Playing Star Again

Admiral Biscuit

The rhythm of the coach is soporific.

If she listens carefully—not with her ears, but with her mind—she can feel the rhythm. The slight rocking movement. The steady pulse of the engine. The faint beat across expansion joints. Her head starts bobbing to the rhythm, but she is not conscious of this.

She hears it, but she doesn’t. Her mind is wandering. She’s in a sort-of trance. The trees flash by—a green blur, a steady background to her thoughts, occasionally interrupted by a bridge over an insignificant stream.

She’s half-asleep. Her eyes are open, but her thoughts are far away from the present. She knows she should be thinking about tonight’s gig, but it just won’t coalesce in her mind. Images of her manager flash through her mind. Manager. Waste of money. He has little interest in much else than her ass, anyway—she’s seen where his eyes focus when he’s talking about her next great opportunity.

But she doesn’t dwell on the past much. Only insofar as it serves as a guide to the future. Right now she’s stuck in this smelly coach, but one day she’ll have something better. She’ll be able to call the shots. She can see it. Her name will be a name spoken with reverence; she’ll be the one to pick the gigs, not her creepy manager.

A small town flashes by, its name not even worth remembering. She woke the morning before in a lousy hotel room, a warm body pressed up against her. She never even bothered to turn to see who it was—a fan, an agent, or one of her roadies; who knew? Fifteen minutes in the shower was long enough to cleanse her body, but her spirit might take a lifetime of lathering to improve. It is a thought which is best not considered. Like a thief in the the night, she skulked out of the room, never once looking back. The hotel room was not worth her consideration; what she may have done or not done the night before meant nothing.

Sixteen hours. Easy enough to say, but nearly an eternity when there’s nothing else to do. Like a legion of lovers, the towns and trees continue to flicker by.

She’s living in the past and the future. What was and what will be are not clear concepts. Her mind’s eye blends performance after performance together, and who can blame it? The flicker of the strobes, the susurration of the crowd, the omnipresent haze, the glowsticks that festoon her body: all those things blur together with a constant thudding of bass. Every crowd is the same crowd, their movements stretched out over time into a seismic event which seems significant to those in the now, but in the grand scheme of things is hardly worth mention—a mere footnote to history, that which is or was or will be or would have been.

Long trips are no good. They say you can rest and recover, but it isn't true. Your mind wanders, the way it always does. You just wish the trip was through.

She steps out of the coach. The plaintive sigh of the air brakes is enough to set her nerves on edge. Garish neon indicates the restaurant; if they spent half as much on the menu as they did on the sign, it might have been worth a visit. Her ears perk up at the loudly-voiced opinions of the regulars, but of course it’s the same as it always is. Her manager wants that look: androgyny is in right now, he said. If you want to sell tickets, you’ve got to have the look. It’s not what she wanted, but she can’t disagree with the success: a string of sold-out concerts, of packed auditoriums. Her name on billboards, a not-flattering picture advertising venues, sound systems, radio stations, and even pest-control solutions. Once upon a time, it would have been a compliment; now it’s just tiresome.

At least it’s warm. The heater in the coach might be malfunctioning, or else the grey monotony of the rain just makes her feel cold. Whichever it is, the bar is cozy, comfortable, and the food isn’t half-bad, either. She ignores the stares of the patrons, instead focusing on her food. She knows in a week she’ll have forgotten the name of the pub, the waitress, and even the town it was in. Such things are but fleeting memories, a flipbook of snapshots that skip by in a meaningless blur. If she ever wrote an autobiography—a thought as foreign as working in a law office—she would not ever remember the house dressing on the salad, or that the pie was made from scratch. Although she'll have no recollection after the fact, she's hunched over her plate, as if it might be stolen if her attention wanders. Her ears are cued to mentions of her name. She’s gotten the notoriety she’d wanted, but her heart aches for a conversation that doesn't begin with “Hey, aren’t you?”

Her tip is generous, but she knows that the monetary amount isn’t what the waitress will remember. She knows that the regulars will discuss her after she leaves: they have already started. She doesn’t know if it’s the shades that cover her eyes that make her simultaneously obvious and invisible or if it’s her fame, but the critique of her music and her lifestyle is not subdued; she can hear every single word from the old campaigner in the booth next to her. The waitress is rallying to his cause, and why shouldn't she? He’ll be there tomorrow, and she won’t. She’ll have moved on to a new town. It bothers her, but she grits her teeth. It’s a stand not worth taking; it’s the price to pay for fame.

A placid face fills her mind, as it usually does. Calm, cultured, unchanging, the way she cannot be. Hair styled just so, bow tie knotted in front of a starched white collar, an immovable rock in her tumultuous life. She knows what she wants, and she knows it’s unattainable. For all her fame, who is she to such an artist, such an uncompromised example of perfection?

Does she acknowledge her self-proclaimed number-one fans? Or does she just drift above it all, secure in her art and the perfection of herself? Those were the questions she asked, but they were not the question she really wanted an answer for. Does she know who I really am? was close, but not quite there.

She had gone to a single concert. Even though it wasn't her thing, she’d sat in the front row, watching every single movement, the way the bow drew across the strings; the dreamy half-asleep movements on the neck of the cello. Her traitorous mind imagined how it might sound with amplifiers and pin spots to set the mood, but she tried to block those thoughts. Such gimmicks would only cheapen the performance.

Even the reception had been too high-class. The hors-d'oeuvres were dainty, the plates small. The punch wasn't spiked, and there were no passed-out bodies in the corners of the room. The conversations were carried out in a funerary whisper. She got close, once, but did not have the courage to speak to her idol. One would think they were peers: fellow musicians and all that, but they were no more alike than a cat and dog. Her idol reeked of quiet sophistication, while she was no more than smoke and flash, there one moment and forgotten the next.

She’s on stage now. She can’t really say where her mind is, because she doesn’t know. The platters spin before her, and the roar of the audience washes though her. She’s there for them, even if she doesn’t know why. The woofers pulse with the crowd, giving it a predatory animalistic quality which is vaguely frightening. She’s pouring herself into them, responding to their cheers and applause. The night blurs by, one song after another, a constant beat with no more meaning than a falling leaf. Although she shouted out the name of the town at the beginning of her gig—to a thunderous response—she can no longer remember it. Tomorrow, she’ll wake up with a throbbing head and ringing ears, and she knows she’ll ask herself if it was worth it. She knows she won’t be able to answer that question honestly.

Her movements are automatic and thoughtless. She is trapped in a machine of her own making, a slave to her success. What have I done? The flashpots give her no answer. It is the most important question, but she might as well be grasping at the drifting smoke. She doesn’t know who she is any more; she doesn’t know if she’s achieved her goal or missed it by mere inches. It is of no importance, now; only the crowd matters. Every fragment of energy she has is fed to them, and a little bit more of herself leaches off into the hungry audience. She is them and they are her; she can no longer tell the difference. She knows in an hour or two, she will be back in a strange hotel room, soaked in sweat. She might take comfort in a bottle or in the embrace of a stranger, but neither will fill the vast emptiness she feels inside. She has finally grasped the fame she thought she wanted. She would trade it all for anonymity.

Author's Notes:

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