Why Not Me

I parked the car, eager to leave its stale embrace, and step out into the busy lot. The grey skies above made me reluctant, having forgotten to pack an umbrella, I was tempted to sit it out for a bit until things cleared up, though I was already running late.

Impatient, and excitable, I grabbed my bag from the boot, and dashed across the tarmac towards the reception, following the confusing sign-posts across the large car park towards a rather ramshackle hut.

To my surprise, and muted concern, the resort - from here - seemed like nothing more than a deserted air-strip, a few hangars and workshop-like barns dotted about the place. Somewhere you might imagine people would test-drive cars nowadays.

At the reception desk I was greeted with a glowing smile by a young man called Clark.

"Mr. Benson," he squeezed my hand to shake it eagerly, "it is an absolute pleasure to meet you. Did you have a good trip?"

"Yeah, it was all right, bit of traffic on the A22, but..." I tailed off, suddenly feeling like this was supposed to be part of it and I wasn't quite playing along.

"Well," he beamed, "I'm sure everything will be absolutely perfect from here on. Ah," his eyes discovered a short, neat young man standing just behind me, "here's your assistant, Mr. Kendrick."

Mr. Kendrick stepped forward, his face young and pale, his eyes wide and keen. "Sorry I'm late sir..."

"No, it was -" I began, but the expression on Kendrick's face suggested I change my tune; "That's quite all right."

"We'll take a car to the hotel, this way sir."

Kendrick lead me past the reception, down some steps and into - what looked like - a small parking garage. There was a discrete black car with tinted windows waiting, the driver stood by the door, holding it open, nodded his greeting.

I slid in and Kendrick followed.

As we drove he began listing a schedule to me, whilst reassuring me that everything was in hand, he offered me a drink, a virgin bloody Mary, which, when we reached out destination I was allowed to take with me.

A hotel bellhop got the car door for us, he smiled and wished me a good day, and Kendrick handed him a tip, which the bellhop thanked me for. I was ushered into the hotel lobby, Kendrick steered me away from the reception towards the elevator - having already checked in on my behalf earlier - and we emerged, after a quick ascent, in the exclusive penthouse suite.

Practically as soon as I stepped into the room, even before I'd had a chance to take in its luxuriant decor, a room service trolley had been wheeled in for me to enjoy a delicious brunch of eggs Florentine followed by Belgian waffles with fresh strawberries. I had a glass of champagne, which I drank standing on the balcony over-looking the city. The weather was cool and calm.

When I returned to my room a nervous looking young woman was standing next to Kendrick. She pushed a fallen length of hair back behind her ear and was introduced to me as Allie McCullough, a reporter for Marquee magazine.

She extends her arm, offering a hand, "It really is an absolute pleasure to meet you."

We talk for thirty minutes, I'm a little awkward myself, unsure of how to respond to some of her questions, but for the most part she's delightful and offers me all sorts of praise and compliments. At first I was bashful, blushing beetroot, but soon the wealth of compliments made me feel like, yes, I deserved them. Why not? It felt good, and she didn't seem sycophantic in her praise, just honest.

As our time together drew towards an end Kendrick stepped over and whispered for things to be brought to a close. I had a signing to attend, so it was back down in the elevator, into the car and off - a short drive - to a nearby record store, a large, yet cool, retailer that already had a queue snaking outside.

I was rushed in, to cheers and applause, down the aisles towards a small table that was set up with a large poster advertising my presence.

With coffee and cake at my side, and another assistant - a young woman by the name of Bea - I met hundreds of fans, people who were all smiles - some actually crying with joy - who just wanted to meet me, shake my hand, some asked for a hug, and everyone wanted a photo. It was overwhelming, and they shared their stories with me, how my work had changed their life, had spoken to them, made them realise something fundamental about themselves that - until then - they had never had a chance to really understand. It was humbling.

Afterwards I felt exhausted, even though I'd barely left my seat for two hours, and we drove to a charming little restaurant for lunch. A complimentary bottle of champagne was gifted by the manager, who said she was also a fan of my work and asked for an autograph.

We then went to a boutique fashion store so I could get a suit for a red carpet event I was due to attend that evening. I, at first, was apprehensive about being too extravagant with my choices but the manager of the store told me that it was all free as I was doing him a great service wearing it to the premiere that night.

