The Fourth 'S'

Sign, smile, pose for selfie. Sign, smile, selfie. Sign, smile, selfie. The three 's's of any serious music career, he had learned.

He supposed singing was in there too, somewhere. But most songs he sang exactly twice—once for the CD and once to lipsync to every time he performed, and both versions were so heavily autotuned that he couldn’t really call it him singing anymore. It was the computer singing; the computer had just borrowed his voice as a vague guideline.

He’d been good, once. Or rather, he corrected himself, he’d not been bad. At least not bad enough that his boyish good looks and an unnatural but not outrageous hair colour couldn’t make up for it. And he could still dance.

Sign, smile, selfie. Nice to meet you, thank you for coming out. That’s my favourite song too. Thank you. Sign. Smile.

He was twenty-six, and his life was over. All his aspirations, everything he’d ever wanted to do—the Business got hold of him, and in a flash of bright lights and loud music his teen years were gone, his twenties were almost gone, he was alone—burned out, a wash-up, a relic. He wasn’t the darling of the teen scene anymore, and he knew it. He was old news.

Smile for the selfie. Smile. Smile, damn you, smile. That guy who directed his music videos—when was that? Ten years ago?—had always talked like that. Smile, damn you, smile. Cry, damn you, cry. Be happy. Be sad. Don’t be Corey Hall, be a heartbroken boy-next door, an enthusiastic clubber, a pirate, a doll, a puppet. Stop being you and be that.

And that was okay, for music videos. But he’d found out almost immediately that it wasn’t just the music videos, it was everywhere, everything. Smile, damn you, Hall, smile. Go inspire the hell out of people.

Because he did inspire people. God, that was what he hated most of all. He hated the forgery and the singing and the bright lights and the three 's's, but most of all he hated when some breathless young twentysomething with stars in her eyes told him how much his music had inspired her, how much she had loved him, how she had grown up with him, how excited she was to finally meet him. He always put on his warmest smile, gave a hug (sometimes a kiss, to her inevitable glee), and took a selfie with her.

You inspired me to write music…Your song saved my life…You were my obsession…I met my wife at one of your concerts…You have a voice like an angel…

He used to love it. Then he got disenchanted. Then things like that started making him want to vomit. Then it made him want to laugh. Then it made him want to cry. Now he was just numb, like he was about everything. Everything just made him numb. Just numb.

Sign, smile. Smile. Selfie, second selfie if the first one didn’t take. Sign, sign, sign, smile.

Nothing to sign. He glanced up, ready to smile and selfie.

“Yo,” said a redhead with perfect teeth.

“Wassap?” he said. “You got something you want me to sign, babe?” For some reason they liked it when he called them babe.

“Nope.” She grinned. Very pretty, nice legs. Another face. “I just wanted to tell you how much you mean to me.”

“Well, I’m very…”

“Not your music, your music is shit. You personally.”

He blinked, but was careful not to crack his smile. “Uh, well, I’m…”

“You know why?” she interrupted again. She had a broad Southern accent. A harsh voice, not the sort of voice that put up with very much. Maybe a teacher or something.

“Uh, nope! Why?”

“Sorry, I’ll make this fast, ‘cause I know you’ve got fifty of these losers behind me. When I was fourteen I thought I was gonna kill myself. I was stressed at school an’ all, I’d broke up with the love of my life—well, the love of my last two months, anyway. My parents was gettin’ a divorce. I thought I’d just end it all. You know why I didn’t?”

“Why?”

“Cause I saw an interview with you, an’ there was like a million girls screamin’, y’know? An’ I thought, hey, that guy’s got it worse than me. That guy’s goin' through hell and he’s still alive. I didn’t even know your name but there was a bunch of girls had your face on their notebooks, y’know? I thought you were probably gonna get burned out an’ end it, but no, you just kep’ on. Your music didn’t get no better but you didn’t end it either. An’ I figured, if he can get through, I can too. I’m in nursing school an’ all now. Just thought you oughtta know you kinda saved my life an’ all. So yeah.”

Smile. Sign, now that she’d given him a piece of paper. Kiss.

When he got to his hotel, he called his agent. The woman had known him for fifteen years, signed all of his major record deals, kept all of his secrets, and made both of their fortunes. She was smart, hard, and sharp; he didn’t like her much.

“What now, Corey?” she answered.

“Come over.”

“Why?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Been drinking again?”

“No. Get here soon.”

She showed up fifteen minutes later, looking angry.

“I was on my way to a meeting. What do you need?”

“Here. I want you to get rid of this.” He handed her a box. “You can open it if you want, whatever. Sell it, destroy it, throw it in the river. Might not want to actually set it on fire, but you know. Don’t tell anybody, please.”

“Corey, what is this?”

He shrugged. “I thought I was gonna need it. I guess I maybe don’t.”

“But what…?” She held the box with one hand and pried it open with the other. She was well-trained in the art of face-arranging; only her eyes betrayed any emotion—they widened slightly.

“Where did you get this?”

“Bought it a few weeks ago.”

“Was it for self-protection, or…?”

The question hung in the air.

“I see,” she said. She closed the box. “And you want me to get rid of it.”

“And not tell anyone.”

“Why didn’t you use it?”

“I was waiting for my birthday. Twenty-seven, you know. Kurt Cobain, Janis Joplin.”

“And you decided not to?”

He shrugged.

“How do I know you won’t do something like this again?” She had tucked the box tightly under her arm and was peering at him hard over the top of her spectacles.

He shrugged.

“Are you thinking about retiring, Corey?”

He shrugged. “Someday. Maybe not yet.”

“Might want to think about it.”

“What, and lose you your cash cow? All of a sudden you want me to retire? You haven’t started caring about my wellbeing or anything?”

She shrugged. “I’ll get another cash cow.”

“You bet you will.”

“Taking your meds?”

“Religiously.”

“Eaten?”

“Yes.”

“Get some sleep.”

“All right.”

She nodded at him. She started to turn, stopped, looked at him, looked down, looked up, opened her mouth, closed it, nodded again, turned, and left.

He went back in, laid down, and threw a Nerf ball at the ceiling a couple times.