A mega-famous celebrity is like a spontaneous energy source. Magnetic. The initial mob that formed around Chris generated more interest from passersby, and so by the time I reached the edge of the park, I couldn’t even see through the mob. The buzz itself attracted more people, and ladies holding shopping bags whispered, “Who do you think it is?” And they waited for a turn to meet a celebrity, whoever it was. It didn’t matter to them.
A girl broke free of the expanding ball of humans with a piece of paper clutched in her hand. “It’s Chris Hemsworth! Oh, my God!”
At her words, the frenzy redoubled.
I looked around for something to climb on. I couldn’t snap a picture of him from where I stood, and if I jammed in there, I wouldn’t get a good angle. A line of benches ran along the path, but even standing on these, heads obscured my shot. I put my hand on a nearby tree and dared to stand on the back of the bench, praying it was securely bolted down. The view was clear enough to identify Chris, and I managed to capture the insanity of the scene.
If I could give him a word of advice, I’d have suggested he find himself a decent disguise—something other than Thor.
Once I had collected my prize, and Chris had dragged his swarm of human beings farther away, I threw my backpack onto a bench near some chess tables. I turned on the hot spot and uploaded my pictures. Andy couldn’t possibly complain I didn’t get a comment today. As if I could have combated the fray.
It wasn’t much, but that little score bought me at least an hour to myself. The sun felt nice, and I leaned back on the bench and closed my eyes, listening to the sounds in the park. Before long, my curiosity won out, and I had to see the things I was hearing.
At the chess tables, an elderly man with his cane leaning against the table looked on as a college-aged kid studied the board in deep concentration. I couldn’t tell who held the lead, nor did I care. I grabbed my personal camera and rested my foot on the bench to better prop my elbow up on my knee as I focused in. I snapped pictures until the players glanced up at me, eyes deglazing momentarily as their brains tried to force them to take in the world outside their own heads. The pull of the table proved too great, and they forgot about me and continued to play.
A young girl crossed in front of me, chasing after a Pomeranian she held on a leash. Her hair was pulled up in tight pigtails. The tiny dog dragged her along in its excitement, sniffing at everything it came across. Behind her, a disinterested woman stared into her phone, saying without conviction, “Slow down, Sadie.”
My own phone buzzed. I laid my camera aside and checked my notifications. I had a new direct message, and it was from Micah. I scrunched down onto the bench and huddled over my phone to cut the glare so I could read it.
Heard you’re having lunch with my sister. I hope you won’t call her washed-up in your newspaper. :P
I wanted to respond and tell him I hadn’t written that headline about L.L. Stylez, but he still hadn’t followed me back. The significance of his quip registered a moment later—he’d read my article. Maybe he had a habit of checking the tabloids for any stories about himself. He clearly hovered over Twitter. I had a dim hope he’d only read it because I wrote it. Crazy.
Frustrated, I tweeted at him on his feed.Hey, do you like talking to yourself? Follow me back.
Then I thought that felt too pushy and nearly deleted it. But I couldn’t think of any better way to clue him in, so I left it.
While I waited for a response that never came, I scanned Twitter for hints of any other celebrities out and about. When I’d applied for this job, I had an inkling I’d have to chase down stories but wasn’t at all prepared for the cutthroat nature of the business. And at first, Andy had praised my photography skills while training me in his art of war. Little by little, the praise evaporated, replaced by an irritation that worried me. I couldn’t afford to lose this job.
Leery about returning to the office with nothing more than my word that I’d spotted a Hemsworth in the wild, I decided to head uptown to the theater district. Stalking exit doors at the matinees was an act of desperation, but sometimes a big name celebrity would step out to greet the fans. I hated to poison the well with my presence, but I worked in a parasitic industry. And I had a selfish motivation—I adored Broadway.
On my way, I happened upon a mesmerized flock of young Buddhists huddled near the TKTS booth, gazing up at Times Square in every direction. When I raised my personal camera, I heard my father’s voice in my ear. “Illa,Anushka. Don’t take the obvious shot.” I peered through the viewfinder, framing the composition that would make him say, “Nalla.Good.”
This shot would be my little secret—a side benefit of my day job.
The theater stalking paid off when stage queen Miriam Blackwell, still painted in her costume makeup, emerged from the fire exit into the side alley and greeted fans. I shot pictures from several feet away, and she stopped for a moment and posed for me.
Encouraged by her indulgence, I flipped my camera to video and approached her. “Ms. Blackwell. I’m a reporter for theDaily Feedand a huge fan.Candywas the first musical I ever saw, and I caught this show again last month. You were amazing as always.” She thanked me, and I went on. “Is it true that you’re stepping down from the show at the end of the season?”
She nodded, considering, and said in that famously smoky voice, “I originated this role, you know. I played Candy when this show began in 1992 and again in 2001. It’s been an honor to come back to reprise the role, but to be honest, my dear, I’m getting too old for the rigors of theater. It will be good for someone younger to take over again. I’ve grown spoiled and lazy.” She laughed unselfconsciously. She’d never been one to mince words, and I thanked my stars I’d come up here today. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not going anywhere. I plan to keep making movies until I shrivel up and die. But I shall part ways with the theater.” She winked. “For now.”
I’d been a fan of Miriam Blackwell since the first time my dad brought me to New York and took me to three different musicals. He’d let me pick one show, while he and my mom chose the other two. I was nine and didn’t have any interest in seeing a musical at all. I choseCandythinking it might actually be about chocolate. My parents were equally shocked by the bawdy review, but I never forgot the spectacle and eagerly went to the next two shows of our visit.
I assumed Andy would be excited about an interview with someone of Miriam’s stature and hurried to a corner café to upload the photos and video. I didn’t want to take any chances that I’d somehow lose them. I plugged my headphones into the camera to play the audio and transcribed it into my phone email app, wishing I’d lugged my laptop uptown.
When I returned to the office, I expected to be greeted with fanfare equal to the morning, but instead, Andy stormed out of his office. “What the hell is this? Nobody cares about some crone of a theater actress. If this is the kind of garbage you call content, maybe you should walk downstairs to the Arts and Leisure department and apply for a job there.”
“I thought this was entertainment news, Andy. Theater is entertainment.” My voice wavered. Sometimes out of nowhere and at the most inopportune moments, I sounded like I was on the brink of an emotional breakdown, even though I was completely in control. Zion said it was because I bottled everything up, but I figured it was nothing more than fatigue. Whichever, I certainly didn’t want Andy to think he got under my skin. He’d either single me out to torment or find a way to fire me.
His lip curled in a sneer, and I wondered if he could already taste blood. “Let me explain it to you in a way you might understand, Scout. Our newsisthe entertainment.”
And just like that, I’d gone back to being the goat. Thankfully, Andy got called out of the office, and Zion came back in, so I spent the next hour hovering at his desk, complaining about how I couldn’t ever win in this suckfest of a job.
“And if I could find another job—” My phone dinged, and I absently glanced at it, intending to finish that sentence, but when I saw the notification that Micah had followed me on Twitter, I lost my train of thought.
Directly on the heels of that, he sent another message:Can I get your phone number? It’s easier for me to text.
I sent it to him, and a minute later my phone buzzed with a text from him.What are you doing right now?
