Sarah’s walkie crackled. “Keith’s MIA, Sarah. Help, please?” It was Tyler, who was on door duty in the Marilyn Monroe Lounge. It was the easiest job in the world, just standing in one place and opening a door. All Sarah had wanted was a little nap, a tiny rest, but no. She had to do everything herself.
“Be right there,” Sarah said, and sat up.
16
Friday, 2:20 p.m.
Deck 5
Keith told Scotty he needed to pee, and even sweet Scotty looked annoyed. There were breaks every ninety minutes—bathroom, smoke, stretch, whatever you had to do—and every second of a break made the day longer, but Keith couldn’t wait and just followed a group of women as they filed off the stage. Bobby was sitting in front by the photographer, his head turned away, and Shawn was already hugging whoever was coming in, so they didn’t notice right away. Keith saw Corey turn to look at him and scowl, but he kept going, even though his heart was beating too fast, in a way that happened from time to time. Panic attacks. In the moment it always felt like a problem with his heart or like his body was going to spontaneously combust. A few of the Talkers gasped as Keith walked out with them, but they seemed to understand he had somewhere to be and didn’t stop him for selfies. One of the young JackRabbit guys called out, “Um!” as Keith went by, but he hustled down the hall toward the bathroom and the staircase and the gift shop, and no one stopped him.
The bathroom was a single stall, and Keith ducked in and lockedthe door. He bent over the sink and splashed some water on his face. There was a small stool—bolted to the wall, like everything else on the ship—and Keith sat down and tried to breathe. Hewasbreathing; he had to remind himself of that. In, out, in out. It took a few minutes, but eventually his chest began to feel less rattly, and he was again mostly confident that he wasn’t going to die.
The Talkers always said the same things, or the same categories of things—they said, “Oh my god, I can’t believe it”; they said, “Thank you”; they said, “You were always my favorite”; they said, “They sang ‘Sunshine’ at my wedding.” Sometimes they showed him their Boy Talk tattoos: his face, his signature, the logo, a copy of one of the band’s tattoos. Sometimes they cried. Sometimes they were too in shock to speak—Keith liked those best. They never asked him how he was, not really, not in any way that wasn’t a polite human reflex. He was a three-dimensional cardboard cutout. He didn’t have feelings. It was the same as when they went on talk shows to do promo for whatever record or tickets they needed to sell. The hosts—good-looking robots with well-tailored suits—only asked questions they already knew the answers to. It wasn’t real. None of it was real. Keith Fiore sat where he was supposed to sit. He told the anecdotes that he was supposed to tell. He shut up and let Shawn get the big laughs. Shawn was the naughty one. Corey was the cute one. Keith had been the lead singer, but then Corey’s voice changed, and he got abs, and so other things changed, too. Everyone had their roles to play. For a lot of years, even Keith had believed it.
The answer was no, obviously, he wasn’t okay. Keith wasn’t sure he had ever been okay or that he even knew what okay would feel like. He had felt okay as a child, when he played soccer, or when he was inThe Music Manin the fifth grade.Troublewith a capitalT, that was what this was, but you couldn’t take it apart and look at it like an old car.The attention was addictive, so much more than what he got at home, even as a kid. It was all rolled up into one thing, the group and the guys and the fame and the Talkers and wives and children and this stupid ship. They didn’t talk about it, because what would happen if they did? It was like marriage counseling. You didn’t want to move those rocks because you could never move them back. And so, it was like this—day to day. That was all that mattered, getting through this day to get to the next one. Shawn wasn’t okay. Shawn was a fucking bully and always had been. It was just that most of the time, he was on Keith’s side, more or less. Scotty wasn’t okay. Scotty was an idiot. He was kind, though, and maybe that was enough. Corey was better than okay, even if he was an asshole, and the tabloids were going to be on his dick for a little while. It would pass, like everything else. Shawn would make sure of it. Terrence was in love, and that was better than the rest of them put together, even if he believed in alien abduction and voted for fascists. They were all going to be so pissed at him—Keith was sure they already were.
