Superstar

Content Warning: Story mentions use of illegal alcohol consumption and cults.

Every other night, I convinced a room of people that I was whole. I told the room that I was happy, healthy, and always leaning into joy. I didn't tell them that muffins are the only thing that makes me happy, that I hadn't seen a vegetable in weeks, and that when I wasn’t at work I was hiding out in my bed like it was the last island left on earth.

Once upon a time, I was one of the people in those chairs. I stretched my eager young body towards whoever the teacher was, desperate for the wisdom of an established actor. I wrote everything down, my hands scribbling as fast as they could go. I wanted to be one of the greats, and I thought the greats only come to be by following in the footsteps of other greats.

I was wrong. Following the greats will only get you to mid-great. But mid-great is better than finding yourself performing for pennies at black box theaters until you die. Mid-great gets you in Marvel movies. Mid-great makes you rich.

But I wanted to be great and that stressed me out. My thick hair started breaking. My skin, my beautiful brown skin, that was such an asset to auditions and my vanity began to erupt in intermittent pimples. On set, my trailer was my sanctuary and I didn't leave unless I absolutely had to. I needed a place to hide from egotistic directors and the Scientology and Nxivm nuts that always seemed to be hovering around. I avoided parties and instead spent my time trying to crack the code with masterclasses. The masterclasses didn't enhance my acting skills, just my imposter syndrome. Eventually, I stopped watching them and I also stopped auditioning.

The thing about money, though, is that you need it to live. Another perk of being a mid-great is that you’re particularly qualified to teach a class full of newbie actors eager to hear from you. My mortgage needed to be paid whether I was depressed or not, so I’d drag myself up to the class and put my acting skills to the test.

I’d stand there with faux cheer and launch into how acting has benefitted every part of my life, from interpersonal relationships to closing business deals. I told them that I sleep like a baby every night because I make enough to donate to all my favorite causes. The reality is that my insomnia was a result of acute anxiety, and that anxiety led me down rabbit holes where I'd end up finding nature conservancies and poor children to throw my money at in order to try and make myself feel better. It was a weird sort of retail therapy. And like retail therapy, it only made me feel good for a couple of hours at a time.

"I'm a fraud," I should have been saying. "Half the time, I want to get in a fast car and run it right off a cliff. If you want to be great, stay far away from me.”

After one night when my lies laid particularly heavy on me, I attended a late mass at a Catholic church. Being inside churches always made me feel like my feet were on fire, considering that I was gay and a big fucking liar, but I was craving the kind of peace that only religious people seem to have. The peace that comes with believing in a god that will hear your sins and say "It's alright kid, at least you admitted to it. Chin up."

There were only a handful of people in the church beside the priest. One was a woman in the back with ripped jeans and a tatty sweater. When she caught me looking at her, she gave a half smile.

The priest finished his sermon and started the blessings. I couldn’t participate, what with not being baptized and all. I heard a shuffle to my right, and when I looked the woman was making her way down the pew towards me. She smelled like vanilla and tobacco. I guessed she was some sort of queer.

"You're not Catholic either, are you?" she didn't bother whispering.

"Nope," I replied. "Just here for the company."

She chuckled at that. "I'm Julianne." She offered a pale hand for a shake, her dark brown curls bouncing as she cocked her head to the side with that same half smile.

"I'm Alyssa." We shook hands, hers lingering around mine for just a second.

"I’ve always loved the stations of the cross. Sometimes I come in here just to stare at them. I mean, how macabre is it to celebrate a death like that? Even if it 'saves humanity'." She gestured in quotation marks. "It's fucked up but hey, those windows are gorgeous."

"Funny how that often happens." I said. She nodded in agreement and we sat in silence for a moment.

"You're looking for company. Would it be weird to ask if you wanna grab a drink?" she asked suddenly.

"Yes. But sure." I accepted on impulse.

We left the church and walked into the dusky summer evening. I learned that Julianne lived near Hollywood and Vine, was a musician, and past performing, she worked as a stage manager and bartender. In short, she was the quintessential creative Angeleno.

"I didn't know people still had bands," I said as we were pushed together, trying to avoid a scooter barreling towards us, no interest in our safety.

"There are a few of us left, but yeah we're a dying breed. Vintage."

"What's your band’s name?"

"Vintage, " She winked. "This is it."

The bar was yet another black building with an iron wrought door and a small sign to the side that read "The Yard."

The bar’s interior was very different from its exterior, thankfully. The floor was covered with fake grass, and elaborate green and black patterned wallpaper adorned the walls. Tall wooden booths dotted the floor in a perfectly haphazard organization. Julianne led me to one in a corner.

