“Decent enough, but I’m just getting started,” I reply, keeping the update vague.
I certainly don’t tell him I’m off to make a delivery in bumfuck Nevada to a gun club who get their kicks from target practice with real bodies.
“Fingers crossed I’ll be home by sunrise,” I continue. “Can you take her to school if I’m not back by then?”
“Poppy, I have work,” Noah scoffs, his annoyance finally seeping through.
I say nothing. I have no right to complain, and my friend has already gone above and beyond in ways that few mortal men have ever dreamed, let alone mortalstraightmen. The fact that I put him through so much bullshit with these nocturnal excursions is not lost on me.
Noah breathes deep and lets it out, his disappointment somehow transmitting through the receiver. It pierces my heart all the way from Palm Springs.
“Alright, fine,” he finally relents. “I’ll call into work an hour late if I have to. Not for you, though. For the fish.”
“Who?”
“Your daughter.”
Relief washes over me, followed by a chaser of guilt. “Thank you, Noah.”
“Now I’m gonna go have the most expensive thing I can find in your fridge for my evening snack,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.”
We hang up and my focus returns to the road. There are still plenty of miles to go, but at least the first steps are over with. Body collection is harder to finesse than delivery, but the drop-off is much more dangerous.
I turn up the stereo, which offers an endless broadcast of music from my phone, downloaded for when my service inevitably disappears in the middle of nowhere.
“Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac is just ending, a mainstay on my “70s Favorites” playlist.
The next song begins with a faint cascade of gentle piano notes, a tune I immediately recognize. I reach out and crank it up even louder, letting the sound wrap me in its glorious, nostalgic embrace. It feels as though I’ve connected to an auditory morphine drip, contentment washing through my veins as a potent, psychic balm.
The song is “A Star Like Me” by Eddie Michaels, rock-and-roll legend, piano balladeer, and America’s iconic answer to Elton John. Some people might give that title to Billy Joel, but they’d be incorrect. Don’t get me wrong, I love Mr. Long Island, and some of his hits certainly give Elton a run for his money—but the flashy, fun, and downright flirtyqueernessof Eddie Michaels is the real thread that tethers the two icons together.
Eddie also happens to be the greatest musician of all time.
The piano intro finally swells to its thrilling conclusion,dropping out suddenly and then roaring back with a thundering drum fill and the crash of a full band. This launches into the song’s first chorus.
I roll the windows down, howling into the warm night air as I sing along.
Clickbait
The next way I dress up this look is with a thrifted cowboy hat,” I say directly to the tripod-mounted phone, flashing a playful grin for the camera and then turning for a side view of my whole outfit. “Adorbs, right? Some people might think—”
“Mom!” Marlo shouts from the courtyard patio, her voice interrupting my take. “You said you’d come see it!”
I let out a frustrated sigh, my pristine smile faltering. My posture immediately deflates. “Just a second!” I call back.
I clear my throat and return to the starting position—head up and just enough teeth showing. My eyes are brilliant and playful, wide but not in a crazy way. My back is straight, if the slightest bit arched. I stare into the watchful mechanical eye of my phone’s camera, which is positioned at the dead center of a glowing white ring.
I count down in my head, silently playing director.
And three, two, one.
“The next way I dress up this look is with a thrifted cow—”
“Mom!” Marlo’s shrill cry interrupts my take for a second time.
I hesitate, not sure if I should give it another shot, and then finally decide to abandon the whole thing, at least for now. I take off my cowboy hat and set it on the nearby shelf, then stroll over to my tripod and shut off the ring light. I remove my phone from its metallic grip.
While I’d love to upload something fresh today, I’m nothing if not prepared. Yes, it’s important to cultivate the appearance of breezy spontaneity, but building a social media empire is often more science than art.
