Chapter 8

Becki

I told the bodyguard I was out of toilet paper and had to use the bathroom in the hall. He just nodded and didn’t look up over his newspaper. My contract stipulates there are at least 10 rolls provided per day at each hotel. I still have at least 8 remaining, but Vic will never check. I’ve probably used that line half a dozen times on this tour. What kind of service am I paying for if I can get out of his sight this easily?

Down the hall and around the corner there is not another person. I complained about the noise after my first tour, so the company started booking me entire floors. The privacy was nice at first, but it got lonely after a couple weeks. I guess no one heard the message I left saying they didn’t have to put the crew on the floor below me. Now they party all night. Sometimes I can still hear it. A few suits took rooms by the elevator, but technically my key card can open any door I see. Escaping wouldn’t be much good if I stay in the same place, I need to get out of here.

I don't have long, the girls will be coming to do my hair soon. That once was my favorite part, but now they spend their time gossiping about which dancers they slept with. I've been wearing headphones for the last week. I use the service elevator I saw when I was getting ice, and practically jump down to the landing for the next floor. I untie the sweatshirt from around my waist and put it on. I pull my hair back and put on the hood. With the black sunglasses, I look like a sexy Unabomber. Too bad I’m leaving, that’s a good name for a single.

When the show here in Atlanta sold out in three hours, my one night off this week was used for a show, which took six hours to sell out. I saw on the news that some people were buying tickets for both shows. This is the third time it’s happened in a month, and I’m done with it. I quit.

Becki Murphy will not be doing another album. Becki Murphy will not be doing another appearance. Becki Murphy will not be doing another tour, and Becki Murphy will sure as hell not be doing another 14 day work week again.

The stairs lead down to the lobby, but everyone goes on about their business without even looking up as I enter. I mill about, trying not to look rushed. My face is on the cover of every magazine in the room. “Teen Sensation,” “Pop Star,” and “O,” which they probably just ordered because I’m staying here, for people who hope to get autographs, even though it is part of the rider that fans are not allowed inside the hotel. I don’t mind doing a handful for employees, but when they start bringing in their friends to meet me, then friends of friends, and pretty soon I’ve got the entire audience following me back to the hotel. It’s scary.

When I’m convinced nobody’s watching, The gold-trimmed doors lead me into a breezy Atlanta night. It’s raining, and the orange lights show in the puddles along the sidewalk. Looking up and down the street, I realize the first problem with my plan: I grew up in Boston, and I’ve never once been to Atlanta except in a bus with no windows and someone else driving. Last time was another ‘make it to the show in time to run on, and race to the hotel after because we have to be on the road by 6am’ weeks, so I’m not really sure. I might not even have been to Atlanta before. This leads to problem number two: Other than “North to Boston,” I have no idea as to how to get home.

I feel panic rising in my chest. All I want right now is to see my momma. I wanted her to come on this tour with me so badly, but my brother has been sick. I must have cried and begged for those last two days I was home, but she wouldn’t leave, and my father was away too. He promised to come to my show in Austin, Texas, but I guess now he won’t have to.

I look around quickly. Someone is certain to see me if I don’t get out of sight of the hotel. It would suck to have my escape plan aborted before I even escaped. I take a step forward and pause. Where is the bad part of town? Am I in it? I can’t be, they wouldn’t put me in the bad part of town, I’m too important.

“You look like a little girl who could use a ride,” says a voice behind me. I turn around quickly and see him sitting on the hood of a black Porsche. He has slick-back blond hair and a much nicer suit than anything my manager wears. He has the most amazing smile I’ve ever seen. Instantly, I think I’m in love. His smile somehow manages to widen, and he pulls his mirrored sunglasses so I can see those green eyes. “So tell me, am I wrong?”

“Um...” My eyes are darting back and forth beneath my sunglasses, and I’m glad he can’t see it. What kind of weirdo would want to pick me up?

