Not A Fan

“Hey, are you okay?” I asked. I have seen my fair share of hungover drunks and addicts in withdraw on my way to the studio. It was not unusual in downtown Portland, especially with the government decriminalizing drug use. I’m  also  the producer for some pretty self-destructive artists, so these were also hazards of the trade. Once I even administered Narcan for one of our emo-rappers who overdosed at the studio. It was a first for me, but the ninth for him. Some people never get out of their own way even when it messes with their art.  

But this young lady, from what I could see,  looked like a pile of heaving trash on the side of the street with black garbage bags on either side of her. I’m pretty sure she was sitting on one too, like a broke gamer on a bean bag. She was completely folded in upon herself partially covered by a disheveled curly red wig, but her choppy intakes of breath gave her away. She was clearly in distress.

I tried to stay a respectful distance away from her. The city was damp and the cuffs of my bomber jacket rubbed against the plastic wrap my tattoo artist used around my left  wrist. I had a new muse and I had to memorialize it. It happened  more often than not. My tattoo artist joked I was running out of space but I still had my face left  for when I feel musically elevated. But inspiration had me headed to the studio and coming across this scene.

Directly behind dumpster girl was a poster of a headlining act to perform at the concert hall just around the corner, a young pop diva with an obnoxiously large wig, in loud clothes screaming into a mic, the words of her headlining tour above her head like a halo, “Fool Hearted”. The legendary bar had a penchant for hosting artist just before they became unattainable by their massive popularity. Personally, I think this place was where true artistry came to die. Mainstream media and corporate America sucking the life of real authentic art.

“Nooo!,” she screamed out. It startled me, I tripped backwards trying to give her more space, scuffing my already beat up white converses and fully submerging my right foot in a sludge of garbage city water. My toes now squishing about, freaking disgusting. I didn’t want her to get hurt, she was basically in the road, her torn black nylon covered legs and chunky black leather boots just dangled there like the wicked witch after the house landed on her.

“No pictures! No autographs! No fucking fans!,” she screamed again with the same urgency she did just moments ago. Big watery blue eyes popped out. She tried to push off the garbage bean bag below her but the more she tried the deeper she sank, like quick sand. A car sped by splashing us both with the same garbage water that my foot now swam in.

I put my right hand out, still trying to be helpful, “I’m not a fan,” I say matter-of-factly. She reluctantly gave me her hand, knowing there was no way out of the trap she was in.

“So you never heard of me,” she says while fruitlessly wiping her unusual get up, a tight red glittery bustier and a frilly black skirt. It was as loud as the pop girlie behind her.

“Well I didn’t say that,” I said. I pointed at the huge poster of  what was clearly her face before she decided to scream at me again. The poster almost mocked her disheveled appearance. Her large wig was now clutched in her hand and her short brown locks were now congealed. She looked like the knock off version of herself, a mere homage to the glamorous pop queen splattered outside the brick wall of some Portland bar.

A group of stylish teens turned the corner, at first distracted by whatever dance they were trying to do for Tik Tok, the “Fool Hearted” melody playing from one of their phones, until they noticed her.

“Hey aren’t you…” one of them said. But then she just started running, I don’t even know why but I started running too, or maybe I was chasing, I couldn’t tell. It didn’t seem like she had a place she was headed to. Her clunky boots prevented her from running too fast and I caught up to her with ease.

“Why did you follow me?” she asked abruptly stopping in the middle of the street, distrust soaking every word. She looked passed me to make sure there was no one else that followed.

“I just,” I said sheepishly, “wanted to make sure you were okay.”

She didn’t look like she believed me.

“I didn’t know it was you,” I said, I mean I knew she was in town but I didn’t know that trash heap was her, “If you’re trying to hide out, I have studio a block up. It’s the weekend no one is going to be there.”

        “Not a fan, right?” she said, jabbing her finger into my chest harder when I didn’t answer fast enough, “Right?

        I shook my head. This time we walked. Her paranoia had her looking back every few seconds. If she were Lot’s wife she would have turned into a pillar of salt.  The studio was small and humble. They were a few local artists’ photos that lined the outside hall that had recorded there over the years. The kid I saved once was the last one, he hadn’t been in in a while and his manager dodged my calls, I assumed rehab which was better than a stint in jail or worse, dead. Dead before he ever even made in a dent in the music industry would be a tragedy.

        “Do you want a drink?” I asked, a little nervous. She looked me up and down assessing my character before she nodded her head. I reached for my stash under the sound board, I felt the Velcro strap that kept  my gun stuck to the side of the wooden panel, that I kept for protection and handed her a filled cup.

        “That’s generous,” she said jokingly taking a sip and wincing from the bitterness of my cheap taste, “you know I recorded ‘Fool Hearted’ in a place like this.”

        “Your hit single,” I said. That was common knowledge, she couldn’t fault me for that. My tattoo was becoming itchy it was probably time to clean it. But I couldn’t seem to get away from her or maybe I just didn’t want to get away she looked genuine and vulnerable, her fingers roaming the soundboard. The pop sensation fading and a true artist reemerging, like a phoenix from the ashes.

“Oh yes, let’s toast to my overnight success, the one that took ten years in the freaking making,” she said sarcastically, “And they want another one. Like it’s that easy.” Now she sounded bitter.

“Real art can’t be mass  produced,” I said trying not to sound overly critical of her artistic choices.

“Is that why you have stayed local?” She asked, “In your shitty studio with your little gun.” She topped off her glass then bent down and grabbed my gun. “Is this thing even loaded?” She expertly took out the chamber. I held that gun a total of three times since I purchased it I just assumed it was loaded.  I would probably never use it. I was the nice guy, the hero type, the guy who helped his client who overdosed in his studio, who helped hungover pop sensations and stayed true to real art.  

“Don’t worry, I’m from the Midwest I know my way around a gun,” she said sensing my discomfort. She placed the gun on the soundboard and refilled her glass.

“Want to record something?” I asked sheepishly.

“I thought you said you weren’t a fan?” she asked.

“I’m not,” I said probably too quickly, “But you’re an artist and I’m a producer.”

“Keep it local,” she said a small devilish smile played across her lips. I could tell she wanted to. What harm could this do to an emerging star?

I lit up the booth and went to adjust the soundboard suddenly she grabbed my wrapped wrist and lifted my sleeve. The italic words scrolled atop my wrist visible through the plastic wrap accompanied by a small heart in between the words, “Fool Hearted”.

“You have to to  understand…,” I stuttered in response, “This song changed my life.”

“I should have known,” she said pointing the gun at me and then she pulled the trigger, Pop! The bullet lodged into my forehead, I slumped over on the soundboard and watched her saunter out.

“Everyone’s a fan.”