Page 38 of Paparazzi

My feet hurt, I’m tired, the barricades press against my ribs under the pressure of dozens of paparazzi squeezed up against them at the top of the red carpet. I’m not an official photographer for this event, entitled to a designated position on the stairway, so I’ve had to stand here since this morning with dozens of other second-class photographers who don’t have a pass. It’s been an hour since the minor stars came through, the ones for whom few flashes are unleashed but who are usually also the funniest to watch as they try to attract attention. A wave of shoves hit my back and ribs when Alicia arrived—the first big name to show up and a bad sign for an actress struggling to re-emerge after a scandal. Next year, she risks arriving completely unnoticed during the first hour of the red carpet, between the less famous stars or those who have fallen out of favor.

After that came a couple of well-known singers, but the big crush I’m feeling now is because the Jailbirds are here. The first limousine unloaded Thomas, Simon, and Michael, who waited as the second limousine with Damian and Lilly pulled up. As soon as the photographers realize who arrives, chaos erupts and they push against me until I’m out of breath, putting their cameras on my shoulders to take as many photos as possible. Guests at the gala don’t stop in front of us, so we have to take as many photos as possible as they walk by. I notice Lilly looking at us almost shyly and, when her gaze rests on mine for a fraction of a second, a slight smile appears on her lips. It’s a fleeting gesture, it lasts a few seconds, but it’s enough for me to lower my camera and look at her dumbfounded. I move my gaze to Thomas, and my heart skips a beat. With the black tuxedo fitting him like a glove, he looks like a model on a catwalk. Tall, slender, haughty-looking with a slight smile on his lips, he is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my life. The memory of what we had and what I threw away weighs like a boulder on my chest, and I find it difficult to swallow.

I’m so caught off guard seeing Lilly and Thomas, who doesn’t even look back at me, I don’t realize that paparazzi are pressing harder than usual, and the barrier on my rib is vibrating abnormally. The buzz of the cameras covers any other noise as one of the legs of the barrier gives way and takes away my only support.

It all happens in a matter of seconds which, to me, feel like hours. I’m shoved to the ground, trampled by the crowd behind me that falls with me when the front barrier collapses. With one arm stretched out, I try to stop the fall. With the other, I try to protect the camera and lens that cost me so much sweat and fatigue—my only source of livelihood. Unfortunately, I can’t hold the dozens of people rushing forward to escape the chaos behind them and I get trampled. The metal barrier presses into my side with a force that takes my breath away. The shoulder I tried to support myself with has crumpled under my weight, and the camera lens is jabbing into my side. In the confusion, I see several faces around me, including a worried Lilly trying to come to my rescue but being restrained by Damian. Then security makes its way among photographers who no longer know where to seek shelter. The last thing I see is the square face embedded on the big neck of a security guy wearing an earpiece. Then someone stumbles, kicking me in the face, between my nose and cheek, while another shoves a knee in my side, knocking what little air that was left in me out of my lungs. At this point, my body decides it’s had enough, and darkness falls over my eyes.

*

I open my eyelids and realize I’m in the emergency room. Overhead, neon lights blind and annoy me. To the side, I am greeted by a green curtain that divides the beds. I notice my clothes and camera, not in the best condition, in the chair. The lens dangles from the camera’s body, where I can see a thick crack in the plastic. I don’t who’s more banged up, the camera or me.

I try to sit up but the pain in my ribs and shoulder almost makes me cry out. “Great.” An annoyed hiss escapes my lips when I realize the damage could be severe.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asks a young, cute doctor, with dark, messy hair and two hazelnut eyes so wide he looks like I’ve just threatened him with a gun.

“Home,” I announce when I finally manage to sit up and realize that this damn hospital gown they put me in is open from behind.

“I don’t think so. You have a mild concussion, two cracked ribs, and a dislocated shoulder. We’re keeping you here for the night,” he announces as he waves a chart in front of my eyes.

I know he’s just doing his job, but he’s wasting my time. “And you found out all of this how?”

He frowns and studies me, perplexed for a few seconds. “With an MRI,” he says, like it’s obvious and I’m behaving like a crazy person.

