A new story

Here's a story I wrote in August but just recently typed up. If you like it, pass the word along! And if you can think of a publication that would publish this sort of story, let me know!



Making a Name for Himself
By Zachary Helton

It's 2026, and the lights go out. The audience raise their voices and clap their hands, do everything in their repertoire to fill the performance hall with solid, unbroken sound.
A single spot light beams down from the rigging above the stage. It highlights... nothing. It's a decoy. The light blinks, surprised to shine upon an empty stage. It darts about wildly, scanning for its target. The audience laughs.
Doors at the back of the hall are thrust open. The spot swings its arc of light wide, illuminating the star of the show. He squints his eyes and grins ear to ear.
The audience explodes into a bout of applause and laughter that puts their previous hysterics to shame. By God, they love him.
Back-up dancers surround him, dressed in the hyper-stylish brand name garb of wealthy high school students. They sashay and twirl down the aisle, splitting the crowd like a squadron of Moses's. The only one they care about walks in the middle of the dancers, shuffling towards the stage awkwardly, still smiling a toothy smile, waving at the shapeless, screaming mass of humanity that loved him sooo much.
He was lifted to the stage by his dancers, picked up from under the arms and held aloft like Jesus on the cross. Then they spun him in slow circles, and he looked more like a pair of sunglasses at the Stop 'n Go station.
The music faded down to a dull roar and He stepped up to the microphone, center stage. The crowd discovered its ability to be quiet. He beamed out at them, the blissful creasant beneath his nose quivering and earnest and moist. He took a prolonged preparatory breath and addressed His people.
"I... mm thank you... coming to this show. You're great." He giggled and snorted, then became momentarily embarrassed and hid his face behind his shirt sleeve.
Again the audience trilled. They were great! He had said so! They cheered and jumped up and down in place as the band struck up the lead-in to the first song.
Cody Compton was helped to his position by a dancer who made the interaction look like a playful duet. In the control booth an underpaid audio technician counted down the beats as the band played on. At the appropriate moment he hit play on a studio-recorded and manipulated track of Cody singing. On the stage Cody launched into his spastic dance routine. The composition was such that he appeared to be freestyling throughout most of the piece, with his backup dancers circling him, playing out their memorized choreography. He smiled and shimmied as he spun.
He was Cody Compton, teen sensation, and he was mentally retarded.
***
It is 2009, and the dressing room door slams. To call it a dressing room doesn't do it justice. Valor curtains are hung to cover the drab, bare walls. Plush chairs and couches have been brought in, because everyone knows that Caprice would never sit in a folding chair. A veritable buffet of finger foods and fresh fruit sits spread out on an ivory tablecloth – untouched. This is no dressing room. It's a makeshift mansion, a throne room – at the very least a dressing "suite." But regardless of the nomenclature, the door still slammed.
Caprice enters, all height and no width. She glistens with sweat. Her spandex-and-Lycra outfit extenuates her new breasts, easily 7% of her body weight. She frowns.
Her manager, Elliot Stevenson, and the stage manager look up, their conversation cut short by her entrance. They stand.
Elliot opens his mouth. "That was..."
Caprice singles the stage manager out with her index finger. "You. Fuck off."
The stage manager fucks off out of the room graciously, as if the command had been prefixed with a "please."
Elliot starts again while Caprice pours herself a vodka tonic. "that was a hell of a show. Best one since..."
"Did you find me a movie yet?" was the only thing Caprice wanted to speak of.
"...Vancouver," Elliot finished. "You were so energetic. I'm working on the movie still."
"You were 'working' on the movie last week." Caprice downed her drink and poured herself another, this one a double. "This face and these tits print money. Tell me why you can't find me a movie. Does Hollywood not like making money anymore?"
Elliot lit a cigarette. Anything to stop himself from saying what was on the tip of his tongue.
"Last week you decided you wanted to make movies, and this week I made some calls. But it takes time to get into a new industry. If you wanted to do a duets album I could get you in the studio first thing tomorrow with twelve of the top forty artists, but I need another couple of weeks to get you on the set with Tom Hanks."
Caprice inspected the catering. "Tom Hanks? Is he going to play my grandfather? Get me Ashton Kutcher, and I want a dance scene."
