Uhhh…not now. I couldn’t think about shit like that, not on the biggest day of my life. Three songs. That was all I needed to sing to have my adoring fans bowing down once more. That would show my family and all the other haters out there who took one look at me and immediately thought loser.
“RJ, have my baby.”
I glanced out the window at the woman offering me up fatherhood like it was such a simple endeavor. What she didn’t know was that there would never be little RJs running around in this world, not if I could help it. I hated kids; or at least I hated the ones who came to AnyDayNow concerts. The little screamers who burst my eardrums with their high-pitched squeals, the tiny tyrants who stomped their angry feet and demanded their mommies and daddies keep buying them more of our overpriced merchandise—the cash boxes that kept me in the goddamn lap of luxury. Also the ones I was now counting on to blast my solo career into the stratosphere.
The car door swung open and Roland stood there, his megawatt smile nearly blinding me with its splendor. “You ready for this?”
Ready? This wasn’t amateur hour. I knew how to work a crowd. Really, this was just like any other night’s work. I’d have these girls eating out of my hand before the night was through. I could barely wait to read the industry reviews the following day.
Stepping out of the limo, I plastered a smile on my face and waved to the crowd. Fans surged, forcing security to form a barrier between me and the overexcited females.
I turned to Roland. “I was born ready.”
RJ: Death of a Heartthrob
Five Months Later
My eyes are open, but I can’t see. A chill prickles my skin as I inch forward, one small step at a time, using my hands as guides even though I have no idea what I’m reaching for. It feels expansive—dangerous—like at any moment I might plunge over the edge of a cliff. Intermittent pulses of light flash like the pops of a camera shutter. Darkness and then light. A low murmur can be heard from somewhere in the shadows. I tilt my head in the direction of the sound, trying to make out the words. A chant? The lights suddenly flick on, flooding my eyes and giving me the first view of my surroundings. I’m on a stage, microphone in hand, but I’m silent. Paralyzed. The audience studies me from their place of safety. The sound grows louder until I recognize it for what it is—booing.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Jolting upright, I panted wildly as my brain worked overtime, shifting me in and out of that nightmare world and dumping me here…into a not-much-better waking one. Reaching for my phone, I silenced the alarm before dropping back onto my bed and cursing the audience that mocked me whenever I closed my eyes. I wanted to scream or throw things at the wall. But instead I just lay there, silently seething.
“Fuck you,” I grumbled to the haters in my dreams. “Fuck you all!”
Dragging my ass out of bed, I wandered into the bathroom to take a piss, and inadvertently I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Whoa! Shit! I twisted my head around to make sure there wasn’t an axe murderer with my likeness sneaking up behind me. Nope. Just me. Damn—at least I looked the part of a pathetic, washed-up has-been. No one could say I wasn’t living up to my potential.
God, what happened to me?
No, seriously. What happened?
I looked like I’d crawled out of a manhole. What was up with my hair? It was like there was a party going on front, back, and center. And to think there was a time when these bitchin’ tresses had inspired Instagram accounts and caused little girls to faint dead away. Yeah, those were the days.
I sighed. This, right here, was why I avoided mirrors. They were a reminder of how far I’d fallen. Back when I was a bona fide heartthrob, industry people lined the block, eager to help me look the part. The hair, the clothes, the…okay, we weren’t going to talk about the man makeup. I’d bought into the hype, reveling in the thrill of being included with the heavy hitters, like with People magazine’s sexiest men alive. But now, examining my blank canvas up close, I saw that much of my looks had been manufactured through the Hollywood spin machine. I wasn’t all that. Hell, I wasn’t all this.
Maybe if I shaved off the nastiness covering three quarters of my face, I’d feel better about myself. I mean, I wasn’t a bad-looking guy on a good day. But that beard—dude. I didn’t even know where to begin describing it, other than to say it ate other beards for breakfast. Migrating north and south, the unrestrained growth was climbing not only up my face but down my throat. It was only a matter of time before my wily whiskers joined forces with the lonely, south-of-the-equator happy trail, and then I might as well throw in the towel. This was not good. Even if I wanted to get back in the beauty-obsessed music business, the doors would be deadbolted shut for the new and unimproved me.
Not bothering to flush, I slammed the lid down and sidestepped to the sink, never taking my eyes off the asshole in the mirror.
“What the hell did you do to me?” I accused my reflection.
It answered back with a flip of its middle finger.
“Very mature,” I mumbled as I made my way back into the bedroom/living room/kitchen combo area of the space I now called home.
I almost laughed at that one. Home. Let me be clear. I had a home—three, to be exact. One lavishly appointed mansion for myself in Los Angeles, one gigantic eyesore in Idaho for my blood relatives to squat in, and one ritzy penthouse suite in New York. Yet I preferred to lick my wounds here, in this bare-bones apartment. With its white walls and dull-brown fixings, the 450-square-foot holding cell was no one’s idea of a relaxing spot to prop up tired feet after a long day of moping. If it weren’t for my guitar, my keyboard, and a pile of scribbled songs scattered over the Yeti cooler I was using as my coffee table, there would be nothing in this suck ass studio apartment that felt like home. I’d conceded defeat, and this was my place of worship.
I think both me and the shithead in the mirror would agree. We’d hit rock bottom. Problem was, I didn’t know how to pull myself out of the crevasse I was now wedged in. I needed outside help, someone who could objectively analyze the situation…and maybe offer up some worthwhile suggestions.
Sighing, I realized I was going to have to use a lifeline.
“Alexa, make me not want to stick my head in the garbage disposal today.”
“Playing grunge music,” her automated voice replied, as screaming melodies instantly blasted from her speaker.
I stood there a moment, stunned at the lack of communication we shared before realizing maybe Alexa was onto something. Maybe I needed more shrieking in my life.
“Ah, yes.” I nodded. “Perfect choice.”
But by the end of the three minutes, I wanted to drive my car into a lake and not try to get out. No, this was the opposite of help. I needed something less ‘blow your brains out’ and more ‘keep that chin up, bud.’ So I asked Alexa for something upbeat, and she delivered by serving up a big healthy serving of bubblegum pop…and not just any bubblegum pop, but my bubblegum pop.
Of course, Alexa would choose this song—the one AnyDayNow tune that gave me crippling anxiety and depression every time it came on the radio. “Desperate for You,” our biggest hit, was the last song we’d performed that night. Our final bow. And once we walked off the stage after performing it, AnyDayNow was no more.