The Vagaries

Ladies and gentlemen, step right up!

Just beyond the velvet portals, you’ll find the FREAK!

The FALLEN!

The poor, unfortunate spawn of a murderous monster!

Marvel at the mysteries nature dared to create!

Is she order or is she chaos?

Creation or destruction?

Is she beauty or is she beast?

Witness her daring, her recklessness, her colossal amounts of IS THIS BITCH FUCKING FOR REAL RIGHT NOW?

You are now entering The Vagaries…

---

“Don’t be an idiot, Jenovia. You think I got here alone? You think I didn’t have help? You don’t know who could see you. You don’t know what opportunities may come from being seen on that carpet.”

“I don’t have a dress.”

He scoffs at me.

“I’ll call Elie Saab right now, and you’ll have your pick of couture by tomorrow morning.”

But the momentary absence of a gown wasn’t why I was refusing to accompany him on the red carpet.

His world was beginning to overshadow mine; his enormous generosity left me gobsmacked and wary. Even with his devotion and commitment to making my dreams come true, I felt parts of myself being coached, molded in a way that felt like self-betrayal.

This was a time in my life when I was presented with everything I had ever wanted, or thought I wanted in my painfully naive 20s, and once it was mine, I hated it. This “dream life” offered to me on a silver, blindingly sparkling platter repulsed me. The access, the potential fame if I chose it, the money, his private jet, his multiple homes on different continents, his keys to open doors to rooms I didn’t even know existed. A life of ease and privilege, where I never had to worry about logistics or monetary limitations.
All because a man was enamored with me. A mostly kind but sometimes cutting, controlling, and wildly possessive man.

His, his, his, his, his, his.

In his heart and under his thumb.

This man was powerful, revered, worshiped. I would watch as people crumbled in his presence, bursting into tears as they described how his work had forever changed their lives. The way he handled this adoration was full of grace and gratitude, marked by the utmost patience. He never turned anyone away.

His fame and accomplishments were so imposing that anyone in his orbit was relegated to a supporting player. It wasn't his intention, but it was out of his control.

Being the center of his gaze meant everything I did and said, and everyone I spoke to, was under a magnifying glass. He had opinions on everything and everyone that crossed my path.

Yes, there was kindness, but there were also petty, cutting observations that were too frequent to ignore.

Accepting this life, saying yes to being photographed walking the red carpet in Cannes on his arm, saying yes to being with him, would mean walking straight into a cage. A mind-blowingly gilded cage, but a cage, nonetheless.

I would not cross the threshold.

The argument that ensued remains one of the most definitive moments of my life.

That evening, I packed my bags and left for Paris. We didn’t speak for ten months.

*
I’m twelve years old, watching a movie with my 9mm next to me. It’s the only defense that makes me feel safe when I’m home alone after my brother and parents die. The weapon is beautiful, and she’s mine. Beside her, I do not shake; I do not gasp. A metal mother. My protector. She cannot die.

Only my brother knows I have it, and he’s no snitch. In the rare instances he appears on our doorstep, I see the guilt at his inability to be there for me, to live in the house where our parents died, where I almost died, linger in his eyes. He can barely look at me. He can barely stand being in this place. I don’t blame him. I can’t stand being here either, but I’m trapped by age and circumstance. A prisoner yet again, but this time the stakes are different. I have protection, some control, and if I make it out of here alive, I promise myself I’ll leave this town, this place where dreams go to die.

A man appears on the screen, one of the most beautiful men I had ever seen in my very short life. Something about his voice and his eyes…a shock, a stirring. Familiarity. I felt dizzy. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Watching him dazzle on screen was a much-needed respite from the ever-present grim reality I relentlessly survived.

I would see him in films throughout the years and feel that same odd familiarity every time he appeared on screen. It was bizarre, but my entire life was already so incredibly peculiar, I tossed it into the pile with the rest of my unanswered questions.

*
Five months after Cannes, after I said no to the red carpet and no to everything I had thought I wanted, finally back on American soil, lost, shaken, confused as to what transpired and why, I would look across a crowded room and see the very same actor staring at me in the last city you’d ever expect him to be in.

I recognized him immediately and immediately looked away.

I turn to my roommate and rejoin the conversation, but I can’t help taking one more glance; he’s still staring. Subtlety is nowhere to be found. His staring is so intent and absurd, I feel compelled to smile and wave. He waves back with an enormous grin.

Fuck.

Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, he walks into mine.

Gotdamn. I’m either a witch or the universe has got one wild sense of humor, probably both.

My body feels tense, and I need fresh air. I walk towards the exit of the very obscure cocktail bar my friends and I frequented to sit on the front patio, making sure not to look in his direction when I pass him. No one is outside, so I sit on one of the many vacant loveseats. Not five seconds later, he is in front of me, asking if the seat next to me is taken, and if he can sit down?

“Yes, you may.”

He holds out his hand and introduces himself; he is so close to me, I have to turn my body to face him. I don’t mind it.

I tell him my name and his eyes widen. He repeats it, then tells me it’s beautiful, and how much he loves it. Unable to keep up the charade any longer, I say, “I know who you are.”

“Oh, you do?”

I nod and try not to grin.

His gentle coyness was utterly charming; this man starred in one of the highest-grossing films of all time. He was inducted into the cultural canon years ago. Almost everyone in this damn bar knows who he is, but they leave him alone. Most Texans weren’t in the business of worshiping anyone but Jesus.

I find the idea of viewing anyone as above me or below me preposterous, and, considering the circumstances I’d abandoned just months before, I wanted out of that world. Being around fame and celebrity had long ceased to be a novelty, and now it was something I deliberately avoided.
I’d seen and heard enough to last a lifetime, but once again, it found me.

If it was anyone else, I would have hightailed it right out of there, but it was him, the familiar one, and now he was sitting right in front of me, live and in person.

---

The Vagaries is a series I’ll be posting here and a book I’m writing offline. It is the story of my life.
For now, the next installment will arrive after Caught in my Web 🕸️ #36. I’m also writing a literary thriller that’s intimidating the merde out of me, but if not me, then who? If not now, then when?

My aim is to sign a two-book deal, and baby, when I’m locked in, I rarely miss.

I was reading an interview some months ago, and the writer said that most people haven’t lived extraordinary lives, and I thought, lucky them.

There are some who are here to remind you to feel pleased with ordinary, to find deep comfort in it. These people are important and necessary. In my youth, I very much longed for ordinary. It often gets a bad rap as boring. I assure you, it’s not. It’s lovely and soothing. Some of us have never had ordinary lives and must find a way to relate to others who can connect to the extraordinary.
Please do not misinterpret my use of extraordinary as always wonderful or aspirational. As beautiful and wondrous as my life has been at times, the extraordinary has also brought about the deepest, most painful wounds. Losses that have been monstrous to scale, grief that has very nearly killed me.

My extraordinary life has often made me feel extraordinarily lonely.

In writing The Vagaries, I hope I can find more of my people along the way.

Whether you relate or not, it’s going to be one helluva ride.

I hope you’ll join me.

Love always,

Jenovia

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