It was merely fifteen minutes into the interview when Zev Berstkins, famous New York Post columnist, acclaimed music critic, all around respected yet feared man of business, came to the realization that he had lost complete control.
“Couldn’t you at least answer one question with a straight face?”
“What for?”
“Look here!”
“Where?”
“That’s not funny!”
“Isn’t it?”
Zev opened his beard coated mouth to retort back, but then snapped it shut, making another realization that the boy was drawing him into the run-around conversation, manipulating the entire coarse of the interview, a skill Zev thought he himself had coined and even copyrighted for his own personal use. This didn’t sit well with him, not at all, and he shifted once more in the leather armchair, trying to keep a regal posture, but failing as he looked across the table at the pair of mockingly innocent blue eyes that waited patiently for Zev’s response. He didn’t know why the boy made him feel so uncomfortable. He didn’t know why he felt insulted by every word that came out of the boy’s mouth when that mouth was so very polite. There wasn’t an offensive bone in Justin Timberlake’s body. Maybe that’s what made Zev take the defense, he wasn’t sure.
He wondered why he was wasting his time with the boy. Justin Timberlake were to ghost words that had been haunting the music scene for the past two weeks, floating around random record executive brunches and concert after parties. Barely a handful of people in the business knew exactly who he was, nobody in the mainstream had ever heard of him. He was what one liked to call a rising star, but there was something different about Justin. Instead of taking the expected position of a timid, grateful, modest little flame in the sky, he had the attitude of a rock star, like his little flame lit up the entire night and created the day.
If Zev had ever had an interview with a newcomer such as the one he was having now, he would have left within the first five minutes. He tried to convince himself that the reason he stayed was the fact that he had never had an interview with a newcomer such as the one he was having now. In reality, he knew it was something more that compelled him to stay, it was something in Justin’s eyes that ordered him to remain still until the proper young man sitting before him allowed him to leave. Zev resented the feeling; he obeyed.
“Let’s try this again,” Zev said, shuffling through his notes he had long ago given up on. “What is it you’re looking forward to accomplishing with the music you’re making?”
“The music,” Justin answered simply, keeping the annoyingly innocent expression he had held ever since he walked into the room.
“You don’t want to accomplish anything more?”
“I’m a musician. What else would there be for me to accomplish?”
“You don’t have a message you want to send out to your fans?”
“No.”
“Is there anything you’d like to express to your fans through your music?”
Justin paused, then grinned. “To enjoy it.”
“Excuse me?”
“I want people to enjoy it for what it is.”
“I think every musician out there wants their fans to enjoy their stuff.”
“Do they?” He shrugged his shoulders as if the matter was of no importance to him. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe the entire interview was entirely pointless to him. Zev, who had always prided himself for being a master at reading people, couldn’t tell anything about the young man. “Yes, I suppose they would.”
“Justin, would you like to be a famous singer?”
“Sure.”
“You don’t sound very enthused about it.”
“It would be nice, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“I could guess again, if you’d like.”
“Aren’t you concerned with the way you’re answering my questions?” Zev tried to keep the threatening tone out of his voice, but he knew a piece of it had slivered in, against his will.
Justin smiled. “Should I be?”
“If you care about what I write about you in my column.”
“I don’t.”
Zev crossed his legs brusquely in an attempt to let out a part of his fast-growing frustration. He wasn’t disturbed or offended by Justin’s manner, he wasn’t. There was no reason he should be offended. Justin was sitting there, smiling, answering his questions honestly, as all people should have been. Everything was fine, he was in control, and besides, there were only a few more questions he had to force out and he could leave.
“What makes...you different...from other...artists?” The real question was, why was it difficult for him to speak?
“They’re not me.”
“Yes, obviously, but what makes your music different from others?”
“It’s my music.”
“Must you be so vague! Can’t you grant me one favor and answer one of these goddamn questions like a normal person!”
The outburst had not been planned and Zev sat back shamefully, his cheeks turning a shade crimson. It had, however, sparked something within Justin. For the first time, his polite façade broke slightly in his magnetic blue eyes, an ounce of originality entering his face. Zev saw it and felt himself sigh in relief while his stomach knotted in fear. The blue eyes looked as though they had just marked a point down on a game sheet; a point for Justin.