The man laughs jovially, making me warm up to him a little more. “Of course I know who you are,” he says with a smile, taking a step closer. I almost run, but he holds up a hand. He takes the glasses off and sticks them in the lapel pocket of his jacket. “My name is Anton Lazarus,” he says, bowing. “And you are the teen sensation, Becki Murphy. I always thought you looked shorter.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say, trying to walk past him.

“I hope you don’t think you look anonymous walking around outside your hotel in those big, black sunglasses and that shapeless gray hood. Nobody would ever think that could be you.” He grins wickedly. “You really need to get as far from here as you can if you are going to escape.” I can’t get a feel on how old he is, maybe late thirties, but every gesture makes me think different, maybe younger than that. As he talks, he even takes on the appearance of a stiffened old man. He’s warm. “If you’re going to escape, you’ll need a car.” he says. “I happen to have a very nice one.” He opens the passengers side door. “They’ll hunt you more than the worst killer in the country. You’re worth a lot more money.”

I take a step towards the car. Someone that good looking couldn’t be crazy, could they? It would be stupid for him to do something to me, I’m famous. I get in the car and he closes the door. I’m putting on my seatbelt when he slides into the other seat.

“No need for that,” he says. “I’m the best driver in the world.”

I buckle it anyway. The engine starts with a roar and classical music blasts from the speakers. I hate classical music, it reminds me too much of school. “Do you have anything else we can listen to?” I ask. This guy has to be hip enough to have the new Madonna CD.

He smiles and puts on the sunglasses again. “Sorry,” he says, almost hissing. “This is all I have.”

He pulls away from the curb and we sit in silence for a few minutes. He’s smiling like a fool, waving his left index finger along with the horrible music. I wish he would just turn it off, but he looks like he’s enjoying it too much. After a while, the silence is too uncomfortable and I say, “So... Mr. Lazarus... What do you do?”

He looks over at me, raises his eyebrows and says, “Please, call me Anton.” He turns his head back to the road. “I do a lot of different things,” he says. “Mainly, I'm a debt collector.”

“What kind of collections?” I ask, not really sure if this is a good question.

“People, mainly.”

Panic hits me for a moment. Is he going to turn me over to the record company? “You’re... a bounty hunter?”

“Sort of... I’m more of a care-taker.”

I'm really confused, but decide I don’t want to push any farther. “Where are you going to? Are you from Atlanta?” I ask, wanting to change the subject quickly. I’m suddenly regretting this decision immensely. I want to tell him to take me back to the hotel, to forget the whole thing.

“You’re headed to Boston, I assume.” When I nod, he says. “That’s what I figured. Do you know how to get to Boston? Were you going to just start walking north?” I look away and he pats me on the knee. “It was a good plan... just not well-thought. As it turns out, we have a mutual destination."

If he’s going to take me to Boston, maybe this isn’t such a bad deal after all. “Do you have a job to do there?” I ask. I find a book of CD’s under the seat and flip through them. There is not a single listenable album here. Mozart, Bach, Tchaikovsky. At least he doesn’t have mine.

“I have a job to do everywhere,” he says in a bizarre manner that I don’t like one bit. “I have one that I need your help on...” He looks over and smiles. “In exchange for the ride.”

“What do you want me to do?” I ask nervously.

Anton shakes his head. “Let’s not worry about that now. I’ll get into the details later, we have plenty of time.”

I stare out the window for a long time. I should have grabbed my iPod. I could have at least watched a movie. This classical music is painful. We’re outside the city now, and the thick green tangle of vegetation rolls by. When I talked to my mom last night, she said it was snowing. The storms are always really bad coming off the ocean. I miss playing in the snow with my brother. I wipe away the tear before it reaches my cheek.

“So what made you leave?” he asks, entering an exit ramp. We curl around to another highway. “Were you abused... a manager or something?”

“More like my fans,” I say low, not sure if he will hear.

“I’m not sure I understand,” he says. Anton's grin is making me nervous.

