The Love Song of Jonny Valentine (13 page)

One of the guys said, “And neither are we.”

A second one said, “So we’re all in agreement that we’re not sheeplike, right? Guys? Yes?”

The third one said, “And neither is the guy at our Austin show who wore the ringer T-shirt that said
I HATE IRONIC T-SHIRTS
.”

The first guy said, “Doing anything meta is a hipster thing. So is saying that anything meta is a hipster thing.”

The second one said, “And disavowing your hipsterness is the surest sign that you are a hipster.”

Zack said, “Some of my best friends are black hipsters.”

They hadn’t laughed until that last one, and then they returned to doing what they were doing. The Latchkeys were like the Harlem Globetrotters with words. I’d pay $19.95 to watch them talk on Internet live-stream. They must’ve known each other for a long time, the way they talked so fast and all sounded like each other. I didn’t sound anything like Jane or even Walter.

I asked the guy with the iPhone if he could take my photo and email it to me. “So I can make sure I’m able to download photos,” I said, since it was a strange thing to ask.

“Sure,” he said. “With all of us?”

“That’s okay, it can be just me.”

“As long as we’re not being narcissistic,” he said. Fuck him for making
fun of me for asking for a photo with myself, when I was just trying to protect them in case I was emailing with an impostor.

Zack got up. “Can I get in there? I’ll be the envy of everyone back home who said I’d never amount to anything.” He winked at me. “Or I’ll sell it on eBay and we’ll split the profits.”

Maybe it was okay if only Zack got in there, and even if the guy was an impostor and was going to email the photo to a gossip site, it’d look cool that I was hanging out with Zack backstage in his green velvet suit. I told him yeah, and he said, “Copacetic,” and put his arm around my shoulders. He smelled like the woods and cigarettes again.

I gave the other guy my email and Zack said to send it to him, too. It showed up in my inbox. I had to figure out what to tell him about Jane. And I didn’t want to let him know it was me who was emailing him. I wrote

Jane is very allergic to peanuts.

That wasn’t too private, but I don’t think many other people know about it. Jane’s savvy about containing info in our circle.

I Googled “Albert Valentino Pittsburgh.” I didn’t find anything till a few pages in, a short article in a no-name Pittsburgh newspaper from four years ago.

CRIME BLOTTER

TWO MEN ARRESTED IN BARROOM BRAWL

Two men were arrested early Sunday in connection with a dispute in the parking lot of Schmidt’s Tavern in Southside Flats.

According to a police statement, Jefferson Smithfield, 35, and Albert Valentino, 40, turned to fisticuffs after a verbal dispute. The owner of Schmidt’s, John Schmidt, is suing the two men for damages to the exterior of the bar sustained during the altercation.

Smithfield has a prior conviction for unlawful possession and delivery of a controlled substance. Valentino has no prior record.

Both men were processed and released Sunday evening.

They didn’t have a picture of his mug shot or anything. But I thought of the guy in the driver’s license posing in the police station, which wasn’t hard because ID photos already look like mug shots without the height marker behind you. If you see a celeb who still looks good in a mug shot, then you know that person’s
really
good-looking and doesn’t need to rely on makeup and lighting and Photoshop.

Then I imagined him getting in a fight outside a bar. The other guy, Jefferson Smithfield, was drunk and insulting my father and telling him he sucked. He was like, “And I don’t believe Jonny Valentine is your son, like you always say.” Finally my father was like, “I
am
Jonny’s dad, and if you say one more thing to me, I’m gonna kick your ass,” and the other guy smiled like in the movies and said, “You’re a loser and a liar.” My father didn’t say anything. He just threw an uppercut and knocked him out cold through one of the bar windows, which is why he got sued for damages to the exterior of the bar sustained during the altercation. He waited there for the cops because he hadn’t done anything wrong. That wasn’t how it could’ve actually been, since I wasn’t famous four years ago, but maybe he’d gotten in fights like that outside bars in Australia and they didn’t have muscular enough media there to report it.

The newspaper didn’t have any more stories about him, and I couldn’t find anything else by Googling his name with Pittsburgh or Australia or New York. I told the Latchkeys I’d see them later and asked if they wanted anything from my food spread, but Zack said, “Thanks, we’re solid.”

