IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You

by Anna Todd

  “If you’re going to heal, you’ve got to get out of denial mode,” the therapist says with what feels like more than a hint of pity. “You can’t let these delusions chase you forever.”

  “It’s not the delusions chasing me that I am worried about. You haven’t listened to a word I said.” You stomp out of the office, ending the session.

  YOU RETURN HOME from the session and your wife receives you like a forlorn puppy.

  “Your friend the shrink obviously thinks something is seriously wrong with me,” you tell her preemptively. “I can understand why she thinks that, but at what point do I just stop trusting myself and accept her assessment? You believe me, don’t you?”

  Your wife dodges the question gracefully, as expected. “Whatever is going on, I am here to support you.” She gently touches your shoulder. You detect the worry in her reaction, the deep fear that maybe her husband is going nuts.

  “Maybe I did get the whole thing wrong.” You try your best to make your voice reassuring. “I am sure everything will be fine,” you lie, realizing it was a mistake to bring her into this.

  Whatever is really going on, you should’ve handled it on your own.

  THE NEXT MORNING you take the Metrolink to work again, using the ride as an opportunity to reflect on the whole situation and analyze it from different angles. Your mind shifts gears into practical mode. If this is really all in your head, will the company health plan cover your treatment? What is the insurance billing code for paranoia over being stalked by a movie star? What is the copay and deductible?

  You start entering research terms into Google. The query for “midlife crisis celebrity obsession” takes a few seconds to pull results with the train’s spotty cell coverage.

  You click through a bunch of links, and the train is approaching Union Station when you come across a medical journal article that describes delusions as “strongly held unrealistic beliefs that are difficult to change, even when there is evidence that contradicts the delusion.”

  Within a minute of your reaching Union Station, the time for reflection has ended and you realize he’s on your heels again. Your heart races as you push through the crowd and bolt toward a nearby platform. He pursues you with the frightening speed you’d expect of someone who used to be a CIA assassin, or maybe just a millionaire with a home gym, a chef, and a small army of personal trainers.

  You wait for the doors of the Santa Barbara–bound train to shut, but then you realize he is going to make it on board too. So you get off and dash across the tracks. He is gaining fast, steps away when you decide to leap off the edge of the last track, falling into the bed of a gravel truck passing on the street below. You read that Damon did some of his own stunts in the Bourne movies, so you are kind of curious whether he’ll jump down after you. But instead he hesitates overhead on the ledge as the truck pulls away.

  The vehicle rumbles south on First Street until it reaches Main, where you see the shiny glass structure of the new LAPD headquarters. You leap out of the back of the truck and walk into the police building, approaching the sergeant on duty in the lobby.

  “I want to file a complaint,” you say. “I am being harassed.”

  “I see,” the officer says, greeting you with a tired face. “Anyone in particular?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, do you know their name? Spit it out!”

  You tell him.

  “Look, pal, if this is just a ploy to get arrested so you can get access to a shrink in the county jail, that ain’t gonna work.”

  You’re indignant. “I am not trying to get access to a shrink.”

  “Then stop wasting my time.”

  “I’m serious,” you scream, banging your fist on the counter.

  “I’m serious too. Especially when it comes to citations for disorderly conduct.”

  You leave the station, keeping your head down as you stride down Spring Street, turning left into Grand Park. You become aware of another man following you across the lawn: not Damon, but a tall man with a manic grin and flowing black hair. He wears an ill-fitting suit with jogging sneakers and carries a leather briefcase.

  “Can I talk to you for a second?” he whispers, ushering you to a park bench behind a nearby tree.

  He gives you his name and explains that he is an investigative journalist. You prepare to introduce yourself, but he holds out his hand in a halting motion. “I know who you are. I saw you in the police headquarters. They didn’t believe your story, right?”

  Your face flushes with embarrassment. “You overheard me?”

  “What’s the matter? You think I don’t believe you? Mister, I might be the only one who does.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s that actor, Ben Affleck’s buddy, the guy with the neck, he’s been following you around, hasn’t he? He’s got you on the run, questioning your sanity, doesn’t he?”

  It feels good to be believed, but still this shocks you. “How do you know?”

  “You think you’re the only one?” he says in a hushed tone, eyeing the strangers in the park with suspicion.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Damon’s not the only one. It’s a secret epidemic of this town: stars obsessing over folks like you. They’ll follow you, they’ll spy on you. They can’t help themselves.”

  “Why me? Why us?”

  “You fit the profile, the type they like to target. You’re prosaic, obscure. They resent your anonymity. They crave your mediocrity. People like you go your whole life without being worshipped or envied. How do you think that makes Damon feel?”

  After a long pause, you admit, “I guess I never thought about it.”

  “Well, you better start thinking about it if you want to live.”

  “Why haven’t I heard about this before?”

  “This is an industry town. Hollywood has been trying to cover it up for years with help from their friends in city hall. The cops, the press, they’re all in on it. And the talent agencies have their own goon squads that roam around silencing anyone who threatens to speak out. I’m a journalist, so they can’t control me—”

  “Goon squads?”

