The Prince & The Popstar

Six Feet Under The Stars

"And I think myself deserving of a little time off
We can kick it here for hours
And just mouth off about the world
And how we know it's going straight to hell"
— All Time Low

     For the first time in a long time, Vincent found himself at a loss for words. His mind pulled him in several different directions, quickly shuffling through all of the outcomes of his conversational decisions. Saying nothing wasn't an option; neither was sitting in denial; both would lead to Lena storming off, out of the restaurant. Stacking additional lies atop the delicate foundation of the masquerade would quickly escalate the situation, ultimately leading to Vincent being painted in a corner and ending with a slap to the face.
     Lena was right. It was time for the truth.
     "Do you think we could discuss this somewhere else?" Vincent asked, looking around at all of the patrons of the local morning hotspot.
     Lena sighed and then replied, "Fine." She took a rolled-up stack of crisp $100 bills from her bra and placed one underneath her beige, ceramic coffee cup. Then, she stood up, her chair loudly scraping against the concrete flooring, and she made a beeline for the side exit.
     Vincent power-walked beside her, keeping up with her long strides, made by her thin, but toned legs which went on for miles. They followed the sidewalk for a few blocks in complete silence, stopping at a park bench just outside of The Rosenberg Railroad Museum. The bench was placed right next to "The Quebec"—a fully-restored, sky-blue business railcar from 1879. Lena sat down, crossed her legs, and folded her arms; she was ready for some answers.
     "Okay—allow me to address the obvious," Vincent said, sliding back into his native accent as he sat down next to Lena. "I am not Rufus Spencer. I am Prince Vincent of Verastoria. Mr. Spencer and I have swapped lives for the time being."
     "And who exactly thought that was a good idea?" Lena replied flatly.
     "Well, I went to extraordinary lengths to proposition Mr. Spencer," Vincent explained. "But, we both wanted to take full advantage of our unique circumstances."
     "'Unique circumstances'—that's one hell of an understatement."
     "I'm unable to find a more fitting term."
     "How about 'insane notion' or 'half-baked scheme'?"
     "I know it all seems a little misguided," Vincent admitted. "But, I've put a great deal of thought into this—countless hours of research and rehearsal. I wanted to be prepared for anything."
     "How very 'boy-scout-y' of you."
     "I truly thought I was—you know, prepared for anything. But, it all kind of went out the window when I met you."
     "I'm sorry I threw a wrench in your plans. Are we approaching the moment where you tell me to keep my mouth shut?"
     "I would never phrase it that way," Vincent expressed. "Think of it more like being in on the secret."
     "Well, I do like the sound of that," Lena replied. "It makes me feel special." She paused for a brief moment. "Wait a second—are you feeding my incessant need for inclusion to throw me off of the fact that you've done nothing but lie to me?"
     "That depends," Vincent said. "Is it working?"
     "For the moment, yes," Lena retorted. "But, I reserve the right to change my mind at any time."
     "That's your prerogative," Vincent said, flashing a smile. "Nevertheless, I'll do whatever I can to stay in your good graces."
     "Smart. You really don't want to experience my wrath; it's often in public and uploaded as an Instagram story."
     "Duly noted," Vincent replied, just before his phone chimed with a text notification. He read the message aloud: "Remember, you have an engagement at HSPVA today. Be there at noon for the alumni luncheon. A student assembly is immediately afterwards. Consult the talking points I emailed you; these students will eat you alive if you're not on your A-Game."
     "I really do admire Savannah's brutal honesty," Lena said, catching a glance of the messaging thread.
     "Yes, it's a real treat," Vincent said sarcastically. "What in the world is 'HSPVA'?"
     "It's The High School for the Performing and Visual Arts," Lena explained. "My Uncle Frank is the principal there; he called in a favor from my father, who, in turn, asked for a favor from Rufus. And you should know, my father doesn't do a whole lot of asking. He's more of a 'I-command-you-to-do-this-or-something-terrible-will-befall-you' kind of guy."
     "Good to know," Vincent replied as he opened a few self-published apps on his phone. "I suppose I should go over the talking points."
     "You have access to Rufus' inbox?" Lena asked.
     Vincent held up his index finger as his phone dinged a few times. His decrypting apps had done their magic. "I do now," he said, grinning. He took a minute to scan the bullet-points listed out on the email. "Alright. It all seems pretty straight-forward. Would you mind giving me a lift?"
     "Not at all, Prince Vince," Lena answered, fiddling with the fidget-spinner on her keyring. "I'm a little curious about how you're going to handle the situation. Rufus knows how to work a room; I'd really like to see if you can do the same."