"Just remember," he smiled, "to tell everyone where it came from!"

Then I got my hair done, a manicure, teeth whitening, everything.

And so that evening I went to the premiere of a new blockbuster film, but as I stepped out of the limo and walked the red carpet I was dazzled by a hundred camera flashes and the sound of people - both photographers and fans - screaming my name.

"Mr. Benson, sir, this way sir," the photographers seemed to shout in unison, making a little disorienting as to which way I should turn.

Kendrick had advised me to dictate, with my body language, as to which section I was posing for, though, he added, they'll probably keep snapping regardless of whether I was facing them or not.

I signed some autographs and then - nearer to the entrance - was a gathering of press, holding out microphones. I spoke to each one in turn, telling them about my clothes, my excitement to see the film, I didn't quite know what they wanted to hear so I just said how great everything was - which I guess was true - and then went into the packed auditorium to watch the film.

There was an afterparty, very elaborate, drinks and dancing. I didn't notice any other celebrities there, but people came up and told me they were producers and executives and all sorts, so that was pretty interesting to meet them and talk about their work. They all said how much they loved what I do.

Around midnight I was feeling quite tired, and, as if by magic, Kendrick was by my side helping me into the car so we could go back to the hotel.

Once I was back in my room, and on my own, I decided to have one last cheeky glass of champagne before bed. I stepped out onto the balcony to enjoy it, leaning woozily on the metal railing, soaking in the quiet ambience of the city at night, the distant twinkle of the stars, the murmur of traffic below.

As I lifted the glass to my mouth I fumbled my hold on it, sending it falling from the balcony where - a second later - it smashed on the top of a building that appeared to be across the street, but was - in fact - about a metre away, it then plummeted down thirty storeys in the blink of an eye, before crashing as gigantic shards of glass - towering over the miniature cars - on the street below.

I looked at the misproportioned carnage, too sleepy to care, they'll clean it up tomorrow.

Collapsing into bed I turned on the television, to act as some sort of lullabye, and the entertainment news was on, reporting from the evening's premiere, featuring my red carpet interview and some experts talking about my great outfit and how good I looked. When the piece ended it began all over again, playing on a loop as I drifted off to sleep.

The following morning I had breakfast in my room, read the paper, a large picture of me on the red carpet adorned the front page and there was a further feature in the celebrity section.

Kendrick came to let me know the car was ready, I finished my coffee, followed him down to the street and we rode back to the parking garage.

Leaving through the main reception, Clark, the young man at the desk, handed me a gift bag. I thanked him, shook Kendrick's hand, and walked back out into the confusing car park.

As I strolled back to my car I passed a woman glancing up and down from her booking form, she called over.

"Is that the main reception, mate?"

"Er, yes," I replied.

She didn't thank me, but she quickened her walk and hurried off to the reception excitedly. I slumped into my car, peered into my gift bag, which featured a DVD of the entertainment news report, a pristine copy of the newspaper and photo album of my day, along with some other knick knacks.

I started the engine, pulled out of the parking space, and drove back home.

