Chapter One
My girlfriend’s hand tightens around mine, cutting off all circulation until my fingers are numb. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my fucking God!” she squeals. “It’s him!”
From our pool bed in the Tropicana Pool Cafe of the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, Alana points frantically. I follow her line of vision until I see what she sees. Beyond the cocktail waiters and the Hollywood elite stands the man of the hour: MTV Movie Award winner Tyler Price.
When I was no more than eight years old, my mom asked me, “What do you want to be when you’re older?” As questions go it was relatively innocuous yet has remained etched into my subconscious ever since.
“I don’t know,” I shrugged.
To this day I have no idea why she asked me that question or why it seemed so important to her. Maybe the years spent floundering in the lower middle class had taken their toll. Or maybe it was something Dad had said. I’m not sure. Either way, what followed was the most earnest and intense moment we’ve ever shared.
She tenderly stroked the side of my face, guiding my attention toward her caring eyes. What Mom was about to say was so important to her she didn’t just want me to hear it, she wanted me to believe it.
“You’re destined for greatness,” she said. “You can be anything you want to be as long as you put your mind to it.”
As an eight-year-old, I didn’t have the vocabulary or the frame of reference to articulate what I wanted to be. But if I knew then what I know now, I would have answered with two words: Tyler Price.
Alana and I watch Tyler work the Tinseltown collective. He’s magnetism and charisma personified, a master of handshakes and small talk, gracefully traversing the poolside area, moving from one conversation to another. With his precision-coiffed hair and perfect Crest Whitestrips 3D-enhanced teeth, he makes it look so effortless—talking shop with the money men, thanking the press, flirting with his female co-stars. This is his party and everyone’s here for him, celebrating the release of his directorial debut, the crowdfunded vanity project As It Was in the Beginning. I say “crowdfunded vanity project” as if there’s any other kind of crowdfunded project.
As It Was in the Beginning is personal and specific to Tyler, a masturbatory existential examination of the soul of an artiste. Under threat of death, I would never say it out loud but, honest to God, I enjoyed the movie. It hit me where I live.
Tyler and I actually have a lot in common. We’re both twenty-nine, in great shape, attractive, unabashed proponents of designer stubble, and we both dress like douchebags—even if Tyler’s predilection for Bohemian clothing, punctuated by eight-foot-long scarves, contrasts with my strict diet of leather jackets and jeans. We also share backgrounds as serious actors. While I studied acting at Tisch, Tyler put in time at Stella Adler.
If we already have so much in common, why do I want to be Tyler Price? Because, unfortunately, that’s where the similarities end.
Within a day of Alana and me graduating from Tisch, her father was diagnosed with cancer and life as I knew it was over. Alana and her father had always been close, so when word of the diagnosis came, there was no doubt in either of our minds she would be returning to her hometown of Bumfuck, Arizona, to take care of him. The only question was: would I? She never asked me to follow her. Never coerced, bullied, begged, or manipulated me. The choice was all mine. But having been together since our sophomore year, Alana was my world. It was in the spirit of that sick codependency I put my destiny on hold, hopped on a plane, and joined her.
While I was interviewing for my first office administration job, Tyler was auditioning for the meaty role of an incest survivor-cum-date-rapist in a sweeps episode of Law and Order: SVU. He almost earned a Creative Emmy nom for Outstanding Guest Actor in a Drama Series. Or so the legend goes.
What began as a sojourn in Arizona turned into a living purgatory, held hostage by Alana’s father, a man who resisted health as much as he resisted death. Days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months, and months turned to years. Seven years, to be precise. When he finally did the honorable thing and died, he took my hopes and dreams to the grave with him. It’s both amazing and terrifying how quickly four years of drama school can turn into a lifetime of menial office work. No good deed goes unpunished.
“Yo, yo, motherfuckin’ yo!” Tyler addresses the party, positioned centrally in front of the under-lit swimming pool, the aqua blue of its shimmering ripples shading his tailored white Emporio Armani suit. A respectful hush falls upon the bar. “I would like to say a few words. But first thing’s first: Did you enjoy the movie?”
Without hesitation, Alana responds with a piercing squeal, leading the attendees in a rapturous round of applause. The noise deafens me.
Tyler beams with delight, enjoying the praise while maintaining his modest image by gesturing for a reprieve from the applause. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he says. “When my manager, Dan Edelstein, suggested I crowdfund a movie, I thought he was crazy. If we didn’t reach the goal, we’d be failing in a very public setting, and I’d be the face of that failure. I don’t want to say, ‘career suicide,’ but… Fortunately, I have some of the best fans in the business and they came out in force to make our little movie possible.”
I think his gratitude may actually be sincere. I feel nauseous.
“I’d like to take a moment to thank one fan in particular,” he adds.