Elliot walked over to a stack of papers and pretended to make a note. "I suppose I'm a writer now, too," he murmured.
Caprice selected a single grape from the extensive layout. Now she breathed deeply, scrunched her brow. "How much longer is this tour?"
"Three more weeks," Elliot said. "Then we'll get you up on the screen."
"I need you to make me an appointment when we get back home. For an abortion."
The cigarette fell from Elliot's mouth. "You're pregnant?"
"No, I get regular abortions just to be safe," Caprice spat. "Asshole."
Elliot stamped out his cigarette. It left a scorch mark in the carpet that wasn't going to come out. "Do you know who the father is?" he asked. His mind flashed to the tabloids, the myriad of young men who, largely through luck of birth, found themselves in possession of sufficient time to sculpt their bodies to perfection.
"Christ, there's no telling," Caprice said. "Doesn't matter; fathers are boys with kids. This sucker's coming out." Caprice patted her washboard.
Elliot was quiet for a long time.
Caprice went to a duffel bag, tossed into a corner alone, and changed out of her leggings. More comfortable, she went to the table and began to fix herself another drink. She misjudged in pouring the tonic; its foamy head spilled over the lip of the glass. She went to sip as much of it as possible, but Elliot took the drink from her.
"You're going to have this baby," he said.
Caprice looked at him as if he'd spontaneously begun speaking Latin. "What?"
Elliot downed her overflowing drink in one mighty gulp. "You're twenty-three..."
"Twenty-two," she corrected.
"Twenty two, and you've been kicking ass since you were seventeen," Elliot continued. "But sales are down. Your last two albums didn't come close to 'Mischievous.' Now's the time to reinvent yourself." Elliot was pacing the room now. "You've been a sex symbol and a woman of power your entire career. But nobody nowadays goes more than five years on one stchick. You gotta' keep it fresh."
Caprice watched him pace with a concerned expression. She poured herself another.
"So we do a 180," Elliot concluded. "Sex symbol – no more. Now, you're the holy mother! No... better: the hard-working single mother." Elliot snatched Caprice's drink away and downed it as well. He flung the glass away and grabbed her by the shoulders, passionately. "Caprice, you're going to be the next Madonna."
Caprice blinked at him, her expression blank. "That sounds good," she said. "Hey, can I get a cigarette?"
***
It's 2026, and the stage lights go down on the second encore. The flood lights blink on without remorse for the dilated pupils of the audience. They squint like newborn kittens and smile dumbly at one another, as if to say, "did you enjoy that?" "Why yes, I did." "Me as well."
____ isn't a big girl. She's rail-thin and about five feet tall with a bob haircut that her mother did in the bathroom the previous night. So as she struggles against the current of humanity flowing towards her, making space where there is none, it's a near-miracle that she's not crushed underfoot.
By some divine intervention she makes her way to the door beside the stage. All that stands in her way now is a bouncer with pec muscles each rivaling the size of his head and twenty-odd hysterical fans. But ____ is too meek, or polite (and what's the difference, really?) to push ahead of them. The bouncer rolls his eyes and turns away a pair of punk chic girls with colorful bursts of neon in their hair.
"If you don't have a pass," the bouncer proclaimed in his I-eat-glass-shards voice, "then you're not getting in. Go away."
There are disappointed groans and then the crowd is a much more manageable size. Two boys and a girl, a few years older – college students, probably – flash official-looking badges on lanyards around their necks. They smell funny. The bouncer gives them a quick glance, glancing at the girl just a little longer than the others. He grins and they're admitted.
It's just little ____ now, standing there before a man five times her body mass in the ever-quietening performance hall.
"Do you have a pass?" he asks in the nicest tone his gruff voice is capable of.
She shakes her head vigorously and reaches into her tiny purse and withdraws a folded piece of paper. Lips pressed tight together, hands shaking, she presents it to the giant.
He takes the paper in his giant's hands and looks it over with his giant eyes. His eyebrows strain to touch his cheekbones. "What the hell is this? It looks like you printed it out on the computer.," he says.
____ doesn't think it appropriate to say "hell" in front of a fifteen-year-old girl, especially not a sheltered one. "I did print it on the computer," she agrees, shaking her head enthusiastically. "That's how they sent it to me. I won a contest on the website."
