InspirationMoonwalks
New member
Hey, everyone
,
I'm taking a Creative Writing class this semester and we just submitted our first short story. I based mine on Michael, not so much who he actually is or on factual elements of his life (though I did include elements), but more along the lines of his character in "Ghosts" or a cross between the movie "Man Without a Face" or "Phantom of the Opera". The elements that are really him and the ones that are fictionalized, I think, will be obvious, lol. Writing a short story is actually a bit harder, IMHO, than writing chaptered fic, as you only have a limited amount of space to make your point, but it's fun and I look forward to doing more of it.
So, please feel free to read and give me your feedback--it'd be much appreciated!:
He sat, a silhouette in the dark of the room, blanketed in the chilly embrace of its solitude. Back to the wall, his form resembled something reminiscent of a half moon, slouched over into a quasi-fetal position. His eyes were camouflaged by his hands, almost unproportionally large in comparison to the rest of his body. He was a rather slight man, svelte in form and nearly as small in terms of self-esteem. To the naked eye, it may have appeared that he was hiding from someone or something, but he lived alone, in that old, somber house, with no one to answer to but himself. But, perhaps, that was precisely the problem.
His immaculately arched eyebrows traveled down to meet the squinting of his large, expressive almond eyes as he winced, silently recalling the moments, the instances that had led him to this pain and seemingly inevitable state of isolation. Slowly lifting his raven coiffed head, he allowed his eyes to meet the gaze of the image on the mirror, hanging from the adjacent wall. The sight of the man within it summoned the cringe into a full blown frown, his eyes beginning to water, his head proceeding to spin. For the man in the mirror, he had nothing but contempt. The product of too many disappointments and broken dreams was staring back at him, reducing him to tears of anguish. A state induced by the memory. And how much, after the passage of nearly two decades, it still managed to smart.
He breathed in a rueful sigh as he reflected upon just how he had ended up here, in this God forsaken town, in the Middle of Nowhere USA. Like that one Don Henley song goes, “I could’ve been an actor, but I wound up here”. Well, Michael was an actor, a mutual accomplishment and occupation merely at the top of the list of his many accolades. Long before this day, he was many miles away from this place, living the Hollywood life, in pretty much every sense of the word. Michael was the veritable King of Entertainment in his prime. He sang, danced, acted, in movies and on stage...You name it and he not only did it, but set the standard by which everyone else tried to do the same. He owned thousands of acres of property in one of California’s plushest areas and had legions of adoring fans at his feet, not to mention all the writers, producers, and others in his respective crafts, who were all jumping at the chance to work with him. And he was engaged to be married to the strikingly beautiful daughter of the man who had been the closest thing to him in the previous generation, one of the few people on Earth who could, after growing up in a fishbowl similar to the one he had, possibly relate to him.
Yes, Michael had the world at his feet. Until the figurative rug was pulled from underneath them. In one of the cruelest, most brutal ways unimaginable.
Willing his mind out of the impossibly painful jaunt down memory lane, Michael slowly got back up on his feet and slowly sauntered over to the window. Hand placed intently, yet impassively under his chin as he silently observed the scene outside. His house was located in a vast space of land, in one of the more remote areas of town, so Michael didn’t really have any neighbors. But from this, the second level of his perhaps all too expansive two story home, he had a relatively substantial view of the world, beyond the confines behind his front door.
Normal, the relatively small, suburban town on the East Coast often lived up to its name. Sometimes painfully so. With a population of just under 4,000, it could be matched up to pretty much every stereotypical description of the small town atmosphere. Everyone knew everyone and even if they didn’t, they’d pretend they did, filling in the white spaces on the information page with innuendo and gossip. They didn’t know Michael or even his name, but were certainly not oblivious to his presence. “That weird man”, was one of his distinctions, if the flapping lips in the beauty salons and at the grocery store were feeling kind. More often than not, he was referred to as “the Freak”. That strange guy who lived all alone, who was almost never seen out in public or at social events, who went grocery shopping after hours and was never seen without a cloak or hood or something concealing him, particularly his face. Which had been the reason why he’d moved there. And the reason why he was, more or less a prisoner, forced to stay.