I turn to Alana. I know he’s talking about her. She knows he’s talking about her. She can barely contain herself, elbowing me sharply in the ribs with childlike excitement, on the verge of exploding in the mere seconds it takes for him to resume.
“Where’s our 10k backer?” Alana releases another squeal, a homing beacon that allows Tyler to spy her. “Alana Cooper, get your ass up here, girl.”
Tyler doesn’t have to tell her twice. Alana charges through the crowd, what’s left of her coolness evaporating before my eyes. This is a big moment for her. When her father passed last year, she redirected her grief into an unholy obsession with Tyler Price that reached its nadir when she plunged ten thousand dollars of her dad’s life insurance payout into Tyler’s Jumpstarter campaign. In addition to the feel-good factor of supporting the arts, she was rewarded with an invite to the Hollywood premiere and after-party, and I was the blessed beneficiary of her plus-one allowance.
Alana reaches Tyler and he wraps her in an embrace. In this moment, I know she’s going to spend the next year of our lives, if not longer, talking about this. Over and over and over and over.
Tyler pirouettes Alana to face the party, his hand resting on the small of her back. “Ladies and gentlemen, Alana Cooper!” he leads the party in a flurry of applause that goes unnoticed by Alana, who’s too awestruck by his proximity.
With Alana by his side, Tyler finishes thanking the world for his accomplishments in the field of motion pictures. Between Alana’s understated girl-next-door beauty and Tyler’s chiseled features, they’d make a great couple. And the kids? The kids would be beautiful. If I sound like I’m threatened, rest assured it’s because I am.
Tyler finishes saying his piece and the bass of generic electronica engulfs the party once more. He offers Alana a glass of champagne before taking one himself. Charm is Tyler’s default setting. I can be charming too. I just choose not to be much of the time.
Alana introduces me to Tyler and the three of us take a seat around a table in the roped-off VIP area so he can gift us with the story of how he was cast as the Green Avenger in the superhero epic The Green Avenger. “So, there I was, standing opposite a Mazda dealership, I’ve got a meeting with a producer in Malibu in an hour, and my driver’s already half an hour late,” he says, as if telling the story for the first time with the kind of animated charisma one needs if they hope to be nominated for an MTV Movie Award.
Alana is hooked, hanging on his every word. So am I. No matter how much I try to fight it.
“So, what would you do in my position?” he asks. I take a microsecond to mull the possibilities, concluding that I’d use my Amex black to buy a Mazda and drive myself to the meeting.
“I walk my ass across the street, buy the cheapest Mazda in the place, one of the little Miatas, and literally—I kid you not—drive myself.” I knew it. I knew it because I drive a Mazda Miata—a car I could only afford after two years of manning an office printer—and the universe hates me even more than I hate Tyler Price.
“And that’s how you got The Green Avenger?” Alana asks, desperate for an answer she’s already read in Us Weekly a billion times or more.
“Let me put it this way… That Mazda paid for itself and then some.”
“What happened to it?” I ask, chomping at the bit to find out.
He shrugs. “Eh, I think I gave it to my second cousin or something.” It’s incredible. This guy doesn’t have an insincere bone in his body. I could only dream of being this obnoxious and getting away with it. “Anyway, enough about me. I want to hear about the two of you. You’re from Arizona, right? What do you do?”
Alana blushes, “I’m a copywriter at a law firm.”
His eyes widen in amazement, “Oh, really? Wow!” before glazing over just as quickly. “What’s a copywriter?”
My brain doesn’t believe what my ears are hearing. “She writes copy.”
“What’s copy?”
So many witty comebacks compete for attention in my head, each one more insulting than the last. My better nature takes hold and I keep them to myself, a wry smile spreading across my face.
“What about you, Riv?” he asks.
Alana starts to answer, “He’s a junior comms mana—”
I cut her off mid-word, correcting, “I’m a singer and an actor. A performer, I guess.” I don’t know why I said that. I might have been once, a lifetime ago. Not anymore.
Tyler instantly clings to the idea. “Awesome, do I know any of your songs? KCRW is my lifeblood.”
I stumble, trying to un-dig the ditch. “We haven’t actually recorded anything in… I used to be a singer and actor. In college.”
“Sounds like you need to get back on that horse,” he suggests, totally devoid of judgment.
“I think the horse died,” I reply without missing a beat, delivering the ultimate mood-killer.
An awkward silence follows as I sip my orange juice. Tyler is lost for words. Alana leaps to the rescue, pulling the conversation back from the brink of death. “So, can I ask you something?”
“For 10k, you can ask me anything, baby girl.”
She melts a little and I roll my eyes. “I thought the film was so beautiful and, as someone who used to act as well, I was really blown away by how raw your performance was. Was it difficult getting to that place every day?”