The bouncer looks at the print-out coupon in the center of the page. It promises unrestricted backstage access for the concert at this location, on this date. It also looks like it had been Photoshopped by a fifteen-year-old. The bouncer looks down at the girl, her eyes hopeful and imploring, and now nearly as large as his own giant's eyes. Hell, there were less credible things on the internet – conspiracy theories and pyramid schemes and free love.
The bouncer folds the paper and puts it back in her tiny hand. He smiles his giant's smile and says, "congratulations," and lets her in.
____'s little heart races as she makes her way down the darkened corridor towards the dressing room. This was happening; this was really happening. In under a minute she is going to be in the same room as – possibly touching – a Star. A real Star from television and movies and albums. She stops halfway down the hall and takes a series of deep breaths. She is getting dizzy from the thought of it, but she has to push on, has to meet Cody Compton and fulfill her destiny.
The dressing room door is adorned with a stereotypical yellow star with Cody's name is big cursive letters. It's opened a crack, but ____ knocks anyway. Immediately an answer comes, "come in!" shouted gleefully by a trio of voices. ____ enters the spottily lit room. She sees the source of the voices now – the college students – and they see her, standing there in the doorway, small and meek and hyperventilating at the simple perceived nearness of the Star.
The trio burst out into laughter.
The girl has a small video camera with her that she wields with impunity. ____ has just become another deliberately ordered grouping of bits and bytes on a future YouTube video.
When their laughter subsides, another laugh comes from behind them, this one less rehearsed and arrhythmic, but somehow more genuine. When they hear it the trio laugh even harder and turn back to face its source. The girl with the camera takes a few steps back to frame up her red-eyed cohorts and the figure that could now be seen – Cody Compton himself.
____ almost hits the floor. Cody has changed – or been changed by the assistant leaning against the wall – into street clothes. Cody only wears the latest trends; ____ knew for a fact that his outfit was a pairing of garments featured on mannequins in Abercrombie and Fitch's throughout the country and probably exported to others as well. But his face is all his own. His blond hair is expertly colored and styled by a professional in a way that redefines style. His eyes, mysterious hazel, are always half open due to his condition: permanent, dreamy bedroom eyes. And his lips curled up and to the right, a look Elvis Presley had to try to achieve. He was a Down's Syndrome Adonis.
The girl was back in his face again, her digital toy struggling to maintain its autofocus. "What's your favorite song to sing?" she asked in a deliberately diminutive voice.
Cody blinks a few times and bobs his head forward. His mouth opens like he will answer, but no sound issues forth. The assistant perks up, removes his headphones, and places a hand on Cody's shoulder.
"What's the question?" he asks in a tone of authority.
The girl clears her throat awkwardly and one of the boys chimes in. "She asked what his favorite song is."
"Cody," the assistant says, "what's your favorite song?"
After a few seconds Cody turns his head to face the assistant. He seems surprised and delighted to see him. He gazes at the assistant intently.
"Song, Cody. Don't you like signing "Girl like you'?"
Cody stares at him some more. One of the college boys snorts. The other smacks his arm.
"No, " Cody decides, "I don't like that song."
"No?" the assistant asks in a hurt tone, "but you told me you love that song! 'Girl like you, girl like you, " he says in a sing-song manner, "why can't I meet a girl like you?' Isn't that your favorite?"
Cody shakes his head slowly, then faster as recollection sweeps over him. "Yeah! I like that song!"
The college girl smiles and nods and records.
"Say," the assistant asks pleasantly, "what's the camera for?"
"We're with the press," the girl explains. "Boston University Herald. Cody's got a huge college fan base."
"I bet he does," the assistant says, observing their eyes.
"Get in the shot," the girl directs one of the boys. "Make him get you in a headlock."
The boy chuckles and moves to Cody's side, forcing the teen's arm around his throat. Cody is bewildered and slightly frightened by this.
"Come on Cody, smile," the girl says. When that fails she begins flailing her free arm wildly, making baby noises at him. Cody watches, still fearful.
____ is stunned. They're mocking him! He was a Star and they were no-names and they were mocking him! Why did no one stop this?
