“Holy monkeypants,” said Adam Levine as he ripped off his sweaty white t-shirt backstage, revealing the Pokemon tattoos under his armpits. “That was a fun show. Wasn’t it guys?”
“Yeah, you’re the best, Adam,” said some other guy in Maroon 5.
“Your voice is sweeter than a cotton candy milkshake,” said another bandmate.
“I don’t know my own name, but I’m very excited to be this close to Adam Levine,” said the drummer.
“So what should we do now?” asked Adam.
A cacophony of suggestions erupted from a converging swarm of band members, gaffers, publicists, music executives, and more: “Watch reruns of The Voice!” “Bathe in your smile!” “Make tracing-paper rubbings of your abs!”
Adam was used to this. People loved him. They always had. They craved him. He was the chocolate glacier in their peanut butter valley. But truth be told, sometimes the adulation got to be too much. Adam knew people meant well, but it was sometimes hard for him to relate to others. He had formed deep friendships with a couple of people, like Hugh Hefner and Wilt Chamberlain, but it was hard for him to connect to regular people, especially those who hadn’t even slept with thousands of women yet.
“You know what?” Adam said. “I think I’m going to just go to my dressing room and relax.” He was sick of all of the hangers on. He needed to find real people, real people with uneven arms and legs and asymmetrical spleens. His deepest yearning was to relate to the commoners.
So, he checked his twitter feed.
There was the usual slew of tweets from adoring fans. He scanned through them quickly until he saw something of interest. A tweet from one @chopped_liver:
“@AdamLevine How come u get all the girls and I don’t? How can I be like u?”
“Hmmm,” Adam said. “Hmmmmmmm indeed. This young man is indubitably a candidate for my super top secret academy.”
Philanthropy was not something that Adam Levine was known for. Sure, he had signed a grateful boob or two in his day, which everyone recognized as a sweet act by a kind man. But little did they know that his real good works took place behind closed doors. Adam stroked the perfectly sculpted stubble on his perfect chin, and thought back to when his charity first commenced, all those years ago.
***
February 2011
“I’ll have a pepperoni slice and a root beer,” Adam said.
The vivacious Italian woman behind the counter said, “It’s on the house. And I am too.”
***
Present Day
“Hmmmmm, wrong flashback. Let me try again.” Adam pondered, and then pondered some more. “Ah yes,” he said to himself. “I remember now…”