“You know, it was hard.” He takes a dramatic pause, marshaling a new emotion: sadness. “It was my mom’s passing that gave me the idea for the project, so I really just channeled that.”
This hits a nerve for Alana, and she nods in sympathy, “I totally get that. My dad died last year.” Her voice breaks a little and Tyler, oblivious to the concept of boundaries and the sanctity of my ten-year relationship with Alana, takes her hand in his, offering comfort.
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.”
They gaze into each other’s eyes, and she stifles a smile, a tear forming in the corner of her eye. “Thank you.” Alana wipes the tear away with the back of her hand. “Being here tonight, getting to see your movie and meet you… This is the happiest I’ve been in ages.”
Yes, her dad has been dead for a year now and she has only recently begun getting over the loss. In the last six weeks alone, Alana has stopped crying herself to sleep and mentioning him in every other conversation that doesn’t revolve around Tyler Price. For the longest time, I thought she’d lost her smile. Slowly but surely—and only after donating ten thou to Tyler’s Jumpstarter—it returned. Since then, she’s been happy more often than not. But tonight, attending this party and meeting her celebrity crush for the first time, is far and away the happiest I’ve seen Alana in over a year.
For my part, playing the role of the dutiful and supportive boyfriend, I’m trying very, very hard to be happy for her. Trying and failing.
My name is River Conway, and I didn’t grow up to be Tyler Price. I grew up to be an asshole.
Which, now that I think about it, is kinda the same thing.
Chapter Two
Tyler Price’s party was everything you’d expect a Hollywood party to be. Ostentatious, superficial, and wholly divorced from reality. It was also the first time I’ve truly felt like I belong, at home among the eclectic mix of narcissists, overachievers, and millionaires you can only find in Los Angeles. Unfortunately, it was as far removed from my actual home as you can get within the confines of middle-class America.
Twelve hours after the party, Alana and I boarded our plane and traded our luxurious, all-expenses-paid Hollywood weekend for the dryer, browner, more barren pastures of Bumfuck, Arizona.
I wake up bleary-eyed, lying next to Alana in our bed. I barely slept last night, haunted by regrets and mourning a bountiful life that not only could have been, but should have been.
Quietly sliding out of bed, I stumble across the bedroom, a bubble world oasis crafted by me to escape the trappings of reality. Combining our shared love of acting and music, my passion for pop culture and Alana’s obsession with celebrities, our apartment doubles as a shrine to the entertainment industry. Careful not to step on a pile of my Nip/Tuck, Californication, and Entourage DVDs, I enter the living room and embark on a dedicated morning ritual that dates back to our first month in Arizona. Press-ups, sit-ups, protein shakes, flossing, omelets, moisturizing, multi-vitamins, Propecia, and hair styling are capped off with a healthy sixty seconds spent admiring and critiquing my appearance in a full-length mirror.
A crisp tailored black shirt, fitted jeans, Rolex, and polarized Oliver Peoples sunglasses complete my uniform. I take pride in the fact no one here dresses like me. I dress the way I wish the world was, to show the world what it can be.
I grab my car keys from a dresser, kiss Alana goodbye, and head out the door. My strict morning regimen helps me keep my chin up and my superiority complex afloat, giving me the confidence boost I need to drive to work with the top down on my orange Mazda Miata, the ultimate in affordable entry-level convertibles.
The Miata had been an impulse buy two years in the making. I chose a Miata because I couldn’t afford an Audi. I chose orange because I wanted something gaudy. Time and again, the convertible has proven itself to be a worthwhile purchase. Entire days come and go, weighed down by the claustrophobic demands of everyday life, where the only time I’m able to breathe is when I’m driving home from work with the top down and the evening’s air circulating around me, filling my lungs, keeping me oxygenated.
Armed with my convertible playlist—an eclectic assortment of douchebag ballads that includes, but is not limited to, Kanye West, gangsta rap, and WWE entrance themes—I pull out of our underground parking lot to the upbeat tune of The Ocean Souls’ “Steady Are You Ready” and enter the fray of morning rush hour. Driving into the sun, the unrelenting Arizona heat cooks my forehead. I lower the visor as I pull up behind two cars at the red light of the intersection by Bumfuck Towne Center. The light eventually turns green after a long, painful minute and still the cars in front refuse to move. I wait, and I wait, and I wait until I can wait no more and then I slam my fist down on the steering wheel, blaring my horn.
I lean out of my window, shouting, “Hey, douchebag, I hope you’re as slow in bed as you are at a goddamn light.”
Not my best insult. Six out of ten. For me, road rage is less about expressing anger and more about keeping the mind active, a necessity when you live in a town where interesting things come to die.
Out of the corner of my eyes, pedestrians waiting to cross the street regard me with a heady combination of terror, awe, and amusement. I burst out laughing before plowing my fist down on the horn again, the car in front finally getting the message.