     Thanks to Lena's lead foot, she and Vincent arrived early at the alumni luncheon, which gave the principal, Dr. Franklin Redding, a little bit of time to review the itinerary as well as a list of must-meet attendees.
     "I really want to thank you for fitting us into your schedule," Dr. Redding said, his mouth barely visible due to his glorious handlebar mustache, which created a strong resemblance to a younger Sam Elliott.
     "It's no trouble at all," Vincent replied. "I'm happy to do it."
     After a catered meal from the highly-rated Pinkerton's Barbeque, Vincent went on to schmooze the graduates of the elite, distinguished institution, which led to many sizeable, much-needed donations necessary for the renovation and expansion of the school's black box theater. Once the notable contributors were satisfied, Dr. Redding escorted Vincent to the stage left wing of the theater as Lena followed closely behind. Vincent could hear the chattering of the 781 young, hopeful artists who formed the student body. Adrenaline began coursing through his veins while he attempted to keep an even breathing pattern.
     Lena patted him on the back. "Keep this in mind, Prince Vince. It's something I learned a long time ago," she said, leaning in close. "If you can't dazzle them with your brilliance, baffle them with your bullshit."
     Dr. Redding walked out onto the apron of the stage where a miked podium had been placed. "Good afternoon, students. I'd like to thank you for sacrificing your Sunday afternoon plans for this very rare occasion," he said, his hands clutching the edges of the podium. "We have an incredibly gifted, wildly popular speaker with us today. He is an Academy Award nominee, a native Houstonian, and the front-man for the chart-topping band, 90 Percent Ninja. Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to Rufus Spencer."
     The entire teenage audience erupted in applause, hooting and hollering at the top of their lungs. Vincent walked out on stage and waved, then shook hands with the principal and took his place at the podium.
     "Thank you so much. It's great to be here," Vincent said as the cheers subsided. "I'm here to talk to you today about the ins and outs of the performing arts. You have already taken an important step: You're a part of the most promising young individuals and have been hand-selected from a heavily populated pool in one of the country's largest cities. That—in and of itself—is an astonishing accomplishment. Take pride in the fact that your unquestionable gifts have been recognized and acknowledged. Now, while you complete the comprehensive curriculum this institution commands, it's vitally important that you never stop absorbing the unending information that's presented to you, be it in a lecture or an excerpt from reading. Michael Chekhov really puts things into perspective in his book, On The Techniques Of Acting. He expands on the necessity for a performer to long for knowledge, writing that "[this] longing... makes the real artist brave. He never adheres to the first image that appears to him, because he knows that this is not necessarily the richest and more correct. He sacrifices one image for another, more intense and expressive, and he does this repeatedly until new and unknown visions strike him with their revealing spell."
     Every member of the audience hung onto every last word of Vincent's impromptu speech. He pulled additional references from the straight-forward and unpretentious Declan Donnellan, who penned The Actor And The Target, as well as Stella Adler's The Art of Acting, which expanded on an actor's technique that was rooted in the ability to imagine a character's world. He closed things with casting director Michael Shurtleff's "12 Guideposts for Actors", found in his book, Audition, which touched on invaluable, practical advice for everything from the relationships that develop throughout a script to the importance of "The Johari Window", a visual framework used to further understand conscious and unconscious biases.
     "I'd like to thank Dr. Redding for making this assembly happen," Vincent said, looking off into the wings. "And I hope I gave you a few things to think about as you continue your endeavor into the world of the performing arts. I'm rooting for you."
     The students rose to their feet, giving Vincent a validating, standing ovation. He smiled widely, waving to them as he exited stage left. He walked up to Lena, who was leaning against the wooden cutout of a tree, her arms folded.
     "I've gotta hand it to you," she said, exhaling deeply. "You definitely have the stage-presence down."
     "I'm going to consider that high praise," Vincent replied.
     "But, I wanna see if you can really hang like Rufus Spencer," she said as she led Vincent to the theater's loading dock, situated near the school's parking lot. They soon set off in her Tesla and made it down the interstate, just before rush-hour began. Their destination: Katy Mills Mall, an outlet mall with a number of name-brand stores which covered 1.3 million ft² of retail space.
     Once inside, Lena took Vincent past the food court and over to Edith's Magical Wardrobe, a one-stop-shop for all costuming needs.
     "What are we doing here?" Vincent asked.
     "We are picking out costumes for tonight's Capes & Cowls party in Midtown," Lena replied as she searched the racks for something that was right on the line of sexy and scandalous. "Try to avoid the obvious—Superman, Batman, Iron Man. Dare to be different."
     "Wait—Midtown? Isn't that one of the city's main hubs for nightlife establishments?"
