Authors: Ben Greenman
Celebrity Chekhov (6 page)
I
T WAS TWELVE O'CLOCK AT NIGHT.
Kim Kardashian, with excited face and ruffled hair, flew into her family's house and hurriedly ran through all the rooms. Her parents had already gone to bed. Her sisters were awake, trying on lingerie. Her stepbrother was looking at himself in the mirror.
“Where have you come from?” her sister Khloe cried in amazement. “What is the matter with you?”
“Oh, don't ask! I never expected it; no, I never expected it! It's positively incredible!”
Kim laughed and sank into an armchair, so overcome by happiness that she could not stand on her legs.
“It's incredible! You can't imagine! Look!”
Her other sister, Kourtney, threw a quilt round her and went in to fetch their stepbrother Brody. He came into the room, holding a hand mirror. Within a moment Kim's parents were in the room as well.
“What's the matter?” her mother said. “You don't look like yourself!”
“It's because I am so happy. The whole world knows me! The whole world! Until now only you knew that there was a girl called Kim Kardashian, and now the whole world knows it! Mama! Thank heavens!”
Kim jumped up, ran up and down all the rooms, and then sat down again.
“What has happened? Tell us sensibly!”
“You live like wild beasts, you don't watch very much television and take no notice of what's online, and there's so much that is interesting there. If anything happens it's all known at once, nothing is hidden! How happy I am! Oh, Lord! You know it's only celebrated people whose names are published online, and now they have gone and published mine!”
“What do you mean? Where?”
Kim's stepfather, Bruce Jenner, turned pale. Her mother crossed herself. Brody looked at her and then looked back into the hand mirror.
“Yes! My name has been published! Now all the world knows of me! Bookmark that page and print it out in memory! We will read it sometimes! Look!”
Kim went to the computer, tapped a series of keys, and then pointed to a paragraph on the screen.
“Read it!” she said to Bruce Jenner.
He put on his glasses.
“Read it!”
Kim's mother crossed herself again. Bruce Jenner cleared his throat and began to read: “ âWe will all be hearing more of Kim Kardashian soon . . .' ”
“You see, you see! Go on!”
“ â. . . since an intimate video starring Kardashian and her ex-boyfriend has been confirmed . . .' ”
“That's me and Ray J . . . it's all described exactly! Go on! Listen!”
“ â. . . and will be released later this month. The tape, which Vivid reportedly acquired for one million dollars, includes more than thirty minutes of explicit sexual activity . . .' ”
“Go on! Read the rest!”
“ âIt was filmed a few years ago, when Kardashian and her boyfriend, an R&B singer named Ray J . . .' ”
“I told you. Ray J! But keep reading. There's more about me.”
“ âInitially, Kardashian tried to block the release of the tape, but at length came to an agreement with the distribution company.' ”
“That's right. I'm being distributed. You have read it now? Good! So you see. It's all over the Internet, which means it's all over the world! Give it here!”
Kim closed the window and turned away from the computer.
“I have to go around the neighborhood and show this to a bunch of other people . . . the Gastineaus . . . the Hiltons. . . . Must run! Good-bye!”
Kim put on her hat and, joyful and triumphant, ran into the street.
I
T IS NOT YET SEVEN O'CLOCK, BUT THE BARBERSHOP IS ALREADY
open. The barber himself, an unwashed, greasy youth of twenty-three, is busy clearing up; there is really nothing to be cleared away, but he is perspiring with his exertions. In one place he polishes with a rag, in another he scrapes with his finger or catches a bug and brushes it off the wall.
The barber's shop is small, narrow, and unclean. The walls are hung with faded paper decorated with cowboy hats and tin stars. Between the two dingy, perspiring windows there is a thin, creaking, rickety door, and above it a bell that trembles and gives a sickly ring of itself without provocation. Glance into the mirror that hangs on one of the walls, and it distorts your face in all directions in the most merciless way! The shaving and haircutting is done before this mirror. On the little table, as greasy and unwashed as the barber himself, there is everything: combs, scissors, razors, wax for the moustache, powder, watered-down cologne. The whole shop is not worth more than five hundred dollars.
There is a squeaking sound from the bell and an older man in a tanned sheepskin coat and high felt overboots walks into the shop. His head and neck are wrapped in a black scarf.
This is Billy Ray Cyrus, who patronizes the shop as a result of his friendship with the barber's father.
“Good morning, son!” he says to the barber, who is absorbed in tidying up.
