Clickbait #2
When I flip back to the front-facing camera I discover that my eyeliner has started to run in a way that looks fucking incredible.
I begin the process over again. Crawling to my feet and hurrying out of the closet.
My bedroom is large and immaculately clean, kept in order for any impromptu content creation that might pop into my head.
The furniture is well curated in a combination of the mid-century modern that Palm Springs is known for and a few well-placed pops of neon that lean even further into the camp of it all.
There are shelves of books I’ve never opened, constantly swapped out with the latest must-reads, and a few colorful knickknacks and art prints to drive home the youthful irreverence.
The piece that’s on my mind, however, is easy to spot.
A whole wall of my bedroom is taken up by an enormous black-and-white photograph print of Eddie Michaels on stage.
He’s standing atop his piano, his back to the camera and his arms wide open as a crowd stretches out before him.
The photo has been blown up so large that you can actually make out the faces of many people in the front row, expressions of joy and wonder and awe.
As the audience continues farther back, however, they start blending together, an endless mass of bodies gradually transforming into a blur of late seventies film grain.
Imagine being on the receiving end of that kind of raw, unwavering love.
Imagine having that kind of influence.
I stand in front of the gigantic photograph, then hold out my camera and snap a few more pictures as makeup streams down my face in watery black lines.
When I’ve finally captured something I’m happy with, I draft a new post featuring this teary-eyed photo and use the hashtag #RestInPeaceEddie.
I add a somber tune over the top, opting for one of Eddie’s most powerful ballads, then stop myself.
Instafeed allows their users to see the highest trending songs at any given moment, and while I love the track that I’ve chosen, it’s way too deep of a cut.
I shift gears, going instead for “Nights Like This,” the song featuring Dua Lipa that Eddie released just last year. It’s already back to number one in the trending category.
“Nights Like This” is a decent song, actually, but it certainly doesn’t move me like the classic stuff. Eddie’s old-school ballads will always have my heart, but that doesn’t matter right now. Today isn’t about my feelings, it’s about seizing the moment.
I hit Upload.
“Mom!” comes a distant trembling cry, overwrought with frustration.
I wipe my eyes and tuck my phone away, then hurry out into the hall. “Coming, sweetie!”
Our house is big, and its size is made even more apparent thanks to the sprawling, single-story architecture.
The ceilings are high and the tile floors shine with luxurious brilliance.
Like my bedroom, every square inch of this place is decorated with equal parts mid-century charm and kitschy flair.
In the living room, a giant pink statue of David sits on my white marble coffee table, and behind it hangs a colorful print in the style of Andy Warhol, a large portrait of Stevie Nicks’s face in four different sets of bold color.
It’s fun—high-and lowbrow blended together and infused with my own personal style.
No, it’s more than just fun. It’s aspirational.
There are several ways to cultivate a social media following, just like there are several ways to upcharge someone for the dead bodies they’re trying to illegally purchase.
I’m good at both.
In this particular case, I’ve opted for a lifestyle brand that’s fairly universal—a beautiful queer woman basking in the glow of youth and success. Sure, there’re a lot of people already riding this train, but the difference between me and them is simple: I work harder.
I’m also better-looking.
Continuing past the living room, gym, and one of three guest rooms, I stroll into the dining area and then out onto the patio of an inner courtyard.
This open-air section rests at the center of our home, a breezy, succulent-lined oasis featuring a hot tub on the left and a fire pit on the right.
A shimmering turquoise pool fills up the rest.
My daughter, Marlo, has recently exited the pool.
She sits wrapped in a towel on one of the nearby wooden loungers, not lying back but leaning forward in a rigid hunch.
Her body language is distinct and performative, trying to deliver a message by showing me just how stiff she can get.
She doesn’t even look over when I round the corner, just stares off into space.
“Hey, sweetie,” I start, walking over. “You wanted to show me something?”
I move around to the front of Marlo, then take a seat in one of the other chairs. She’s not avoiding eye contact with me, per se, just not making any effort to align our gazes.
“I did,” Marlo huffs. “You wouldn’t come and watch.”
“I was working.”
My daughter rolls her eyes. “You were making your videos.”
“How do you think all this stuff gets paid for?” I snap, a little more aggressive than intended. “Do you have any idea what I do for you? How hard I work?”