  “They call them the star police. They dress like paparazzi so they won’t draw attention. But they’re really working on behalf of the stars, covering for them, making sure no one reports on the stalking problem.”

  That scares the heck out of you. “What should I do?” you ask.

  “Run while you still have a chance. Change your name, get a passport. Don’t tell your wife or family what you’re doing, you’ll just put them in jeopardy. Damon has a reputation as one of the smartest and the toughest. Once he’s got you in his sights, he won’t stop until he completes the mission.”

  Just as you’re about to ask him what, exactly, mission means, a black limo screeches to the curb on Spring Street. A trio of broad-shouldered paparazzi in mirror glasses gets out of the rear doors, jogging across the park lawn.

  “Star police! Move!” the journalist hollers as he pulls you up off the bench. Next thing you know you are both sprinting in the opposite direction from the ominous paps. You dart west through the rose garden, past the fountain, and up the stairs that climb to Bunker Hill. You are at the edge of the Metro station entrance on Hill Street when the journalist trips and spills to the sidewalk.

  “I can’t keep going,” he pants. The star police are on the other side of the street, waiting for cars to pass so they can cross. The journalist hands you his briefcase. “Take this. It’s got evidence—my life’s work. Make sure it wasn’t in vain.”

  A black van pulls up and one of the goons from it throws the journalist in the back. The walk light goes on and the star police rush toward you.

  “Remember what I told you!” the journalist shouts before they cart him away.

  You grip the briefcase tightly in both hands and hurtle down the Metro station stairs, jumping the turnstile toward the subway platform. You dive into a departing Red Line car, and the doors
slam shut before the star police can catch you.

  The other passengers stare as you lean against a window, bent over, propping your hands against your knees. Your lungs are burning and your head is spinning. You rack your brain for answers. Life has never tested you like this before.

  Then you remember one of the articles that you googled on Metrolink: Life is painful, complex, and constantly evolving. Many people need stories as a coping mechanism. That’s the appeal of celebrity culture in the first place. We imagine these entertainers as larger-than-life heroes because it soothes something in our psyches. But there’s also another side to this: you can use fantasies to improve your present reality. Escape into the world of dreams, then return to your own world bringing back new insight and resolve.

  Ever since you were a kid you loved movies. You were inspired by the intelligent, compassionate actors who brought the characters to life. Hadn’t you always tried to be strong, learning from heroes who sharpened their wits and channeled their inner strength when faced with impossible odds? Not just Jason Bourne outflanking a global conspiracy, but Will Hunting coming of age in Southie, and Mark Watney struggling to survive on Mars.

  Damon’s films always gave you hope that you could overcome your own fears and limitations. No other screen hero provided the same kind of solace. What would he do if Matt Damon were stalking him?

  When you hear the announcement “Next stop Hollywood and Highland,” you know exactly what you have to do.

  You exit the subway station in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, filing through the crowds of tourists posing for photos with impersonators dressed as Buzz Lightyear, Johnny Depp, and Marilyn Monroe.

  You find a copy center with a FedEx counter. After you finish your business there, you roam Hollywood Boulevard until you see a van offering guided tours of the homes of the stars. Getting on one, you hand the driver a fistful of $20 bills. “You know where everyone lives, right?”

  “That’s right. I got the address of anyone who has headlined a movie in the past twenty years.”

  “Let me buy the whole afternoon. Just me.”

  “How many homes do you wanna see?”

  “Just one.”

  THE MANSION in the Pacific Palisades isn’t as grand as they made it out to be in the Los Angeles Times real estate section. But then again, he always had a reputation for being down-to-earth. Your vantage in the driveway doesn’t provide views of the thirty-five-foot mahogany ceiling or the pool or the five-car garage or the “serious” gym all described in the paper. You ring the bell underneath the security camera, and a stylishly dressed housekeeper answers the door.

  “May I help you?”

  “I need to talk to him,” you say.

  “He’s on location.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Who are you?”

  You look sternly at the housekeeper. “He knows who I am. Tell him I have evidence.”

  You wait in the atrium for about a half an hour before Matt Damon greets you with a firm handshake and that boyish grin. You’d be impossibly starstruck and charmed under any other circumstances, but right now you’re on pins and needles.

  “Have we met?”

  You level your stare at him. “You don’t need to act. We’re not on set.”

  Damon scowls and clenches his fist. You feel your body tremble, remembering all the different ways that Bourne killed his foes. You bend down on one knee and hold up the journalist’s briefcase full of evidence as it if were a magic shield.

  “I have the files. I made copies that can go out to all the right people if anything happens to me. I know what you and the other stars are doing.”

  He looks at the briefcase, then back at you. “So if you already know everything, why did you come?”

  “Because I had to ask, why did you pick me, Matt?”

  “Why did I pick you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You really don’t remember, do you? I didn’t pick you. We didn’t pick you. You picked us, even after you were warned. You wanted to be a part of all this: the Hollywood dream machine. Now I’ve made you part of this.”

  You shake your head. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”

  “It’s never how you thought it was going to be!”

  “So maybe I wanted to be part of it back then. Maybe I was a kid who didn’t know any better. You must remember what that felt like.”

  He nods. “So what now?”

