“RENO BABBEL SPOTTED WITH DISGRACED STAR ROWAN WILLIAMS: REKINDLING AN OLD FLAME?”
“’HE’S A MESS!’ WHERE HAS WILLIAM QUINN BEEN? AN EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH HIS MOTHER!”
“COULD THIS BE THE BOTTOM OF THE CAN?! THE EXPLOSIVE FIGHT THAT COULD SPELL THE END OF CATFOOD!”
Everyone walks immediately past the tabloids in a store.
The repulsive big yellow text drape a window of the lives of figures exponentially richer than you. The idea of peeking behind the curtain, and perpetuating the breech of privacy and getting a close look at the messy personal lives of these undeserving, imperfect, and impossibly talented individuals. They serve no functional purpose other than to gawk.
“Why William Quinn’s Absence impacts the greater literature industry.”
“Williams and Babbel: A mutually assured destruction.”
“Where Does Catfood Go From Here?”
These thoughtful blog articles will teach you something.
The wall of thoughtful text opens a door for thought and reliability; to identify with the figures on the big screen, who are just like you, at the end of the day. Imperfect, but human. Brash, but well-meaning. These pieces are a necessary read for anyone even a little engaged with the entertainment all around us.
The articles are nigh identical, and the irony was not lost on Maxwell B Conell.
“This is the day.”
“This is the day you quit.”
“You say that like you don’t believe me.”
Max was getting dressed in his usual work attire: black short-sleeved T-shirt, black jeans, black gloves (pocketed). He grabbed his trusty camera and thumbed through the image gallery.
“No no, I believe in you,” Mickey, Max’s boyfriend, stretched and opened his eyes for probably the first time today. “I just don’t see why you get so cagey about your work.”
“It’s demeaning! Like, can you imagine having people record your every move every day, only someone ELSE to take your picture for no apparent reason?”
“Hmm...I guess I wouldn’t mind that much.”
“You stream for a living,” Max gave Mickey a coy look. “That wasn’t a great question. I’ll be out of your way in a minute.”
“You’re never in the way!”
Max grabbed a breakfast sandwich and some canned coffee out of the fridge. Immaculately crafted, as usual.
“Anyway, you aren’t your job.” Mickey poked his head out from the bathroom. “My job is maybe the least interesting thing about me, personally.”
Mickey livestreamed cooking on the internet for about 8 hours every day, and had a pretty loyal following of 17-25 year olds (according to analytics) interested in home chef practice. He was also extremely attractive, which probably helped. It was rich coming from him.
“I got an email back earlier today.”
Mickey poked his head from the bathroom again; his hair was all wet now. “Oh?”
“From that new Sunrise condo building? On Vallhalla St.? They need someone to take promotional pictures.”
“Oh wow! I’m so happy for you Maxy!”
Max beamed a bit. His passion was real estate photography, a niche that isn’t nearly as easy to fill as it looks. Mickey didn’t get it at all, but really liked seeing the spark in Max’s eyes when he started talking about the subject.
No more following WhatsHerName out of bathroom stalls, no more tailing behind WhatsHisFace in a taxi...Just pictures of empty apartment spaces. Inoffensive, peaceful, empty apartment spaces.
“I mean, it’s not like it’ll look that good,” Max began a diatribe. “They’re some of those new modern-type architectures that are really small. There’s no room to breathe in there...” He continued at length for about a minute before he realized the shower was on, and Mickey probably couldn’t hear him. Max shouted a byeloveyou and hurried to the newsroom.
He couldn’t wait to give Cowell the good news.
Max received some awful news upon prancing into the newsroom.
“Angel Knight is in town,” Cowell elaborated, “And she brought along her guardian angel with her.”
“I don’t know what any of that crap means,” Max spoke at a higher volume than usual whenever in the newsroom. Somehow, the acoustics in the room made the typing of every keyboard much louder than what they were supposed to be.
Melissa Cowell was a veteran in the field; a tried and true yellow journalist. In her 63 years, she had covered political scandal over public slander over sensationalized fad catastrophe. It wasn’t until last year, with some convincing from her young newphew that she saw what a boon the internet had been for tabloid journalism.
“The biggest goddam popstar in the country is staying at the Crown Jewel hotel across town, and that weird little kid who she keeps around is with her. And you,” she jabbed a bony finger in the air in Max’s direction, “are going to get some answers on that kid.”
“I can’t tell you how much I don’t want to do that.”
“Well, you won’t tell me, you’ll just do it. Hundreds of people online are saying there’s something weird about it, and not a single person asked!” Cowell handed Max a stack of articles about Angel Knight’s rise in popularity over the last 2 years. “And they call themselves journalists.”
Max knew about Angel Knight; she’d had releases ever since he was in high school. She was a little too clean for his taste, but two years ago, a particular remaster of an old track exploded on social media. At this point, she was inescapable.
“The internet rumor hive says that there’s something para-whatever about it, that that kid’s an alien or robot or a clone or something,” Cowell continued. “If it’s none of that, it’s even better!”
