Just letting you know, I cried writing this piece.
I edited a LOT out just so anyone who felt the same wouldn't also.
(you'll see what I mean....eventually)
****
Brian and I flew like bats out of hell around all of Scotland looking for just the right materials. He had me (reluctantly) throw out all of my paints and most of my brushes; telling me that if I were to work on as important of a project as one for the prince of England in his name, I'd need to work with the best in order to not embarass him. He eventually looked at me, whilst sucking down coffe and said jokingly, "Or you."
I laughed.
I insisted that I pay for everything. But, like any ordinary figure of testosterone, he ignored me. I insisted again and again. Stupid stuff like that went on and I felt less like an equal and more and more like a little kid next to an idol with ever passing moment.
Later on, we were walking downtown on a crosswalk when I felt someone watching us.
I twisted around, not at all trying to hide the fact I was searching for someone back there. Brian stared back too, asking me, "What?"
"Some men are following us. I can see them on all the corners."
Brian stopped walking, once he was still I found that I was right and men with cameras raged up to us, snapping pictures.
"Manson! What are you up to these days? Any song writing going on?!"..."Manson! Is it true that you're seeing another woman?"..."Manson! Look here! Over here!"..."Fourty-two and still got game, eh?"...
I was half blinded. Every camera had a bright flash and many snapped at one time, I stumbled backwards, Brian's hand was on my shoulder, stopping me.
"They can't follow us into buildings; go in here."
Approaching the doors to an opera house, I realized that the paparazzi had shifted from asking Brian questions to yelling inquisitions at me:
"Where you from, cutie?"..."What kind of lipstick is hot this fall; by the looks of you it's cocoa-black redgloss?"..."How long have you been seeing the world's most famous antichrist?"..."How's the sex life goin?"..."What's your name?"
"Er... Alice." I said sheepishly. One of them was a black man in a tie, he took pictures of my Converse at ground-level. I felt worshipped. We were an odd gothic-looking pair of gods on the street retreating from the wandering eye of public curiosity. I crumpled with fear up next to Brian....or Marilyn.
I blinked out the flashing camera light. We were in an opera house.
There were poeple all dressed up like kings and queens for a performance. They were fancy, with their noses reared up at us, I could tell they kne what was going on and didn't appreciate the raw display of American fandom.
I was too much of a small town girl to do anything but feel afraid. I knew tears were in my eyes and blinked them out hurredly.
"Why are you crying?" Brian said looking down at me.
When I didn't answer him, he yanked me like a four year old pest into a corner by the doors to the stage. If I had been four years old, I would've screamed something like are you mad at me?! "The hell are you crying for?" he said.
He was so much older now. Before I had endulged myself with fantasies that we could be friends and that Brian Hugh Warner was just another person like me and that somehow.....I could tell him I love him. (Not in that way, at least, I don't think so.)
