Justin had read the article 12 times already. The part that annoyed him the most was the fact that they knew what street he lived on. He could thank the paparazzi for that one. Even at his low stand point they still lurked around his building from time to time. It was funny how when you're at the top no one seems to bother you, but once you take that fall they are all over you like a fly to manure.
Holding the magazine out in front of him, he slowly tore the pages out that Neil Owens contributed. The 80% false story about Justin was printed and praised for the in depth look at his career and how it all went ‘wrong.' It amused him how much buzz the 4,500 words of pure shit was getting. Neil made him out to look like a money hungry teenager who only wanted fame and fortune.
He ripped the pages down the middle and tossed them into the fire pit. The flames engulfed them in an instant. He wished he could do it to every issue of that magazine out there. In earlier years, he would have called the magazine up and given them a piece of his mind. He would have accused Neil of being nothing but a talentless journalist whose only sources he could credit were the bouncers, cocktail waitresses, and hotel associates. None of those people had a name or face that Justin could even recall. Everyone was just a blur and acquaintance.
The 10% part of the article that was true was fabricated. Justin had a lot of regrets in his short life. He may only be 33, but in the business he was really 50 and considered a veteran. Anyone over the age of 18 in Hollywood was declared ‘Over the Hill.' Justin was no acceptation. He had countless tours and 3 platinum albums under his belt already. Hollywood had claimed him, sculpted and molded him, cared for him, and then abandoned him.
The view from the 717 Olympic building always managed to distract Justin from his self loathing. It didn't matter how much resentment he felt for the city that once owned him, he still loved it. He loved the energy that flowed through the streets, and the music that poured out of the clubs all along Sunset. His favorite sound, and feeling out of it all though was the sound of the crowd from the Staples Center. It traveled down the street, and on nights that the Lakers were playing, the sound easily made its way to Justin's building.The sound of thousands of people applauding and cheering still made him smile. It was still amazing to him how quickly he went from being the source of that applause and cheer, to only being able to hear it from outside his luxury apartment building.
Four years of not performing on a stage was hard. After the lights dimmed on him with angry boos, plastic cups and water bottles being thrown at him in Detroit, he knew his career had hit a stand still. He saw no way he could recover from the disappointment he had caused these people he once called his fans. His house in the hills downgraded to the one bedroom apartment he now rented. His Mercedes turned into a Honda, and his entourage went from a crew of 20 to 2. His name was tarnished and used in every late night talk show opening joke session. His music questioned, probed, and accused of being nothing but stolen tracks from real artists.
He pulled out one of the chairs that sat around the fire pit and dropped down into it. The fire continued to burn in front of him, and he picked up the poker to break apart the ash remains of the magazine article. Justin was tired of being discredited for his original work. He was human, and humans made mistakes. Redemption was something he wanted more than anything. He wanted a clean slate, and his name removed from the joke pool. The only problem he was now facing was finding a break or opportunity to get there. He was desperate and eager to be in the mainstream again. The industry had acted like a parental figure to him, without its guidance and acceptance he was nothing. His identity and true self was bought and sold many years ago. The only way he could regain it was to get back in the game and redeem himself.
He dumped the remaining water from his water bottle onto the fire. The Lakers game had ended now, and the crowds roar had died down. Justin had sat outside many times before, but tonight was the first time he'd had an epiphany. Existing and living in the past was not how he wanted to be remembered. He was a musician through and through and he belonged in the limelight. The stage WAS his home, and as much as he hated the Neil Owens article, he came to realize that the reason he hated it so much, was because he'd made him feel vulnerable and exposed. Justin didn't belong on the bleachers or on the outside looking in, he was made to be the main act, and that was exactly what he was going to be again. The scary thing about his determination was that he was willing to do whatever he had to do to get there once more. He just hoped that this time it wouldn't be exposed.