Two decades ago, Michael’s face could not only be seen; it was virtually unavoidable. Magazine and album covers, television, film, posters, pins, children’s lunch boxes displayed his face so handsome, it was almost pretty. Every little girl wanted to marry him and every boy wanted to emulate him. His ten million dollar smile was everywhere. Until the accident erased it, casting a cloud of elusiveness that would change his life. Forever.
Michael’s mind was unwillingly cast back to that day on the set, the one that marked the end of the life he knew then...And the beginning of the state of existence in which he was now living. Everything had been going exactly to plan. The movie he was filming was almost ready to wrap; he only had one more scene.
Michael had felt an odd sense of calm when he walked onto the set that day. A natural born perfectionist, he was usually a ball of nerves on occasions like this. But he had rehearsed this scene at least a million times, both in his head and with his acting coach. He was ready. Ready to deliver the lines that would finalize his first starring role in a serious picture. Yet another big dream of his, realized.
Until it transcended...into a nightmare.
Michael was midway through when the all the lights in the studio went out simultaneously, leaving it pitch black. A sharp snap sounded, followed by a sizzle. The entire cast and crew screamed in horror as bright orange flames and an avalanche of dark smoke and cinder consumed the premises. The last thing Michael could recall seeing, before waking up, in that almost cruelly well lit hospital room, his face swaddled with bandages, his eyes so swollen, he could barely open them to see through the holes.
He was lucky to be alive, everyone said. Everyone...but Michael himself. He was left badly disfigured by the injuries he'd sustained in the blaze. His once cocoa skin was now an eerie shade of off-white, its pigment devoured by the third degree burning. His nose had required multiple reconstructive surgeries; it was now a small, pointy shadow of its former self. The left side of his face was noticeably sunken in and his ears had, perhaps, fared worst of all, relegated to awkward folds that reminded a disgusted Michael of those of a bat or a pig. His physical being may have made it out of the fire alive; but his spirit had not.
Soon after he was released from the hospital, a humiliated Michael fled Hollywood and celebrity altogether, without even as much as a warning or a goodbye. Even his own family was clueless about his whereabouts. Some reports claimed that he’d gone overseas, to live on a remote island of some sort ; others maintained that he had passed away, dying alone somewhere from complications of his injuries. Or by his own hand.
Michael discovered Normal, the almost pitifully small town in Northern New Jersey by chance, when flipping through an atlas one day, in search of a place to move to. The accident had robbed him of his love for Hollywood and the life he had known within it. He wanted nothing to do with what he perceived to be the universe’s cruel reminder of what he had once had...and lost, in the blink of an eye. Never again, he knew, would he be that handsome young entertainer, adored by millions. No, he was now an aberration of nature, a warped remnant of what he used to be. He wanted to hide away, in a place no one would think to search for him. And Normal, a town so tiny, it barely made a blip on the map of New Jersey, was perfect for that.
He purchased a two story, Tudor style home just outside of town for the ridiculously small (by his standards, at least) price of $30,000. He spent the majority of his time sequestered in that house, writing, reading, playing the piano, painting..Anything that was solitary didn’t require human contact or interaction. He was quite content to be a hermit. He only ventured out when he absolutely had to, which, much to his chagrin, was this morning. He had only cereal left in the cupboard for breakfast. And he was out of milk.
Michael walked through the automatic double doors of Bob’s Food and Drug, Normal’s on and only grocery store, the hood of his ribbed, black sweater pulled securely over his head. On most of his rare public outings, Michael wore black: black shirt, pants, shoes, and sunglasses. It was most likely his subconscious way of trying to downplay his presence, so as not to draw attention to himself. But as always, it was to no avail. He hadn’t been in the store for two minutes before he felt the heavy stares and heard the not so subtle whispers.
“Mommy, mommy, look! It’s HIM! That weird man!”
“What’s wrong with his face?”
“He doesn’t even look human..”
“What the hell is up with that nose?!”
