At precisely 7 PM every evening, a chorus of bings and buzzes from cell phones and laptops alerted everyone that the latest tabloid gossip was released. The celebrities and stars were not just subjects of interest to the people; they were the shining examples whom ordinary citizens worshipped and modeled their lives after.
Before a child was born, parents-to-be consulted with baby designer genetic specialists who would ensure that their newborn had the genetic makeup that would allow him or her to have the appearance and features of a certain celebrity. Most adults opted for additional plastic surgery to more closely resemble their favorite star. When children turned eighteen, it was tradition for them to get tattoos that matched the ones on their most revered idol. The more fervent fans would ink themselves with full tattoo sleeves featuring the faces of those they worshipped.
Miniature shrines with a figurine of the famous singer or actor could be found in most homes, and every family placed weekly sacrifices of a star’s favorite gourmet dishes before these statues. Whenever a family went through a difficult period in their lives, they would turn and pray to a framed, autographed head shot of a beautiful celebrity, and the million dollar smile that looked down on them would remind the people of how the famous had overcome their struggles to get to where they were today.
Statues and portraits were often complemented by other celebrity themed decorations and belongings. Children proudly went to school wearing shirts with their favorite pop singer or boy band on them, while mothers back home ironed sheets and dusted off artwork that portrayed famous movie scenes from whomever they worshipped. Celebrity merchandise were not the only goods people sought after; owning personal items that had been auctioned off by celebrities themselves, ranging from used tissues to a red carpet designer dress, were highly prized possessions that everyone feverishly bid after. The most wealthy citizens could boast that their homes were furnished by celebrity owned furniture, and that their closets were filled with celebrity worn clothes. Imitation was the sincerest form of celebrity worship.

Conversations centered around the happenings of those that everyone wished they could be. Discussions about personal details, such as love lives, feuds, and rehab stints were common place, but everyone derived just as much enjoyment over talks about the choice breakfast locations, music preferences, and sneaker endorsements of their favorite stars. People cared little about their own personal activities and relationships when the glamorous lifestyles of the powerful were so much more enticing.
It was in April when eighteen year old Conrad came up with his plan. After years of keeping up with everything about the actor James McKing, from his divorces to his movie roles to his preference for gourmet hibiscus-marinated lamb, Conrad felt as if he personally knew the actor himself. It didn’t hurt that he had molded himself into the image of the superstar; he had been requesting McKing’s signature haircut since eighth grade, had had multiple surgeries to achieve the famous chiseled cheekbones, and watched interviews of the easygoing blockbuster star’s personality.
He was watching entertainment news on TV with his father one evening when the lassitude began to set in.
“Have you heard about the new Ferrari that James McKing bought?” said his father.
“Of course, he made a smart choice when he chose the red over the black,” Conrad said idly as he upped the volume on the TV.
“His taste is impeccable, and plus, he already has that black Lamborghini,”
“Yeah Dad, I know, we talked about this last week when we discussed his girlfriend’s navy Mercedes Benz.”
Through thoroughly combed every detail of McKing’s life, Conrad was so well informed on his hero that discussions about the actor with his friends and family began to feel empty and redundant. He already knew that McKing recently bought a crimson red Ferrari F12berlinetta, or that he had donated $1 million to a children’s hospital. He didn’t want to talk about the latest gossip surrounding McKing and his famous friends; he wanted to experience the glamour himself and to talk about the things that McKing talked about.
So on an April evening, Conrad found directions on how to get to McKing’s remodeled mansion, located on a secluded estate in the hills of Alhsom Springs. This would be one of his most extravagant adventures yet, but he was a seasoned daredevil who had plenty of experience breaking into skyscrapers or climbing onto bridge construction platforms located 200 feet in the air. Getting there would be the easy part; he was more anxious about the thrill of being so close to one of his idols. He hoped to become a shadow of McKing for a few days, and the excitement of the upcoming fame and wealth coursed through him.
The trip to Alhsom, the “city of sacred fame,” was simple; there were regular tourist buses that came to the suburbs to take people to admire the movie sets, recording studios, and bachelor pads. Once there, Conrad had to enter the quiet north side of the city where all of the sprawling private estates were located. With McKing’s address committed to heart, he quickly found his way during the night to the north side and stopped short in awe of the luxury homes before him. They were more impressive than he had seen in pictures, and the architectural gems were coupled with detached gyms and tennis courts, multiple pools, and palm tree studded views that allowed celebrities to look over the twinkling city below.
Arriving at James McKing’s ranch style home, the only deterrent left in Conrad’s way was an ornate eight foot tall iron fence, which looked as if it was more for show than for security. Spotting a sycamore-fig tree that had branches that drooped over the other side of the fence, he scaled the trunk and paused to take in the view before dropping down onto the other side.