     "It sure is. And tonight is going to be fire."
     "How are we going to get in anywhere? We're both underage."
     "Do you really think the rules apply to people like us? Wow, Prince Vince—you are unbelievably naïve."
     "I would say I'm more 'cautiously realistic'."
     "Well, let me adjust your thinking. We are members of the upper-echelon of society; we're not bound by the common rules and restrictions. Any and all limitations are self-inflicted."
     "You don't find that a little arrogant?"
     "Not at all. It's just a simple truth. Look, during the early 90's, my father helped put together The Midtown Redevelopment Authority; they were the ones responsible for the gentrification that slowly took place all the way through the early 2000's. My family's name is all over the lease agreements for almost every business in the area. I'm on a first-name basis with virtually every general manager in a ten-block radius. All you need to worry about is your alcohol tolerance. Now, pick a costume."
     After browsing the thousands of costumes in the store, Vincent and Lena made their selections, then hit up the nearest Whataburger for a quick bite before using their restrooms for a fast change. Lena put on a jet-black wig with long bangs along with a leotard with a white trim. She completed her ensemble with a dark cape, fishnet stockings, and thigh-high, patent leather boots. She had fully embraced the sorceress Zatanna, a lesser-known heroine from the DC Universe. Vincent had a more understated costume with a form-fitting hoodie, black leggings underneath nylon basketball shorts, and a pair of high-tops. He completed the look with the black and red mask of the Miles Morales iteration of Spider-Man. The important thing was Lena approved.
     When they arrived in Midtown, it was just after twilight. The cityscape began to light up with large, illuminated signs and various neons positioned in the front-facing windows of the highly-frequented establishments. Lena managed to find a prime parking space, right next to the famous and heavily-photographed Midtown sculpture, which took the individual letters of "midtown" and placed them a few yards apart, each letter standing several feet high.
     As they approached The Dogwood—the locale for The Capes & Cowls event—Lena opened her clutch and pulled out a folded piece of heavy-stock paper.
     "What's that?" Vincent asked.
     "This party is 'By Invitation Only'," she explained. "And this is our ticket in."
     The double-decker bar was filled with the city's top social media influencers, all donning the masks and costumes of their favorite superheroes. This stretched beyond the Marvel and DC universes with nods to classics, such as The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and The Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers, all the way to current, newly-branded franchises, like The Boys and The Umbrella Academy.
     Vincent and Lena strolled over to the bartop and waited for one of the busy bartenders, all of them undoubtedly "in the weeds".
     "Alright—Lesson Number 1," Lena said, waving over a bartender. "Mixed drinks are for amateurs. You're gonna want to stick with shots; they're quick, they're effective, and they reach your mouth before anyone can slip something in." The bartender stepped on top of a case of beer, leaning over the bartop to give Lena a hug.
     "The usual?" the bartender asked, juggling a few rocks glasses which she then set on a rubber bar mat.
     "Yes, Liz, make it two, thank you. You're a peach," Lena replied, flashing her Cheshire smile.
     "Did you see Tyson?" Liz asked as she poured two shots of Jägermeister alongside a can of Red Bull which had been split into two separate glass tumblers.
     "We haven't run into him yet," Lena said, scanning the crowded room. "What superhero do I need to look for?"
     "Thor," Liz answered, pushing the glasses toward Vincent and Lena. "I saw him a little earlier doing a belly-shot off of some tramp dressed as Supergirl. He's absolutely shameless."
     "Oh, I know," Lena replied, handing Vincent a shot and a tumbler. Liz scampered off, tending to another one of the many guests lined up, waiting to get soused.
     "My God, what is this?" Vincent asked, smelling the potent liquid courage.
     "It's a Jäger-Bomb," Lena explained. "Drop the shot in the Red Bull and down it all as fast you can."
     Vincent lifted up the bottom of his mask and did as instructed, immediately starting to cough after he swallowed. "Whoa..."
     "Tastes like licorice and regret, doesn't it?" Lena asked, just after downing hers like a seasoned professional.
     "That's a pretty accurate description," Vincent replied, tapping his chest a couple times.
     "Okay—Lesson Number 2," Lena said, pulling on Vincent's arm. "Dance like no one's watching."
     "I'm not sure that's such a good idea," Vincent said, pulling back.
     "Get out of your head and onto the dance floor. This bar is full of white twenty-somethings with no rhythm whatsoever. You have nothing to be embarrassed about."