Michael felt warm tears sting his eyes and that old, familiar pain in his heart. He’d been getting comments like that for years, most every time he stepped out in public. But it still didn’t make them hurt any less. He had to chuckle, ruefully, at the irony. Michael had been in show business of one form or another, practically ever since he could talk. He’d always wondered what it would be like to live a “normal” life. One of the reasons why he’d moved to the coincidentally named town in the first place was to try to blend in, to at least have a shot at being like everyone else. Yet even now, he couldn’t even walk into the grocery store without causing a scene, even amongst people who had no clue about his former celebrity. Instead of adulation and requests for autographs, he was getting the Sasquatch treatment. Didn’t these people realize that he too was a person, with feelings?
But as he always did in these types of situations, Michael pressed on, pushing his shopping cart, in search of the Dairy aisle. Bob’s was one of the few things in the town that had changed in any notable way since Michael had first moved there, nearly twenty years prior. Practically every time he went there, Michael noticed something different about the store. Aisles being moved around, new ones being put in, new displays and decorations put up. A Starbucks had even been put in recently, right next to the Flower aisle, a relatively cosmopolitan perk for the decisively rural town. The store’s owner and manager, Bob Cascio, was probably one of the more progressive citizens of Normal, at least in comparison to the crusty old men on the City Council. Bob, a jovial, heavy set Italian fellow with a receding hairline and a jolly laugh to rival that of Santa Claus, was one of the few people Michael actually looked forward to running into in public. One of the least superficial people in Normal, he was always kind and polite to Michael whenever they crossed paths and was quick to speak up for him whenever others gawked or gossiped.
“Hey, what the fu.ck are ‘ya lookin’ at? Jesus, let the poor guy shop in peace!” he once chastised a group of gangly teenage boys, who were pointing and snickering at Michael from their table at the Deli, in his rugged Bronx accent. Michael greatly appreciated Bob’s kindness and sincerity; he considered him a friend, a distinction he rarely gave anyone anymore.
But that morning, Bob was nowhere to be found, leaving Michael to fend for himself in the best way he knew how. To simply focus on something else. He maneuvered the cart down the marble colored tile floor, passing through the Pharmacy aisle. He scanned the shelves, spying shampoos, tooth pastes, and mouthwash of various brands, varieties and sizes. Soaps, medicine, pregnancy tests..condoms. Michael laughed out loud. When was the last time he needed those?
Michael thought of Lisa, the woman he was about to marry, before everything had fallen apart. What was she doing now? Did she ever think of him? And if so, in what way? Did she still mourn for him? Or did she hate him for leaving her behind? Michael remembered reading her interview in People magazine, several years back. It was one of those “Where are They Now?” type of deals, revisiting his tragic story and the questions still lingering about it. They had quotes from Michael’s family, who had presumed him to be long dead. He wouldn’t have just up and left, they said. At least not without a goodbye. But Lisa had still held out hope, insisting that he was still out there, somewhere, begging him to “Come back, come home”. But that was eight, maybe even ten years ago. She’d since moved on to another man, several in fact. She was on her third husband the last headline Michael caught about it, a revelation that had incited sadness, jealousy, and even a bit of anger in him, though he knew he really had no right to feel that way. After all, he had been the one to abandon her.
Michael’s melancholy trance was broken by yet another piece of nostalgia, this time in form of the synthetic opening chords of the song that was playing in the background. His last hit record. It sent a cold chill down Michael’s spine to hear his 25-year-old voice, belting out the tune. While he’d never lost his love and appreciation for music, Michael hadn’t sung a single note since the accident. Hell, he wasn’t sure if he was even able to sing anymore, after what had happened to his nose and the tube that had been inserted in his neck, for weeks while he was in the hospital recovering. The young man singing in the background may as well have been dead. He no longer recognized or related to who he was back then.
The anxiety of this uncomfortable jaunt down memory lane, coupled with the burning stares of what he was sure was everyone in the store, summoned Michael to hurriedly push his cart down the aisle, over to Dairy, grabbing a carton of skim milk and hauling ass past the Deli, the Flower Aisle and the Starbucks, over to the nearest cash register.