  “No more stalking. Promise me you won’t chase me or anyone else. And tell your other famous friends to follow suit. Leave us average Joes alone. Or else I’ll go public.”

  “What makes you think anyone will believe your story?”

  “It’s not about what anyone will believe,” you say forcefully to your favorite actor. “It’s about what you believe. Matt Damon, you’ve got to be happy with the life you have. Stop obsessing over other people’s lives. Being unknown and ordinary won’t solve your problems any more than being a celebrity will solve mine. You and me, we’re both halfway through our lives. We’ve got to find meaning in what we have.”

  “You’re right,” he says after a long pause. A thin tear trickles down his cheek. This isn’t a performance. This is the real deal. “Does this mean I’ll never see you again?”

  I shrug. “Maybe my family can do volunteer work for one of your charities. Let’s play it by ear.”

  He gives you a tender hug with those powerful arms. “Thank you, brother. Thank you for having the courage to face me. I deal with a lot of yes-men in my line of work.” He smacks you on the shoulder. “Now beat it. I am late for an interview with Jimmy Kimmel.”

  THE TOUR GUIDE drives you downtown and you take the Metrolink train back to your normal life. The strange events fade like waking from a dream. On your way home, you remember that Damon was friends with one of your favorite authors, Howard Zinn. You remember something that Zinn wrote in A People’s History of the United States about how “the countless small actions of unknown people” create the great moments of human progress. You are one of those countless unknown people who have the power to shape your life and the world around you.

  There is no more trouble after that.

  Winter’s Kiss

  Michelle Jo Quinn

  Imagine . . .

  You should have been under the Caribbean sun, getting your tan on and drinking colorful, fruity drinks served to you by ogle-worthy men with wildly sexy accents. Instead, your muscles were feeling the strain from your sighing every half hour over the discovery that the slightly gloomy weather outside had turned bleak. The cold wouldn’t relent, no matter how many silent wishes you’d uttered since coming into work earlier in the day.

  After hours of staring at the monitor, comparing entries from individual files to the spreadsheet, your eyesight turned bleary. You widened your eyes, then blinked, giving much-needed relief from their dryness. Your stomach complained with an angry gurgle, which seemed to echo in the large bright space of the dental office you had called your workplace for the past several months. Pursing your lips, you blew a raspberry while you struggled to maintain an erect posture on your supposedly ergonomic chair. If you slouched any more, you’d increase the number of creases on your designer wrap dress, which had been a splurge you couldn’t afford in the first place, bought specifically for this special occasion—your birthday, which falls on Christmas Eve. Making the day even more special? The dinner invitation you’d received from your estranged sister that you didn’t feel you could say no to.

  You should have been at home, pretending to be Martha Stewart, icing a moist chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting exactly like how your mother did every year for your birthday. Instead, you had picked up the last Christmas log cake from the corner store across from your closet-size apartment.

  Why am I at work? you wondered for the umpteenth time, propping your elbows on your desk as you massaged your temples.

  Straight on, you caught yourself staring at an eight-by-ten
blown-up photo of Dr. Steve Schwann, the boss from hell. His charismatic smile showed off whitened, straight rows of teeth. Straight teeth that mocked you. He, of course, wouldn’t be caught working on his birthday and never on Christmas Eve. No, he left all the dirty paperwork for his minions, and you were the lucky one who drew the short straw. So you found yourself slaving over the computer, entering details for hundreds of insurance claims, while the charismatic dentist spent Christmas basking in the Bahamian sun.

  You stared at the pile of files, which you swore was not getting any smaller, and promised yourself that you would polish your CV and find a better-paying job with a nicer, less handsy boss in the new year. You thought of your struggles all those years serving up greasy burgers and fries to pimply kids so that you could pay your own way through college, earning a bachelor in fine arts, since, once upon a time, you had plans of curating for MoMA. That was the plan, at the very least. And your move to New York City should have paved the way toward that career goal.

  What happened? Life happened. Your big shiny dream turned into a bleak memory once you found out that getting into MoMA was harder than robbing Fort Knox.

  And you found yourself a job you didn’t love, working under a boss you didn’t like, to pay the bills and the rent on your box of an apartment. You entertained yourself with glossy gossip magazines the clinic received for its clientele.

  Your stomach grumbled again, and you realized that while you were poking away at the keyboard, you forgot to stop for lunch. You stretched a hand to peek through slits of the blinds and were shocked to find the whole street covered in white fluff.

  You liked snow. It signified happy times, happy Christmas times. But you didn’t like it this much.

  How long have I been sitting here? you worried, biting down on your bottom lip.

  You stood, stretching your hands up and shaking out your left leg, which had promptly fallen asleep. Walking to the front of the clinic, you turned on the radio.

  “Snowmageddon 2.0 is upon us!” each radio host of every radio station you flipped to announced a little too proudly, like they had made up the term. Two years ago, you had experienced the devastating power of so much snow dumped on the city in such a short period. It had brought everything to a standstill. Flights had been delayed and many people stayed within their residences for days until the subways were running again and the roads were cleared. You were lucky enough to not have a job then and stayed safe, nestled in your apartment.