Someone knocked on the door, a dull thump. “One minute!” Keith said, as if there was a line of men waiting, like at a ball game.
“It’s me, Sarah.” She knocked again, this time with shave and a haircut, two bits. A friendly sound.
Keith looked at himself in the mirror. He looked terrible, worse than yesterday, worse than this morning. There were dark circles under his eyes, big half-moons, like he’d been punched in both eyes and hadn’t noticed. Keith splashed more water on his face, like that would help, and then opened the door, still dripping.
“Whoa,” Sarah said. The hallway was full of Talkers, and so Sarah stepped inside and pushed the door closed behind her, leaning against it. “What’s wrong?”
That was two people within ten minutes asking him realquestions. Questions about his feelings. Keith wasn’t a crier—his antidepressants made crying hard, even when he was watching a movie about a dog dying or whatever, things that had been made in a lab just to pull tears out of human eyeballs—but just like that, Keith was weeping. He hiccupped once and then felt the tears streaming down his face.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sarah said. She stepped closer to him—checking, as well as she could, for permission—and then opened her arms. Keith had been touching people all day, and if someone had asked him if he wanted a hug, he would have laughed. But that touching was different—the Talkers weren’t touchinghim; they were touching theideaof him that was somehow housed in the same flesh as theactualhim. Keith stepped into Sarah’s arms and rested his head on her shoulder. She was his height, her big, heavy boots making up the difference in inches. Steffani was little, small and sinewy from decades of diets and Pilates, and even though she was strong as hell, Keith always felt too big for her, especially as his waistline expanded and hers shrank. He wrapped his arms around Sarah’s back, and they just stood there for a minute until Keith stopped crying.
Sarah pulled away but kept her arms on his shoulders, straight out, like middle schoolers slow-dancing. “What’s going on?”
They’d never stood this close before, and Keith felt self-conscious. He didn’t want her to think he was hitting on her, not that this would be a good way to do that. She was gay, he was married, they were both at work! But Keith had lived through decades of women behaving so badly—at the grocery store checkout, at the airport security line, at Madison’s school. The women didn’t even think what they were doing was rude, and they probably didn’t think it was flirting, either. Flirting required two players, like a Ping-Pong game. What happened to him was more like affectionate catcalling. He was an object. That wasn’twhat Sarah was doing. Sarah was doing the opposite, and it scared him more than the women who shouted “Is that sexy Keith Fiore?!” at him while he was picking up Steffani’s dry cleaning. The worst part was that some days, it helped.
“I hate Photo Day,” Keith said. He gently moved her hands and leaned against the lip of the sink.
“I know,” Sarah said. “Everyone does.” Her walkie-talkie clicked, and she pushed a button and held it to her ear. Keith could hear his own name coming out of the tiny speaker. “I got him,” she said, smiling sadly at Keith. “Just give us a minute.”
“Thanks,” Keith said. “I just needed a break. Shawn is going to be so mad—they all will. Are they?”
“Eh, they’ll be fine. Shawn’s probably taking selfies with everyone twice. They’re all in heaven, I’m sure. We can just tell them you had explosive diarrhea. Want something to drink? Eat?” Sarah asked. She reached into her fanny pack and pulled out a granola bar.
“I love to snack in bathrooms,” Keith said, and took it out of her hands.
“You’re all class, Fiore,” Sarah said.
He unwrapped the granola bar and took a bite. “We can go back,” Keith said.
“Okay,” Sarah said. “I’m right behind you.”
When they opened the door, a weaselly-looking roadie with a giant neck tattoo was standing there, sweating.
“I got it, Tyler,” Sarah said, brushing past him.
As they made their way back, past hordes of Talkers with battery-powered fans and bottles of water, Keith whispered, “Are you gonna murder him?”
Sarah turned and smiled as she opened the door to the lounge. “Maybe.”
Up ahead, Shawn had his arms wrapped around a fan in a bear hug, and when he caught Keith’s eye, his face hardened. Keith was glad, for once, that Corey was between them, and Shawn wouldn’t be able to whisper his complaints straight into Keith’s ear. Keith put on a smile and waved, and everyone cheered.