“I really do want to stop, though. I have something else lined up.” Max was never a great liar.
“If you hate this job so much, fine; this could be your last gig.”
“You’re saying that like you don’t believe me.”
His boss looked him directly in his eyes. “I don’t,” blankly. “But you can at least stomach revenue from conspiracy nuts and fanboys, couldn’t you?”
Max could, but he didn’t say that out loud.
The Cavalier hotel was a giant, glistening, golden inn that was built in 4 or 5 months. Enormous stone statues of animals stood outside of the building, bathing in nearby spotlights.
Max watched the pair he was paid to annoy enter the building and bellhop at the front nod at them apathetically. They didn’t bring any bags, so there wasn’t all that much for him to do, there.
A few more people passed him by, the bellhop had the same reaction.
Apathetic nod, apathetic nod.
Do bellhops not greet you anymore? What was Max missing exactly?
Usually, paparazzi like Max would have to sneak into the hotel behind another customer (Or better: group) in order to avoid being thrown out. Max found a pair to trail, seemed to be two bickering band members.
“...What you’re describing is copaganda,” the blue bomber jacket was finishing a rebuttal.
“She famously isn’t a cop!” The red sweater seemed adamant about whoever that was.
“She’s in the FBI, that’s basically the same thing.”
“As a janitor.”
The conversation sounded asanine enough not to participate, so Max began his camouflage strategy.
“Ok ok, you!” The pair stopped in front of the bellhop.
Shit, Max didn’t account for this.
“We’re trying to settle an argument,” Red sweater began.
The bellhop just stared through them all; if he noticed Max behind them, he didn’t seem to care much.
“Is someone who cleans toilets at a company still working for that company?”
“That’s not what the arguement was,” Blue muttered.
Red Sweater whipped around behind her. “I’m getting to that!”
The bellhop stayed silent.
“What I think,” Red sweater began, “is that if you’re working for somewhere, but not actually doing the company’s work, you’re not working for that company.”
“The company is paying you, though,” Blue bomber always had a rebuttal.
“If you are a window washer at a bomb factory, you’re not a bomb builder! You are a window washer!”
Max, internally, figured that if the person was hired as a contractor, or something, then they aren’t working for the company, right? But if they’re like, salaried then no, he guessed they would be working for that company. How often does this happen?
The bellhop nodded silently.
“Ahhh! So he agrees with me!”
Max walked through into the hotel, not dignifying the exchange any longer.
Max caught a glimpse at his targets at the front desk, fighting his guilt again. He had to remember that this is just a job. His job isn’t him. The way celebrities swat him away like a housefly wasn’t him. Soon he would be getting perfect shots of condominum lobbies and two-story apartments. That was him.
The concierge at the front was clearly pretending not to know who he was talking to.
“D-do you have a reservation Ms. K--with us today?”
“I just want to say that I love...your dress!”
“Oh, music? An album? That’s nice. Can I get your signature here? And here too? For my kids?”
Max didn’t think the concierge looked any older than 17.
Just then, some of the glasses in the hotel lobby began to shake. A loud rumble sounded through the halls and Max felt off-balance, all of a sudden. It took him about 15 seconds to register that it was an earthquake, but apparently 10 seconds for everyone else to duck under any available space. Max scrambled for a nearby table, barely making it underneath before the chandelier shattered on top of the giant centerpiece.
A cacophony of guests screaming and a percussion of lights and fans crashing down, all glued together with a rumbling bassline of shifting tectonic plates. In the back of his mind, Max was inspired to make a dramatic symphonic piece. In the front of his mind, he thought “oh fuck oh god i am going to die here i dont want to die here.”
“you’re not going to die here,” is what another, higher-pitched part of his mind thought, almost involuntarily. He didn’t have time to worry about where that came from.
The 45.9 seconds felt like an hour. When the ground finally stopped shaking, the entire hotel had caved in. The elaborate decorum had been upended and replaced with rubble and ill-secured pillars. Max briefly wondered how this building passed fire inspections.
“Is everyone okay?!” a voice shouted. Some yelps of affirmation followed; one person started began in relief. Slowly, the guests of the hotel began to congregate towards the hotel lobby.
Max got up from under the short table, which had somehow evaded a giant neon light that looked like a flower.
“I hate this fucking job,” Max swore aloud.
“she’s hurt”
That weird voice in Max’s head reminded him about the whole reason he was here to begin with. He went towards the gathering crowd of people to scan for the talent who’s privacy he was supposed to invade.
Max saw Angel Knight with her legs pinned underneath a very large marble statue that looked like a flower. She also had cut to her head and an impact that caused her face to swell up.
“Uhh, is anyone a doctor?” The shaken concierge shouted.
Max blended in with the crowd well. The dark outfit with the lack of lights seemed to help.
Woof, she looks bad,” Max thought. He contemplated taking a picture of the catastrophe, if for no other reason that Cowell would probably give him a bonus for up-to-the-minute disaster coverage. The thought made him feel dirty.
“shes definitely stable,” the high voice.
