FAME

A Very Short Story

From Fellini’s La Dolce Vita

It has been this way for so long, I expect it just about everywhere I go. Yes, I have been famous for quite some time. I was in my twenties and the reporters started calling, the photographers started following. It all happened so fast. One day I was a nobody and then bam!—it all turned on with the sound of a gunshot. You could say I enjoyed it.  You know, having the money was all fine and good, it opened up my world.

Of course, anything I wanted I could have and it was not always that way. My reflection had spent years in the windows of shops, strolling through the districts full of handmade garments of Chinese silk, slick wristwatches with diamond encrusted faces, leather handbags of Italian leather, fine suits and shoes for nearly every occasion. Then, all of it could be mine. One day, I spent over $15,000 dollars on clothes and jewelry. The next day, I did it again. Another $15,000. I did this for four days straight. After four days I could not think of anything more to buy…

Anyway, as I was saying about fame, it came like a lightning bolt. I remember giving my first autograph to a child. A young kid with a cowboy hat and matching boots. Funny enough, I was wearing boots, too. I remember the way his eyes lit up in a fantastic jolt as he noticed me walking towards the cross. He begins to tug at his mother’s dress like young boys do. It took her a second, but not too long after, she too, was starstruck. Not having anything to sign, I wrote my signature on the brim of the boy’s hat, his blushing mother standing over him, with an air of pride.

That was where it all began. My first autograph. Since then, I don’t know how many autographs I have given. Who is to say how many objects there are in this world adorned with my signature? I have signed almost everything. How many display cases are holding unmentionable, everyday items whose importance is only mandatory by the scrawl of my very name on their surface? I have signed a clothing iron, several dinner plates, coffee mugs. Once, and I swear to you this is true, I signed a grown man’s hot dog bun. I wonder if it is in a glass case somewhere, growing all sorts of fuzzy green, my name fading in the mold.

Several years ago, I decided I had had it.

I stopped giving autographs. Everywhere I go, people still expect them. Too, I have stopped posing in pictures. Like the items I have signed, there are hundreds if not thousand of pictures of me, with folks on the street or in a theatre, or inside a store, or at a god-awful gala—yes, dozens upon dozens of these pictures, standing with people I have not a clue about, smiling, shaking their hands, holding their babies! Are these photographs somewhere hung up in picture frames? Are they displayed next to their kin? Grandma, Junior’s first baby photo, his graduation photo, Pa cutting up the turkey at Thanksgiving and then me, that one time you got to meet and snap a photo with somebody famous. It’s as though I was part of the family. Dozens and dozens of families—all of them strangers.

And though it has been made crystalline clear many times in the press, in public releases, in a full page ad I bought and paid for even, that I am no longer willing to give autographs or take anymore pictures, still the attempts are made daily. And I wish that it were, at the very least, relegated to my walks or whenever I am out in public.

But it does not end there. It follows me home. Of course, everyday upon the arrival of the mail, I am brought a basket full of letters. Some of them, thick as a Russian novel, lord knows what is in them. They come in all shapes and sizes and colors. Some are bedazzled with glittery hearts, rosy feminine handwriting full of swirls and loops. Some come from children as the address is written in cruddy crayon, half of the letters are backwards. Some come from men, I assume, because the envelopes are typed, are business sized, and there are no discernible decorations about them.

At any rate, it was around four or five years ago where I decided that I would no longer read them. So when the mail arrives, I am usually in my study, and so I have Jane, my assistant, bring them to me, so I can use the extra paper and envelopes to start my fireplace. I have learned that nothing gets a fire going quicker than thick paper, particularly when sealed and compressed by the confines of an envelope. I know it sounds crude, but after years and years of these letters, I have heard every compliment a woman could give, every possible signal of adoration, every wish or request by a small child, every love letter in every style that could be written. And not be rotten about it, but I rather enjoy watching the letters burn, how the corners of the different papers curl and glimmer, how the different colors melt and turn. It is an array of hues that, like fire itself, is rather pleasing. I hope the letters continue to come in the quantity I have become accustomed to, because I enjoy burning them so much. And it is for this reason and this reason alone that I have not put any words in the press or the papers to try and dissuade the public from sending them.

