Kawano Story

Celebs

The moon is the largest source of light in this cloudless world. A black BMW silently glides along this dreamlike stretch of road, approaching its destination. As the car pulls into the gravel parking lot, a trailer rushes up alongside, breaking the silence with its monstrous engine. Both drivers get out of their cars and inhale the crisp, sweet air as they walk towards the Best Western sign that straddles the building. The driver of the trailer motions towards the BMW;

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Yeah.”

Marshall sighs wearily and steps over to the passenger door, opens it, and unbuckles the motionless figure of seven year-old Hailey. She awakens with a little cry and curls up in her dads’ arms, readily falling back asleep. The bodyguard crunches over to him and shuts the door, pulling out his cell phone as they step inside.

“Your wife called. She says it’s urgent.”

“Fine… I’ll call her back after we check in.”

“Yes sir.”

Cameras begin flashing like rave lights from the shadows of the lobby.

“Mr. Mathers! Would you care to comment on allegations that you’ve relapsed yet again?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a comment; I’m clean, asshole.”

The paparazzo shoves a mic in his face; “Our sources say you were snorting less than a day after you got out of rehab.”

The muscled, tattooed, celebrity hands his daughter to his nearby bodyguard, grabs the proffered microphone with one hand, pushing the glasses-clad reporter up against the wall with the other.

“You don’t get it. Maybe you never will. When I go on record about something, I’m telling the motherfucking truth.”

He leans his head next to his victim’s.

“You can get all the sources and comments you want, or we can settle this here and now as everyone watches while I piss in a cup.”

“Anyone going through a divorce like yours probably wouldn’t be sober that often.” The spectacled man offers nervously.

Slim lets him go out of disgust and retrieves his daughter, retreating to his room with bodyguard in tow. He unlocks the door and gently lays Hailey down on the bed, stroking her hair with a troubled expression on his face. He motions for the bodyguard to leave them and breaks out his cell phone to call his wife. A click is heard on the other end as she picks up. He sits down on the edge of the bed, draws in a shaky breath and whispers.

“Kim.”
“Marshall.”
“It’s been one hell of a year.”
“Tell me about it. So what you been up to? Gone to any parties recently?”
“I’m done with parties;” he growls, “you know that.”
“Are you? That’s not what I’ve been reading in People.” A slight smirk is heard “Enjoy the coke; I haven’t changing my mind.”
“Why? I haven’t touched that shit in weeks.”
“Because you can’t trust me to not cheat, and I can’t trust you to stay clean.”
His eyebrows furrow “Why did you ask me to call you?”
“To make sure you know this one’s final, whether or not you have been clean. It was a mistake to give it a second chance. We’re both too old to change.”
A tear appears. “Kim… It’s been seventeen years since we met. We had a kid together; we raised her together at the same time as we were chasing the dream. You’re going to tell me that that means nothing?”
“Not with you as her father. You need to find someone else to help you deal with your insecurities, okay, because I won’t be around to do it for you. Goodbye.”

Another click as she hangs up. His head drops to his chest, hands cradling the phone between his outstretched legs. A moment passes. His jaw clenches, lips pull into a grimace, eyebrows furrow deeper. His mouth opens in a silent, futile, scream. Tears flow freely down his face now that he realizes she is truly gone. He leans over and grabs the T.V. remote from the nightstand. A commercial he acted in comes on, borrowing his songs to advertise a new breakfast cereal; rapper o’s. How do kids eat this shit? He changes the channel; his newest, wildly popular, music video We made you is on. Hailey stirs from her sleep and sees her dad watching himself prancing around

“You’re a… rockstar. Everybody wants you (everybody wants you)
Player… Who could really blame you (who could really blame you) ..”

She knows this one. She smiles up at him and sits up to sing along with the hook;
“We’re the ones who made you!”

Dad smiles down at her, ruffling her hair, and turns off the tube. She lays back down and resumes her slumber. He needs sleep. Rockstar dad shuffles downstairs in hopes of finding a drink. Thankfully, the hotel restaurant does sell booze, but the kid working the counter recognizes him and seizes up:

“Oh my GOD it’s you!”
“OH MY GOD, WHO?”
“You’re fucking Eminem, dude!”
“No way!”
Acne child gets the sarcasm; “Ha! You’re so funny, man! I’m sorry, but people like you never come in here.”
“Tell me about it. Can I get a Heineken?”
“Can I get an autograph?”
“Depends if I’ve got a beer in me or not, first, now come on; I don’t have all night.”
“Whoa. Friendly guy. Why be so hostile with someone who just met you and, seriously, worships you?”

A bitter laugh. “Because there’s plenty other freaks like you who probably think I'm god or something."

This particular fan went so far as to shave his head just like Eminem's. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“It is when all of you want autographs of a guy who can’t get it together by the time he’s thirty-seven. What’s your own life like, huh?”
“uhm..”
“Forget it. Here.”
He pulls out a pen and notepad, scribbling his signature on it, making it out to “what’s your name?”
“Ryan.”

He hands Ryan his autograph and turns from the counter, beer-less, muttering “I shouldn’t be drinking anyway.” Slouching back to his room, he undresses and gets into bed with various scenes from the day replaying in his mind. A cold sweat breaks out as he begins again the battle of withdrawal. The all-day road trip, the confrontation with the reporter, the phone call with his wife and the celebrity-worshipping bartender mix with physical pain and create yet another sleepless night for Hollywood’s former darling. His daughter breathes softly in the other bed, unaware of this struggle, but is better off for it. She’ll grow up to be a happy, smart, normal girl because her dad took care of her. He got clean for her, he’s running from the tabloids and his record producers because he doesn’t want her to become famous too. He knows that he can get through everything that happens to him as long as he knows that he’s taking good care of her. At least I hope I can. I should – I got myself this far, didn’t I? Rapped for a few million kids out there and inspired some to do pretty cool things. Met a president. Made a movie or two. Yeah, It’s been a good run. I lost my way for a bit, but I’ve got it back now. It’s not about the money anymore, just like it wasn’t when I started rapping. It’s about making sure kids can follow my good parts and not follow the bad. Music is good; drugs aren't. Girls are good; getting them pregnant before their time isn't. Stuff like that. They ought to know it by now, but whatever. Someone’s gotta teach them. They might as well get a teacher who’s gone through all of it firsthand; I can only hope they'll understand it eventually.
- Marshall Bruce Mathers III
December 19, 2006