I want to be famous.
I want people who I don’t know to fall in love with me. I want the money, the TV interviews, and the paparazzi, chasing after me. I want women throwing themselves at me because fame is an STI.
I want to be able to answer a call from my agent on a speakerphone and tell her that I can’t do a gig because it doesn’t pay enough. Plus, I’m going to be on a yacht, sipping champagne, somewhere off a coast, on the very morning that the interview is scheduled. I won’t be able to talk for long because I’ve got an art dealer arriving in a cigarette boat, which I sent to pick him up. I’ll just hang up on her, without saying, “It was nice chatting with you. Have a good one, Kim.”
My agent’s name would be Kimberly, but I’d affectionately call her “Kim”.
I would be a jet setter who lives in a famous town, like London, New York, or Barcelona. I’d take up a cause, like children’s literacy, and fly around the world, between sufficiently well-paying appearances, to speak to crowds of people at video recorded conventions. People would look me up on YouTube, and they’d listen to me because I’m famous. They’d even follow me on Twitter. I’d also have a website dedicated to helping children learn how to read good.
I’d spend the spring, summer, and autumn, in a small town somewhere, in a country that no one has heard of; anywhere in Canada outside of Toronto should work. There, I’d lead a meager life, popular only at the pubs, restaurants, cafes, and bookstores. The locals would welcome me as one of their own, and visitors would return home and tell their friends, “You’ll never guess who I saw!”
Come the winter, I’d return to where I live, because the weather is mild enough for me to still be able to enjoy my fame. Besides, I think I look best when wearing a well fitting sweater.
I’d never be anywhere for too long, however, because people need to see me. I’d know what side my bread is buttered on.
I’d do interviews while drinking red wine. I’d be soft spoken and not say much, but still make the interviewer and audience laugh at every word. From the opposing armchair, questions about my personal life would come at me, which I’d deflect like Teflon does an English breakfast. When I turn to look and wave at the audience, the camera would pan to broadcast the joy emanating from the risers.
Other famous people would call me on my private phone line, inviting me to exclusive events attended by other famous people and their less famous significant others. I’d go, partly to maintain my network and partly to speak to people who are also famous. The burden of fame could only be shared amongst those of us who are famous. The events would be great for my ego, too, because famous people are always famously welcomed – it has something to do with stretch limousines and horseshoe-shaped driveways.
I’d wear Jimmy Choo’s exclusively designed for me so that I was always walking on a red carpet. I wouldn’t ever drive myself anywhere, but I’d have at least a dozen cars, which are always washed. You might catch me on a longboard, cruising around a local market while buying vegetables. Getting around would be something that I did, but not something that I was ever doing.
People would talk about all of the things that I had done and am doing, but no one could peg me for anything. I’d be so famous that my fame would itself be famous. I’d have everything and nothing, and I’d write a revealing memoir about it all. People would turn the pages of my autobiography, searching for clues about the person they thought me to be.
Everybody would be right about who I am if I were famous.