Beautiful Box Set

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

Before Johnny leaves, Lou gives him the name of a publicist to call and an appointment for early next week. “Get a portfolio together,” the manager advises. “All those photos you did years ago, throw them away. By the time I see you again, I want new pics and at least the beginning of some sort of idea about what you want your image to be. Give this some real thought, Johnny. This is the rest of your life we’re talking about here. Got that?”

Johnny already knows what he wants—doesn’t “superstar” count as a career choice anymore? He stuffs the publicist’s number into his back pocket and gives Lou a big grin as he shakes the man’s hand on his way out. It’s not exactly a binding contract, but he does have another appointment, right? So that puts him a step above the schmucks still lining the hall, glaring jealously at him as he strides toward the elevator.

At least he’s coming back.

To celebrate, he calls in sick to work. What’s an evening shift at a fake bake tanning parlor when he’s going to be in movies soon? He wants to go out, get drunk, share his good news with the rest of Hollywood. Sure, Lou told him to lay off the clubs, but Johnny doesn’t think he meant immediately, did he? Tonight’s one of his last nights of anonymity. He plans to take advantage of that.

He has a small apartment downtown, a place he can barely afford but he’s always liked to stay close to the scene. For years now he’s felt like a forgotten satellite, spinning in an off-kilter orbit, circling the fringes of popular society. He sees the paparazzi trailing other celebrities and wonders why they don’t bother with him. He eats at the same restaurants, hangs out at the same clubs, shops at the same specialty boutiques and no one seems to notice. No one cares. Johnny won’t settle for that, damn it. His star still burns, he knows it, and he wants nothing more than to eclipse the sun again.

At home, he heeds Lou’s advice and walks around the cluttered apartment, closing blinds and pulling curtains, until the rooms are draped in late afternoon shade. In the bedroom, he changes into a tight pair of jeans—no underwear—and a clingy shirt that barely reaches his belt. The shirt is made from a shimmery, metallic fabric that changes colors when the light hits it, now blue, now green, now a dark silver that sets off his eyes perfectly. A palm full of gel is rubbed brusquely into his hair, giving it the tousled, bed-head look that’s big these days. One last glance in the mirror—his hands smooth down the shirt and he turns, those hands propped on his hips, then cupping his ass—and he’s good to go. In another few months, when he hits the clubs like this, maybe he’ll have an assistant who can page the paps ahead of time, let them know he’s on his way. He’s seen the cameras flash at other celebs, each bright white shot pinning them for all eternity like a captured butterfly in the pages of a collector’s scrapbook.

That could be him.

It will be.