The Fame

In my head, the crowd is already screaming out my name as I ignore my phone for the hundredth time. It's my daughter's first birthday, but I can't think about that now. The crowd needs me. I crave it. The beginning of the rush fills my veins and I breathe it in. Cameras flash and the beginning of the first song strikes through the air. My crew's lips are all moving at once, screaming the tasks my way, all depending on me, but I can't hear them; I can't hear my phone ring; I can't hear my wife shaking her head, but I can hear the roar of the crowd, "The Fame." It's all that matters. I run on to the stage, throwing my arms in the air, and scream at the top of my lungs. They chant my name, the name that belongs to "The Fame." It's not my real name, but that doesn't matter now. I sling my flaming red electric guitar over my shoulder, feeling the weight of the money in this one hunk of metal heavier than my house payment. The lyrics flow out of my mouth like second nature, like it's meant to be, and the fantasy of "The Fame" becomes reality. My body is numb. I feel nothing but the electricity under my feet that's beginning to wane. Leaving my crew behind mid-lyric, I throw my guitar to the ground and jump. I jump off the stage into the arms of the crowd. They don't know the real me, only this shell of a person, only "The Fame." I crave it, but it'll never be enough. They bring me back to the stage, and I perform like it could be the last. I'm free. It's everything I've always wanted, but it'll never be enough.

I stare at the door in front of me, at my own child, as one single smiley-faced balloon becomes head heavy, floating to the floor with a frown. The same door that the women I love stands behind. The women who fell in love once upon a time with "The Fame," too. She knows my real name. She knows both the real me and "The Fame." I wonder if I'll ever be enough. Reality seems to have a problem with me. The black, throbbing bruise swelling my eye shut shoots a blinding reminder that "The Fame" isn't that great anymore either.

I haven't been home in three weeks, and now I stand, uneasy with my broken scrap of red guitar hanging from my shoulder right outside. I hear the screams of the crowd again, taunting me, and the red piece of metal falls to the ground. I don't regret "The Fame." Tears will not be shed in its memory, but it isn't reality. My whole world now steps outside the house, her hair blowing in the wind and her lips tilt up a fraction, meeting the tears that I've caused. She accepts me into her arms, the real me. I only hope it'll be enough.