Careers

All the hands had shot up in the air, each face lit up with eagerness, backs stretched and bottoms lifted off the seats, as if not being picked to answer would cause them to lose their flimsy purchase.  Helen was quite pleased, she had become all too used to an awkward shuffle, an audible inhalation, or a pensive murmur whenever she usually asked a group of children what they want to be when they grow up.
    Carefully, with exagerrated precision, she pointed to one boy whose name was Jamal.
    "I want to be famous," Jamal beamed.
    "Ok," Helen nodded, he must have misunderstood the question a bit.  She picked another child, a girl called Susan.
    "Me too, I want to be famous as well."
    Quickly glancing around the circle, and at the slackening in those raised limbs, she began to suspect that every child was planning on saying that.  Just to make sure she picked another.
    "I also want to be famous," Magda bashfully smiled.
    Helen lowered her clipboard, usually she would have written each child's respective choice in the box next to their name, but today they all remained blank.
    "Does everyone here want to be famous?"
    "Yes miss," a boy called Ben said, "who doesn't want to be famous?"
    Helen sighed, clicked her tongue, "It's not really a career though.  That's what today is about, finding out what career you'd most like to pursue."
    "What career did you pursue, miss?" Susan asked, well-meaning but ultimately infuriating.
    Helen, you see, had wanted to be famous too.  When she was eleven she'd even been in a few adverts after a friend of her parents, who worked as a casting director, 'spotted' her at a birthday party.  Helen had gone to drama clubs after school and at the weekends, been the lead in a number of school plays, taken singing classes twice a week, and auditioned for a great number of stage schools.  But the auditions were unsuccessful, she found herself doing a theatre course at a mixed discipline University instead, though she never really wanted to be a stage performer.  Sure, she managed to wrangle her way into a few student short films, but the scripts were clunky and whatever efforts she made to raise their level just seemed futile at best.  Ultimately she grew bored, her course offered nothing of any real interest, and besides she'd made some good friends and started seeing this guy called Luke, and she thought there could be a future there.  They'd talked about moving in together after University, somewhere just outside of London to suit both their needs, because despite her apathy the only career path she really knew to pursue was her desire to be a television actress.
    So, when Uni was over, and after a couple of Summer months spent at their respective family homes, they moved to a small flat in Walthamstow, where she would commute into the city to try and attend whatever auditions she could scavenge and he would drive into Essex to intern at a nature reserve.  But Helen didn't really care for any of the roles she went for, she restricted herself to only film work - be it shorts, adverts, television, low-budget features, etc. - and each part seemed to offer nothing, no progression, no light at the end of the tunnel, and she was conscious of unintentionally building a resume littered with bad credits.  She would look at the filmographies of actors she admired and see the intelligent progression of their career, compare her age to theirs and worry that it was already too late.
    This began to impact her confidence, she knew she'd need to get a job to tide her over whilst she waited for the good parts to come her way, but she wasn't so keen on doing something ultimately unfulfilling like waiting tables or tending bar - it's not that she felt like she was above these jobs, having done both whilst at Uni - so she got an administrative role working in an online shop.  She made some good friends there, friends who really helped her when Luke ended their relationship after four years together, she moved into a house share in the city and then one of her housemates, who worked for a recruitment agency, told her about a vacancy within the company.  A little tired of the online shop's somewhat repetitive nature, and looking to work face-to-face with people, she applied and got the role that would eventually lead to her going out to schools to meet children to help advise them on pursuing the right career for them.
    "What do your parents do for a job?" she asked the children, leaning forwards and gesturing enthusiastically, trying to steer the conversation in a more productive direction.
    "My mum's an accountant, and my Dad mends electrics." Jamal responded quickly and proudly.  After a pause he, unprompted, added, "But my mum's mum was a baker and her dad was a taxi driver, and my dad's mum was a nurse and my dad's dad made furniture."
    "Very good," Helen was rather impressed, she couldn't really recall what her own father did, something in an office somewhere.  "That's impressive that you know all that."
    "But miss," Jamal innocently began, "doesn't that prove that what your parents do won't matter to what you do?"
    She was somewhat stumped, but then her point hadn't really been to give the children a sense of heredity through employment.  However, it had made her think about the cautious intake of breath that her mother had taken when she told her that she was moving near to London with Luke to pursue acting.
    "Are you sure that's a good idea?" her mother had said.
    Helen had rattled off their joint plans in defense, but also in defference, hoping to convince her mother - through her passion for the notion - that they were really going to try, that this would be the best for both of them, her and Luke.  However, ultimately it had proved to be their undoing, they found themselves two ships merely moored at the same port and with each day the different worlds they sailed into became their real homes, the city for her and the wilds for him.  But Helen couldn't help but think that her mother's sharp intake of breath had been the light to the touchpaper, sewing a seed of the doubt that would push distance between them both, like a tree busting through concrete.  But she never could have comprised, that's what she reiterated to herself there, right there in that classroom, she couldn't have turned her back on her acting and stayed out in the countryside for him.  Then she looked at herself, as much as anyone can, and remembered that she was not an actor, that she had not been to an audition in six years, that at first she had placed that dream on the backburner expecting to come back to it, but as time had wore on the notion had gathered dust, like so many things, and ultimately become like tinnitus, forever there, unchanging, and over time subsumed.
