Starstuck

The constant clicking and camera flashes from the paparazzi start as soon as the white limousine door opens. Three burly men stand around the door to help the twenty-something woman inside the car step onto the curb. She is still wearing last night’s sparkly, red-carpet dress. To cover herself from the slight morning chill, she has added a silky black shawl around her neck, oversized sunglasses over her eyes, and a big, sensual, red smile. She waves elegantly at the persistent photographers as she walks towards her apartment. “Did the party end late, Annie?” one man in his late 30’s shouts to her as she walks past him. “The party never ends when I’m around,” Annie answers, still surrounded by the three big bodyguards. When the man chuckles, she blows him a kiss before joining him with her delightful laughter. Her blond curls bounce around her face as she glides up the pathway. Even with the wall of muscles surrounding her, every paparazzo gets a glamor shot of her face.  As Annie gets closer to the 30-story building, the door attendants double up as bouncers, holding the mob back while creating room for her to enter the building. She can barely hear the fans screaming for autographs over the buzz of other voices. For once, she is happy the paparazzi are there because she really does not want to stop to sign anything today, and the hoard of petty celebrity snappers keeps the fans too far away to reach her. The more enthusiastic of her fans almost come close enough to her but get shoved back by the vultures, who are determined to get the next good shot of her.  It’s only a few meters from the limousine to the penthouse complex, but it’s slow going. It’s not always like this, but her latest movie was released last night, so the fans flock around her, wanting her to sign the movie posters or other merchandise from the franchise. Usually, she would have made an effort to be nice to her fans, but not this morning. She only wants to get home, be left alone, and block it all out, at least for a while. It’s not the party that never ends; it’s this life, she thinks, but somehow still holds her smile for the crowd.  In the turmoil around Annie, she doesn’t notice her shawl unraveling. It begins slowly, the silky knot slipping loose, the fabric caught between her and the bodyguard behind her. A small thread is stuck on his shirt button when he is held back for a fraction of a second. It’s all it takes for the scarf to leave her neck.  Annie hears gasping but doesn’t realize why before the paparazzi show their fangs, pouncing at her with questions: “Who did that to you!?” they all demand, baying for blood. The hand she waved with grasps the new necklace adorning her neck. It’s already too late, but Annie desperately tries to hide it from the surrounding cameras. The purple and black bruises tell a story she would rather have kept to herself. Too late now. Feeling tears pressing, she soldiers on.  The frenzy around her becomes worse than ever, and her bodyguards stop being nice. She doesn’t notice how some of her fans try to protect their star. They push the paparazzi away from her, and some even destroy cameras. She can only feel how her bodyguards are shoving her in front of them towards the door. The doormen have made a human wall, not letting strangers get past them. When she slips in between them, she runs to the elevators, pushes the up-button, and scrambles into the first one that opens a few seconds later. The elevator walls are white marble, except for the obligatory mirrored wall she refuses to look into, her gaze glued to the black tiles at her feet. To the right of the elevator doors is the button panel. It’s made of a gold-like metal and runs like a band from the top to the bottom of the elevator. The buttons to each floor are white, giving the illusion of being made of pearls. Annie closes her eyes as the elevator doors shut the nightmare out. Without looking, she stretches her hand to the top floor button and pushes it several times as her tears break through the mask.  “You doin’ okay?” a warm, baritone voice asks, making Annie jump. She had thought she was alone, as alone as she felt. Blinking away her tears, the movie star sees a man standing furthest back in the elevator with his cleaning cart. A concerned face peers down at her when she steps out of her high heels instead of answering. She doesn’t pick up the sparkly silver stilettos but leaves them on the elevator floor.  Without her shoes on, he’s a head taller than her. His eyes are golden-brown, an autumn sunset amidst the earthy umber of his skin. The only sign of age is a little bit of gray streaking his black, short curls. His dark brown skin, with a warm yellow undertone, is a nice compliment to her paler beige tan. Yet, aside from this, they are opposites in every way possible - you couldn’t get further apart on the social scale. Even in her despair, her features are elegant and soft; she may as well still be twenty rather than approaching thirty. Her life is full of glamor and money. On the other hand, he is likely to come from a rough background, has a menial job, and wears a second-hand uniform that is too short on the arms and legs. Despite her state, she automatically thinks, What a waste of good looks.  “You doin’ okay?” he repeats, not daring to go closer to her stooped posture. He can see the marks on her neck and does not want to be blamed for them if the elevator opens for more people. With a quick, short movement, she shakes her head. She is tired of acting like everything is okay, but at the same time, she doesn’t want to talk about it. She just wants to get home and stay in bed. Forever. Maybe eat some ice cream. Forever. To emphasize that she doesn’t want to talk, she turns her back on him to stand facing the door.  “Can I do something for you, Miss Montgomery?” the cleaner asks her.  She sighs since he didn’t take the hint but doesn’t get to respond further as her phone starts to ring. Scrambling to open her purse, she can see the call is from “The Hollywood Reporter.” How did they get my private number? she thinks and cuts them off. Immediately, it rings again; this time, it’s “Entertainment Weekly.” Screaming, she flings her phone with all her strength and frustration, not even noticing the direction it takes and how it shatters all over the worn sneakers of the man occupying the space furthest back of the elevator.  Quietly, the cleaner gets his broom from his cart to clean up the small pieces. He wants to take off his shoes to empty them of debris, but decides to do it when Annie has left the elevator. No need to let her learn what well-worn shoes smell like; it might overpower his aura of cleaning agents. Not that she would ever bat an eye at a man like him, but he wants to keep the illusion of possibility open.  The elevator slows down near the top of the building. On top of the door is a display counting what floor it’s currently on: 24, 25, 26 show up gradually, more and more slowly, until the light in the display flickers once, twice, and then disappears entirely. The elevator stops, and the warm glow from the ceiling is replaced with a cold, white emergency light. Realizing what’s happened, Annie desperately bangs on the doors crying. “NOT TODAY! PLEASE!!!” She slams her fists over and over again, hyperventilating. The cleaner’s warm hand rests gently on her shoulder, but she flinches away from the touch. “I’m sorry,” the janitor says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Annie throws herself at the button display to push the top floor button several times before hitting the panel. Again, his hand touches her shoulder warmly, and her frustration goes back inside, along with all the other emotions. Her legs lose the battle against the nerves, and she sinks to the floor, unable to move. The man squats beside her. “Not the best day today, huh?” he smiles with sympathy.  Annie answers with a halfhearted “m.”  Not sure what to do, they sit together on the floor in silence. The janitor studies her while thinking about how to help her through this. Her whole figure is slumped over the black stone. Her shoulders are drooped, her head hanging, and her arms limp at her side. He can see goosebumps forming and a trembling shiver starting. She is dressed for the too-hot summer weather outside, and the stone floor does not give off any heat. He gets up, goes to his cart, and rummages until he finds what he is looking for. Kneeling down next to Annie, he gives her a hoodie. “Here, put it on a while, jus’ while we wait. You’re cold,” he suggests. She doesn’t reply, so he drapes it over her shoulders as best he can, stopping some of her shiverings.  “Name’s Jamal,” he introduces himself. “S’only fair you learn it now that we are stuck here together for a while,” he smiles. Jamal is also one of those people who smile a lot, but unlike Annie, his smile is genuine and warm, like marshmallows in hot chocolate. “And I’m jus’ gonna call you Annie, right? No point in pretense in this here situation, right?” With no response, he gets up again and studies the button panel.  “Annie, can you move a little to the side? We haven’t tried the emergency button, and I would rather not stand over you when I do.” His tone is lighter than before, as if not to spook her. She does not move. Jamal stands there for a few seconds as he contemplates what to do. Should he lift her or stand over her? Judging from her bruise, he guesses neither option is okay with her. Or for him either, for that matter. Whatever happened there, he doesn’t want it coming back on him. Sighing, he returns to the cart and fishes out towels meant for the pool. Folding the soft, plush towels in half, he puts them against the opposite wall from Annie.  “Can you… can you move over there: sit on the towels… or… do I gotta help you?” to which Annie simply grunts but shows no inclination to move. Jamal put his hand to his chin and mumbled, “Okay. Right. Um… so… here’s what I’m gonna do: I will move you over to the towel so you can sit more comfortably. Okay?” Jamal asks. Annie just grunts again when he repeats his question.  Her body becomes stiff and rigid when he lifts her bridal style, but she doesn’t protest further. Gently, he sets her on the towels and throws one more over her. “Tha’s better,” he mutters, then leaves her alone. He doesn’t see the single tear escaping her eye when he turns back to the panel. Jamal follows the instruction and holds the button with a bell for over ten seconds. Nothing happens. Twenty seconds later, he tries again. Cursing, he repeats the action a third time, and finally, the old speaker full of electronic interference sparks to life.