A Growing Star: Chapter 1

Sawyer drunkenly stumbled backstage and collapsed on the nearest couch. His shirtless torso glistened with sweat, illuminating the ripples of his abs and the curve of his waxed chest. He searched the pockets of his skin tight skinny jeans and then his boots to no avail. 

“Fuck!” shouted Sawyer. “Cigarette! Someone get me a goddamn cigarette!”

A nervous stage hand procured one from his shirt pocket and gave Sawyer a light. The singer took a long, sumptuous drag and exhaled. He repeated this action a few times and seemed to calm down.

“These crowds,” he looked at his manager, Tony, and shook his head. “Two years ago this venue woulda been packed. Now it’s just horny teenage faggots who only know ‘Your Peach.’ This album is so much better than that, Tony, so much better.”

“Look Sawyer, you’re a one hit wonder. Your days of playing to a huge crowd are in the past. The album is phenomenal, but artistic integrity doesn’t have a broad audience.”

Sawyer mumbled something under his breath. It was the final show of his tour and the whole production had barely broke even. Money wasn’t important after the success of ‘Your Peach,’ but he didn’t want to be known as a failure. After months of A&R, promotional interviews, and touring Sawyer was exhausted and defeated. 

“Can someone order a pizza?” the star demanded. “Pepperoni, large.”

Sawyer never expected ‘Your Peach’ to go viral. He had spent years uploading emotional ballads and heartfelt diddies to Soundcloud. ‘Your Peach’ was a joke that came from a drunken night with his friends. He almost didn’t upload it, but once he did his life took a whole new trajectory. Within months he was all over the radio and forced to hire a manager and publicist who groomed his formerly unkempt look into that of a bona fide popstar. It began with a personal trainer, and then spray tans, a new wardrobe, teeth whitening, body hair removal, etc. He was practically unrecognizable from the pale and gawky twunk of his early twenties, self-conscious of his goofy smile and the dark fuzz covering his body. 

One would think his sex life would improve with a makeover and newfound groupies, but Sawyer was so stressed he could barely focus on dating or even hooking up. The Hollywood machine was fierce and he devoted himself to building a career. He would attend parties purely to network, always being careful not to drink too much or make a fool of himself. Life as a famous singer was far more stressful than how he had imagined as a kid. 

“You know what,” Sawyer gruffly exclaimed. “I need a fuckin’ vacation. I need a goddamn break. You hear that Tony? Tony! Can you make that happen?”

“We can clear a couple weeks in your calendar before you’re back in the studio for the next album. What are we thinking? Mykonos? Ibiza?”

“Two weeks? Fuck that, I need real time off. Like, more than two weeks.”

“Okay Sawyer, what are we talking here? I can tell the label that you need to get your creative juices flowing. But keep in mind we signed a three album deal and you’re only two thirds of the way there. So… there’s only so much I can do.”

Sawyer sighed, “Have the pizza, some shrimp cocktails, and a bottle of whiskey sent to my room and we’ll discuss tomorrow. I’m fucking exhausted.”