They shake hands. Billy Ray Cyrus drags his scarf off his head and sits down.
“What a long way it is!” he says, sighing and clearing his throat. “It's no joke! From my house to here is almost two hours.”
“How are you?”
“Feeling poorly. I've had a fever.”
“A fever!”
“Yes, I have been in bed almost a week; I thought I might die. Then I had some complication, some vitamin deficiency, and a clump of my hair came out. Now my hair's coming out. The doctor says I must be shaved. He says the hair will grow again strong. So that's why I'm here. Better you than a stranger. You'll do it better and won't make me feel strange about it. Plus, it's free. Except for the two-hour drive.”
“Of course. With pleasure. Please sit down.”
With a scrape of his foot the barber indicates a chair. Billy Ray Cyrus sits down and looks at himself in the glass and is apparently pleased with his reflection: the looking glass displays a face awry, with thin lips, a sharp nose, and eyes set high, almost in the forehead. The barber puts round his client's shoulders a white sheet with yellow spots on it, and begins snipping with the scissors.
“I'll shave you clean to the skin!” he says.
“Do it. I want to look like a bomb. The doctor says it'll grow back thicker.”
“How's Jackie Chan? The two of you are working on a movie together, right?”
“Yes. He sprained his ankle earlier this month.”
“His ankle? Too bad, though he must be used to that kind of thing. Hold your ear.”
“I am holding it. . . . Don't cut me. Ouch! You are pulling my hair.”
“That doesn't matter. We can't help that in our work. And how is your daughter Miley?”
“Good, good. She was single for a bit, but then she got engaged. She's going to have a big wedding. You should come.”
The scissors cease snipping. The young barber drops his hands and asks in a fright:
“Who is betrothed?”
“Miley.”
“How's that? To whom?”
“To some guy named Steve. Steve Adams? He has a few stores near Sacramento. She swore off actors and celebrities, you know, because she doesn't really need money. We were worried she wouldn't find someone she could be herself around, but this guy seems great. We are all delighted. The wedding will be in two weeks. You should come; we will have a good time.”
“This is impossible,” says the barber, pale, astonished, and shrugging his shoulders. “It's . . . it's utterly impossible. Why, Miley . . . why I . . . why, I cherished sentiments for her, I had intentions. We spoke at length last summer about her decision to be done with actors. I thought she had a sense of me, of how I could make her happy. How could this be?”
“Why, we just went and betrothed her. He's a good fellow.”
Cold drops of perspiration come on the face of the barber. He puts the scissors down on the table and begins rubbing his nose with his fist.
“I had intentions,” he says. “It's impossible. I am in love with her and have just recently sent her a letter offering my heart. I have always respected you as though you were my father. I always cut your hair for nothing. When my father died you came in here and took some paintings off the walls and gave me nothing for them. Do you remember?”
“Remember! Of course I do. I love you like a son. But do you think you are a pair with Miley? It seems unlikely. You have no money and no standing. You are a barber.”
“And is Steve Adams rich?”
“Steve Adams is in sporting goods. He's a little older than you are. He owns his house. Look. It's no good talking about it. The thing's done. You must look out for another bride. The world is not so small. Come, cut away. Why are you stopping?”
The barber remains motionless for a while. When he moves, it is to take a handkerchief out of his pocket. He begins to cry into it.
“What is it?” Billy Ray Cyrus comforts him. “Stop it. Damn it, you're crying like an old woman! Finish my head and then cry. Don't put down the clippers!”
The barber takes up the clippers, stares vacantly at them for a minute, then drops them again on the table. His hands are shaking.
“I can't,” he says. “I can't do it just now. I haven't the strength! I am a miserable man! And she is miserable, I'm sure, with Steve Adams! Last summer we pledged our love to one another. We gave each other our promise. Now we have been separated by unkind people without any pity. Go away! I can't bear the sight of you.”
Billy Ray Cyrus comes to his feet. “So I'll come tomorrow. You'll finish up then.”
“Right.”
“Get calm, and I'll come by early in the morning.”
Billy Ray Cyrus has half his head shaven to the skin and looks like a convict. It is awkward to be left with a head like that, but there is no help for it. He wraps his head in the scarf and walks out of the barbershop. Left alone, the barber sits down and goes on quietly weeping.
Early the next morning the bell squeaks and Billy Ray Cyrus comes into the shop.
“What do you want?” the barber asks him coldly.