    Having been on that drama course she did know people who had continued to work away at it, hoping to become an actor, and she'd seen them rewarded with varying degress of success, and she'd felt bitter about it, sneered and wrinkled her nose when she'd seen the name of one of her contemporaries in the credits of some tv show, willing them to fail, sometimes masochistically watching the show and hoping that their performance would be so monumentally awful as to restore her faith in her own abilities, even though they lay dormant and unused.  If she could not be an actor then no-one, nobody but the pre-established celebrities she had no chance of knowing, could be.  It felt ok for the famous people she didn't know to be famous, because it was almost as if they were born that way, molded and designed for fame, they weren't one of us, they were Olympian Gods carved from stone, birthed into greatness.  She knew that she was formed from humbler stuff, so it didn't seem unfair that they had it all and she had nothing.
    That's what the reality shows changed though, they began to give people the impression that fame was a raffle prize, that celebrity was inside us all, and if we were there, if were lucky, it would be unleashed and once it had been discovered our trajectory would be unstoppable.
    But that was a world alien to Helen.
    These children though, they lived every day expecting some mysitcal talent scout to walk anonymously into their school, point their finger and hoist them - like a cuddly toy in an arcade machine - out of their squalor into a dazzling, glittering world of wonderment.  They could wave goodbye to their friends from the window of the limousine, perhaps come back to parade their newfound celebrity in their faces, bask in the fawning adoration, especially of those who once doubted them, laughed at them, pushed them over in the playground.
    Helen decided to grab a coffee from the staff room at the school, she stood listlessly stirring her sugar into the ill brown liquid, her mind wandering.  A teacher approached her, Ms. Cotton, recognising Helen from a previous visit.
    "How were they today?"
    "Hmm?" Helen responded, a little startled.
    "How were the children in the group, they've had a strange time recently."
    "Strange, why?"
    "Oh, did nobody tell you," Ms. Cotton edged the kitchen door closed a little, "one of their classmates died a few weeks ago."
    "Oh God, that's awful."
    "I don't know if you'd remember him, Billy Hudson."
    "Yes," Helen lied, she could barely remember any of the children she'd just been talking to.
    "Well, it's such a terrible thing, he took his own life."
    Helen froze, she was genuinely taken aback, "What?"
    "Oh, he was depressed, he was part of the school drama club and this casting director came in, looking for boys for this new film or something, well, Billy had a casting, but he didn't get the part." Ms. Cotton poured herself a tea.
    "And he killed himself?"
    "Yes," she said, adding the milk, "hanged himself with a scarf from his bunk-bed."
    "Because of the...?  Were things ok at home?"
    "Yes, as far as anyone knows, I mean, a lovely boy, wonderful student, really tragic."
    Helen finished her coffee, she talked with Ms. Cotton about other things going on in the school, about their plans for the summer, inconsequential things.
    Later that evening Helen sat on the sofa in her flat, a beer in hand, a dinner plate with the remnants of a Chinese takeaway by her side, and a talent search show on the television.
    She watched the hopeful file past the judges, each one giddy with the possibility of escape from whatever life lay on the other side of those doors, and she laughed unintentionally at those clearly lacking in talent yet full of delusion, she welled up at the awkward people who expressed unexpected abilities, or scoffed at the good-looking excitable groups who coasted through on - what the judges called - 'star quality'.
    But more than that, she wondered what any of them could hope to gain from it all, what did they want?  One young boy was crying in the hallway, having just failed his audition, the presenter put a comforting arm around him and thrust the microphone to better capture his sobs, and the boy wailed; "I just want to be famous."  Not earning any sympathy from Helen, but that's all any of them wanted really, they all just want to be famous, and all Helen wants is to feel better than them, that no matter what fame the successful ones may find she can feel, in the pit of her stomach, that it is a fleeting fame, a transient glory limply afforded to the naive by a triumvirate already caluclating how best to package, market and - ultimately - discard the performer singing, dancing, trying before them.
    When she was little, and the teacher had asked everyone to draw a picture of what they wanted to be when they grew up Helen had struggled.  In the end, on that day in primary school, before the casting director had unearthed her, she had chewed the end of her pen, lost in thought, trying to sneak a peek at the drawings the other children were busy scribbling.  Eventually, in an effort to try and relieve her creative block, Helen had just drawn a picture of herself as she was right there and then, no uniform or scenery, nothing to indicate any sort of designation, and then when the teacher had come around and asked her what job she had given herself, Helen had shrugged and said she didn't know.
    Ms. Cotton, earlier that day, had off-handedly referred to a five year plan, she hoped to become the head of the Science department, she had some ideas for changes she hoped to put forward when she achieved this goal, and she'd asked Helen what her plans were.  Helen had shrugged, tried to visualise herself in the future, but, like that primary school precursor, all she could picture was her as she was in that moment, nothing new.
    Fame, she thought, for those eager children, was merely a way of staying in that moment, that lazy moment, but being removed from the responsibilities of a world that refused to acknowledge.  A way to be given a gift of apathy, you don't need to try, you don't need to worry, you're famous, you don't have any problems.  To not be famous was to be burdened with everything, all the impossible misery of the world, and if that was the only alternative then that is why Billy Hudson had strung his scarf around his neck and hanged himself.  For all the good Helen felt she contributed to this world she might as well do the same.
    She took another slug of her beer and turned off the television, finding her reflection replacing the reality show, and she sat there and watched it until she fell asleep.