The assistant does. "If you're done with the academic questions," he says, placing a hand in front of the camera's lens, "then you can leave."
The college children become quiet and red. They play it off as if they were just playing a game with Cody and depart.
The assistant helps Cody into a chair and turns his attention to ____, who had barely come in the door. "Do you have a pass?" he asks.
Again she produces the folded paper and again it is met with scrutiny.
"Where did you get this?" the assistant asks.
"I won a contest on codycompton.com. I had to send an e-mail saying why I thought Cody was the best performer and I said that the way he..."
The assistant cuts her off with a wave of his hand. "Probably some project the web guy had before he got fired, "he reasoned. "Did you want to talk to Cody?"
____ lets a slight gasp as the assistant stands aside, his body language indicating that she is worthy of nearing Cody. She takes two timid steps forward. Cody glances up, noticing her. She opens her mouth to speak but no words come. They stare at each other, mouths agape, while the assistant looks on, trying to keep respectfully silent.
____'s planned speech comes back to her in bursts now, completely without order.
"Cody, you are my absolute favorite singer. You're my idol! I love it so much when you look at the camera, in that one song they always play on VH1, you look so cute." She blushed. It was spilling out of her now. "I think you're the best, because you didn't back down and let your... disability keep you from reaching your dreams, and I figure if you can be a Star, then I can be one, too. I'm going to be someone some day. I was thinking I'd be an actress since I can't sing good... I mean well, and... you're my inspiration. I want to be just like you!"
It was an impassioned speech, and she might have hugged him if she hadn't been scared half to death of his greatness. Cody turns his head away.
The assistant pulls a handkerchief out of thin air and wipes some drool from Cody's chin. In response to her heartfelt outpouring of emotion, he said, "aw, that's nice." He draws Cody's attention with a few snaps of his fingers and says, "Cody, this girl likes you. What do you say?"
Cody thinks long and hard, and just as the assistant thinks he should prompt the Star again, Cody bashfully grins and says, "I like you, too."
His expression is priceless, like a child addressing his mother. ____ thinks she might melt.
The assistant asks Cody, "you hungry, buddy? Want something to eat? You want some french fries?" He turns to ____. "He loves french fries. Are you hungry? Want some?"
"No thank you," ____ says. "Actresses can't eat french fries. Are you Cody's friend?"
"I'm Mr. Compton's personal assistant, the nameless man says with pride. "I'm with him 'round the clock. Right, Cody?"
There is a thunderous rapping at the door. It hasn't been properly closed, so the fourth rap knocks the door completely open. It storms a lumpy, frazzled woman, much older than her age. She's made every concession to maintain her youth – her baggy eyes are barely visible under a thick application of makeup. She's attempted to contain her middle-age sprawl with clothing two sizes too small. But nothing can be done about the tired aura that she radiates, the price of living the good life for too long.
"Is Elliot here?" she rasps, not looking at or addressing anyone in particular.
"He was here at intermission, but he had a teleconference with the..." the assistant starts.
"Fire the caterer!" the woman interjects. She has spied Cody's personal snack table and charges through the room to get at it. "There wasn't any cheese in my room."
The assistant leaves Cody's side to provide the woman with a plate and napkin. She dumps a fistful of assorted cheese cubes she's snatched up onto the plate and takes it. From the assistant's other hand she takes ____'s backstage pass.
"What's this? Why are you showing me this?" she demands through cheese-clogged teeth.
"I was just holding it," the assistant says. "It's this young lady's backstage pass."
The woman takes notice of ____ for the first time, but only for a second. Offhandedly, she says, "looks fake."
"I think the web guy made it," the assistant says.
"That explains a lot," the woman says. "The website looks like a retard designed it. I hope that retard never finds work again."
____ observes this silently. Who is this terrible woman?
The terrible woman scans the room. "Where's the cocktail bar?" she asks.
The assistant coughs up his best fake laugh. "They didn't get Cody a bar. Your son's only sixteen."
"So I have to walk all the way back to my room for an adult beverage? Yup, goodbye caterer." The woman takes a handful of french fries onto her plate and sits in a nearby folding chair.