“Finish cutting my hair. There is half the head left to do.”
“Kindly give me the money in advance. I won't cut it for nothing.”
Without saying a word, Billy Ray Cyrus goes out, and to this day his hair is long on one side of the head and short on the other. He regards it as extravagance to pay for having his hair cut and is waiting for the hair to grow of itself on the shaven side.
He danced at the wedding in that condition.
D
URING THE SHOW'S EIGHTH SEASON, THE PRODUCER, WHO HAD
received a call from Dublin, set the news going that Bono would soon be arriving. When he would arriveâthere was no saying.
“He moves in mysterious ways,” said Paula Abdul, who was wearing a lilac minidress. “But when he does come the place will be even crazier than it is now. It's Bono. He really draws a crowd. So let's make a special effort to get them ready. I want him to be proud of them, and of us. “
“Don't worry about me,” said Simon Cowell, frowning.
“I won't,” Paula Abdul said. “I'll round up the others so we can get going.”
Simon Cowell was the main judge of
American Idol,
a competition where young singers attempted to earn a record contract and international fame. He was paid handsomely by the show. Simon Cowell was a man of confident deportment. His dark hair and cleft chin made him look like an important man. It was strange to see him, so dignified and imposing, turn shy in the presence of the established stars who visited the show as guest judges, and on one occasion refuse to come out of his dressing room because he could not face Elton John. Grandeur was more in keeping with his figure than humility.
On account of the rumors of Bono's visit, the nine singers remaining in the competition took a number of extra practices.
Practice was held at a small building near the Kodak Theatre, and this is how it was conducted. Before the practice Randy Jackson and Paula Abdul talked to the young singers encouragingly and regaled them with stories about the music business. When Simon Cowell arrived, he came quickly to the front of the room and issued a series of sharp claps. The young men who were still in the competition, who had been sitting on the floor listening to the day's songs, took out their earphones and stood slowly. The young women, who had been smoking just outside the doorway, came tramping in. They all took their places. Simon Cowell drew himself up, made a sign to enforce silence, and began issuing instructions.
“You cannot forget the lyrics. I hope you have studied.
“If you do not act like you belong here, you will not be here much longer.
“Song choice is vitally important in this competition.”
All this counsel had been given the week before and the week before that, repeated a thousand times and thoroughly digested, and it was gone through simply as a formality. The singers began to work through their songs. The judges watched the first performers, shook their heads, occasionally nodded. It was all as it was the day before; there was nothing new. The singers who were waiting their turn began to lose interest. There was some coughing and fidgeting. Earphones went back in ears. Simon Cowell called for a break, and went off to the side to speak to Randy Jackson. After a few minutes he stood back up and called the entire group to attention.
“There will be a slight change of plans. You will all be setting aside whatever song you have selected. Instead, you'll sing a U2 song. There are lyric sheets in the corner.” A woman appeared in the corner of the room and shook a sheaf of papers. “Go pick one and let's get started. You don't need to get the words exactly right. These are mostly songs that you know. Just give them your best try. Be spontaneous.”
The first singer, a woman, tried her hand at “All I Want Is You.” When she reached the chorus, an expression of benevolence and amiability overspread Simon Cowell's face, as though he were dreaming of a lovely meal.
“Next singer!”
It was a man, attempting “Where the Streets Have No Name,” and he was not as successful: Simon Cowell's face expressed alarm and even horror.
But then came “With or Without You” and then “One,” both sung so well that the other singers stopped fidgeting and gave them their full attention. The production assistants, who were always busy copying lyrics and jotting down notes, abandoned their work and fell to watching the performances. After a confused version of “Angel of Harlem” and an uneven “I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For,” Simon Cowell wiped the sweat off his brow and went up to Randy Jackson in excitement.
“It puzzles me,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Why is it that young singers are up one minute and down the next? You can't tell whether they are finally grasping a song or if that understanding is a put-on, like so much else about them. Were you choking, or what?” he asked, addressing one of the female singers, a tall brunette with hair so straight it looked ironed.
“Why?”
“Because of your voice. It rattles like a pan under a car. What is Bono going to think when you take his song and treat it like an advertising jingle? I would be surprised if you are here a week from now.”
“You look a little tired,” said Paula Abdul.
“Are you still treating this competition like a big party? Maybe you should spend less time trying to attract the attention of the boys. If that's what you want to do, you can do that on any street corner in the town you'll be returning to soon enough.”