Michael placed the carton of milk on the rolling part of the register, his violently shaking hands nearly dropping it in the process. He wanted nothing more than to be out of that store, away from the stares, the whispers, and the agony. To be back in his home, his sanctuary. Where he could at least pretend to be free.
The pretty blonde cashier, who couldn’t have been any older than 21, scanned the carton after a cordial exchange of hellos.
“Okay, sir, your total is $2.50, will that be all for you today?” she inquired, with a friendly smile.
“Y…yeah”, Michael stammered, reaching into his pocket for a $20 bill he’d gotten from his safe at home. Upon his exile from Hollywood, Michael had emptied out all his bank accounts, taking the cash with him. He had enough in that safe to last him the rest of his life..And beyond.
Michael anxiously waited for the girl, whose nametag read “Anna”, to give him his change so he could promptly exit the store and go home. He politely, yet quickly, took it from her when she handed it to him. She seemed like a nice enough girl, but the way she stared at him made Michael quite uncomfortable. The whole exchange, her teal blue eyes had examined him, up and down, never letting go of their gaze. Michael wasn’t sure if she was just curious..or mocking him silently. His -100 self esteem made him suspect the latter. He wanted to cry out “Hey, I’m just like you!” but as usual, he found it easier to stay silent.
He turned on his heel to leave.
“Hey...WAIT!””, Anna cried out, startling Michael and stopping him in his tracks.
“Oh My God, it IS you! I thought you were dead!” she shrieked.
Michael turned cold. Ice cold. Like a bucket of freezing water had just been thrown directly on him. He had been found out.
He wasn’t sure how she’d managed to be the first person in twenty years to recognize his true identity. Maybe it was his eyes, one of the few features that had come out of the fire, mostly unscathed. But before he could even contemplate a response, a crowd formed, first around the register, then around the store itself, then around the entire block. Before too long, camera crews from around the state, then the country, then internationally flocked in, to document the surfacing of a global superstar, previously assumed to be long gone.
Michael was back in the spotlight. The one that he’d never really left.
,I'm taking a Creative Writing class this semester and we just submitted our first short story. I based mine on Michael, not so much who he actually is or on factual elements of his life (though I did include elements), but more along the lines of his character in "Ghosts" or a cross between the movie "Man Without a Face" or "Phantom of the Opera". The elements that are really him and the ones that are fictionalized, I think, will be obvious, lol. Writing a short story is actually a bit harder, IMHO, than writing chaptered fic, as you only have a limited amount of space to make your point, but it's fun and I look forward to doing more of it.
So, please feel free to read and give me your feedback--it'd be much appreciated!
:
He sat, a silhouette in the dark of the room, blanketed in the chilly embrace of its solitude. Back to the wall, his form resembled something reminiscent of a half moon, slouched over into a quasi-fetal position. His eyes were camouflaged by his hands, almost unproportionally large in comparison to the rest of his body. He was a rather slight man, svelte in form and nearly as small in terms of self-esteem. To the naked eye, it may have appeared that he was hiding from someone or something, but he lived alone, in that old, somber house, with no one to answer to but himself. But, perhaps, that was precisely the problem.
His immaculately arched eyebrows traveled down to meet the squinting of his large, expressive almond eyes as he winced, silently recalling the moments, the instances that had led him to this pain and seemingly inevitable state of isolation. Slowly lifting his raven coiffed head, he allowed his eyes to meet the gaze of the image on the mirror, hanging from the adjacent wall. The sight of the man within it summoned the cringe into a full blown frown, his eyes beginning to water, his head proceeding to spin. For the man in the mirror, he had nothing but contempt. The product of too many disappointments and broken dreams was staring back at him, reducing him to tears of anguish. A state induced by the memory. And how much, after the passage of nearly two decades, it still managed to smart.
