-So a cop pulls out from behind me and immediately hits the lights. I say shit and everybody looks behind me and sees the cop. We exchange a bunch of “oh man, you’re getting pulled over,” and “how fast were you going” and stuff like that. I mean I was going maybe 40 in a 30 but whatever. First thing Jobe says is “Mitch, you have to keep your streak alive”--the streak being pulled over four times and never getting a speeding ticket.
-You’ve never gotten a speeding ticket, Mitch?
-Never. Now so anyway the guys in the back learn my history of talking my way out of speeding tickets but I’ve only had to do it once when somebody was in the car, and that was only one person. Here I am, high, with three other high guys in the car and with four previous warnings. So I know I’m never going to be able to talk my way out of this. It won’t happen. I’m toast. It’s about this time I realize I still haven’t pulled over.
-What.
-Mitch. You idiot.
-So I pull into this parking lot and the cop gets out. One of those big cops, and there’s actually another cop still in the car. I roll down the window trying to figure out how to explain myself and bam. He just gives me the ticket. None of the normal chit-chat, “Where are you going?” stuff like that. But I look at the ticket and I can’t read it. It’s just gibberish. I give it back to the officer and say, I can’t read this. He looks at it and he can’t read it either. So he actually takes it back to the cop car to show the other cop. Now I have more time to form a plan. I think about just driving off. I think about running away from the car. I think about fainting and letting the other guys deal with it. Then it hits me. I’ll just wake up. So I did. I woke up.
-What.
-It was a dream?
-Yeah. Good story though, wasn’t it?
-God dammit, Mitch.
Though there were two slices left on the pizza tray large enough to double as a manhole cover, Blair figured she couldn’t eat anymore after swallowing that bullshit story of Mitch’s dream. She got out of her seat and went to the soda fountain for a refill. While watching the sarcastic beauty of her glass filling up, Blair was on the verge of inspiration when the smell of hairspray nearly knocked her down. Blair turned around to see a girl ten years her junior standing there. Hey, this stranger with a smile said. You see that guy over there? Blair confirmed, adding that his name was Mitch. Is he famous or something, the stranger asked.
-Something, Blair responded.
-What?
-He’s not famous.
-I’ve seen him somewhere.
-He’s got one of those faces.
-Yeah. He must.
Feeling the inquiry was over, Blair went back and sat at the table. With a slightly lowered voice, Blair asked Mitch if he had been on TV recently because some girl recognized him. Was she hot, Mitch asked with some concern. No, I think she was in high school. Oh. Seph and Mitch ate the last two slices of pizza with no debate, as Blair, Lily and Emmit sat dumbfounded at the possibility of someone recognizing Mitch.
For Blair, it wasn’t much more than a puzzle. She also wondered how this knowledge was going to affect everybody else, if at all. Lily couldn’t escape the feeling that she was jealous but really didn’t want to be. It’s not like Mitch and this mystery girl started making out. Hell, Mitch didn’t even seem interested after learning she was just under his age range. What if Mitch is famous? I wonder what it’s like to know somebody famous. Probably better than being famous. Hopefully. Like Lily, Emmit found himself painfully, and unexplainably, forgotten. Why can’t I ever get noticed, thought Emmit. I even have a Ben Foster look going on. Kind of.
So do people clap at open mic reading, started Mitch to nobody in particular. Nobody stopped him or confirmed his suspicion so Mitch went on to explain that he thinks most amateur poets seem depressing, like goth people and stuff. So if they write a poem about the miseries in the world or suicide or something, is it still appropriate to cheer and clap when they walk off stage? Just doesn’t seem like it’s helping.
During Mitch’s un-commissioned set, Seph received a phone call. And while it reminded Blair to get a new phone, the call also caught everyone’s attention when Seph put down his drink and said, “Where did you see me? YouTube? No shit.”
As if “No Shit” were the magic words, Emmit, Lily and Mitch’s phones started to play three very different ring tones. Everybody answered, giving everybody else one-half of three conversations.
