“The reason the architectural thing is getting so many likes is that someone posted a spoof video of your video. It went viral, which then made your original video go viral.”
“What kind of spoof video?”
“I’m just watching it now.”
Gloria presses Play, and I can hear the tinny noise of someone talking.
Her eyebrows fold in on themselves, a smirk playing on her lips.
“It’s kind of funny. But it is slightly mocking of you,” she says.
“Let me see.”
Clutching my cup of coffee, I walk over and slide onto the stool next to her so I can view her laptop.
A cute guy’s face fills the screen. He’s got dark curly hair, large chocolate-brown eyes, and the cutest dimples I’ve ever seen cutting lines into his cheeks as he grins.
“Hi, this is Nick Marchesi, Anthony Devine’s biggest fan, and welcome to my home.”
The camera pans to reveal a cramped, cluttered apartment that looks like it hasn’t seen a vacuum cleaner since MySpace was popular. “As you can see, my roommate and I have really embraced the ‘starving artist’ aesthetic here. Who needs things like matching furniture or a color scheme when you’ve got a cursed sofa and a few milk crates, am I right?”
The video moves down a hallway.
“And here we have the primary bedroom, which is decorated in the ever-popular broke-college-student chic style, complete with mismatched furniture and piles of laundry I haven’t gotten around to folding yet. You can see that my whole room doubles as a walk-in closet, or as I like to call it, the “floordrobe,” since most of my clothes end up there rather than on hangers. That’s a patent-pending concept, by the way.”
I huff out a laugh. Gloria side eyes me, but I’m too busy watching the guy’s smile as he turns the camera back on himself as he walks toward his front door.
Poking his head out the front door, he gestures down the hallway. “You can see the communal staircase has been redone in the retro threadbare style, which is all the rage among us peasants. I mean, who needs fancy things like carpet or a handrail when you can have the authentic ‘I’m pretty sure these stairs are a safety hazard’ experience?”
The video continues, with the cute guy pointing out various features of his apartment in a way that playfully mocks my ownArchitectural Livingfeature.
“And here we have the kitchen, where my roommate and I have cleverly repurposed an old door as a dining table. It really adds to the whole ‘dumpster diving as interior design’ vibe we’re going for. Plus, it doubles as a great spot for impromptu beer pong tournaments.”
He gestures to a sad-looking houseplant in the corner of the living room. “This is my fiddle-leaf fig tree. I named him Figgy Smalls. He’s the closest thing I have to a pet because, let’s face it, I can barely keep myself alive, let alone another living creature.”
The video ends with the guy flopping down on his couch, that mischievous grin back on his face. “Well, that concludes our tour. I hope you’ve enjoyed this glimpse into the glamorous life of Anthony Devine’s biggest fan. Tune in next week when I’ll show you how to make gourmet meals using nothing but ramen noodles and a microwave. Thanks for watching.”
I stare at the screen as the promo for the next video comes up. Gloria is watching me, trying to gauge my reaction.
“Well,” I say finally, “I guess I should be flattered that someone took the time to make a parody of my video. Even if it does make me look like a pretentious jerk.”
Gloria laughs. “Hey, at least he called himself your biggest fan. That’s got to count for something, right?”
“Yeah, I guess. Although I didn’t realize that fandom required so much mockery.”
The video has left me unsettled in a way I can’t name. I stand, pushing my stool back with a screech, and sink into the couch.
Fame is strange. There are these moments when it feels less like my life and more like a role I’ve been playing for so long that I’ve forgotten there was ever a script.
A few months ago, I saw a guy at a coffee shop reading a book I loved, and I almost went over to talk to him about it. I got three steps before I remembered: I can’t do that anymore. If I talk to a random guy, it becomes a story:Anthony Devine Spotted Harassing Innocent Reader.
So I just stood there, mid-step, like an idiot. Then I bought my coffee and left.
Five years ago, I would’ve talked to that guy. We might’ve become friends. Now I’ve got millions of people dissecting mythrow pillows, and I can’t remember the last time I made a friend who didn’t already know my name.
Lately, I’ve started to wonder if the distance that protects me is the same distance that’s killing my music. You can’t write songs that connect with people when you’re not allowed to connect with anyone yourself.
But the main source of my discontent right now isn’t actually about my fame or wealth or even the weird feeling of being simultaneously idolized and parodied. Those things I’ve mostly gotten used to, even if they still throw me for a loop sometimes.