Walter was waiting outside like he was picking me up from school. I don’t think he’s ever made me wait once. Back in the star/talent room, I didn’t listen to the Latchkeys yet. Jane made sure I rested before I went on, and she watched what I ate before, too, to try to prevent me from vomiting. She made me stick to cold soup and promised I could eat whatever I wanted after.

I didn’t vomit, but that could have been luck. The performance went fine, an A-minus, and Roberto didn’t make any mistakes. A couple times I thought about Albert, like when I saw some fathers with their daughters in the crowd, but mostly I didn’t. That’s the good thing about doing a show, you really block out everything else in your life when you’re onstage, because you’re not only selling the emotion of the songs to the audience, you’re selling them to yourself, and you can’t imagine feeling anything other than the way the songs are supposed to make you feel. If you’re going through the motions, the audience can tell. I’ve done it before, and those are my C-minus shows.

I was nervous when I first got in the heart-shaped swing, but then I was like, Well, if I die, everyone else will feel like shit for telling me it was safe, and the crowd will feel like shit for wanting me to do it just so I could be closer to them. So by going on it was sort of a fuck-you to them, and at one point when I was over the crowd and the keyboards were blaring on “Roses for Rosie,” I hummed and whispered, “Fuck you all, if the EVP of creative didn’t prioritize me and get me coverage in all your glossies, none of you would give a shit about me,” quiet enough so the mike couldn’t pick it up. When you’re acting angry it’s hard to also be scared.

W
e had two shows in a row in Denver, and the heart-shaped swing worked good, Rog acted like he hadn’t been replaced in Salt Lake City, and the Latchkeys’ base broadened our audience like the label hoped. I really should have been focused on the shows, but all I could think about was how on the second day I was going to meet Lisa Pinto. She was doing advance publicity across the country for her album, and the label thought it was a perfect chance to prove our relationship was serious if we were going on dates outside of L.A. Normal people went on vacation together, but celebs met up when one of them was performing or on set in a different city.

It was going to be a panel of fake candids of us getting ice cream together and then ducking inside a car with tinted windows. The whole thing would take less than an hour, and it was all staged, but I kept picturing Lisa Pinto on her
School’s Out!
album, and how maybe when we met she’d turn out to be cool and would want to date for real in L.A. Or even just watch TV or play Zenon together or something.

In the morning, Jane and Walter came with me in the car service to the ice cream place. We were about ten minutes late, because of Jane. “Ice cream in Denver with snow on the ground,” she said on the ride over. “It’s official: Stacy’s as brilliant as she looks.” Stacy actually
did
look pretty smart with her glasses, but when Jane’s in a mood, it’s better not to argue.

At least no one was going into the ice cream place and the parking lot was mostly empty, so we could shoot without much crowd interference. Crowd interference is the worst. A Range Rover with tinted windows was in a corner of the minimall parking lot. We parked near it and stepped out onto the crunchy ice. Walter stood nearby and a woman with short black hair got out and came over to us. “Hi. Denise, Lisa’s manager,” she said.

“I’m Jane, Jonny’s manager, and mother,” Jane said.

“We weren’t sure when you’d show up, so Lisa’s putting on some more makeup.”

“Sorry we’re late.”

“It happens,” Denise said. “Good to meet you, Jonny. I’ll introduce you to the photographer. He only has an hour before he has to fly back to L.A.”

She waved to a guy smoking a cigarette at the other end of the parking lot. He stubbed it out in the snow and came over. I’d guess he was thirty-three and he wore a plaid Western shirt under his jacket and glasses with thick black frames.

“Hey, Jonny.” He didn’t shake my hand or anything. “I’ve already gone over this with Lisa, but what we want is a set of photos where it looks like you don’t know I’m taking them, then a set where you’re on to me, so to speak, and you’re trying to get away.”

I nodded as he explained the different setups and angles he’d use. He was professional about it and knew what he was doing, but what a weird job for a guy in his thirties. There was
no
way when he was a kid he was like, When I grow up, I want part of my job to be flying into Denver for a few hours in January, directing a couple tween celebs in a staged photo shoot to pretend they’re dating and giving me a paparazzi freeze-out, and flying back. Though I guess most people don’t end up doing what they really want. I’m lucky.