They say perception is reality. I wish that was the case. However, the people in my small town may perceive me in my bright car and five-hundred-dollar sunglasses, it probably couldn’t be further from the truth. As much as I may act otherwise, I’m still a junior comms manager for Bumfuck Tech Solutions, a company that produces no one cares. Junior comms manager. The job description doesn’t quite read, Spend eight hours a day copying and pasting large amounts of text over and over again until you want to throw yourself off a tall building, but it may as well. Junior comms manager. The company doesn’t even have a senior comms manager.
I send my Monday morning emails from the ergonomic comfort of an office cubicle, alternately signing off with kind regards and best wishes per company policy. When I’m certain no one’s going to walk by, I switch windows, load YouTube, and search videos from the premiere. Immediately I stumble upon Entertainment Weekly’s red carpet coverage and am bombarded with quick cuts of the cast arriving. A reporter interviews Tyler. I can’t hear—the sound is off—but I watch avidly as he charms her with an engaged and charismatic response. Then I notice something in the top right of the frame. A couple walking hand-in-hand. It’s Alana and me. I watch myself turn to face the camera and I hit pause. For a split second, my face shares a frame with Tyler’s.
As styled as my hair is, his is just a little shinier, and as fitted as my suit is, his fits just a little better—to be expected when he’s wearing a custom Emporio Armani donation while I’m relegated to the more budget-friendly world of Armani Exchange. Does he have his own stylist? What products does he use? These are questions I don’t have answers to. My mind tumbles down a rabbit hole in pursuit of this train of thought. Are they his real teeth? Does he trim his own facial hair? How much money is he actually worth?
The more questions I ask, the more anxious I get, drawing shallow breaths, the warning sign of an impending panic attack. I discreetly open the drawer beneath my desk, find a Xanax, and swallow it without drawing attention to myself.
“A-List!” a voice calls. I barely hear it. A figure looms over my cubicle, “River?”
Startled, I look up to see Bumfuck Tech’s fearless leader Jay Hunter looking down on me. Shit, I’m in trouble now. Goodbye, YouTube privileges.
“Sorry, Jay.”
“A-List, you got a minute?”
I’m yours for eight hours, Jay, five days a week. I’ve got four hundred and eighty minutes a day set aside just for you.
“Sure thing.” I get up and follow Jay as he waddles into his office, praying I can control my breathing enough I won’t erupt in a no-holds-barred panic attack by the copy machine.
At fifty-one, Jay’s balding and overweight, not nearly as spry as someone his age should be. Jay likes me. I’m like a son to him. He once told me I remind him of himself when he was my age. To date, that’s the most depressing thing anyone’s ever said to me. It may even be the root cause of my anxiety.
I sit across the desk from Jay, taking a moment to bite down my disdain at the photos on the wall behind him. Photos of Jay and his friends on a fishing trip. Oh look, he caught a marlin. Big fucker. Another photo shows Jay dressed as Santa at an office party, a cigar hanging from his mouth. The caption below reads, Like a Boss. Cry.
He smiles and leans back in his chair, holding his arms up. “So…”
“So?” I ask, unsure where he’s going with this.
“How were the real fake people of LA?”
I hate it when people belittle the hard-working men and women of our great nation’s entertainment industry. “Surprisingly relatable.”
“Oh yeah?”
I don’t answer. It’s a conversational dead-end. I know it and, after two seconds of awkward silence, so does he.
“So, the reason I wanted to speak to you today… I’ve been impressed by your efficiency and dedication to the job.”
I swear to God, I do the absolute bare minimum I need to in order to stay gainfully employed.
“And I’d like to reward that. Now, it’ll mean more responsibility, more training. Maybe a few courses. But I think you’re more than up for the task at hand.”
Here we go.
“A-List, how would you feel about a promotion to senior comms manager?”
Kill me.
Friday night. I’m once again unable to sleep. Alana and I arrived home from Woody’s, the local dive bar, three hours ago. Two hours ago, we had sex. Our go-to position, the reverse cowgirl, allowed Alana to finish rewatching All About the Guy, a Tyler Price romcom, while I caught up with Deadline on my iPhone. Following a shirtless Tyler Price scene, Alana climaxed and fell asleep. Once again, I did not.
Alana gently inhales and exhales in her sleep. She looks calm. Peaceful. It’s probably the alcohol. I don’t drink. Natural superiority is my alcohol, or at least it used to be, before that fucking premiere party. Now I’m an insomniac. Maybe I should start drinking. No. It’s not that bad. It will never be that bad. I’ve always taken great pride in the fact that no matter how awful my life becomes, no matter how many disappointments come my way, I’ve never used alcohol or drugs to numb myself. I want to feel everything.