“Do you like absinthe?” she asked.

I frowned. “Isn’t absinthe illegal?”

“Only if you want it to be.” Julianne smirked as a waiter came over.

“Hey Julianne, did you just get out of church?” he said, smiling. He held a menu but didn’t bother giving it to us.

“ Hey Alan. You know I did.”

“How’s Christ?”

“Still dead.”

“Alas.” He shrugged. “So what’s it going to be tonight?”

Julianne looked at me, a glint in her eyes. I should have been nervous. I should have wanted to run home. But I sat tight simply because Julianne was beautiful.

A couple years ago, I met a girl in my black girl hiking group for famous people. She used to wear a sunscreen that made her skin glitter like gold, and made her hazel eyes shine. I ended up base-jumping because of her. It’s my toxic trait; doing stupid shit for love even when that love doesn't exist.

“It’s going to be the real thing,” I said, my fate sealed.

“Straight from New Brunswick it is, the little darling of a province. As always, no words are to be spoken about this particular green fairy outside these doors.”

“As always,” Julianne winked and Alan walked off, a slight spring in his step in anticipation of breaking the law.

“You know, I’m a little surprised, but glad,” Julianne leaned towards me. “You seem a little scary.”

“We just met. I’m not afraid,” I lied, per usual. Julianne was unconvinced.

“I know your eyes. I used to look in the mirror and see those eyes.” She sat quietly for a moment, eyes absently scanning the room. Either everyone else in the bar was drinking legal absinthe, or was very good at looking like they weren’t fucked up.

“No one is in Hollywood by accident,” she started up again, still not looking at me. “Why are you here?”

“You really don’t recognize me, do you?” As I said it, I became fully aware of how strange it was that she didn’t know me. I might’ve been mid, but I was also Marvel.

“Should I know you?” she asked, frowning at me.

“I’m Alyssa James. I’m in a bunch of stuff but my biggest bag is Black Fox, Marvel universe.”

“Oh,” she stared at me closer, then her eyes got big. “Oh! Yeah, I do know you. You’re also in that comedy on Netflix, right? The one with the dogcatchers.”

“Yeah, that’s me,” I tried to smile. I hated that show.

“I love that show. So you’re something in this town.”

“That’s what people say.” Julianne started to respond, but Alan was back at our table with an ornate silver platter holding two glasses of absinthe, engraved slotted spoons, a small dish of sugar cubes, and a miniature pitcher of water.

Alan prepared the drinks, placing the slotted spoons over the glasses and pouring water over the sugar cubes, turning the green liquid below milky white.

“Okay ladies, here you are. Enjoy, and please don’t try to leave while under the influence. I will be required to stop you from doing that.”

“We’ll stay here all night if we need to.” Julianne responded.

“Wait - I can’t stay here all night.” I said quickly.

Julianne looked disappointed and Alan raised an eyebrow. “Shit, I should have asked if you had anything to do tomorrow.”

I didn't actually have anything to do tomorrow, other than my normal routine of doing nothing. I stared at the glasses, condensation beading on the bulbous base. I took a deep breath, grabbed one, and took a large swallow. It was disgusting, and I coughed as the strong liquid hit the back of my throat. Julianne took a more rational swallow, amused.

We sat in silence for a while, sipping the absinthe and looking around the room, pretending not to steal glimpses of each other. Finally, Julianne ended the game and stared directly at me. I stared back, a smile playing on my lips as my limbs began to loosen.

“So you’re a big deal in this big town. Why aren’t you happy?”

“Because I’m not great.” I said, then I added quickly, “I know it and I accept it, it’s just that it all feels so…false. It feels like I’m tricking people into thinking I'm great. But being in blockbusters isn’t the definition of being great. It’s the definition of being sellable. I’m tired of just being sellable.”

I took another sip of the absinthe. It was starting to taste good.

Julianne stared off, thoughtfully. “You know, there’s a lot of people who would want what you have.”

“I know. It makes me feel worse.”

“I think you’re great.” Julianne decided, her eyes starting to droop a little. “I think you’re great because you’re humble.”

I could feel my eyes drooping a little in response to Julianne’s. “That’s a funny concept.”

She became alert again suddenly, tapping on the table. “Maybe Jesus was a superstar.”

“What?” I said, laughing.

“I’ve always wondered if Jesus Christ Superstar is more real than we think. Like, what if the real thing really was just camp? What if it was just System of a Down and a superiority complex and a false humbleness? And…or…what if dying was just an extreme act of narcissism?”

