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“I’m fine,” I wheezed when Jenny thrust a straw in my direction. Her hand trembled slightly and she looked like she might cry. Jenny had only been working for me a few short months and her default demeanor seemed to be on high alert, waiting for me to throw a diva tantrum and fire her. “It’s no biggie,” I assured her. “I know better by now than to open my mouth during powdering.” I tried to give her a reassuring smile but she just scurried out of the small dressing room, forgetting to let me know she was done once again.
A glance in the mirror confirmed why she had the job despite her subpar social skills. Her work was flawless as always. My eyeliner was so sharp you could cut glass with those lines, perfect even after my coughing fit had left my eyes streaming.
“Well?” Willy huffed impatiently.
“Well what?”
“You look like someone kicked your puppy. And you don’t have a puppy. So spill.” He crossed his arms over his lace crop top and tapped his heeled boot on the linoleum floor.
My eyes darted back to the magazine and my mood tanked again. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s nothing,” Willy mimicked me in a patronizing tone. “Save me the faux modesty bullshit and just tell me. You know I’m always down to listen to your whining,” he added playfully. He said it jokingly but he was also being serious. Willy was always there for me when I needed to talk. Usually about the copious events of my past that had monumentally fucked me up as a human being.
I’d accepted talking about those events, knowing Willy both understood and didn't judge me for them. This, however, felt more embarrassing for some reason. Maybe because it related to something I’d done, or hadn’t done, instead of something that was done to me.
“Ugh it’s stupid,” I muttered.
“Well then just tell me what it is, so I can confirm it’s stupid to worry about and we can move on with our lives.”
“It’s this whole Time Magazine cover,” I began.
“What about it? You think they’re wrong? Because I can assure you they know what they’re talking about. You have more social power than just about anyone. You could declare tomorrow pink hair day and there would be a world wide shortage of dye within the hour. I seriously don’t think I could find a single person who doesn’t know who you are. Of course you’re the most influential person of the year.”
“That’s my problem,” I stated, nervously picking at my cuticles. “I’m not saying they’re wrong. But I guess it’s really hitting me now how many people want to be just like me. And I feel like a fraud because I’m a fucking mess. All the other people on that list are actually worthy of looking up to. What do I do? I sing cliched pop songs that I hate because the label tells me what I want to sing isn’t commercial enough and when I’m not singing, I’m barely a functioning human. I’m nothing special.”
It was my greatest fear. The one insecurity that reared its ugly head time and time again. I’d never been good enough. A disappointment. And now I had the entire world watching, waiting for me to fall and then gossip gleefully about it.
Willy was silent for a while and I could see him carefully considering what he wanted to say to me. “Okay, so firstly, I really want you to hear me when I say this. Can you do that?”
Probably not, but I nodded anyway.
Willy rolled his eyes, knowing me well enough to see the lie for what it was. “You’re way too harsh on yourself. Everyone thinks they’re a fucking mess. We all feel like we’re failing at something. And it’s not cool to think that people shouldn’t look up to you because you have mental health problems, Colt.” He gave me a pointed look, seeming genuinely upset. “If I’d been through half of what you have, I’d struggle to get out of bed. Don’t ever diminish just how strong you are for getting up and fighting every day of your life.”
Willy stopped and took in a deep breath. Here it came, the “but.”
“But, if that’s how you feel, I don’t want to dismiss that either. Clearly you feel like you’re not living up to your potential, so do something about it,” he said like it was the simplest thing in the world.
Now I had to fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Like what? I told you, I’m a basic pop singer. What do I have to offer people?”
“Lord give me strength.” Willy raised his eyes skyward.
I felt a prickle of frustration building. If the answer were so obvious, then why couldn’t he share with the class without making me feel like an idiot.
There are theories that celebrities get frozen mentally at whatever age they became famous, the rise to fame creating a sort of trauma response. Instead, I felt a weird juxtaposition, having experienced hardship beyond my years, but also like I was almost frozen as a young child. Way too often I’ll be in conversations like this where the other person acted like the answers were obvious; however, I felt like I missed that day in class because it sounded like they were discussing advanced chemistry.
Willy, ever the empath, sensed my irritation and cut the sass. “You have everything to offer. You just need to decide what you want to offer the world. You say you hate the music you play, so change it.”
“I told you—”
“Yeah, yeah. The label doesn’t want blah blah blah. You’re not some new artist that doesn’t get to have a say, Colt. They’re not doing you a favor, so stop acting like it.” He picked up the offending magazine cover, where I was decked out in black Valentino feathers and a sultry smirk. “You’re the most influential person of the year. You have hundreds of millions of followers on every social media platform. If you tell your label you’re going in a different direction, that’s what will happen. And if they’re dumb enough to tell you no, then it’s their loss when you walk and take their millions somewhere else. Heck, you could even start your own label. It’s not like you don’t have the money.”
Well, now I really felt like an idiot. When it was laid out like that, it didn’t necessarily sound simple, but it did sound achievable. Too often, I forgot that I wasn’t still the poor foster boy with only a second hand guitar to my name.
“Okay, but is that enough?” I whispered, still feeling like an imposter.
“Is what enough?”
“Being a musician. Is that enough for people?”