Justin sat back and laced his fingers together on his stomach, grinning, a strange satisfaction in his lazy posture. “I’ll make this easy for you,” he said, using a certain tone to make sure Zev knew just who was really in control. “No, of course my humble record probably wont change the world, but hopefully one person, just one, will listen to it and understand the pain I felt while making it. Do I expect any money to come of it? No! Why should I get rewarded for my humble record, for my work? And if I do manage to scrap together some kind of bank account, of course I’ll donate every last cent of it to charity, not to make myself look better, but to help all of those people I’ll never meet and never know. I’m just a struggling artist in a world filled to the maximum with struggles. Am I happy? Let me ask you something Mr. Berstkins. Do you really care?”
Zev sat still, holding on tightly to the pen in his sweaty right hand, staring in what was neither shock nor anger, but a strong disbelief.
Justin was standing. He looked like any teenager would: plain baggy jeans, a shirt, and tennis shoes. But he wasn’t, even the way he walked was in its own way uncanny and highly noticeable. It wasn’t as if he was too aware of the world, but that the world was too aware of him, like the walls surrounding him would bend in order to accommodate him.
“Good afternoon,” Justin said, turning to the door.
“You,” Zev heard himself whisper, “You can’t be real.”
Justin stopped and turned. “Don’t think about me Mr. Burstkins, don’t try to analyze me, and don’t try to understand me. You’ll never get it.”
Then Zev found himself alone, reveling in the great sense of relief, the room itself even exhaling away the pressure it had felt in the young man’s presence. He wondered why he strongly agreed that he would take Justin’s advice and block the boy out.
A week later, in his monthly column, Zev Berstkins wrote about the new album releases, focusing entirely on the brand new Janet Jackson album, with brief mentions of a new pop singer, Faye Masters, and a nice account of a short conversation he had with Justin Timberlake, whom he described to be full of potential and extremely polite.
~~
4 months earlier
Everyone noticed Keller Parks.
The hallway, which had moments ago been as empty and cryptic as a tomb, had sprung to life at the sound of the ringing bell. Now students and faculty alike mingled into the faded turquoise tiled area, lined with gray lockers and oak doors. If Chester Ray High School could be considered a living being, the hallway would have been its main artery. Too much happened in such a limited space. The looks given to that girl you’ve hated since second grade, the boy you secretly desired that had a strange habit of leaning, the group you always met with at your locker, the gossip being spread like butter on toast, everything and anything could happen in the sparse minutes spent in the dreary hallway.
Most of the time, nobody ever recognized the fact that, while they brushed their hair or continued on with the conversation of what had happened the weekend before, they were meticulously watching Keller walk by. Eyes were drawn to her involuntarily. Those who did look at her with a conscience effort were constantly puzzled as to why they did so and why it made them feel so invisible. Nobody knew anything about her except one thing.
“There’s that girl. You know, the one who’s in love with pictures.”
Meanwhile, as she walked on, Keller saw no one. Her eyes took in everything around her, slipped past faces like a passing breeze, but those on the receiving end of her gaze knew she was seeing an empty hallway. There was nothing but space surrounding her, no other people attended that school as far as Keller Parks was concerned. She gave no clue if she looked at people that way on purpose, or if she truly just didn’t register other life on the planet. Most of the time she said nothing, stayed unnoticed, talked to barely anyone.
And with this manner, she resulted in insulting almost every classmate around her.
The majority of the senior class, if they could remember her, didn’t like her.
“No, she hasn’t done anything to me specifically, or to anyone I know, or anything like that. It’s just, she thinks she’s so great or something. Like she’s better than everyone else. Well, no, she hasn’t said anything like that, but that’s just the thing. She doesn’t talk to anyone! And it’s not like she’s shy, she makes it seem like you aren’t worth the time to talk to, or you’re not really there or something. What makes her think she’s so special?”