“Jonny, why don’t you stay warm in the car and meet Lisa before we do this?” Denise suggested.

“I can go with him,” Jane said.

Denise gave her a look. “I think it’s best if they had a chance to get to know each other a little on their own first,” she said. “It might make the shoot look more authentic.”

Jane said, “I’ll be in our car.” The only person she’s used to taking orders from is Ronald. And now maybe Stacy.

Denise led me to the Range Rover. My whole body was shaking, so I said, “Brrr,” and wrapped my arms around myself like it was cold, which it was, but not that cold.

Denise opened the back door for me and I climbed in. Putting on lipstick with a small mirror was one of the cutest girls I ever saw in my life. I knew a lot of girls thought
I
was the cutest boy
they
ever saw, but I didn’t really think about it except for when I saw a girl like that in person, and then it made sense why they acted so crazy around me, besides me being a celeb. Most celebs are what Jane calls celeb-genic. They look good on video and in photos, but in person, nothing about them stands out, and if they weren’t famous and all made up, you’d pass them on the street without giving them a second glance.

Lisa looked good in her photos, but even better in person. Her skin color was like she had a naturally dark spray-tan, with straight, soft black hair, and when she smiled at me with her perfect rows of tiny teeth, her brown eyes crinkled underneath and made two dimples on the sides of her button nose. She smelled like flowers, too, but you wouldn’t expect a girl who looked like that to smell bad. Even her clothing was cute, a blue coat that seemed like something a British actress would wear. I felt so dorky and clumsy in my puffy winter jacket and winter boots, like a beefy middle-aged white guy with no rhythm on the dance floor.

“So nice to meet you
at last,
Jonny.” She snapped her mirror shut and shook my hand, and her voice sounded like she was ten years older than me, too. Her hand felt like luxury-hotel sheets. “ ‘Guys vs. Girls’ was a huge influence on me.” She probably meant the song, not the album. Everyone always means just the song.

“Thanks,” I said. “I haven’t had a chance to give your album a listen yet.” That was stupid. I should’ve said I was looking forward to hearing it.

“Please
don’t,
ever!” she said. “I’d be mortified.”

“Okay.” I didn’t even know what
mortified
meant, but that was also a dumb answer. This was worse than my first live radio interview, when I mumbled through the whole thing and Jane had to keep answering for me.

I hadn’t stopped shivering from nervousness, so Lisa asked, “Are you all right?”

“I’m just cold,” I said. The temperature readout on the dashboard said seventy-five degrees.

“I can ask Denise to turn up the heat some more. I’m
such
a wimp about winter.”

“No,” I said quickly, because I didn’t want Denise interrupting us. “I’ll be fine in a second.”

She smiled, and when neither of us said anything, she asked, “So, I imagine the label is running you ragged on this tour?”

“It’s not too bad,” I said. She said things like
mortified
and
running you ragged,
and I said things like
okay
and
It’s not too bad
.

“I’ve only had to do a few press junkets for shows. I feel completely out of my element with touring.”

I couldn’t imagine how this girl could ever be out of her element. I could do media-training classes for a solid year, like I did for a few weeks when I moved to L.A., and I still wouldn’t barely be able to talk like her. “I wasn’t good at first,” I said. “It takes some practice.”

“Listen to Mr. Humility over here.” She hit my shoulder, and it probably would’ve given me a boner except it actually stung a little, even through my puffy coat. “You absolutely
own
the stage, Jonny Valentine.”

I had no idea what to say next. I wish I always had something funny or smart to say like Zack did. I don’t know how people like him come up with a line whenever they want. Maybe that’s why he’s a songwriter and I just sing other people’s words.

Denise bailed me out by opening the door for a second to say they’d cleared the ice cream place and we were going in in two minutes.

“Are your parents here?” I asked.

“Why would my parents be here?”

“They don’t work with you?”

She laughed. It sounded sort of like when an actress laughs in a movie. “My parents can hardly speak English,” she said. “I wouldn’t exactly trust them to negotiate royalties.”