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9:40 a.m.
I battled my way through the throng of media and Steven groupies outside the Gazette offices and squeezed myself into my car in the parking lot. A crowd of at least fifty. I could almost handle the media hounding me, but the groupies were another thing altogether. More than a handful wore dark brown t-shirts with “Steven” printed on them in cheap iron-on lettering. My column had created a Steven cult, of sorts. Unbelievable.
I cranked the ignition. As I backed up the car, several of the fanatics pressed against the windows, as if trying to catch a glimpse of their favourite rockstar inside his limousine. But trust me, my old Ford Tempo was no limo. The Clint Eastwood part of the mythology had spawned a fashion trend involving Mexican ponchos and beat-up cowboy hats. A couple of tattooed teen girls who seemed to think that they were at Lolapalooza were chanting, “Ste-ven, Ste-ven, we want Ste-ven!” But I wasn’t a rock star and I wasn’t Steven—I didn’t even come close to having that kind of talent, on either count.
An image of the zombies in Romero’s film Night of The Living Dead sprang to mind.
I drove the car slowly, afraid I might run over someone and face criminal charges. The tabloids and TV entertainment shows would milk something like that for weeks. With just enough room, I angled the car down the lane towards the main road. One-by-one, the media and groupies fell to the wayside. A tall, geeky guy with a homemade Steven t-shirt sprinted after me as I sped out onto the road. In the rearview mirror I saw his stick-bug body and his double thumbs-up to me, saluting me.
If I’d seen this in a movie, I would have laughed really hard, but now I only wanted to cry.
