having her around that created such an uplifting vibe; finally, I had found someone who could shine a light into that dark and ugly place. I’d been living in the shadows for so long; her presence now illuminated my life and I could finally live. For the first time, the light was so bright that I could see beautiful, marvelous things next to me that I had never known where there.

            Claire was at an audition that I had set up for her, the fourth one this week; it seemed her acting talent stopped at her stunning beauty; not even Claire’s sheer perfection and style could save her. She couldn’t recite a monologue with conviction, passion, or insight, because she had none. She was all dried up; she had nothing left to give. I tried to fill her empty, eroded river bed with my endless stream of emotion; it never worked; it never filled her to become that rushing geyser that I knew she was meant to be.

           

            The door swung open and Claire walked in with her head held low.

           

        “How did it go?” I asked.

            “Horribly! I am a complete failure; I forgot lines and then insulted the casting director.”

            “You did what?” I was almost impressed; she was fighting the system, a noble cause. “That won’t help you get the role, Claire.”

        “I know, I know! Ugh!” She yelled as she threw her arms up, violently into the open air. “I really don’t want to talk about it; although, I did meet your friend, Jones… Jones Von Something… Hmm…”

            “Jones Von Keys? I hate that guy; he is bad news. Wait, he said we were friends?” I replied in disarray.

            “Yea… he said you two went way back, something about a snow trip and…”

            “Well, whatever he said, it was a lie! Don’t talk to that guy.” I had to tell her the truth: Jones was a parasite, a complete leech that finds the most vulnerable and lonely people; people so unaware, he just sucks them dry until nothing remains but debt and fading memories of betrayal; then he quietly moves on to his next victim. I couldn’t let Jones have Claire; I couldn’t let him know what she was: an oasis in a desert city; I couldn’t let him see that she was a perfectly pure glass of water in this absolutely dead and dry place.

            “Well I got his number; he is going to help me find some gigs. I hope you don’t mind.” She responded sarcastically.

            “You got his number? What? Why? Just get rid of it; he won’t help you.”

            “What? No, I need as much help as I can get! It’s just a number, come on, relax!” Claire stormed out of the room.

            I couldn’t understand why I was so upset with merely the thought of Jones and Claire getting to know each other. Normally I wouldn’t care; I would wish them luck and move on. No, this time it was different; she needed to know how I felt.  I needed to give Jones his warning to stay away without him realizing her potential, her pure, exquisite beauty; if Jones knew, he would destroy and conquer Claire faster than this city could work its wrath. Like I said before, I would not let that happen. I wanted to grab her, with all of my heart; I just wanted to sit her down and tell her my intentions were noble; to say, “Claire, you’re confusing angels for demons,saints for sinners, white for black, and my love as an attack.” I would let my soul roar with the greatest, “I love you,” with my eyes so wide. However, I didn’t think it would win her over; I was beginning to think I would never have her.

            With everything on my mind, I just had to go for a walk, to get some fresh air into my stagnate lungs. Claire was still upset with me, but reluctantly decided to come along; I think she needed the fresh air more than I did.

            Later that night we ended up on that same mountain, overlooking the sea of lights that is L.A..  Thinking out loud, I said, “You know Claire, you couldn’t be more of a fish out of water here in this ocean of civilized chaos, because you’re order, in this disorder. You’re a perfectly straight line in an endless world of scribbles and curls, bends and mistakes; you just don’t belong, not for your insecurities or your blind faith, but for your strengths and for everything that makes you above this wretched, ugly place.”

            Claire immediately sprung up, pointing her finger in my face, “You don’t know who I am! You think you understand me, you don’t; I don’t even understand myself. So who the hell are you, to come out of nowhere and philosophize about my life, my mistakes; you don’t know me! I need you to finally get that, and to get over yourself!” She sat back down in silence. I started to think that maybe I didn’t understand her and perhaps that was what infatuated me so much: I needed to figure her out, as if she was the cosmic key to the answer of life; I needed her to open the lock to this isolated and cynical cage that has been trapping me, my entire life.