Having said this, Woody’s was pretty bad and drinking almost certainly would have taken the edge off watching in disgust as Alana and our friends gagged down fish tacos while surrounded by drunken locals struggling to hear each other over Top 40 hits from 2007. The unfortunate thing is, it’s our regular haunt. The drinks are cheap, and they frequently host an open mic night, the one creative outlet in my life that doesn’t involve shouting abuse at fellow drivers.
Eddie, my colleague, and his wife Stacy joined us to “celebrate” my “promotion.” They’re also pushing thirty and are in many ways funhouse mirror versions, in every sense of the expression, of Alana and myself. They were born in Bumfuck, seldom leave Bumfuck and, more importantly, they’re good in Bumfuck. A less magnanimous person would say they’re so boring that if they ever made a sex tape it would be called Masters of Missionary.
“Congratulations on the promotion, baby,” Alana said after her third Jack and Coke and my second OJ, “I’m so proud of you.” The Alana I followed to Arizona wouldn’t have been proud; she’d have been mortified. When did her values change? The woman I fell in love with lived and breathed ambition, had talent coming out of her ass, and couldn’t wait to share it with the world. Then again, she also found fish and seafood as disgusting as I did. I think her dad’s cancer irreparably broke her.
At one point, Alana coaxed me into dancing to the tune of “Give Me Everything Tonight.” She pulled out her signature move, the bump and grind. Eddie—always on the lookout for fresh spank bank fodder—noticed this and, while dancing with Stacy, made sure to remind me how lucky I am to be with a girl like Alana. And I am lucky, I know I am. I just have to keep reminding myself because if I don’t, I may forget and then the only thing left to remember will be the seven years spent alternating between an office cubicle and the corner booth of Woody’s.
Alana seems content with that lifestyle. Maybe I’m the broken one.
I take one last look at Alana, her mouth opening a little with every breath she takes, and pull myself out of bed, careful not to wake her. I pull on a tee and walk into the living room, where I make a beeline for the bookshelf. Flicking on a light, I search high and low, eventually finding what I’m looking for: a dog-eared copy of the yearbook from my senior year of high school.
I rapidly flick through the pages, not stopping to look at anything that doesn’t interest me—namely, anything involving other people—until I land on a full-page spread of myself. I’m sitting on a stool on the stage of the school auditorium, a guitar resting in my arms, mid-song. I look younger here. Happier. That was before I’d experienced a loss in my life. The greatest loss a person can ever experience, a loss greater than the death of a parent: the loss of hope.
The caption beneath the photo reads, River Conway: Most Likely to Become Rich and Famous. I let those words sink in for a wistful moment, a heaviness returning to my breathing that I try to temper by controlling the pace and depth of my breaths. The photo reminds me of everything I’ve lost—every hope, every dream—and I ask myself, Is this what rock bottom feels like?
My mother told me I was destined for greatness. Why else would an honest, salt of the earth, lower middle-class couple from Who Cares, Ohio, name their son River? No son of Richard and Jean Conway was going to be called Dave.
“I’ve failed,” I say out loud, the sound of the words carrying an unexpected catharsis.
I look at the full-page spread of myself in the yearbook once more and slam my fist down on the arm of the sofa as I burst out into maniacal laughter. I hope I don’t wake Alana up. She’d think I was a freak. She’d break up with me and then I’d truly have nothing. The last seven years will have been even more pointless. Ha. I laugh harder. She really is all I have now. And I resent her. The sick joke my life has become hits me in full force for the first time and for a solid five minutes I embrace the tragedy, cast adrift on a wave of laughter.
Then I pull myself together, control my breathing and regain composure. A silence falls over the living room.
I stand up, feeling stronger. A renewed sense of purpose surges through me. I know what I have to do.
Grabbing the iPad, I turn the camera on and balance it on the coffee table, sitting on the sofa in front of it. I’ve been told my entire life I’m destined for greatness. It’s time to embrace my destiny.
Studying my reflection, I look tired, haggard. My hair is unkempt. I’m wearing a tee and boxers, for God’s sake. This is not a marketable look.
I tiptoe back into the bedroom, throw on a fitted shirt and adjust my hair before touching up my stubble in the bathroom. I check my reflection in the mirror and the River who stares back at me inspires confidence. “Go fuck yourself, Tyler Price.”
Returning to the iPad, I switch the camera to video mode, clear my throat, and hit record.