(I Used To Be) Somebody

I love the energy of a crowd, you can't help but feel like a million bucks, with people screaming your name, camera flashes dazzling you, but you seem to float over it, you stay cool and calm, you turn your head, you angle your body, you make the shot. Sometimes you want to get closer, interact with your fans, they'll reach out just to let their fingertips brush your skin, tussle your hair, thrusting autograph books and photos into your hands for you to sign, like a forest made of arms, like a creature out of Lovecraft trying to embrace you.

My friend from back home finds it all so funny, he doesn't understand what they could hope to gain from just touching me, what possible connection could there be between me, the celebrity, and them, the fan, that would transpire at that point as those anonymous digits lightly nudge my cheek or clap my shoulder, what transference could occur? Do they hope that my fame, my success, might pass on to them?

It's my 42nd birthday. I'm sat in the dressing room, there are flowers and cards around the mirror in which I am reflected. I'm wearing a glittery silk shirt open to just below my chest, a large jewel-encrusted belt, tight black trousers and ice skates. I'm not going through to the next round, it doesn't effect my pay, but neither does it improve things for me, I'll be forgotten again in a week or two, especially over here, they treat me like a novelty, they dwell on my past.

My wife is on the phone, she wants to know, now that I'm off the show, when I'll be flying home. I tell her I'm not sure, I have to do some interviews, try and keep up some momentum from this. Later I speak to my agent, try to see if there are any British directors who might want to work with me that I could speak to. Then I call my wife back, ask if my daughter is in, she tells me she's asleep.

People come up to me in the street and still quote lines from my films, they tell me how much they loved them when they were growing up, they can't believe I'm forty two, they say I look so much younger. They usually say; "Don't look now!" or "Where do you kick a skeleton?" Some people ask me what I'm up to these days, and nod when I let them know I'm still working, still acting, I had five films out last year. Since doing the ice-skating show people have started to recognise me more. I guess I'm in the cultural ether again, so people are more inclined to notice me.

My daughter's birthday is the day after mine, I remember being in the hospital with my wife on the night of my 36th birthday, she was in and out of labour all through the night and into the morning, and my daugter was born as the sun was rising outside.

I want to make my daughter proud of me, have some sort of legacy that I can leave her, nobody wants a washed up old man. She was like a pill, filled me with energy when she was born, I spent some time out, just helping, looking after her, before going back to work. When I did I had a renewed vigour, a spring in my step, I think you can see it on screen. I did some of my best work in the years just after she was born. Shame a lot of it sank without a trace, bad marketing.

They showed a clip from 'Freak Street' on the talk show that evening, obviously the one where I shout "Where do you kick a skeleton?" They always either show that one, or the clip from 'Changing Tracks' where I hold the dead lamb and cry. The host of the show was very talkative, I didn't really say that much, just kind of reacted to the things he put in front of me, it was kind of a light entertainment show, nothing too in depth. When he asked me what I was doing next I suddenly realised I don't have any work lined up, fortunately I didn't blank for long, and just told him I was heading home to spend some time with my family. Which is good, it makes me sound down-to-earth.