Keller Parks had never claimed to be special. She never claimed anything, except the camera that never left her sight and the portfolio with dozens of photographs that she carried around with her. It was clear to all those who had taken enough interest to pay attention that Keller had a passion for photography. She had, hands down, been voted the lead yearbook photographer, she took photography 1 and 2, and then repeated photography 1 her junior year, and took extra extension classes at the junior college. On her english mid-term paper, she had written a short story which consisted of a girl who had visited New York for the first time and spent her day taking pictures of an old tram-way station. With the paper, she had attached, with a single paperclip, visuals, which were personally taken photographs of one of the only tramway stations in Ohio. They were black and white and brilliant.
She had never been to New York. Not yet, anyway.
As she reached her locker, she found two people waiting to greet her. She offered no greeting for them, but leaned on the gray metal instead, staring ahead at nothing in particular. “I think they’re going to kick me off of yearbook.”
“What else is new?” a girl with short brown hair said, her wide gray eyes smiling like they always did as she bent down to tie the rainbow shoelace of her black tennis shoes. Naomi Barrett could be summed up into one word: colorful. “This world’s always kicking somebody out of something.”
“One hundred and one ways to be a pessimistic philosopher, by Naomi Barrett ladies and gentlemen,” Benny Owens muttered, and then turned to the other girl. “Keller, when are you going to learn to compromise?”
“There’s no such thing in her vocabulary,” Naomi said.
“They want me to change the location of the cheerleader group shot,” Keller said, her blue eyes focusing for once on an individual’s face as she looked at Benny. “As usual, they insist on having it in some flower field behind the gym.”
“And where do you want to have it?”
“Outside of the warehouse on 5th street, of course.”
Benny looked at Naomi. “Of course.”
“Have you seen that building?” Keller said. Her once slumped body was suddenly jolted upwards and a light of enthusiasm flashed on her face, the light that either meant she was talking about a building or photography, usually both.
Naomi nodded. “Only a couple of dozen times. You’ve taken around one hundred thousand photographs of it.”
“It’s incredible,” Keller continued, “Probably the most distinguished, worthwhile building in this entire state. You know where they probably have buildings like that on every corner, don’t you?”
“Let me guess,” Benny put a finger to his chin, “Starts with a New and ends with a York?”
Naomi rolled her eyes. “Here we go again.”
“Have you read the newspapers lately?” Keller asked. “They’re erecting a fifty story skyscraper right next to Time Square! Imagine it! Fifty stories, fifty individual floors. I wonder the kind of thought the architect must have put into it, the intense knowledge he used to craft this thing in his mind which is now being created into reality as we speak!” She took a breath and leaned back again, a look of bewilderment on her face, as if she were seeing the building being built in front of her. “I know I sound ridiculous, but I also know in some way, you understand.”
She looked at neither, but they knew she was addressing them both.
“Well,” Benny said after a minute of silent contemplation from all three of them, “I better book it to English.”
After Benny disappeared around a corner, Naomi took the liberty of opening Keller’s locker for her and taking out the government book they would both need for their next class said, “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Well, would you like to tell me why Justin Timberlake is staring at you again?”
Without the conscience effort of searching, Keller’s eyes went directly to the other end of the long hallway, towards the lockers that had become infamous amidst the bustling crowd. For a split second that might not even have existed, she saw a flash of blue cross her sight and then the face turned away and she was left looking at a masculine profile of high school dreams and legendary popularity.
There was no reigning group among the senior class of Chester Ray High School, but instead two independent, strong forces that were like opposite ends of the same magnet. On one end stood Keller Parks, Benny Owens, Naomi Barrett, and Mouse Patterson. On the other, stood Justin Timberlake, Andrew Evans, and Faye Masters.
The first group went unnoticed amidst the hallways and classrooms, their presence felt, but quickly ignored. Keller and company weren’t the untouchable gods that every student envied. They were the group that kept to themselves, not out of threat of embarrassment or shame, but because none ever made the effort or showed interest in getting to know others around them. They had found each other early on, as far back as kindergarten, and had stuck together, none leaving and no one new entering the group.
The second group was on the opposite side of the same coin. They too had molded as a unit, neither adding nor disregarding a member of their exclusive club. But there was something different about this group, because although they had the air around them of complete indifference to the world or people that inhabited it, they interacted, they made acquaintances, they set out to rule the hallways, and had succeeded, as Justin, Faye, and Andrew were quite known to do. They were popular, trend setting, untouchable, envied. They walked down the halls as if they owned the school and everyone occupying it.