“Working to live or living to work? How about neither?” I work the camera, smiling at an audience that doesn’t yet exist. “As an office worker with a mediocre middle-class existence, I’m giving you the opportunity to give me the opportunity of a better one.” I valiantly resist the urge to laugh at my own turn of phrase. “If you’re asking yourself how this is possible and wondering how you can help, ask and wonder no longer. I come bearing answers. My goal is to crowdfund one million dollars. All I ask of you is a donation of two dollars or more. It only takes five hundred thousand of you.” I flash a benevolent grin, channeling my inner Tyler Price. “But remember, if I don’t reach my goal, I won’t see a cent.” Now, for the grand finale: “Donate to me today so I can live the life you wish you were living tomorrow.”
Yes, that should do it. With that, I save the recording.
Replaying the video provides a moment of smug celebration before I load up Jumpstarter and create a campaign. I upload the video and when a prompt asks me for the amount of money I wish to raise, I enter one million without a microsecond of hesitation.
The page asks me for a title. I hadn’t thought this far ahead. I need something pithy, something noisy. It needs to be buzzy, something that demands attention in the most obnoxious way. It needs to grab people by the balls and not let go, with a hashtag that will spread like herpes across the Internet. I want enraged think pieces. I want Buzzfeed coverage. I want 4chan and Reddit all up in my shit. I want it all.
I’ve got it!
I begin typing: SAVE AN ASS—
No, that’s no good. I take a moment and deliberate further. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right. Everything has to be perfect. If there’s a million dollars on the line, nothing can be left to chance.
The solution comes to me from on high, a divine force planting a seed of genius in my brain. From my mind to the World Wide Web, I hereby christen this Jumpstarter campaign, SAVE AN A$$HOLE.
Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.
I hit publish, the page goes live, and I paste the link into every social networking account I have. Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest. Hell, I even take a SnapChat of the page. I hope the forty-two people who follow me appreciate it. I put the iPad away and head back to bed, burying myself beneath the covers next to Alana, never more thankful she doesn’t believe in social media.
As I lay here, satisfied, positively giddy at the possibility of making a million bucks, a deep slumber consumes me.
I never would have had this idea if not for Tyler Price.
Thank you, Tyler Price.
Chapter Three
When I was a kid, I had my best sleep of the year on Christmas Eve. It wasn’t because Christmas didn’t excite me. It did excite me, and that’s why I slept so well. I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, I had something to wake up for in the morning. Not having anything to wake up for is what causes my insomnia.
After publishing the Jumpstarter, I slept well.
My phone vibrates on the mattress next to my head. I keep my eyes shut, a futile attempt at ignoring it. It vibrates again. I begin to stir. After the third vibration, Alana leans over me.
“Your phone is blowing up,” she observes. “Who’s texting you?”
I force my eyes open and check my notifications.
dev has pledged $10.00
sally x has pledged $2.00
naughty_and_nice has pledged $2.00
I repress a smile. My head is bursting at the seams with an unfamiliar sensation. Not excitement, this is something else. Hope?
“No one,” I answer. “Work emails.”
“I don’t believe you. Why are you smiling?”
Damn it. My mind races, searching for an answer that will pacify her. “I just remembered how lucky I am to be waking up next to you.” Nice save.
She playfully punches me on the shoulder. “Douchebag.”
“I prefer ‘asshole.’”
She raises an eyebrow. Before her confusion sets in, I plant a kiss on her lips, pull myself out of bed, and stumble into the bathroom for my morning shower. As a million beads of hot water hit my body, the possibilities of the Jumpstarter dawn on me. If I make a million, I’ll be a legitimate millionaire. Money begets money. I could buy a Miata on impulse and give it to a second cousin. Scratch that. Screw the Miata and fuck the second cousin. I’ll buy a boat on impulse and keep it for myself. Does it count as an impulse buy if I’ve wanted one for as long as I can remember? Not that there’s many places to sail a boat in Arizona. We’d have to move. Wouldn’t that be a shame? Los Angeles has marinas. Before Alana’s dad fell ill, Alana and I planned to move to LA to pursue our careers. Better late than never.
A millionaire in LA. A boat in Marina del Rey. Maybe a yacht.
River Conway, yacht owner.
I think that’s how I would introduce myself to people. It would look good on a business card too. It would definitely make one hell of a Twitter bio.
From within the shower, I hear my phone vibrate again. I imagine the screen filling with notifications. Another donation? Two dollars? Twenty dollars? Two hundred dollars? Maybe a legitimate, bona fide billionaire like heiress Ocean Avery caught wind of it and pledged the entire amount. That would just make my day.
A world of possibilities hit me like a typhoon and, unable to control my excitement, I grant myself permission to spaz out, celebrating my renewed lease on life, fist pumping the air. I catch myself and pause. If Alana heard my maniacal cackling, let alone saw me, it would be difficult to explain. I’m going to have to tell her sooner or later. I just can’t right now. This is the happiest I’ve been in ages, and I don’t want her shitting all over it.