“Perfect! How much will this cost me? Let’s see…fourteen hundred just for the ambulance ride, then twenty-five hundred for the MRI, a thousand for the X-rays, and I don’t know what other tests you’ve done on me. I’m leaving here with a bill of almost five thousand dollars already and I have news for you: I don’t have medical insurance, and staying here tonight costs me more than a room at the Ritz. So, unless I’m about to die any minute, please let me sign the damn discharge papers and stop wasting my time as well as yours?” I know I’m being rude, but I want to make it clear right away that I have no intention of being hospitalized.

“I can talk to the administrative office. They can set you up on a payment plan. There are other options you can consider…” His voice is almost imploring.

I watch him for a few seconds, and I realize he’s young—only a few years older than me, probably an intern who hasn’t seen a bed in at least twenty-four hours and likely working a weekend shift because he has no family. He’s seen mostly drunks and people stabbed in brawls, probably had to call security at least three times last night, and he doesn’t know what to do with a madwoman determined to get out of here as soon as possible.

I smile at him, get out of bed and rest a hand on his shoulder. “I have so many ‘installments’ to pay, I’d be paying thirty dollars a month for the next forty years to be able to afford to stay here tonight. I know you’re just doing your job, and I can assure you, I won’t be causing any problems. Just let me sign those papers and give me some painkillers. I know whenever the effect of what you gave me wears off, it’ll hurt like hell.”

He looks at me for a few seconds, then turns around without saying anything and approaches the nurses’ counter to talk to a blonde ponytailed woman in her fifties, undoubtedly his supervisor. He says something to her, pointing at me, and the woman throws a glance at me. They exchange a few more words then she spreads her arms and raises her shoulders. The young doctor lowers his defeated gaze and walks away to the nurses’ room.

The wait is endless, and I have now lost hope that they will let me sign those damn papers. I walk around the bed and start grabbing my stuff to get dressed, determined to get out of here with or without permission. It’s not easy with one arm hanging around my neck in a sling.

“Does the doctor know you’re leaving?” A woman’s voice startles me back to reality. She’s a dark-haired nurse in her forties with a slender figure.

I smile at her and nod. “I made him angry because I wanted to sign out and get discharged.”

She studies me for a few seconds, looking undecided about whether to help me.

“I don’t have insurance, and I can’t afford to stay at the Grand Hotel. I’m not dying. I just have a few cracked ribs and a dislocated shoulder. Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I explain, avoiding mentioning the concussion, the main reason they want to keep me here tonight.

The nurse looks doubtful for a long moment that seems like an hour, but then she approaches to help me, which I thank her for because I can’t seem to manage it alone.

“Take a couple of these if your shoulder hurts, but never more than six a day and at least four hours apart,” the doctor, who has finally returned, tells me, handing me an orange bottle with my name on it and some pills inside. “These are the papers you need to sign. This is a prescription for more pills if you need them.”

I sign and grab the papers and put them in my pocket. “Thank you.” I say, approaching the chair to get my camera back.

“Promise me that if you feel sick, if you experience nausea or vomiting, or severe dizziness, you will immediately come back here? Even a strong headache…or if you have trouble speaking or maintaining your balance,” he begs me as I’m about to leave.

“Yes, of course.” The sarcasm in my voice is so obvious both he and the nurse look worried.

I wave goodbye and fly out the door before he changes his mind about my discharge. I walk through the emergency room as fast as my condition allows, which is somewhere between a limp and a marathon runner on the last mile. This place goes on forever and it takes way too long for me to get through it.

When I finally get to the entrance, then across the street to where I can find a taxi, I realize it’s now midnight. Four hours I was locked up in Lennox Hill Hospital, five minutes by car from the Met, two by ambulance. Most expensive drive in the history of the Big Apple—I could’ve walked and saved fourteen hundred dollars! In the car, I allow myself to breathe a sigh of relief, though not too big, given the pain in my rib. I pull out my phone to look at the latest news, as the Met event seems to have continued smoothly after clearing up the red carpet accident. When I get to my emails, one immediately stands out. Lilly asks me how I am. I smile and reply that I’m home now and the interview can go on as planned.

My heart sinks when I realize Thomas hasn’t even tried to contact me. I could have died in that hospital bed, and he went on with his evening like nothing happened. Maybe it’s too much to hope for a visit to the emergency room, but at least a message on social media, some kind of sign that before I ruined everything, he cared about me.

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