Faye was the dark, quiet beauty that had never had a friend besides the two boys, yet shocked the entire school by joining varsity cheer her senior year. She eventually worked her way up to cheer captain, after a nasty rumor started about the former captain that Faye swore innocently she had nothing to do with. Faye wore the sexist uniform provided to her, but added her own twist by adorning black, fish net stalkings and black combat boots to the games and competitions. She was voted Homecoming queen, but didn’t attend the dance, she ran for senior class elections, won the presidency, and then resigned the day after to give her position to the girl who had lost to her, making her peers commend her for her modesty and despise the other girl. She was popular by default. The only thing she seemed to truly care about was her position as lead in the school’s choir.
Andrew was a pale creature with dyed black hair and a strange infatuation with black clothing and punk bracelets. He had a reputation as the bad boy around campus, rumored to have never attended a class in his life and, instead, spent his school hours smoking pot in the woods just outside of the school parking lot with members of the cheer squad that weren’t popular enough to name, but popular enough to mention in the daily session of hallway gossip.
Then there was Justin. He was an enigma nobody could quiet figure out. Everything about his reputation cried out “Typical high school jock”, except the fact that he had never bothered to join any sport, or club, or any other activity around school for that matter. Whispers flew around the hallway from girls who discussed the many relationships Justin was having, cursing his name but at the same time looking in the direction of his locker in a wistful sort of way, wanting to secretly be one of the mysterious girls mentioned in that days gossip session. His name was known throughout the school, but he befriended no one or even seemed to notice his status. Every sparse sentence that left his mouth was coated in sarcasm; he took nothing seriously, which made no sense, because his manner was entirely serious. The only people he was ever seen with were Faye and Andrew, and even they didn’t seem to close to him. He kept to himself, never contesting or confirming the rumors said about him, and remained the most mysterious student in Chester Ray High School.
As far as the rest of the student body could tell, the two groups had never clashed with each other, never even openly interacted or spoke to one another. However, the first group would have remained unnoticed amongst the crowds if it wasn’t for the strange reaction Justin, Faye, and Andrew all had towards them. As far as Keller and friends were concerned, they were one of the few students who were entirely blinded to the second group’s presence. But Justin, Faye, and Andrew seemed to be oblivious to everyone else but them, seemed to take special precaution around the group of friends, for reasons no one could discern except to conclude that the three disliked the other four very much.
Keller kept her eyes on the face for a long second, and then turned back to her friend. “He’s not staring at me.”
“He was,” Naomi said. “He always stares at you.”
“Why would he even look in this direction?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you.”
The bell rang, signaling the end of the gossip, drama, comedy, and other typical events of the hallway and acting as an invisible authority figure, ushering the herds of students back into the lock up chambers which were classrooms. Keller turned back to see Justin walking in the opposite direction as her, not glancing back once, and then faced forward herself to follow Naomi into her U.S. government class.
~~
Her route had remained the same; walk down two blocks, make a sharp left, cut through the storm drains, and walk through the rusted gate that was always unlocked. Keller walked with a black bag that carried her camera equipment, her house keys, and a hairbrush. She had a car, but she chose to walk, not because of the clear blue Wyoming skies, but because she liked to feel her feet hit the pavement.
Nobody knew where she went on her walks.
She averaged at least one walk a week. Now, as she balanced herself in the storm drains, she allowed herself a small smile, thinking about her destination. She didn’t know why she suddenly felt a strange chill of excitement, a chill that ran down her back every time she walked, ever since the first day. It hadn’t faded or grown stronger. The chill made her think of a new day, although the sun was just beginning to set. It reminded her of why she was alive and she clutched the black bag harder and made herself walk faster.
By the time she reached the gate and pushed it open, she had forgotten why she was there and remembered only the feeling of anxious impatience that led her through the clean backyard and towards the window. It was a one story house, painted light brown with dark red shingles on the roof. The windows in the back were all coated in a thin film of dust, all except one, which was freshly cleaned from being recently opened. That was the one she headed towards and knocked on lightly without hesitation.
She never had to wait long. The familiar sound of the blind’s being drawn and the slide of the window greeted her and her impatience was put to rest at the sight before her.