“Howdy-doody, buddy,” Eddie greets me as he wheels over in his ergonomic office chair toward my cubicle. I think I’ll go out of my way not to know anyone who greets me with “howdy-doody” when I’m a millionaire.
“What up?” I ask, using the friendly voice I adopt when I don’t want the good people of Bumfuck, Arizona, thinking I’m a hate-filled monster.
“Saw your Jumpstarter.”
“Donated yet?”
“Hell no!” Of course, Eddie hasn’t. That would eat into his beer fund. God knows he needs the beer if he’s going to numb himself to the weeks that were, the week that is, and the weeks that will be.
“I’m a worthy cause. I’m troubled.”
“With what?”
“Problems!”
“You have no problems! You have, like, the perfect life!”
“I have existential problems. There’s no greater problem than an existential problem. They’re at the very tippy top of Maslow’s pyramid scheme of angst.”
Eddie motions to retort but the sound of a phone alert disrupts his flow.
“Hold that thought,” I say, snatching the phone from my desk and checking the screen.
wilhelm laugh has pledged $20.00
“That’s another twenty bucks. Inching forward, Eddie, inching ever forward.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
“But a self-aware one, which technically makes me Byronic.”
Confused, he asks, “Byronic?”
“Roguish and charming.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re still an asshole.”
“No one’s debating that,” I agree, “but I’m your asshole.”
My phone rings. The display reads, mikey alvarado.
“Mull on that for a second,” I say. I look to my left and then my right, making sure the coast is clear on the office floor. I don’t want Jay catching me abandoning my post to take a phone call. Lest he demote me to junior comms manager. Heaven forfend.
Seeking refuge in a bathroom stall, I hit redial on Mikey’s missed call. I haven’t seen him since I graduated high school in Who Cares, Ohio. He’s not the kind of person you reconnect with lightly. It involves preparation—mental, physical, spiritual—and a “show no weakness, take no prisoners” attitude. He would expect nothing less of me and I certainly expect nothing less of him.
Mikey and I have been frenemies since we were fourteen, forced into an uneasy alliance to survive high school despite an ever-present animosity that saw us turn on each other as often as we relied on each other. In public high school, it’s easy to see who will and won’t succeed in life. Mikey and I were the chosen two. For me, it was because I was driven by ambition. For Mikey, it was a perfect storm of cultural influences: His Japanese mother instilled a rigid work ethic in him that was compounded by the Catholic guilt his father brought to the table. Failure wasn’t an option for either of us. This led to a lot of competition, most of it unhealthy, and it didn’t end with high school. At least not for me.
While I spent the nascent years of my professional life wasting away in Bumfuck, Arizona, monitoring Mikey’s life via social media became a perverse pastime. From his move to Venice, California, to his girlfriends, engagement, marriage, and jobs, the moment Facebook knew, I knew.
Not long after the death of Alana’s father, I logged into Facebook and a pop-up prompted me to congratulate Mikey for being hired as a managing editor at Buzzfeed. My mature adult reaction was to overturn our coffee table in a fit of rage. Alana interpreted this uncharacteristic violent act as me processing my feelings over her father’s death. In a way it kind of was, just not in the way she thought.
“I saw your Jumpstarter on Twitter this morning,” Mikey offers as his opening gambit.
I knew it.
“Oh yeah?” I ask, feigning surprise.
“‘Save an A$$hole!’ Sounds like a high school anal-abstinence program. That’s some funny shit, dude. No pun intended. People who watch The Kardashians ironically are going to eat it up.”
“And the people who watch it sincerely.”
Mikey laughs unconvincingly down the phone. “Right, right. It’s like a social experiment.”
A long pause follows. He wants something. I’m on tenterhooks. I hope he wants in on the action. If he does, I’ve won. I’ll finally have something he wants, even if it’s taken eleven years.
“Listen, I want to get in on the ground floor of this.”
Yes! I win! Fuck you, Mikey Alvarado!
“Go on,” I prompt.
“Let me help you promote it.”
“Help how?”
“For one, I can tweet it.”
“I’ve already done that.”
“Yeah, but you have like two followers.”
“And how many do you have?”
“North of ten thou.”
“Oh wow. How’d you manage that?”
“You didn’t hear? I work for Buzzfeed.”
Prick.
“I can blog the shit out of this mofo, too. My bosses are always hounding me to go more edgy and post-modern.”
I take a moment. “What do you want in exchange?”
He laughs again. “Let’s say you make the million… Fifteen percent.”
“Isn’t that unethical?”
“A hundred and fifty thousand dollars is worth sacrificing a few ethics.”
“I’m not sure. That would mean I’d only be an almost-millionaire and not an actual-millionaire.”
“Got a counteroffer?”
“Five.”
“Ten.”
My phone vibrates. “Hold on.” I check my notifications:
psychophant has pledged $30.00
I smirk to myself. “Less where there’s none. Five.”