He breathed in a rueful sigh as he reflected upon just how he had ended up here, in this God forsaken town, in the Middle of Nowhere USA. Like that one Don Henley song goes, “I could’ve been an actor, but I wound up here”. Well, Michael was an actor, a mutual accomplishment and occupation merely at the top of the list of his many accolades. Long before this day, he was many miles away from this place, living the Hollywood life, in pretty much every sense of the word. Michael was the veritable King of Entertainment in his prime. He sang, danced, acted, in movies and on stage...You name it and he not only did it, but set the standard by which everyone else tried to do the same. He owned thousands of acres of property in one of California’s plushest areas and had legions of adoring fans at his feet, not to mention all the writers, producers, and others in his respective crafts, who were all jumping at the chance to work with him. And he was engaged to be married to the strikingly beautiful daughter of the man who had been the closest thing to him in the previous generation, one of the few people on Earth who could, after growing up in a fishbowl similar to the one he had, possibly relate to him.
Yes, Michael had the world at his feet. Until the figurative rug was pulled from underneath them. In one of the cruelest, most brutal ways unimaginable.
Willing his mind out of the impossibly painful jaunt down memory lane, Michael slowly got back up on his feet and slowly sauntered over to the window. Hand placed intently, yet impassively under his chin as he silently observed the scene outside. His house was located in a vast space of land, in one of the more remote areas of town, so Michael didn’t really have any neighbors. But from this, the second level of his perhaps all too expansive two story home, he had a relatively substantial view of the world, beyond the confines behind his front door.
Normal, the relatively small, suburban town on the East Coast often lived up to its name. Sometimes painfully so. With a population of just under 4,000, it could be matched up to pretty much every stereotypical description of the small town atmosphere. Everyone knew everyone and even if they didn’t, they’d pretend they did, filling in the white spaces on the information page with innuendo and gossip. They didn’t know Michael or even his name, but were certainly not oblivious to his presence. “That weird man”, was one of his distinctions, if the flapping lips in the beauty salons and at the grocery store were feeling kind. More often than not, he was referred to as “the Freak”. That strange guy who lived all alone, who was almost never seen out in public or at social events, who went grocery shopping after hours and was never seen without a cloak or hood or something concealing him, particularly his face. Which had been the reason why he’d moved there. And the reason why he was, more or less a prisoner, forced to stay.
Two decades ago, Michael’s face could not only be seen; it was virtually unavoidable. Magazine and album covers, television, film, posters, pins, children’s lunch boxes displayed his face so handsome, it was almost pretty. Every little girl wanted to marry him and every boy wanted to emulate him. His ten million dollar smile was everywhere. Until the accident erased it, casting a cloud of elusiveness that would change his life. Forever.
Michael’s mind was unwillingly cast back to that day on the set, the one that marked the end of the life he knew then...And the beginning of the state of existence in which he was now living. Everything had been going exactly to plan. The movie he was filming was almost ready to wrap; he only had one more scene.
Michael had felt an odd sense of calm when he walked onto the set that day. A natural born perfectionist, he was usually a ball of nerves on occasions like this. But he had rehearsed this scene at least a million times, both in his head and with his acting coach. He was ready. Ready to deliver the lines that would finalize his first starring role in a serious picture. Yet another big dream of his, realized.
Until it transcended...into a nightmare.
Michael was midway through when the all the lights in the studio went out simultaneously, leaving it pitch black. A sharp snap sounded, followed by a sizzle. The entire cast and crew screamed in horror as bright orange flames and an avalanche of dark smoke and cinder consumed the premises. The last thing Michael could recall seeing, before waking up, in that almost cruelly well lit hospital room, his face swaddled with bandages, his eyes so swollen, he could barely open them to see through the holes.
He was lucky to be alive, everyone said. Everyone...but Michael himself. He was left badly disfigured by the injuries he'd sustained in the blaze. His once cocoa skin was now an eerie shade of off-white, its pigment devoured by the third degree burning. His nose had required multiple reconstructive surgeries; it was now a small, pointy shadow of its former self. The left side of his face was noticeably sunken in and his ears had, perhaps, fared worst of all, relegated to awkward folds that reminded a disgusted Michael of those of a bat or a pig. His physical being may have made it out of the fire alive; but his spirit had not.