“You’re late,” Justin Timberlake said. Without extending a hand to help her inside, he turned his back on her and took a seat in front of his desk.
She expected that. Gripping the windowsill, she pulled herself inside and then reached back out to grab the black bag. “I had a yearbook meeting.”
“Did they kick you out yet?” he asked without looking up from what he was writing.
“No.” She paused, regarding him curiously. “How’d you know about that?”
“People do talk about you, you know. Albeit, only a few, they do still talk. And I hear about everything that goes on in that school, one way or another.”
She wasn’t paying attention but instead checking her camera to make sure the film was inside. “I don’t notice I guess.” When she glanced up, she found that he was watching her, his eyes looking as though they were trying to figure out something in her face. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” He looked away. “Where are we going this time?”
“The warehouse.”
“Again?”
“I can’t get it out of my head.”
“You’ll never stop obsessing over buildings will you?”
“What does it matter to you?” she snapped. She didn’t know why she felt aggravated by his question, why certain comments he made caused any kind of reaction within her whatsoever. This was business, she always had to remind herself. Just a business association. There was no reason for her to consider anything he said, to listen to any of his comments.
She listened anyway.
He was smiling. “If only you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Nothing,” he turned back to the desk, “Nevermind.”
“What are you writing?”
“Lyrics.”
“New song?”
“Same one as last week,” he said, clearing his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. That surprised her. Justin was never uncomfortable around anyone. He put the paper away and stood up, his face returning to its normal serious mask. “So let’s go already.”
He always drove. In the car they barely exchanged two sentences to each other, which she didn’t mind. He kept tapes of music he recorded in his basement and put them on, not caring whether she heard it or not, she was sure, but she let herself enjoy it anyway. There was something in the sound of his guitar that made her think of the world, of the street corner that had just passed by to that abandoned building that captured her attention and she rolled down her window to stare at it for as long as she could before it faded away into the hazy orange sky. He never questioned her whenever she did this. He didn’t glance at her strangely or wonder why she always chose a building or any other kind of architectural structure as the location, which she found a strange comfort in.
She couldn’t remember how it started.
In the duration of her entire life, there were constant changes, but three things remained the same: her friends, her passion for photography, and the continuous presence of Justin Timberlake. Although he had been in her kindergarten class, it was the second day of first grade that she had taken first notice of him. A week before, she had been given her very first camera, a Polaroid camera designed specifically for young children. It was pink with a single purple button that she pressed in order to take the picture. She had spent her playtime ignoring her friends and running around her neighborhood taking pictures of houses. The first day, she showed her polaroids to her mother, who had replied kindly “That’s nice sweetheart, but why don’t you take some pictures of flowers and gardens?” Keller never showed her pictures to her mother again.
During that entire week, it had never occurred to her to take a picture of a person. Then she saw Justin and all of that changed. As a first grader, she didn’t understand what it was she had seen in his face, but she knew that it made her think of those houses that she had particularly loved the most and that no other face resembled his, had that inner quality she was searching for. By the time she was in high school, she had yet to find another person that she wanted to photograph except him. But then it was too late, because that very face was one she had grown to dislike, to avoid.
Then it happened.
It was another eventful day in the hallway in the beginning of the school year and she was running late for government. She was alone, just closing her locker, when she sharply turned around and ran into him.
“Oh, sorry, I...” Her voice had faded after she saw who it was. They had been casual friends as children, mere acquaintances in junior high, and distant enemies now. She heard the rumors going around about him and it made her dislike him even more, as if the contradiction between his lifestyle and the strange thing she saw in his face was a personal insult to her. “What do you want?”
He glanced around at the crowd of students that were slowly filtering from the hallway. “Are you still into that photography thing?”
Just the simple fact that he even knew about her “photography thing” surprised her. “Yes,” she answered slowly. “Why?”
His voice was low, but his words were precise and distinct. “You want to take a picture of me.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement. She wasn’t sure if she should feel offended, violated, or grateful.
“Excuse me? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes you do. You want to take a picture of me. Why are you embarrassed? Are you blushing? It doesn’t fit you, stop it.”
