I linger at the entrance and then follow him into the other room when karaoke is announced.
I stand in the back, hidden behind a pole, and listen to Teddy sing.
My heart cracks.
The hardest thing about growing old isn’t the aches and pains, or the short amount of time you have left.
No, it’s the fucking loneliness.
And that will be the thing that kills you before anything else even has a chance.
Barry
A red carpet leads into the Palm Springs Convention Center.
On this perfect evening in the desert—temperature in the seventies, sun peeking over the San Jacinto Mountains like one of the paparazzi lined up along the carpet—the red carpet for Kyle’s event has turned gold.
Flashbulbs pop.
Why did I come?
I mean, do I still carry a torch for Kyle? Am I hoping he will take me back? Or I am hoping that he will throw this pathetic old dog a bone?
I narrow my eyes behind my sunglasses and study the cult of celebrity before me.
Celebrities line the carpet, entertainment reporters and fans calling their names.
For a moment, these stars make eye contact, notice the invisible, and our collective hearts stop.
And then it hits me:That’swhy I’m here: to be seen again.
This is all a game: Money begets money. Fame begets fame. These events not only pull ratings and readers, putting ad money in the coffers of the networks and newspapers, but they also put rears in seats. If a movie doesn’t sell tickets, the game is over.
A reporter pushes me, a microphone is extended before myface. For a moment, I think it is for me, but Ida Red—one of the stars ofBilly’s Back—moves onto the carpet.
I am invisible. I am on the outside looking in. And having fame and losing it begets a hole in your soul created by a green-eyed monster called envy that only money and fame could possibly fill again.
I missed my red carpet. I missed my yellow brick road. Hollywood pulled the rug from beneath my feet forty years ago, and I’m still navigating a path that has only been filled with roadblocks and rejection.
I smooth my hair and my suit, watching the actors wave and pose, and begin to move down the red carpet when I hear, “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
A security guard—hand already on his holster—is blocking my path.
“I was invited by Kyle Moses,” I say.
“Who wasn’t?” the guard says. He lifts a meaty hand and points to a snaking line under the colonnade. “The Nobody Line is over there.”
“But I’m on the list.”
“Jesus Christ, buddy, the entire world is on a list.”
The world shifts underneath my feet.
Ego earthquake.
This happens nearly every week, when I’m rejected professionally, or dismissed as an untalented nobody.
For some reason, I am transfixed watching Ida Red walk the red carpet. She made her mark just as I was being erased, and she never looked back.