Soon after he was released from the hospital, a humiliated Michael fled Hollywood and celebrity altogether, without even as much as a warning or a goodbye. Even his own family was clueless about his whereabouts. Some reports claimed that he’d gone overseas, to live on a remote island of some sort ; others maintained that he had passed away, dying alone somewhere from complications of his injuries. Or by his own hand.
Michael discovered Normal, the almost pitifully small town in Northern New Jersey by chance, when flipping through an atlas one day, in search of a place to move to. The accident had robbed him of his love for Hollywood and the life he had known within it. He wanted nothing to do with what he perceived to be the universe’s cruel reminder of what he had once had...and lost, in the blink of an eye. Never again, he knew, would he be that handsome young entertainer, adored by millions. No, he was now an aberration of nature, a warped remnant of what he used to be. He wanted to hide away, in a place no one would think to search for him. And Normal, a town so tiny, it barely made a blip on the map of New Jersey, was perfect for that.
He purchased a two story, Tudor style home just outside of town for the ridiculously small (by his standards, at least) price of $30,000. He spent the majority of his time sequestered in that house, writing, reading, playing the piano, painting..Anything that was solitary didn’t require human contact or interaction. He was quite content to be a hermit. He only ventured out when he absolutely had to, which, much to his chagrin, was this morning. He had only cereal left in the cupboard for breakfast. And he was out of milk.
Michael walked through the automatic double doors of Bob’s Food and Drug, Normal’s on and only grocery store, the hood of his ribbed, black sweater pulled securely over his head. On most of his rare public outings, Michael wore black: black shirt, pants, shoes, and sunglasses. It was most likely his subconscious way of trying to downplay his presence, so as not to draw attention to himself. But as always, it was to no avail. He hadn’t been in the store for two minutes before he felt the heavy stares and heard the not so subtle whispers.
“Mommy, mommy, look! It’s HIM! That weird man!”
“What’s wrong with his face?”
“He doesn’t even look human..”
“What the hell is up with that nose?!”
Michael felt warm tears sting his eyes and that old, familiar pain in his heart. He’d been getting comments like that for years, most every time he stepped out in public. But it still didn’t make them hurt any less. He had to chuckle, ruefully, at the irony. Michael had been in show business of one form or another, practically ever since he could talk. He’d always wondered what it would be like to live a “normal” life. One of the reasons why he’d moved to the coincidentally named town in the first place was to try to blend in, to at least have a shot at being like everyone else. Yet even now, he couldn’t even walk into the grocery store without causing a scene, even amongst people who had no clue about his former celebrity. Instead of adulation and requests for autographs, he was getting the Sasquatch treatment. Didn’t these people realize that he too was a person, with feelings?
But as he always did in these types of situations, Michael pressed on, pushing his shopping cart, in search of the Dairy aisle. Bob’s was one of the few things in the town that had changed in any notable way since Michael had first moved there, nearly twenty years prior. Practically every time he went there, Michael noticed something different about the store. Aisles being moved around, new ones being put in, new displays and decorations put up. A Starbucks had even been put in recently, right next to the Flower aisle, a relatively cosmopolitan perk for the decisively rural town. The store’s owner and manager, Bob Cascio, was probably one of the more progressive citizens of Normal, at least in comparison to the crusty old men on the City Council. Bob, a jovial, heavy set Italian fellow with a receding hairline and a jolly laugh to rival that of Santa Claus, was one of the few people Michael actually looked forward to running into in public. One of the least superficial people in Normal, he was always kind and polite to Michael whenever they crossed paths and was quick to speak up for him whenever others gawked or gossiped.
“Hey, what the fu.ck are ‘ya lookin’ at? Jesus, let the poor guy shop in peace!” he once chastised a group of gangly teenage boys, who were pointing and snickering at Michael from their table at the Deli, in his rugged Bronx accent. Michael greatly appreciated Bob’s kindness and sincerity; he considered him a friend, a distinction he rarely gave anyone anymore.
