| His temples ached, really ached. The doctors had been right about young girls screams giving off a certain pitch that could deafen people. How the hell did they find him, day after day, hour after hour? It was maddening. Now he had a headache and two interveiws scheduled to occur in just an hour, one for his management company, and one for N Sync. Popping two tylenol into his mouth, he stood up and walked to the window. Peering outside, he noticed with longing that it was a beautiful day, perfect for jet skiing, or swimming. When his face pressed against the window, he heard faint screams, and looked down. Smiling bravely, he noticed a rather large group of fans standing there, teary eyed, hysteical, laughing, smiling. His heart swelled with thoughts of how sweet many of them were. Finally tearing himself away, he went back to his laptop. There was an e-mail from his oldest friend, a guy who still lived in Mississippi, who still lead a normal life. Feeling guilt creep up the back of his neck for not keeping in touch better, he clicked on the message. It was requesting his presence at the funeral of this friend's grandmother. There was a date, time, and directions enclosed, and a sad, haunting plea for him to come. Tears filled his eyes, and he thought back to those hot southern nights when he was younger. He and his friend would go to the grandmother's house and play. She had a great yard, filled with trees for climbing, and a huge pond for fishing. The two friends would stay there until dinner, stopping off for lemonade on the way home, homemade lemonade, and perhaps a story or two. He snorted with the realization that those days were long gone. There was no one thoughtful enough in his life now to make him homemade lemonade, or to give him true peace and quiet for that matter. His sister's unsympathetic words rang in his ears. "What did you expect? Roses and parades? It's going to be like this forever." Staring blankly at the message, submerged in thoughts of "remember when", he rested his head on his elbow and thought. He imagined how nice it would be to go home, go to that pond with his friend, and fish for a bit. Maybe relax on that big ol porch, sit in the swing and listen to the sounds of peace and quiet. Wistfully, he snapped his head back into the present. It would never be like that. His friend's grandmother was gone, for one. For two, he didn't even know if he and his friend had anything in commen anymore. Fishing and climbing trees were not somthing he did anymore. Actually, what the hell did he do anymore? Did having high score at Chris' video game count? He didn't think so. Laughing bitterly, he clicked on the WRITE button and started to type. "I'm so sorry to hear about grammy. She was a kind woman, and I think of her often." He stared at the words and knew that while they sounded great, they were definately not worthy for his best buddy back home. He deleted it and tried again. "I'll try my hardest to get home for the funeral. I may be able to fly in the day of. I'd need to leave right after, though, as work calls." Shaking his head in defeat, he cursed and shut the computer off. That sounded like an egotistical, hard, unfeeling thing to say, and he was ashamed of himself. Getting up, he grabbed his leather coat, Italian of course, custom made by hand naturally. He sighed as he pulled on his new snakeskin boots, and reached for his specially made Armani suit, waiting to be cleaned. Suddenly, it dawned on him, like a gunshot at zero range. He sank down onto his bed and his green eyes grew wide with fear. He didn't know who he was. Armani, and Italian coats, hundreds of dollars in his wallet, pictures of him with Gwenyth Paltrow, Garth Brooks, President Clinton. For the love of God, he was famous, rich and famous. There would be no way he could ever remain friends with his old friends. They wouldn't understand him. He didn't understand him. When was the last time he went and played minature golf, or ate at McDonalds, or attempted to call anyone from back home excluding his family. And even they didn't relate to him anymore. The only ones who truly understood him were his 4 brothers, and that was only because they were him. The sadness overwhelmed him. He knew he had a good heart, donating much of his time and money to charity, so he won points there, right? So why did he feel so empty inside. That guy who just lost his grandmother had been his best friend for so long, and now, now he didn't even call him anymore. After all, if he wasn't in N Sync, he'd still be hanging around with him. A card at Christmas didn't cut it anymore, and he was afraid. Now he saw it. Jumping up, he clutched his heart. He needed to call his friend, right away, beg forgiveness for becoming a spoiled pop star, too good for his old life. He rushed to the phone and frantically tried to remember the number. Come on, come on, think! He screamed at himself for not being able to recall it. How could he not know it? He'd dialed it millions of times growing up. Giving up, he dialed information, and got connected. He waited as the line rang. Chewing on his lip, he didn't know what he would say, what could he say? Looking down at his rolex sitting on the nightstand, he frowned, promising to donate it to charity the next day and go buy a timex instead. "Hello?" the voice on the other end said. He cleared his throat, hoping words would make their way out. "Hey, it's Lance," he said, nervously. "I just got your e-mail about grammy. I'm so sorry. Of course I'll be at the funeral. Is there anything I can do to help?" He leaned back on his bed, feeling his pulse return to normal, and chatting easily with his oldest friend. Going back to Mississippi? That would be good. |
| WHO AM I by destiny |