“Don't get so worked up,” said Randy Jackson. “I'll talk to her.”
Randy Jackson took the girl off to one side. “Just try to concentrate. It's a big week coming up. You've heard the rumors about Bono. This is important for all of us.”
The brunette scratched her neck and looked sideways toward the window, as though the words did not apply to her.
The singers went on in this impromptu fashion for the rest of the afternoon, trying their hands at other songs: “Bullet the Blue Sky,” “Stuck in a Moment You Can't Get Out Of,” even “Numb.” For the most part they sang smoothly and with feeling, even the tall brunette.
“You know, Randy,” Simon Cowell said. “Maybe we should change things entirely, have them perform an album in full, one singing the first song, the next the second, and so on.”
“No, no. Let them sing from whatever album they want. If it seems too calculated, it may feel strange to all of us.”
The group took another break. There was again a great blowing of noses, coughing, turning over of pages, and fiddling with phones. The most difficult part of the practice was next: “group sing,” in which the contestants performed one song together, in rounds. Simon Cowell had put two choices before the group, “Beautiful Day” and “Stay (Faraway, So Close).” Whichever the group learned best would be sung before Bono. During “group sing” Simon Cowell's face reflected a high pitch of enthusiasm. Expressions of benevolence were continually alternating with expressions of alarm.
“Don't do the chorus that way!” he muttered. “Try to start at the same volume that the singer before you ended. Make sure you understand the lyrics, at least a little bit.”
His words were launched at the young men and women like missiles. His eyes were closed more than they were open. On one occasion, carried away by his feelings, he raised a hand as if he were going to strike the singer closest to him, though he did not bring it down. But the contestants were not moved to tears or to anger: they realized the full gravity of their task.
After “group sing” came a minute of silence. Simon Cowell, red, perspiring, and exhausted, leaned against the wall near the door, and then turned upon the contestants tired but triumphant eyes. He let the silence spread to fill the room. It was a form of approval. Then, to his immense annoyance, the door opened and Kara DioGuardi came into the practice room. She was the fourth judge, a new addition to the show, and as she had not yet learned to fit in with the other three, she often arrived late to practice. She had a contemptuous grin on her face.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Get back to group sing. I was outside listening, and I don't think Bono's going to like it.”
Randy Jackson looked around nervously and twiddled his fingers.
“Come on,” he muttered. “Don't start.”
After “group sing” the contestants reflected on the songs they had chosen, and what they meant, and whether or not they would keep that same selection for the night of the live performance. Then practice was over. The contestants went to eat and to nap, and they reassembled in the evening for another practice. And so it went that day and the next.
On the third day, the show's producer received a note that seemed to confirm Bono's arrival. The lights in the Kodak Theatre were turned off and on, the sound system checked, and the full band began to rehearse. Simon Cowell couldn't sleep well, though he couldn't say whether it was from delight or alarm. Kara DioGuardi went on grinning.
The day before the live show, Randy Jackson burst into Simon Cowell's dressing room. His hands shook and his eyes looked faded.
“I was just talking to the producers,” he said, stammering. “They are still negotiating with Bono. I asked them if he's going to sit in and judge the final rehearsals along with the broadcast, and they said he might just send a videotaped message. A videotaped message?”
Simon Cowell turned crimson. He would rather have spent two hours listening to Paula Abdul speak than have heard those words. He did not sleep all night. He was not so much mortified at the waste of his efforts as at the fact that Kara DioGuardi would give him no peace now with her mockery. Kara DioGuardi was delighted at his discomfiture.
The next morning, all through rehearsal, she was casting significant glances down the table at Simon Cowell. When they took a break she put her hand over her microphone and said:
“No wonder Bono has better things to do.”
After the rehearsal, Simon Cowell went home, crushed and ill with chagrin. He told himself several times that he could not continue on like this. “I must leave the show,” he said. “I must leave the show.” He made a list of possible replacements for himself and tore it up. Again he could not sleep, and he went down to the lobby. The elevator opened to show Kara DioGuardi. Her face was red.
“Hold on, Simon,” she said. “Wait a minute. Don't be mad. You are not the only one. I am in this too. When the producers were on the phone with Bono trying to decide if he'd come or send a taped message, he called me Carrie. They corrected him, and you know what he said? âYou know which one I mean,' he said. âThat bloody loose bit.' A big star, and that's how he treats me? Let me buy you a drink.”
And the enemies went to the bar arm in arm.