Fame is a disease, you don't ask for it, really, you just want to work, do the thing you love, fame can sometimes be the price you pay, and it is a price. People treat you as if it's your own fault that you're famous, that you hounded it down, that you have given up on your rights to a private life, but it is the public that feeds the fire, creates the monster, and though, arrogantly, we, the famous, lap it up, there should be a switch to turn it off and on again. I became famous without realising, acting as a child, my father had heard about a casting session for an orange juice commercial in the building he was working at, took me along, I got the part and an agent hired me the day of the shoot. I did some more commercials, a couple of bit parts in sitcoms, a recurring role in a soap for a while, all before I even hit double digits.

Before I was twelve I'd landed my first film role, a supporting part, goofy younger brother, but the role was a hit, they made a sequel and I got equal billing with the lead. Then came Freak Street, that one's really endured, people love it, there's a sold out midnight screening of that film somewhere in the world practically every other week, and I get asked to all of them. The money's not great, but it's nice to meet the fans, hear how much that film meant to them. It's the positive side of everything that's happened to me.

My wife calls, my daughter's caught measles, on her birthday no less, they've had to cancel the party, but she's upbeat, my daughter that is. I sing Happy Birthday to her down the phone, she asks me when I'll be home, I say a couple of days, but if things go well here it might be longer.

You stand waiting in the wings, breathing deeply, psyching yourself up, holding the hand of your partner, a professional ice skater, you've been training intensely, every day, for this. You try to filter out the sound, it's overwhelming in a way, the boom of the audience. You listen only to the presenters, you wait only for your name, for the music, for the curtains to part, the lights to shine, they're blinding, and you step forwards out onto the ice, ready to dance, feeding off of the applause, the cheers, the gasps, the laughter, and then they judge you, one by one, and then they phone in to keep you or let you go, and you smile, you cry, you holler and scream, you wrap arms around one another either in joy or sadness, and then you trot backstage, to the green room, you sit and wait, they interview you, and it's over, you take off the blades, the glittery suit, wipe make-up away and ruffle the hair, heading for the car to drive you back to the hotel.

I haven't slept in my own bed all year, but I can remember what it feels like. I'll lie in the hotel room, in the large king-size, stretching my hand out and tracing the outline of where my wife would lay, the sheets are so starched and hard, emphasizing the absence. I can't sleep, so I pace the room, make myself a drink, idly flick through television channels, wondering if any of my old films are showing.

I fell asleep around 4am, glass was half full, but now it's empty on the floor by a small puddle, the thrum of my mobile is rattling the bedside table, it's eight in the morning.

My bags are loaded into the back of the waiting taxi, my flight leaves in three hours, I'm chewing the inside of my mouth nervously. It was hard talking to my wife on the phone, her sister was there, though she was upset too I got most of the information from her. My daughter has suffered from complications brought on by the measles, a chronic encephalitis, I keep Googling it and reading the wiki page, but I don't really understand what it's telling me, I don't understand what my wife or her sister are telling me, it says it can be fatal, but it's rare, like 1 in 100,000.

In the airport my agent calls, I tell him about my daughter, he offers his sympathy, tells me to take all the time I need, I thank him, he mentions a feature being shot in a few months, somewhere in Scotland, a horror, but they're interested in me for the lead, I'd need to audition, I shrug it off, I can't do it, he says I could video an audition tape and send it over, I tell him I'll think about it and hang up, my flight is boarding.

Over the ocean words sink in, the doctors told my wife that there's no cure for the disease, SSPE he said, it's always fatal, she may have a year or two, perhaps longer, it's so rare, we forgot to get her immunized, I don't want my wife to blame us, I don't know if she's even thinking about that, why would she think about that? We'll make the time we have special, I'll be there for what little time we've got. It's funny, on flights to and from home before the plane would judder and shake with turbulence and I'd think to myself; 'What if this is it?' I'd make little vows to spend more time with them both, my wife and my daughter, but now I know I never really kept those promises, they are things I felt that I would always have time for, like time is infinite, stretching out forever, that things will always last.

Nothing lasts, by next week or so the photos of me in the weekly magazines will have vanished from the pages, the offers will quieten down again, I should make that audition tape, I mean, the thought does enter my mind that this story, for all its sadness, could be good for me, we could get some perks out of it, like a trip to a theme park or something, she'd like that.

I realise I'm crying, I wipe my eyes, push the balls of my palms against my temple, shake my head. I used to tell people, when I was in my mid-twenties, that I was too selfish to settle down, have kids, I guess I was right. But she doesn't deserve this. What can I do to make things ok? I've been trying, I just want what's best.