But that morning, Bob was nowhere to be found, leaving Michael to fend for himself in the best way he knew how. To simply focus on something else. He maneuvered the cart down the marble colored tile floor, passing through the Pharmacy aisle. He scanned the shelves, spying shampoos, tooth pastes, and mouthwash of various brands, varieties and sizes. Soaps, medicine, pregnancy tests..condoms. Michael laughed out loud. When was the last time he needed those?
Michael thought of Lisa, the woman he was about to marry, before everything had fallen apart. What was she doing now? Did she ever think of him? And if so, in what way? Did she still mourn for him? Or did she hate him for leaving her behind? Michael remembered reading her interview in People magazine, several years back. It was one of those “Where are They Now?” type of deals, revisiting his tragic story and the questions still lingering about it. They had quotes from Michael’s family, who had presumed him to be long dead. He wouldn’t have just up and left, they said. At least not without a goodbye. But Lisa had still held out hope, insisting that he was still out there, somewhere, begging him to “Come back, come home”. But that was eight, maybe even ten years ago. She’d since moved on to another man, several in fact. She was on her third husband the last headline Michael caught about it, a revelation that had incited sadness, jealousy, and even a bit of anger in him, though he knew he really had no right to feel that way. After all, he had been the one to abandon her.
Michael’s melancholy trance was broken by yet another piece of nostalgia, this time in form of the synthetic opening chords of the song that was playing in the background. His last hit record. It sent a cold chill down Michael’s spine to hear his 25-year-old voice, belting out the tune. While he’d never lost his love and appreciation for music, Michael hadn’t sung a single note since the accident. Hell, he wasn’t sure if he was even able to sing anymore, after what had happened to his nose and the tube that had been inserted in his neck, for weeks while he was in the hospital recovering. The young man singing in the background may as well have been dead. He no longer recognized or related to who he was back then.
The anxiety of this uncomfortable jaunt down memory lane, coupled with the burning stares of what he was sure was everyone in the store, summoned Michael to hurriedly push his cart down the aisle, over to Dairy, grabbing a carton of skim milk and hauling ass past the Deli, the Flower Aisle and the Starbucks, over to the nearest cash register.
Michael placed the carton of milk on the rolling part of the register, his violently shaking hands nearly dropping it in the process. He wanted nothing more than to be out of that store, away from the stares, the whispers, and the agony. To be back in his home, his sanctuary. Where he could at least pretend to be free.
The pretty blonde cashier, who couldn’t have been any older than 21, scanned the carton after a cordial exchange of hellos.
“Okay, sir, your total is $2.50, will that be all for you today?” she inquired, with a friendly smile.
“Y…yeah”, Michael stammered, reaching into his pocket for a $20 bill he’d gotten from his safe at home. Upon his exile from Hollywood, Michael had emptied out all his bank accounts, taking the cash with him. He had enough in that safe to last him the rest of his life..And beyond.
Michael anxiously waited for the girl, whose nametag read “Anna”, to give him his change so he could promptly exit the store and go home. He politely, yet quickly, took it from her when she handed it to him. She seemed like a nice enough girl, but the way she stared at him made Michael quite uncomfortable. The whole exchange, her teal blue eyes had examined him, up and down, never letting go of their gaze. Michael wasn’t sure if she was just curious..or mocking him silently. His -100 self esteem made him suspect the latter. He wanted to cry out “Hey, I’m just like you!” but as usual, he found it easier to stay silent.
He turned on his heel to leave.
“Hey...WAIT!””, Anna cried out, startling Michael and stopping him in his tracks.
“Oh My God, it IS you! I thought you were dead!” she shrieked.
Michael turned cold. Ice cold. Like a bucket of freezing water had just been thrown directly on him. He had been found out.
He wasn’t sure how she’d managed to be the first person in twenty years to recognize his true identity. Maybe it was his eyes, one of the few features that had come out of the fire, mostly unscathed. But before he could even contemplate a response, a crowd formed, first around the register, then around the store itself, then around the entire block. Before too long, camera crews from around the state, then the country, then internationally flocked in, to document the surfacing of a global superstar, previously assumed to be long gone.
Michael was back in the spotlight. The one that he’d never really left.