“She’s definitely stable,” Max said out loud, involuntarily, surprising himself.
Max looked behind him again as a tall, scrawny, gloomy-looking man in misaligned glasses walked up to the scene.
“She’s definitely stable,” the gloomy man said, “But her leg will prooooobably need to be amputated.”
“Are you a doctor?”
The gloomy man set his bag of tools down. “As of extremely recently,” he said almost reluctantly. “I just graduated, but I’m kind of qualified to be a surgeon.”
The concierge finally broke the fanboy floodgates at this point. “That’s good enough. PLEASE SAVE HER!!!!”
The doctor got to work.
Max noticed the little kid that trailed behind her standing next to him among the crowd. If there was ever a moment where his job had made him feel like scum, this was it.
“Well, neither of us deserved this,” he said, a bit dryly. “I promise she’ll make it out okay, and this never happens again.” The words came out awkwardly--Max was never great with kids.
The child gave him a blank look. “oh i know,” chirped the odd voice in Max’s head. “this was all supposed to happen,”
He spun around looked behind him--not a single person speaking to him.
Max began to panic, as one would. The crowd around him was by and large transfixed by the amateur surgeon’s work, so he began to stick out. A few people passed him some understanding glances, recalling the situation they were in.
“Hey sir,” The gloomy doctor addressed Max as continued his work. “Could you calm down? I know this is stressful, but that won’t do you any favors.”
“It’s not that, I-I hear voices...! I’m hearing someone talk to me!”
“Yeah that’s normal. It’s usually God or your past self or something. Just breathe.”
It must be really nice to be that flippant!
“i’m behind you,” the voice said. Max whipped behind him to see the child, still staring blankly. “thank you for your kind words.”
Max continued panicking. He didn’t understand; the only logical thing was that his guilt had combined with the trauma of the earthquake to create a combination of delirium that directly impacted his stream of thought.
"okay i am broadcasting my speech directly into your brain i hope that makes it easier to understand"
It didn't. "It doesn't!" Max thought.
The kid looked blankly at the surgical display. "this is how Angel and I talk to each other," beamed the voice. "she sings the words I say to her."
Max needed a second to reorient himself. He started taking a mental tally of the room. "It's dark. I'm in a hotel. There are at least 50 people around me right now. My name is Maxwell Conell. Everyone calls me Max." Once he got some control over himself, he humored the other voice. "What's your name?"
“i don’t think i have one of those, sorry.”
Alright.
"i'm not from anywhere on this earth," the child explained, as if it made anything clearer. "i am from the deep pools of a crystal lake that was drained from the malevolent force of mankind from this dimension. Angel rescued me and brought me here," Max found himself writing this information down, if for no other reason than to document his sudden breakdown. Maybe he'd write a book about it.
“Okay, from another world. And do you do this...telepathy thing with everyone?”
“just angel. and you now. and the person who was waiting outside. so far only people with just the right amount of self-perception”
Max felt like he was just insulted. He kept writing, the jab at his pretentiousness notwithstanding.
“why are you writing this down”
“My boss is going to going to be proud of me, at least.” Max thought, sardonically. “Supernatural stuff’s supposed to be really popular now.”
“why what do you do”
“I’m a paparazzo.”
“whats that”
“I uhh...” He had never met a person who had never met a person who didn’t immediately react with disgust at the concept. “I’m ah...uh...I report on people. I have to report things, but secretly.”
“what thats like spy stuff thats really cool”
Max was flabberghasted. No? “No?” He beamed in return.
The kid stepped closer towards him, expectantly
“do you take a lot of pictures of people without them knowing all the time”
“Yeah, and it’s awful.”
“what about talking to them do you speak to them at all”
“No, I’m not supposed to! They have a lot to say to me though...”
The child continued to telepathically rattle Max with questions about the profession he hated. Explaining it to a child didn’t make him like it any more, nor did it put anything into any perspective. Max quietly realized that this child would probably be perfect for a job in tabloid journalism. In some way, this surprised Max more than the fact that this child was telepathically communicating with him.
The doctor finished up his work, and help was beginning to arrive.
The child got on board with Angel and the fleet of EMTs on the ambulance.
“goodbye mr paparazzo,” the child a goodbye to Max. “maybe there’ll be more psychics in journalism one day.”
The last thing he wanted was to stick around and find out.
“PSYCHICS ARE REAL! THE TRUE STORY BEHIND ANGEL KNIGHT’S COMPANION!”
“COULD ESPERS REALLY EXIST?! WHERE ARE THEY?”
“WHO WALKS AMONG US?”
This time around, the headlines were the same for both the internet and paper publications; they did the job. For the next year or so, the idea that psychics were in the general population just about exploded. Max had made the biggest paycheck of his career, and coasted on the royalties before hanging up the black t-shirt for good.
He spent the next 6 years of his life taking pictures of increasingly lavish homes, ready for move-ins. Every now and again, someone would recognize his name and ask “Weren’t you that guy who reported on the psychic?”
What was he supposed to do, say “no?”