     Vincent followed Lena to the designated dancing space and focused on the thumping kick drum of the DJ's house music, trying to silence his inner-critic and not worry about what his flailing arms and legs must have looked like. Lena moved incredibly well, adding a little bit of flair by pirouetting whenever the bass dropped. Once Vincent relaxed, he actually found himself having a good time. It was a strange, yet welcoming feeling. He and Lena danced for a few songs, then made a trip to the bar, repeating this pattern for a couple of hours. After the fifth Jäger-Bomb, Vincent felt an entirely new feeling—invincibility.
     "Okay, okay, it's time we hopped," Lena said, leading Vincent out of the packed establishment.
     "Where are we going?" Vincent asked.
     "Come on—you're gonna love it."
     The next stop on their Midtown adventure was the always-entertaining Pete's Dueling Piano Bar, a live music venue where astoundingly talented musicians take song requests from the audience and perform them right there, on the spot. They covered just about every genre with renditions of Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline" and Elton John's "Bennie and The Jets" as well as their own spins on The Killers' "Mr. Brightside" and Garth Brooks' "Friends in Low Places". Vincent was blown away by the catalog of hits that these musicians had committed to memory. He watched in drunken awe while Lena happily sang along with the accomplished pianists.
     "So, you like?" Lena asked, yelling over the blaring music.
     "Oh, I like," Vincent replied, still mesmerized by the sheer talent on stage.
     "Why aren't you singing along? That's really part of the experience."
     "I guess I'm still drinking it all in."
     "Wait—you can sing, can't you?"
     "Yes, I can sing."
     "I'm sorry, Prince Vince, but I'm gonna need some proof. Follow me!"
      Lena seemed unfazed by the quantity of alcohol she had consumed and somehow managed to keep a brisk pace while they made their way to their next Midtown destination—Spotlight Karaoke.
     "Alright, let's see if you can make it through 'The Gong Show'," Lena shouted, not realizing how loud she was talking.
     "'The Gong Show'? Do I want to know?"
     "They set up a full-size gong next to the stage on Sunday nights. While you're singing, anyone from the audience can smash the gong if they feel like you're not up to snuff. If you're gong'd three times, the music stops and you're asked to step away from the microphone. It's like socially-approved heckling. You're gonna get a kick out of it, trust me."
     Before they entered the building, two slightly toasted young men walked out, laughing and rough-housing.
     "Oh, my God. Did you see Tyson Joules?" one asked the other.
     "Yeah, I did. He's totally shit-faced," the other replied.
     As they stumbled away, Lena turned to Vincent. "If you don't want to deal with a drunk Tyson, I'll completely understand. He's so obnoxious after he's had a few. We don't have to stay."
     "No, no," Vincent said, standing up straight. "Let's do this."
     As soon as they walked inside, the KJ announced to everyone, "Guys and dolls, we've got quite the surprise for you tonight. Next up—Tyson Joules!"
     The crowd went wild while Tyson took the stage. He had let his golden locks down from his usual man-bun and sported a leather vest without a shirt underneath. He held his replica of Mjölnir in one hand and grabbed the mic with the other.
     "How's we doin' tonight?" he slurred, a little off-balance. The audience clapped and screamed, anticipating something great.
     The two-chord intro to Eminem's "Lose Yourself" began to play and the crowd grew louder. As the well-known first verse of the track started scrolling on the many screens of the bar, Tyson fell about half-a-beat behind, trying his best to emulate the renowned rapper, but ultimately coming up short as the words he was shouting weren't lining up with the tempo of the music. Before the end of the first verse, someone in the audience struck the gong and the booing slowly began. Tyson didn't even make it through the chorus before being gong'd two more times, which prompted the music to stop.
     "You guys-ss ss-suck!" he yelled, shifting his weight from one side to the other. "You hear me? Y'all ss-suck!"
     The crowd continued to boo as Tyson hopped off the stage, staggering toward the restroom while he held his fist against his mouth.
     "Enjoying yourself?" Lena asked Vincent.
     "Why, yes, that really was satisfying," Vincent replied.
     "Give me a second. I'll be right back," Lena said, quickly disappearing in the crowd.
     The next singer on stage performed the one-note hit "Short Skirt/Long Jacket" by Cake, successfully making it to the end of the song, but was met with scattered applause. While the singer stepped down, Lena rejoined Vincent, bringing him yet another Jäger-Bomb.
     "Alright, folks, who's up next?" the KJ spoke into his wireless microphone headset. "It looks like it's none other than the spectacular Spider-Man!"
     "What?" Vincent asked Lena who couldn't see his wide eyes behind his mask. "Did you sign me up?"
     "Time to shine, Spider-Man," Lena replied, pushing Vincent toward the stage.
     For the first time, Vincent felt the overwhelming sensation of performance anxiety as he moved closer to the microphone. The crowd cheered as the distinct keyboard melody of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" began to play.