“Try performing every night to thousands of people screaming so loud they can’t hear your music. Try not being able to go out in the open air without people attacking you for an autograph.” I don’t want to spit out the last part, but it seems too important. “Try going on the Internet to find a dozen ‘Countdown to Legality’ sites about you. Each one having altered pictures of you naked on the front page.”

He looks over at me and his smile dims. “Do you think it’s all going to go away? Do you think they’re just going to forget about you? Is your album going to disappear from the shelves? Your videos will stop playing? You’re in the public eye. Just when you think it’s gone, they run a ‘Where Are They Now’ about you.” He pats my knee again and smiles. “I’ve seen it a thousand times.”

I'm sobbing freely now. “I just want it to stop! I want the rumors to stop! They say I’ve slept with every pop star out there! They say I’ve had breast implants! Why do they say these things?”

He chuckles, and I just want to slap him for it. “Trust me, I’m no stranger to rumors. If you knew half those spread about me...”

“I don’t think you understand at all!” I snap, punching the car door and leaning my face against the window. Tears run down the glass, pooling on the door panel.

He looks at me gravely. “I don’t think you understand,” he snarls, making me cry harder. He takes the car off another exit. Neither of us says anything as we pull into the parking lot of some diner. I haven’t been to one of these places in years. “Don’t worry,” he says sweetly. “No one will recognize you here. No one even knows you’re gone yet.” He pulls the car into the parking space and gets out.

I follow him, putting my hood down, but not taking my sunglasses off. We get a table in the back corner and I sit hunched down with my back to the restaurant. Anton hangs his expensive suit-jacket on one of the rusty hooks and sits across from me. A fat waitress brings menus. Anton demands she keep the coffee coming, but he’s smiling, so he might be flirting. She seems to think so. I don’t want anything, but she says she’ll bring me a water with lemon.

She is back momentarily with dirty cups and a handful of creamers. When she tries to give him the creamers, he touches her hand and says, “I won’t be needing those.” He picks up his menu and tells her, “I’m ready to order,” and then looking over at me, he asks, “How about you, dear?”

I don’t look at either of them, just say, “I don’t want anything.”

“Well then,” Anton says. “I’ll have a grilled cheese, a double order of french fries, and a large salad.” He winks, and the waitress lets out a giggle that hasn’t seen the light of day for decades. “I’m famished today.”

The waitress says nothing, just writes down his order and leaves. When she is gone, Anton says, “I hope you’re planning on eating sometime on this trip. We have a long way to go. Probably take us a few days.”

I don’t look up. “I just... don’t want anything,” I mumble.

He reaches out and touches my hand. When he does, it’s electric, like I’ve sung about in so many songs, but never understood. My blood is igniting over this mysterious–and definitely creepy–man that I’ve just met. I just want him to hold me in his arms and comfort me until the end of the world. I want to feel every inch of hm. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“I... I’m fine,” I say, afraid to look him in the eyes. “A few days? Why so long?”

“I suppose we could do it in one straight shot, right through, be there sometime tomorrow night. I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. I’ve been driving for days and days and days to get here. Darling, I just want to get some sleep.” He looks me over a moment. “This thing...,” he falters. “I have for you to do.” When my eyes finally meet his face, he smiles, his full lips turning up so perfectly and it’s almost impossible for me to keep from running a finger over them. “How far would you be willing to go... to break the law, if you could have anything in the world in return, and would never get caught?” I find his nervousness very cute.

I’m quiet for a moment, still nervous myself, which isn’t helped by the bizarre question. “I...” I look away and then at him again. “I can buy anything I want,” I say, forcing some nerve, so it comes out flatly, casually, matter-of-factly. “I don’t need to break the law to get it.”

I’m expecting one of his snarled responses. Instead, he looks at me for a few seconds, sips his black coffee (yuck!) and nods. When he has drank half the coffee, he finally speaks again. “There’s a place near by we can stay. A little motel where no one asks any questions. We’ll stay there tonight and get out of Georgia in the morning.”