You saw what? Who saw the video? Who saw what? It was an accident; how can you even—No, that’s insane, I’ve never been famous before—but I usually just drink the whole thing!
Barely remembering the dog outside, the group rushed back to the closest house (Emmit’s) and ran to the computer. Again, knowing everyone was excited but not knowing why, Bogart ran with them and smiled with his eyes in that way only dogs can do. In Emmit’s bedroom, everybody got their hands on the laptop keyboard and started slapping at each other. Get back! Let me! It’s my computer! What the hell is all this?
Seph got his finger on the touch pad long enough to exit a half-dozen poker related websites, but not long enough to type in what everybody else was trying to type. Ow! Stop pushing me! You slapped my hand! No! That’s not how you spell Shasta! I know how to spell! You spelled it with a ‘j’! Lily did it! Did not!
Seph got into the chair completely and everybody backed off enough and leaned over his shoulder as he found the video Blair put online less than two hours ago. Holy…something.
10,512,469 views.
They were famous. Internet-famous, but famous nonetheless. Blair knocked Seph out of the chair and sat down at the computer to start reading the posted comments about the video. There were thousands. Lily and Mitch laughed and Seph stepped back into a corner to think. Blair continued reading the comments in horror and went to her profile to see her previously uploaded videos had spiked in views. All the new comments ranged between “this is stupid” to “not as good as Fire, Shasta and a Dog Sneeze.” They knew her name. She was somebody. She was the girl who made “Fire, Shasta and a Dog Sneeze.” A girl who made a zany three-minute video loved by cyber-nerds. But only cyber-nerds.
Emmit got everyone’s attention by calling for them like he found a horse in the living room. He had turned on the TV and learned more than they had. Chiefly that they were on TV. The latest Internet hit? Fire, Shasta and a Dog Sneeze. A video that epitomizes the everyday adventures of aimless bohemians. Aimless? Adventures? Who pities us? This is all too confusing. CNN reported the group’s video had 14 million views. No, 19 million. No, now it’s 27 million. That’s incredible. Mitch and Lily danced with Bogart, who, again, didn’t know what was going on but liked dancing.
The group was famous. CNN-famous, but famous nonetheless. That settled it. If Blair Freeman was ever going to be taken seriously again she’d have to create a new account. She’d have to change her real name. How much money do we get, asked Mitch to anyone who would answer him. None, sorry. Emmit suggested there might be a way. Maybe if we appear at birthday parties. Blair kept thinking about names. So, continued Mitch, should we light more stuff on fire? Blair couldn’t even hear anybody over the sounds of gears grinding. Joelle is a good name. Everybody except for Blair kept getting phone calls. Blair also liked the name Kimble.
Lily received a text message. It was from Cassidy.
-[Lily! We should get lunch tomorrow!]
-[Sounds good.]
-[Mind if I bring some other people?]
-[Not at all. Bring everybody!]
-[Cool!]
Seph turned off his phone and walked over to Blair. He put his hand on her shoulder and spoke under everybody else on the phones and TV. We need to make another video and quick, he said. Blair agreed but wanted to elaborate. It had to be different, they can’t just make a sequel--it has to go in a completely new direction. Even if the second video is less popular, we need to prove we can do more than just be accidentally stupid. We need to make something good.
Seph didn’t entirely disagree. He also wanted to be proud of whatever his name was attached to. But he wanted them, the group, to say something. Regardless of what we say, millions of people will listen. We’ve been handed the biggest microphone in the world; we can’t just sing a song or tell a joke. We will never get the guaranteed viewership we have right now.
-How is it guaranteed, Seph?
-Because people know who we are and when they know who you are, they listen, and that’s the point of everything.
The back and forth council between Seph and Blair stayed soft, private and minimum for only a little while. Before the video could be shown twice on TV, all of the friends got involved with the deliberation. Unfortunately the only thing they could agree on was the indisputable, indefinite, extraordinary and unexplainable fact that they had an audience.
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