Marlo doesn’t answer, unimpressed. Her little brain is turning something over.
“What?” I press.
“Mom, you don’t do that stuff for me,” she finally says.
My initial response is anger, a crackle of sudden, frustrated defiance.
I flash back to long nights in the desert, hours spent hauling cold flesh from place to place until the sun comes up.
I recall meeting every imaginable variety of ghoul, from desperate scientists at underfunded testing laboratories, to thrill-seeking creeps who seem a little too excited about cutting open a real body.
I remember avoiding the cops.
Most of all, I remember the smell.
I can never tell Marlo what really pays for this lifestyle, but for the briefest moment I actually want her to know—want her to appreciate the sacrifices I’ve made.
Just as quickly as these emotions arrive, I push them away.
When it comes to fame in the digital age, fake it till you make it is the modern gospel.
Every successful lifestyle creator started with some other source of income, posting luxury content well before they were earning enough money to attract much of anything.
A few had wealthy family members; others toiled away in the background, working some other, less savory job whenever the cameras were off.
A collaborator of mine used to sell anonymous feet pics.
I just sell feet … and legs, and arms, and eyes.
The goal is, of course, to eventually make fame my only gig, a self-sustaining ecosystem of celebrity. Every new comment, like, or follow is one step closer to that goal, but until then, the butcher keeps chopping.
Instead of anger, I come back at Marlo with a solemn statement of fact. “When I was growing up, I didn’t have anything like this,” I remind her. “Not a lot of pools in the group home.”
This seems to get my daughter’s attention, her eyes finally moving over to meet mine. She’s still mad, but at least I’ve made contact.
“What about when your parents came and got you?” she asks.
I hesitate. “They didn’t have a pool, either,” I finally say.
Marlo ponders this for a moment, then nods with a peculiar sort of satisfaction. “Okay.”
Now that I’ve broken through the hard shell, I center my thoughts in preparation.
I want to imbue this next statement with as much weight as I possibly can, giving Marlo’s feelings a reverence and respect that was never given to mine.
“I’m really, really sorry,” I tell her, meaning every word as I dredge them up from the absolute depths of my soul.
“I should’ve come out here sooner. I know I’ve been working late, and I need to be more focused during family time. ”
Marlo’s face softens. She stares at me for a moment, then scrunches her nose.
“Were you crying?” my daughter asks.
In the filing cabinet of my mind, a manila folder is unexpectedly knocked loose.
Photos spill everywhere as I’m confronted with images from the past, the vicious loop of family trauma swinging back around and striking me with yet another haymaker over a decade later.
I remember all the times I came home to find one—or both—of my parents just bawling their eyes out with no rhyme or reason.
It was a household of constantly heightened emotions, the floor absolutely covered in eggshells.
“Nope,” I tell Marlo flatly. “You wanna show me whatever you were working on?”
Finally, a smile. Marlo climbs to her feet, goggles strapped to the top of her tiny head. She takes one of her small plastic nose clamps and places it over her bridge, then walks over to the pool’s cement edge.
I stand up and follow her. “You really need all that stuff to cover your eyes and plug your nose?” I ask.
“Duh, mom.”
“Just wondering.”
“You bought them,” she reminds me.
I stroll over to the opposite side of the pool, standing across from her now. “You don’t wanna get too used to all that gear, though,” I inform her, a gentle suggestion. “You know, sharks don’t need goggles and nose plugs.”
“I’m not a shark,” she replies bluntly.
“You don’t wanna be a shark?”
Marlo shakes her head. “I’m a fish. Did you know that fish are older than mammals?”
“Oh!” I reply. “Okay. I didn’t know that.”
“Um, did you know that fish communicate through smells in the water?” she continues. “It’s called para-moans.”
“Pheromones?”
Marlo nods. “They tell each other what to do.”
“Influencers, like your mom.” I laugh. “But sharks are the biggest, coolest, most dangerous fish in the whole ocean. That’s like … the best fish. You don’t wanna be the ultimate killer fish?”
Marlo seems taken aback by this. She’s silent for a moment, standing awkwardly at the water’s edge. “Why would I want to be the ultimate killer fish?” she finally asks.