“I think if a Christian heard you talking like that, they’d find the nearest tree to tie you to and set you on fire.”

“Maybe.” Julianne giggled. It sounded like silver bells. “But think about it. His death inspired the death of thousands, millions, over the last several hundred years. What if all he did was encourage death? Death cult.”

“You’ve got a point.” I muse. “If we’re going down that road you could also say he paved the way for other narcissists to do what they do, from Jim Jones to…Mel Gibson.

“Fuck Mel Gibson.” Julianne downed the rest of her absinthe.

“Yeah, fuck him.” I said, doing the same. We sat in silence for a moment.

“It was all a play.” Julianne mumbled to the table.

“It was all a dream.” I mimicked Biggie.

“Until I got some fame. And they all bowed to me. Oh, that’s good.” Julianne scrounged in her pocket and grabbed a pen, scribbling the lines on a napkin.

“You love what you do, don’t you? The industry hasn’t got to you?”

Julianne looked thoughtful. “The industry is trash. But yeah, I do love it. I couldn’t do anything else.” She looked at me. “It sounds like you should, though. If you could do anything, what would you do?”

I thought about it. Before I found acting in high school, I wanted to live by the sea. I wanted to spend my days studying creatures in tide pools, and figure out how to heal the sea. I’ve only known the sea as another victim of humanity. I was acutely aware that the ocean would turn around and kill us if we made it unsuitable for living creatures, thanks to long summer days and longer documentaries. But then I joined a school play during my junior year and fell in love. The director saw potential and encouraged me to leave Boston and try my luck in Hollywood.

The first few years running around this town was breathtaking. It was all glamour, all lights and excitement and beautiful people and more queer people in one place than there were people in my entire high school class. Gone were the days of only having two girls to date and a plethora of boys that wanted to date me only to see me make out with one of those two girls. I was in heaven.

But hell can look a lot like heaven if you don’t know better. Or maybe I just dated too many girls that knew each other, and leaned too far into an industry that was never going to catch me. Maybe I wasn’t as capable as playing pretend - actually I know I wasn’t as capable at playing pretend - than other people coming up at the same time I was. And of course, there was the whole greatness complex.

“I wanted to save the sea,” I said finally, tilting my head to the side, letting my brown eyes rest on her blues, unwavering. “Your eyes look like the sea.”

Julianne smiled shyly. She looked away again, and when she looked back she had made a decision. She got up and went to my side of the booth, sitting next to me and placing her hand on my lap. My neck burned hot.

“Then you should go save the sea,” she said, saying the words close to my ear. I looked at her, down to her lips, stained a dark red, and back to her eyes. When she leaned in for a kiss, I leaned towards her, closing my eyes. Stars exploded behind my eyelids and the world tilted sideways as the kiss went deep. It could have been seconds or minutes or hours before we pulled away.

“I might just do that.” I interlaced my fingers with hers, and we sat like that, talking and eating sugar cubes until our systems felt clear again. When we got up to leave, I saw that we were the only ones left in the bar. Alan was gone too, a woman in a black tank coming over to collect our payment and glasses.

“Have a good morning!” she said cheerfully. I frowned. It couldn’t be morning.

But sure enough, when we opened the door, I was temporarily blinded by early morning light. I pulled out my phone. It was 7am. We walked back to the church where we had met, and where, thankfully, my car hadn’t been towed.

“Do you need a ride somewhere?” I asked Julianne, rubbing my eyes.

“No, I’m okay. I want to walk for a while.” With a smile, she pulled me in by my belt loops and gave me one more long kiss. “I think you better get started saving the ocean.” She walked away, backwards, blowing me a kiss before wandering across the street and out of sight.

When I got home, I sent an email to the school where I was teaching quit mid-course, with an apology. A week later, I put my house in the Hollywood Hills on the market and started looking for one in Redondo Beach. Within a few months, I was enrolled at a community college to begin the process of becoming a marine biologist, and a handful of years later, I was one. I didn’t quit acting entirely; instead, I put huge chunks of my Marvel movie pay and put it in a savings account meant to start an ocean conservation charity. Fifteen years later, that charity was a reality and going strong.

I never saw Julianne again past award shows; Vintage became an indie darling over the years. Whenever I thought of her - and I thought of her maybe a couple times a month - I could smell anise and Chop Suey played in my head. I did hear from her once, though. She sent a postcard to my office; she must have heard of the charity somehow and realized it was me. The postcard didn’t have a return address, or her name, but I knew it was her. The front was classic Lisa Frank, resplendent with neon dolphins. On the back she had drawn a small blue heart and left a simple message:

“Look at you, you superstar.”