     Vincent took a deep breath and began to sing about the small-town girl livin' in a lonely world, the city boy from South Detroit, and the midnight train going anywhere. It was vibrant and pitch-perfect, drawing applause and wolf-whistles while showcasing Vincent's undeniable vocal range. Before the second verse started, during the instrumental break with an abbreviated guitar solo, Vincent made a bold decision; he removed his mask. Everyone in the audience had to do a double-take. The last thing they expected was an appearance by Rufus Spencer. All at once, they roared and it literally shook the walls of the bar.
     As Vincent hit the demanding notes of the chorus, the gong suddenly rang out and everyone looked over to see Tyson holding the mallet. This was immediately met with another wave of boos. Tyson held up his middle finger and threw the mallet at the wall, which was grounds for a bouncer to escort him outside. Once he was gone, the crowd continued on with their cheers while Vincent continued singing, urging them to hold onto that feelin'.
     The song ended, but the audience only grew louder, making Vincent feel as if he was being showered by genuine adoration. This was a high that Vincent found insanely addictive. He simply wanted more.
     After leaving the stage and bumping fists with several people in the crowd, Vincent sauntered toward the back of the room, a little swagger in each step as he joined a straight-faced Lena who was sitting at a pub table.
     "So, what'd you think?" he asked, wanting her unfiltered and honest opinion.
     "Well, I think you're quite talented," Lena replied, maintaining her blank expression. "You're just not Rufus Spencer."
     "What do you mean? The crowd went ballistic!"
     "They're drunk. Look, you obviously have mastered the technical elements of musicianship; however, you lack the dimension that Rufus brings to the stage. He doesn't just sing songs. He makes them an experience. He feels the music while you just read the music."
     "You really know how to take the wind out of someone's sails, don't you?"
     "If you want to perform at Rufus' level, you're gonna have to develop some thicker skin and be willing to step outside of your comfort zone. That's the God's honest truth."
     "I guess I have some homework then."
     "You certainly do."
     Vincent sighed. "Wow. I'm exhausted. Do you want to get out of here?"
     "Yeah, I think our livers would appreciate that. We've done enough damage for one night."
     As soon as they walked out the door, they were approached by a stumbling Tyson, who was struggling to stay vertical.
     "I'll be damned. It's Rufus-ss Ss-pencer," he stuttered. "Who doesn't love Rufus-ss Ss-pencer?"
     "Go home, Tyson," Lena said sternly. "You're drunk."
     "I'm juss-t waiting for my ride, ss-weetheart," he slowly replied. "But, I want you to know, Miss-ter Ss-pencer, this-ss is the lass-t time you humiliate me..."
     "What are you talking about?" Vincent said, folding his arms. "You humiliated yourself."
     "No... No! It's-ss all your fault!" he exclaimed. "And juss-t you wait. You're gonna pay."
     "Well, my parade's still waiting on that rain of yours," Vincent jabbed. "Perhaps you read the forecast wrong."
     "It's-ss juss-t the calm before the ss-storm, my friend," Tyson retorted while a black Cadillac Escalade pulled up to the curb. "You'll be hearing from me ss-soon." And with that, he shuffled toward the vehicle, fighting with the handle for a moment before he clumsily threw himself inside.
     "Come on, Prince Vince," Lena said, rubbing his shoulder. "I'll take you home."
     
     Over the following few weeks, Vincent kept up with speaking engagements and meet-and-greets around town, using his free time to explore the city of Houston with Lena as a tour guide. They visited all of the top tourist destinations inside The Loop and all around the surrounding communities. Vincent stood inside Mission Control at NASA's Johnson Space Center where the famous words, "Houston, we have a problem," were first received. Lena took him down to Galveston Island where they booked a private tour of the pyramids in Moody Gardens. They screamed at the top of their lungs on a rickety ride aboard the wooden roller-coaster, The Boardwalk Bullet, a featured attraction in Kemah. They strapped on skates and raced each other for a few laps around The Ice, an indoor rink at The Galleria, Texas' largest shopping center. They were captivated by The Contemporary Arts Museum exhibit of T.J. Wilcox's "In The Air", an immersive, 360° panoramic view of the New York City skyline. They even carved out some time to visit The Houston Zoo after completing their tour of the elaborate Houston Murals. Their last big outing was a trip to the downtown theater district, where they scored front-row-center seats to the musical Identical, which was based on Erich Kästner's novel, The Parent Trap. Before the show started, Vincent looked up at the theater's Celestial Dome Ceiling, which held over 2,000 fiber-optic stars that replicated the Texas night sky. It was absolutely wondrous. This city was magical and Vincent was completely under its spell.