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.
Branding means many things, but most of all it means reliability.
It’s the knowledge that someone can visit my profile, on any of the many platforms, and know exactly what they’re going to get.
No matter what, I’ll always be there with my signature style, a fresh upload, and current fashion advice.
I also dabble in queer commentary (nothing too spicy or political, mostly just celebrity relationship takes), and of course, a healthy dose of thirst traps.
I open Instafeed and swipe over to the drafts folder, revealing a whopping twenty-three evergreen posts to choose from. I try my best to remember what each of the patiently waiting uploads is, squinting at the tiny thumbnails.
Unfortunately, none of them are striking me.
I swipe back to the Explore tab, figuring I’ll just film a ten-second reaction clip and be done with it, but the post that greets me causes my breath to catch and my finger to pause.
EDDIE MICHAELS DEAD AT 68, the headline reads.
Below these words is a colorful photo of Eddie in his younger days, a huge, goofy smile on his face and massive yellow sunglasses covering his eyes.
His rhinestone-spangled shirt is high collared, the fabric climbing his neck and wrapping around his head before erupting like a large sun in the back.
It frames the musician in a glorious burst of orange sequins.
From downstairs, Marlo calls out again, but her exact words don’t register.
I click on the #RestInPeaceEddie hashtag, immediately greeted by a cascade of recent posts discussing the incident. Information is coming in fast, and it’s difficult to cut through all the bullshit, but it sounds like he died just moments ago. He was leaving a charity brunch.
My eyes widen when I see the next post. It’s a video.
As deeply as I understand that the dead are nothing more than stiff, cold flesh, the transition from life to death still gets to me. Despite this apprehension, I’m compelled onward by morbid curiosity. I move down to the clip and it automatically starts playing.
The video shows a beautiful morning in downtown Palm Springs, just a few short miles from where I currently sit huddled in my walk-in closet.
A crowd has gathered outside a small hotel–convention center, security guards pushing it back as photographs are snapped and vinyl records are waved in the air.
Black pens are unholstered, ready for a potential signature.
Eddie Michaels appears at the top of a small landing, just four steps up and waving to the crowd. Screaming fans instantly double in volume.
It’s here the camerawork gets a little shaky as the person filming is jostled and shoved, their frame momentarily dipping down to the sidewalk and then springing back up when Eddie makes his descent.
Eddie Michaels has gone all out for this occasion, reviving one of his most notorious looks.
He’s here for charity, after all, which means a fashion statement is warranted.
The legendary musician is clad in a champagne gold jumpsuit that sparkles from head to toe, with dangling, glittery fringe running the length of each arm.
White lines traverse the whole outfit in thick, exaggerated pinstripes.
There’s no shirt underneath his wide collar, and this exposes a rugged patch of silver hair on Eddie’s strikingly fit chest, especially considering his age.
Dazzling glasses rest upon his nose, featuring matching gold lenses and a jagged frame that resembles a pair of open swan wings.
This is what he wore at his famous Hollywood Bowl show back in 1984 (the one with the live album, which features the best version of “Kindhearted Stranger” ever released. It’s even better than the studio recording).
I watch with mounting dread as Eddie reaches the sidewalk, still waving and smiling at the crowd.
Two security guards are trying their best to urge him onward, motioning toward a black SUV parked a little way down the curb, but Eddie ignores their pleas.
He turns back around and walks over to the barricade as a flurry of hands reach out for him.
Some of these hands are open, hoping for a once-in-a-lifetime shake; others clutch markers and glossy printed photos.
Suddenly, the tone of the screaming begins to shift.
At first, it’s almost subliminal. There’s a brief moment when my heartbeat stutters, recognizing the alteration in cadence before my brain has a chance to catch up.
Then the panic hits. The crowd turns, scrambling away from Eddie now, and during this chaos the singer just looks bewildered.
It all happens within a matter of seconds.
The next thing I see is a vehicle launching over the curb and barreling directly through Eddie Michaels.
I say vehicle, but honestly the white blur is traveling so fast that I can barely make out what it actually is.
Eddie might as well have been blasted by a rocket ship.
There’s a loud bang and then a series of crunches, likely the runaway car hitting another vehicle and sliding across a few more for good measure. I can’t know for certain, however, as the filming has gone to shit. The video is now a frenetic blur of color and shadow—incomprehensible.
The screen becomes coherent again as our video-grapher starts to move, jogging briskly down the street.
Eddie’s body is slowly coming into view, sprawled out on the asphalt in a sparkling mess of blood and sequins.
His gold-and-white bodysuit now features a distinct splatter across the shoulders and chest, crimson looking damn near black as it soaks into the fabric.
His shoes are missing from his feet, one of them several yards down the block and the other nowhere to be seen.
Based on how far Eddie flew before hitting the concrete, I wouldn’t be surprised if his missing footwear was discovered years later on someone’s roof.
As a new crowd gathers, the person filming closes in and reveals even more detail. Eddie Michaels is flat on his back, staring straight up with a pair of wide, frozen eyes.
Despite his quick, one-man charter flight across downtown Palm Springs, I’m shocked at how relatively intact Eddie’s body looks. He’s laid out on the pavement like a snow angel, a true performer hitting his mark even in death. There’s an odd tranquility to the pose.
It’s only when the videographer begins stammering out expletives that I notice Eddie’s contortion. The musician’s corpse isn’t quite as unscathed as it first appeared. He’s lying face down against the cement, and his head just happens to be twisted all the way around on a shattered spine.
The video ends, looping back to the start.
I close the app and sit in silence for a moment, marinating in the emotional weight that’s suddenly bearing down on me from above.
My chest feels tight, like it’s impossible for me to catch a full breath, and an odd tingle is creeping its way across my face.
Eddie is just a body now. No more songs. No more videos. No more magic.
Gone forever.
I’m struggling to keep the emotional surge at bay, but eventually it’s just too much.
The levee breaks. Tears begin to spill from my eyes as I stagger awkwardly, then drop to the floor.
I curl up in a ball, as though this new position might save me from the mighty hurricane of grief that rages and churns through my body.
How could this happen?
“People die every day, you fucking idiot,” I mumble to myself, the words sloppy and drenched in tears. I immediately shake my head, as if this little gesture might reverse what I’ve said and put everything back in its rightful order.
Eventually, the feelings begin to settle.
“Fuck,” I sigh, then remember something very important. Before I get the chance to fully calm down, I open my phone again, quickly jumping to the camera app and then holding out my device for a selfie.
I angle my face a bit, struggling to find a balance between blubbering mess and adorable fawn in distress. Not too messy, not too cute. Photos are snapped as I move my head from side to side, looking down for a few of them and then gazing right at the camera for others.
I pull my phone back in and scroll through the images, happy with these results until I feel another surge of tears rolling down my cheek. I can do better. There’s more gold to mine, and if I’m going to feel this shitty, I might as well get something out of it.