____, her attention miraculously taken from Cody, approaches the woman. "You're Cody's mom?"
The woman glares at the assistant. "Why is she talking to me?" she asks.
The assistant, bound by duty, takes ____ by the arm. "My apologies," he says. "She was just on her way out."
"'Are you Cody's mom?'" she mimicked. "I could spit. What are you, twelve? They don't even know who I am anymore!"
The assistant looks constipated. He leads ____toward the door.
Caprice shoots up out of her seat now, absurd anger in her eyes.
"Don't leave when I'm talking to you!" She addressed ____ directly for the first time. "My name is Caprice And in my lifetime I've sold over 80 million albums! But nobody cares anymore! 80 million was a lot ten, twenty years ago. We were up against a crap economy and digital piracy. If I was still in the game I'd have twice as many sales as him!" She points a manicured nail accusingly at Cody, who had four of the fingers on his right hand in his mouth. "What do we pay you for?" This, at the assistant. "Get out; you're fired!"
The assistant smiles politely and nods. He has learned it best to say nothing. He leads ____ out by the arm. ____ was glad to be out.
"Well, I apologize for the situation, but I hope you enjoyed meeting Cody Compton," the assistant says as they navigate the dimly lit hallway back to the auditorium.
"Thank you; I did," is all ____ can think to say. She has a bad feeling in her stomach. The door ahead of them opens, streaming light into the hallway and giving birth to long shadows. A man in his fifties darts in, stuffing a phone into the inner pocket of his jacket. He has a presence about him that marks him as a problem solver.
His eyes meet the assistant's.
"Who have you got here?" he asks.
"This is... um..."
"My name's ____," says ____.
"She won a contest, on the website," the assistant explains. "The web guy didn't tell anyone..."
"Actually, that was me." The man takes ____'s hand and shakes it delicately. "Elliot Spencer." He then addresses the assistant in a quiet, rushed tone. "I've been trying to run the website and manage Cody since Caprice fired the web guy. Forgot to tell the promotions manager about the contest."
Seamlessly he turns his attention on ____ again. "Are you leaving already? Did you get to meet Cody?"
"Yes, I met him..." her voice trailed off.
"The meet-n-greet was cut a little short," the assistant intones.
"Caprice again?" Elliot asks.
The assistant nods. Elliot groans.
"It's none of my business," ____ says, "but she's really jealous of Cody."
Elliot and the assistant are quiet.
"Shouldn't she be happy for her son?"
Elliot isn't a PR specialist, but he knows bad publicity when he sees it.
"Caprice is..." he stops, and starts again. "Show business is stressful. It's a lot of hard work, more than anyone realizes. And when you get used to the fame and feeling important, then suddenly it's gone, that can make you... bitter."
"It's like you lick all the icing off first," the assistant offers, "but then you still have to finish off the bland cake, and it's been slobbered on."
"Don't help," Elliot says.
"____ wants to be an actress," says the assistant.
"Well now you know it's not easy being in the public eye. Everybody's got an opinion, and thanks to the internet, they all share it."
____ nods. "There are some terrible things on the internet about Cody."
"It's a good thing he can't read!" Elliot jokes. No one ever gets my jokes, he thinks. He puts an arm on the assistant's shoulder. "Why don't you run and check on Cody?"
"I would, but I've been 'let go' by Mrs. Caprice.
This makes Elliot laugh. "And I suppose she's going to take care of her son? Get back in there." Elliot gives the assistant a hearty slap on the back that sends him hurrying back to the dressing room. Now alone with ____, he goes down on one knee to meet her face-to-face. "People love being cruel, but you have to look past it. A record sale's a record sale. Every ticket sale is just one more smiling face, whether they're laughing with you or at you. Cody loves it because he doesn't know any better." Elliot suddenly wishes he could take that last part back. The girl, in his eyes, has too much for the gossip column at this point; she's empowered.
"Listen, don't quote me on any of this, about Caprice, or Cody, or the fans. Don't go blog your head off."
____ looks sadly into his eyes.
An idea occurs to Elliot. "You want to be an actress? I know a kids' manager in town. You've got the figure for it. Maybe you can keep this to yourself, and I'll get you an audition?"
____ shook her head decisively. "I don't want to be a celebrity anymore. I'd rather be someone else."