“I…uh…what?” It was taking a while for her brain to grasp exactly what he was saying, that he really was speaking to her, like he knew her, had known her, like they were close friends. “Are you out of your mind?”
“You don’t have to pretend to be shocked.”
“Who’s pretending?”
“Look, you want to take my picture and I need to have my picture taken, so how about we work out some kind of agreement here so we can both get what we want. Ok?”
“Wait, hold on. Why do you have to have your picture taken?”
For the first time, he hesitated. “I’ve got to have a headshot.”
“For what?”
“To find an agent.”
“An agent?”
“Yea.”
“Why do you need an agent?”
“Is this really relevant?”
“Do you really want me to take your picture?”
He sighed. “If you must know, I’m trying to become a singer.”
She almost laughed. “You can’t be serious.”
“Why not?”
“You can sing?”
“No, I just want to see how badly I can fail. Yes, of course I can sing.”
Keller crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back. “So sing something.”
“You’re kidding, right?” he exclaimed.
Just then the bell rang like a clear siren to bring her back into reality. She pushed past him to hurry to her class, but he grabbed onto her arm and stopped her. “Will you do it?”
“Why do you want me to do it? Why not go to a professional photographer?”
“Because I want you. From what I’ve seen, you’re the most professional photographer in this state. Besides, I don’t have a lot of money and I know you want to do it.” She was about to ask him how he knew, but he interrupted. “I just do, ok? So what’s your answer?”
She wanted to say no. Her willpower, however, wouldn’t let her, and neither would her brain, which threw countless images to her of times she had watched him from across the hallway or in a classroom and wished listlessly that she could capture him on film. Now the opportunity was there to have him before her, posing for her, to have that face. “Yes,” she said after a long pause, “I’ll do it.”
He gave her his address and they parted ways. It wasn’t until she was seated in her government class that she remembered to ask him when he had seen her work or how he knew she was a photographer in the first place.
~~
The warehouse was on a ghost street. The entire district had long since been abandoned by civilization, only a few vagabonds existing in it now. The building itself was a huge, bare structure that had once been the most productive, cleanest, and safest building in the state, but was now a dust covered building, with the once white plaster now turning into an off yellow, and the remaining windows that weren’t yet broken, with veins of cracks and dirt covering them. Keller thought it was beautiful.
“Stand more to the left,” she said as she positioned her camera stand. “No, more left.”
“Here?” Justin asked. He stood next to one of the yellow-white walls of the building with a single cracked window a little above his head. “Isn’t this side of the building a little dark?”
“It’s a black and white photo.”
“Oh, right.”
“Ok, stop there. Perfect.”
He leaned back, his eyes following her every move with a contemptuous smile. She didn’t notice. “So, does the professional photographer have any wise words of motivation for me?”
“Yea. Shut up.”
The sound of the click of the first shot was like music to her ears. She loved that sound, loved the brief seconds of a blinding, white flash, the slight pressure her finger had to apply in order to capture a moment in time, a brief second of life on the earth, of beauty put on film. There was no specific technique she followed. She took pictures whenever she felt the moment was right. Occasionally she wasn’t even aware of when she snapped the photo; her finger would press the button on its own it seemed and that’s when she knew she was in her element.
Justin was almost too good to be true. As part of the deal, she had the option of requesting him to pose for her whenever she wanted, although he had gotten his photos long ago. She told herself she would stop after a couple of sessions, but found that she couldn’t, didn’t want to stop. When he stood next to the warehouse, he not only complimented it, he enhanced its beauty. His face looked like the mind that created that warehouse and maybe even the world. Through her camera lens, she could see his eyes coming to life, looking at the world, not in awe reverence of it, but seeing instead a world that he could mold, that he could make something of, that he could conquer. She saw someone who knew the value of his own life and took his picture.
Out of nowhere, he suddenly stopped looking around him and looked directly into the lens, at her. She took a couple of pictures before she became aware of his gaze, and then she stopped. She put the camera down and for a minute, they stood looking at each other. It never made sense to her why, out of all the people that constantly stared at her, his eyes were the only ones she felt.
“What?” she asked quietly.
He shook his head and then looked away. “Nothing.”
She resumed taking his picture. After a couple more shots, she told him she was done, packed her stuff, and got into his car so he could drive her home.