Not that it has ever done any good. I have spilled much ink trying to get the public to understand and they never do. For many years, I have had to explain, by a dismissive gesture of the hand, that I will not be autographing anything. I have long been unmoved by the looks of the disappointed strangers, in fact, I do not even see their faces anymore.

Children have dropped their teddy bears and fallen to the ground in a teary-eyed slump at the face of my back.

Women have hollered and clamored about with their hanky’s, waving as though saying goodbye to a husband going off to war.

The men, slightly less dramatic, shout at me, usually in the defense of their wives, whom I have severely disappointed.

Not too long ago, another throng of cheap reporters, on the hunt for a snap of my face have convened at the end of my drive. As I leave, and the gates open, they can hardly prevent themselves from tripping over each other. From some high up angle, they must appear as an army of ants that have just been disturbed.

Just last week, I attempted to do something I have not done in over a decade. I went to the market to buy groceries. At no point in time was there a moment where I was not hounded by photographers, accosted by drooling fans, asked to sign whatever they may be holding. In fact, simply getting out of my automobile and closing the door caused the adorning crowd to erupt in violent ovation, as if by simply getting out of my car, I had done something for humanity which was deserving of endless praise.

The adoration was so thick, so ceaseless and fuming, that I could not even get the groceries I needed. I rather liked going to the market, there is an anonymity there, it is something personal. I remember as a poor man I could take all the time in the world there at one point. I would walk down each and every aisle, with no concern for its theme, dutifully going over each product, reading their contents, admiring their logos and pictures. Last week, I decided that my decision to never return to the groceries was the correct one, and so I will commit myself to that sacrifice.

Presently, I stay at my home exclusively. I have a small crew of cleaning folks, who work and maintain the interior of the property. I have several yard men, who focus on the pruning and mowing and watering of my estate. I employ three chefs, whose shifts are combined to ensure round the clock service, and a head assistant, who manages everything from my finances to the daily goings on in my life.

I don’t at all mind having a staff. They are all wonderful workers. When it is my birthday, the head chef makes the most glorious Romeo and Juliet tart. The head landscapist knows exactly how I like the hedges trimmed, and how I the buds of the roses should face due north. The maids, no matter the occasion, are never without leaving a chocolate under my pillow, as if I were staying in a hotel.

And because the workers are close to me, and I am now spared from the foaming publics constant lionization, I permit them the occasional photograph, the occasional signature for a relative or for their child’s birthday. I don’t even mind the constant compliments I receive, whether it be my looks, or the shirt that I am wearing, or a general thought on my career. I think, funny enough, I rather like when they do this, and find myself offering my signature, offering to take a photograph! How strange.

Yesterday, my head assistant, Jane, snapped a photo of me standing by my fireplace. I don’t know why, but I suppose I was just struck with the thought of having my picture taken. And, not that I am terribly over conscious about these things, but I felt a glimmer of agitation in Jane. It was as though she were annoyed at this request ever so slightly.

I couldn’t even say whether or not it was true. But there was something subtle in her motions, her voice, barely detectable. And though the image came out decent, she took little time to focus and properly frame the photograph.

She even acted perturbed when I requested the lighting box, when I advised her that the curtains should only be half open. And lately, too, I have noticed that when Jane brings me my letters for the fire, she does so in a brisk, hurried sense.

Yesterday, she spilt half the letters all over the floor. Which brings me some concern, because she is well aware that I like my fire letters to be crisp, unbent, in good shape. She didn’t apologize or even make any attempt at a reconciliation.

And lately, she is so quiet, so reserved, so speechless. Now that I think about, this whole relation with Jane has probably been a bug in my side for quite some time. It has become clear to me that I must fire her and consider her replacement. I am sure you understand me, of course you do. How can I keep her on? When all she does is make me feel neglected?

JSV

2024

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