“Hi!” I said, extending a friendly hand. “Nice to see you again.” Moore peered over his eyewear. “And you are …?” I’d yet to learn this cruel lesson: No matter how many hours you spend with a celebrity, no matter how many glowing things you say about them in print, they almost never remember you. To the famous, journalists are as nameless and faceless as the back of a cab driver’s head.
This seemed like a good time to make my exit. I waslooking around for Robin to say good night when the crowd started to surge and thicken. Suddenly, I found myself pressed in among a sea of bodies. The doorman must have lost control, because photographers had broken the barricades and were now inside the club, elbowing through the masses with their clunky cameras. Slowly, I started working my way toward the exit, trying not to think of headlines like NIGHTCLUB CRUSH KILLS CELEBS (AND OTHERS) . But just as I was about to make my getaway, I spotted the one celebrity I really didn’t want to see. It was Johnny Mars, grinning and nodding to the throng as his bodyguards cleared a path in my direction. Hanging on his arm was the one person I didn’t want to see more—Sammy. I had to get out of there, but the paparazzi were going wild setting off an explosion of blinding camera flashes. I was trapped by the crowd, being swept ever closer to the hot new couple.
Sammy spotted me before I could get away. I saw her whisper something in Johnny’s ear and slip out of his protective circle toward me. “I’m so sorry, Max,” she said, grabbing my arm to keep me from running away. “I know I should have told you earlier. I tried to tell you so many times.” She squeezed my wrist and looked for any sign of understanding. “It wasn’t like I planned it,” she said. “It just happened. He kept sending me these flowers, and then …”
Had I been given the chance, I like to think I would have responded maturely. It’s possible Sammy and I might have cheerfully clinked martini glasses and merrily chatted about old times, like characters in a Noël Coward comedy. Then again, I might have reacted more likeBrando in
Streetcar
, tearing at my T-shirt and bellowing at Samantha with brutish contempt. I’ll never know. Before I could utter a word, a bunch of photographers popped up out of nowhere and started snapping Samantha’s picture. “Johnny’s looking for you,” they badgered her between snaps. “Who’s this guy? Why are you talking to him?” When it became clear the photographers weren’t leaving, Samantha gave my arm another squeeze, mouthed the words “I’m sorry,” and turned to rejoin her movie star boyfriend. For a minute, one of the paparazzi continued shooting pictures of me. Another pap grabbed him by the arm. “Forget it—he’s nobody,” he said over his shoulder as he ran after Samantha.
3
It’d be all too easy to draw a connection between Samantha’s love affair with a movie star and my decision to pursue a career as an entertainment journalist. So let’s get it over with.
As a junior writer at
KNOW
, I hadn’t yet been given a section assignment. I might have ended up pursuing a spot in the magazine’s Politics or Crime pages—those were the macho places to hang one’s byline. I could see myself as a dashing, trench-coated journo ducking past police tape to report on a grisly murder scene, or maybe as a sophisticated foreign correspondent attending black-tie diplomatic soirees at the Palais de l’Élysée. But after Sammy left me, writing about celebrities took on a certain sadomasochistic appeal. Fame had snatched Sammy away from me, but I would keep her in my life by making fame my beat. I would chase after her as a member of the Hollywood media.
To be honest, though, I might well have ended up writing about movie stars even if Samantha hadn’t fallenfor one of them. From the moment I emerged from the womb, I’ve been an obsessive-compulsive pop culture junkie. I spent so many hours in
This seemed like a good time to make my exit. I waslooking around for Robin to say good night when the crowd started to surge and thicken. Suddenly, I found myself pressed in among a sea of bodies. The doorman must have lost control, because photographers had broken the barricades and were now inside the club, elbowing through the masses with their clunky cameras. Slowly, I started working my way toward the exit, trying not to think of headlines like NIGHTCLUB CRUSH KILLS CELEBS (AND OTHERS) . But just as I was about to make my getaway, I spotted the one celebrity I really didn’t want to see. It was Johnny Mars, grinning and nodding to the throng as his bodyguards cleared a path in my direction. Hanging on his arm was the one person I didn’t want to see more—Sammy. I had to get out of there, but the paparazzi were going wild setting off an explosion of blinding camera flashes. I was trapped by the crowd, being swept ever closer to the hot new couple.
Sammy spotted me before I could get away. I saw her whisper something in Johnny’s ear and slip out of his protective circle toward me. “I’m so sorry, Max,” she said, grabbing my arm to keep me from running away. “I know I should have told you earlier. I tried to tell you so many times.” She squeezed my wrist and looked for any sign of understanding. “It wasn’t like I planned it,” she said. “It just happened. He kept sending me these flowers, and then …”
Had I been given the chance, I like to think I would have responded maturely. It’s possible Sammy and I might have cheerfully clinked martini glasses and merrily chatted about old times, like characters in a Noël Coward comedy. Then again, I might have reacted more likeBrando in
Streetcar
, tearing at my T-shirt and bellowing at Samantha with brutish contempt. I’ll never know. Before I could utter a word, a bunch of photographers popped up out of nowhere and started snapping Samantha’s picture. “Johnny’s looking for you,” they badgered her between snaps. “Who’s this guy? Why are you talking to him?” When it became clear the photographers weren’t leaving, Samantha gave my arm another squeeze, mouthed the words “I’m sorry,” and turned to rejoin her movie star boyfriend. For a minute, one of the paparazzi continued shooting pictures of me. Another pap grabbed him by the arm. “Forget it—he’s nobody,” he said over his shoulder as he ran after Samantha.
3
It’d be all too easy to draw a connection between Samantha’s love affair with a movie star and my decision to pursue a career as an entertainment journalist. So let’s get it over with.
As a junior writer at
KNOW
, I hadn’t yet been given a section assignment. I might have ended up pursuing a spot in the magazine’s Politics or Crime pages—those were the macho places to hang one’s byline. I could see myself as a dashing, trench-coated journo ducking past police tape to report on a grisly murder scene, or maybe as a sophisticated foreign correspondent attending black-tie diplomatic soirees at the Palais de l’Élysée. But after Sammy left me, writing about celebrities took on a certain sadomasochistic appeal. Fame had snatched Sammy away from me, but I would keep her in my life by making fame my beat. I would chase after her as a member of the Hollywood media.
To be honest, though, I might well have ended up writing about movie stars even if Samantha hadn’t fallenfor one of them. From the moment I emerged from the womb, I’ve been an obsessive-compulsive pop culture junkie. I spent so many hours in
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