Page 2 of Paparazzi

“Yes, I guess you have no difficulty with women. Do they usually let you to talk, or do they take off their panties as soon as they realize who they’re with? I’ve never been able to tell.”

The laugh spontaneously arises in my chest again. This girl doesn’t walk on eggshells. I like her bluntness, that she doesn’t go into respiratory crisis when she tries to put two words together. I love the fans who recognize me and surround me, but sometimes it’s too damn difficult to relate when they squeal, blush, freak out or ask me where Damian is. It’s a breath of fresh air to talk to a woman who’s not jumping on me or using me to get to my friend.

“If they’re brazen enough, they stick their tongues in my mouth without any talking. Or they ask to see the hands I hold the drumsticks with, or the strong shoulders that beat the drums,” I admit. Embarrassed, I take a deep draw from the cigarette, trying to hide my discomfort.

Her brow furrows for a few seconds, as though trying to figure out whether I’m kidding or not. Unfortunately, I’m not. My relationships are a continuous “What strong arms you have,” like I’m the big bad wolf in “The Little Red Riding Hood.”

“Are you serious? They really ask you those things?” It’s clear she’s holding back a laugh.

What a twisted irony of the universe: this beautiful girl who takes my breath away is also the only one who isn’t melting at my musician’s charm. I get the feeling a killer smile and two beefy biceps are not enough with her.

“Serious as death.” I rub the back of my neck, trying to drive away the embarrassment.

This conversation makes me look idiotic and, for some crazy reason, it annoys me to be seen like this by her. She’s a smart girl. Am I just an arrogant womanizer—or worse, a loser who can only get a woman because he’s a musician? I feel ridiculous, intimidated by the opinion of a perfect stranger.

“It’s a shame they miss everything you could say, just to have a trophy to add to their famous fuck shelf. You seem like someone who’s had more experience than most ordinary mortals on this earth.”

Her response, accompanied by a sincere smile, floors me. The women I’ve met have never treated me like more than a checkmark on a list of celebrities to brag about with their friends—and not even their first choice. I smile like a kid, looking down at my shoes—a feeling I haven’t experienced since fifth grade.

“Thank you. I take that as a compliment.” I take another drag from the cigarette to keep my lips busy, to prevent a frown from forming on my face.

The girl shrugs and smiles. “I don’t know if it’s a compliment, but for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re just a pretty face. You’re a phenomenal drummer, and I’d give anything to know the story behind that time you took the stage wearing a pair of jeans with one leg ripped off.” She laughs and I join her. Out of my entire musical career, the only thing people remember is the time I looked like a complete fool.

“Why the hell does everyone ask me about that? Damian took the stage in a much worse state than me, but all anyone remembers is my mishap,” I say with a laugh.

“Because you looked like someone out of an ‘80s pop video. All that was missing was a flowy wig, and you’d be perfect.”

“Aren’t you tired of hearing that same old story?” I reproach her good-naturedly, but I can tell she’s dying to know.

“I don’t think so...and most importantly, I don’t think that’s all you have to say about that.”

I nod and take another drag, trying to gather my thoughts before appearing to be a total moron as I tell the official version for the umpteenth time.

“We were at the festival, backstage waiting for the group before us to finish playing. A group of girls approached with their expensive all-access passes hanging around their necks. They wanted an autograph from the whole band, along with something that they could bring home as a trophy. Damian took off his shirt, Simon gave them four guitar picks, Michael...no, better you don’t know about him. They wanted my pants. Since I couldn’t get on stage in my underwear, I tore off a leg of my jeans. At the time, it seemed like a good idea; later, I realized I looked like a moron.” I still giggle at the memory I’ve told so many times to the press that reality and fiction are now forever confused in a foggy haze.

“I don’t believe you.”

Her affirmation is solemn. I didn’t think her green eyes could get any bigger, but here she is, proving me wrong, with two irises that seem to want to nail me for my lies. She really doesn’t believe the pre-approved PR bullshit I tell the press.

“That’s what happened that day...that’s what happens when you’re part of a world-famous band. Women just want to take a trophy home. Sometimes it’s a t-shirt; other times it’s something physical in another way.”

She smiles and shakes her head. “You’re lucky you’re a fantastic drummer because if you had to act to survive, you’d be starving.” She nails me in my bullshit without beating around the bush.

“I’m lucky I met those three idiots I’ve been hanging around with for years, I suppose.” I smile at her, hoping I didn’t ruin this strange connection between us.

The girl studies me for a few seconds. Her head is slightly tilted. “They’re the ones who are lucky to have met you. The Jailbirds wouldn’t be the same without their drummer.”

For the first time, she openly admits that she knows who I am, and I appreciate her straightforwardness. I smile at her and take another drag of my cigarette. My heart starts pumping against my chest when I see her wave and take a few steps away from me.

“Where are you going?” The words leave my lips before I realize what I’m saying. Anxiety assaults my stomach.

“It’s not like I usually spend my evenings in the alleys surrounded by garbage, even if the company is pleasant.” She nods at me, gesturing to the environment around us.

I look around and remember where we are. Talking to her transported me to another reality.

“Iris! Can I at least ask for your number?”

“So you can tell me another pre-approved story about how you ripped off your pants?” She smiles at my inability to answer coherently. She raises her hand, waves at me, and disappears through the streets and traffic of Manhattan, leaving me with a myriad of questions.

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