“I have plenty of money,” I say. “We don’t have to slum it...”

He shakes his head, cutting me off. “Did you leave any reason for them to think you were kidnapped?”

I shake my head, staring at the table. The waitress comes back with his food and more coffee. When she asks me again if I want anything, I wave her away rudely. When she is gone, I say, “I left a note saying that I went back home to Boston.”

He smiles, baring his stark white teeth. “Where is an ignorant sixteen-year-old with a ton of cash going to stay?” When I stare blankly at him, he says, “In the most extravagant place she can find.” He pokes at his salad and leans into the corner of the booth. “The probably have already called every major hotel in a thousand miles. They don’t know you met up with someone with some smarts about the world. I’m your advantage.”

Outsides, three men with bushy beards and their stomachs protruding from beneath holey T-shirts pile out of a pick-up truck. One of them sees me and waves. His friends laugh. They probably jerked off to pictures of me in magazines because they don’t own computers.

“You would never be able to get home without me,” Anton boasts proudly, tearing into the salad like a wild predator.

“So, in return, you want me to break the law?” I ask before he can continue complimenting himself.

His eyes grow slim as he leans forward. “Do you believe in justified crimes? Do you think that if the act you take–the law you break–benefits more people than it hurts, that if your crime eases the sufferings of others, that it’s really wrong?”

“Like a man stealing bread for his family?” I ask. I’m starting to regret my decision to not eat. I could really go for a cola right now, and maybe even a chicken sandwich.

“I’m saying your man won’t be able to steal his bread if you don’t don’t steal this bread.” His salad is gone now and he dives into the french fries. “This is the justified crime to end all justified crimes.”

“Jesus!” I exclaim. “What do you want me to do?”

Anton smiles. “I don’t think you’re ready to find out yet.”

The waitress comes around again and pours Anton another cup of coffee. She looks at me and smiles. “So is this your daddy?” she asks me in a voice suggesting I’m half my age.

“No,” I snap.

“I’m a friend of the family,” Anton says slickly. He laughs jovially. “I hope I don’t look old enough to be her father!”

The waitress smiles again, looking like she’s about to fall over as she turns to him. “Oh no!” she cries. “You look barely old enough to be her brother!” Before either of us can find some meaning in this, she wanders off.

Anton is still smiling. “I love people,” he says. “I really do.” He finishes his coffee in almost one gulp, pokes about in the last scraps of his salad. “I believe our room is ready.”

He takes me to a little motel just up the parkway, a dingy white motor lodge with a bright lobby. I wait in the car while he checks in. He comes back about five minutes later and tells me that we are in the last cabin in the row. It’s a small brown room with two beds, a desk, a TV, and a coffee maker. Anton carries in a couple bags while I sit on my bed and watch TV.

“In entertainment news,” A slick-looking anchorman tells me, “Pop Sensation Becki Murphy was forced to cancel a sold-out performance tonight due to a debilitating stomach virus. Representatives for the singer say that there is no word on whether the show will be rescheduled.”

Anton walks past the television and smiles. “You’re a star.”

“I remember when I was little, I wanted to hear my name on TV,” I say, staring blankly at the screen, thoughtlessly watching a soap commercial. “Sometimes, my dad would videotape me singing and dancing, and I would pretend I was on MTV.”

The bathroom door closes, and I hear the shower turn on. I fall back on the bed and watch television for a while. They don’t even have a remote in this place, so I have to get up to change the channels. I don’t have much ambition to do so right now, so I end up watching some sit-com that my mother is always telling me about.

When Anton comes out of the bathroom, clad only in his pants, he turns the television off without looking at it. He shakes his head, his hair no longer held back by gel, spraying droplets of water all over. “There is no need to watch this garbage,” he says. He has a white towel in his hand that he ruffles his hair with. “Why watch television when there is so much real-life out there?”

He sits down on my bed and lays a hand on my thigh. I fall into his arms and cry for a long time. Then we lay in silence for a long time before I fall asleep.

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