“None could be a reality without my help. Ten.”
“No deal.”
Mikey pauses and then, deflated, replies, “Your call. Let me know if you change your mind,” and hangs up.
“Yo, Alana, where you at, girlfriend?” I holler, affecting a ghetto urban affectation as I enter our apartment. I’m greeted by silence and darkness, two of my favorite things.
I flip the light switch, illuminating the room. At the far end, Alana is sitting in an armchair. Her eyes lock onto mine. She doesn’t appear to be amused. I know what this means.
“You didn’t like the Jumpstarter, did you?”
“What the fuck is that, Riv?”
“A post-modern approach to everyday living.” I offer her a wry smile. She doesn’t react; her poker face is out in full force. “You don’t look happy. Why aren’t you happy?”
She takes a moment, composing herself, and sits upright. “Let’s start with the fact you’re a middle-class, heterosexual, white male begging for money when there are people out there who can’t even afford food.”
Her liberal upbringing mixed with four years of drama school and the brand of empathy only an actress could possess means Alana periodically suffers bouts of white middle-class guilt. It’s one of her less attractive afflictions. Especially when she applies the same standards to me.
“If they’re so hungry, why don’t they start a Jumpstarter?” I jest, the words escaping my mouth before I have time to stop them. Alana’s face drops in disgust. Naturally, knowing I shouldn’t have said that doesn’t stop me from digging the ditch deeper. “And how is that any different to donating to Tyler Price?”
“That was art,” she snaps. I’ve hit a nerve. Alana and I don’t often argue but when we do, we’re the Mike Tyson and Floyd Mayweather of arguers, pull-no-punch experts hell bent on hitting each other where it hurts.
“Suddenly we’re using ‘art’ interchangeably with ‘vanity project’?”
“And here I was thinking a vanity project involved spending thirty minutes each night rubbing Rogaine into your hairline,” she snaps. “Also, I didn’t donate, I pre-purchased!”
“Pre-purchased what?”
“A movie ticket!”
“What kind of sick fuck spends ten grand on a movie ticket?”
Then something unexpected happens. Alana softens. “I don’t want to argue,” she says before pausing. Her voice warbles and catches me off-guard when an unexpected and genuine hurt displaces her annoyance. “You said your life was mediocre.” Oh, shit, I did.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t…”
“Are you bored?” she asks. I open my mouth, searching for an explanation or an apology but before one comes to me, Alana says, “Are you bored of me?”
Tears form in her eyes, and I mentally flagellate myself for inadvertently upsetting the one person I care about as much as myself.
I rush over to Alana, kneeling down before her, and take her hands in mine. “No, no, no, I love you,” I plead.
Her moist eyes meet mine. “Then why did you make that Jumpstarter?”
It’s a good question and I owe her an answer. A moment passes and only two words come to mind that adequately explain my motivation. “Tyler Price.”
She releases my hands and flops back into the armchair, “Jesus fuck. Is that what this is about? He’s a celebrity! He’s not even a real person.”
I rub my face in exasperation. “But that’s the problem! He is a real person!”
Confused, Alana asks, “How is that a problem?”
Pushed to the edge of sanity by the question, I confess every nagging insecurity I’ve hid from Alana over the past year. “Because he’s rich. And he’s talented. And he’s successful. And you’re obsessed with him. Do you know how much I would give for you to look at me the way you looked at him the other night?”
“He’s just a celebrity crush. You’re the one I love.”
“Tyler Price is a world famous, charming, successful actor and I’m pushing thirty, a glorified office drone who spends eight hours a day writing newsletters and sending documents to an industrial dual-purpose scanner-printer.”
I search her eyes, awaiting a response that doesn’t come.
“This isn’t what I’m supposed to be doing!”
She still doesn’t react.
“I’m supposed to be successful!”
Alana offers me nothing but an empty stare.
“I’m supposed to be Tyler fucking Price!”
And I’m done. A few agonizing seconds pass as we sit in silence.
“Jumpstarter won’t make you successful,” she sighs before standing up. “I’m going to bed. You’re a ridiculous person.”
I remain in a heap on the floor as she disappears into the bedroom, closing the door behind her in disappointment. I marvel at how spectacularly badly that conversation went before relocating to the sofa and pulling a blanket over me, a noble attempt at finding comfort where there is none. The expression on Alana’s face when I bared my soul to her is stuck in the forefront of my mind, haunting me as I shift the cushions under my head. What’s worse is I know, beneath her hurt, she’s right. I want to be recognized for my creativity and talent, not for being a douchebag on the Internet.
I pull out my laptop and load up the Jumpstarter dashboard. I reluctantly drag the cursor over unpublish and, with a heavy heart, click it, anticipating the insomnia that lies ahead.