It wasn’t long until Conrad caught his first sighting of McKing, up close and personal. The 6 foot 2 actor had just arrived ten minutes earlier, and he was barking orders at attendants nearby, telling them to prepare the home for a house party. Within a couple of hours, the event was in full swing, with stars mingling inside and outside on the terrace.
It was any celebrity worshipper’s dream sighting, for here they were, dozens of stars all in one place. Dylan Bobbie, the award winning director, was there sharing a drink with Clarissa Jolt, the new face of a major Parisian fashion house. McKing could be seen throughout the night with multiple girls on his arm, and at one point, he held up his glass in a toast to their own status and fame.

No one took notice of Conrad hiding in a corner that night, watching the whole event. He was utterly starstruck, and he considered himself far too inferior and ordinary to interact with anyone there. There was nothing more he wished to do than to soak in the glory and praise that the famous were bestowing upon themselves and each other.

The next morning, after all the guests had left and the attendants had cleaned up what was left of the revelry, Conrad stayed and spied on McKing, eager to see what exciting things were in store for the star during the day. A light drizzle slightly dampened the allure of the day’s adventure, but Conrad felt confident that whatever was scheduled for the day would be glorious.

The morning went on without a flashy incident; the movie star mostly divided his time between taking calls from agents, managers, and casting directors, while finding time to exercise in between. The magnetism of McKing wasn’t as exciting during the daytime, and Conrad nodded off a couple of times, not quite too interested in someone’s business phone calls.

By late afternoon, McKing had ticked off a mundane list of meetings with journalists, interviewers, and his lawyer, while sending away paparazzi and eating a pre packaged sandwich for lunch. Conrad was growing increasingly restless; the celebrity lifestyle was portrayed as the heavenly way of life on Earth, and everyone wanted to be a part of it. Yet no one wanted to sit through so many tedious meetings while having no time in between to enjoy lunch.

Late in the evening, the soft purr of a Mercedes Benz drew Conrad’s attention to McKing’s supermodel girlfriend arriving in time for dinner. He perked up from beneath the bushes he was hiding behind. By now, it was pouring outside, and he had taken shelter underneath the trees that lined the side of McKing’s house, just near the open patio door where Conrad could hear the discussions between the two.

“Have you seen Clarissa Jolt’s new Rolls-Royce? It’s absolutely hideous,” his five foot seven Australian girlfriend, Jiona, complained.

“Of course, I just read about it in the tabloids. Why would she ever choose that loud yellow?” McKing wondered.

“Her taste is normally to die for, but I don’t know what she was thinking when she bought it,” criticized Jiona.

“Yeah, she should just stick with her blue Bentley,” McKing sighed, before turning on the entertainment news on TV.

Conrad was stunned. The conversations they were having were no different from what went on between his family members and friends. He stayed behind for a couple more hours, and they talked more about the latest makeovers their friends had gotten, along with the latest celebrity stint in rehab. None of this was insider news to Conrad, for all of it was sent to him through his daily subscription to tabloid text alerts. Back home, his father was probably talking to his mother about Clarissa Jolt’s new Rolls-Royce as well. After a cramped, damp day of crouching around corners and bushes, there was nothing else left for Conrad to see or hear, and he climbed up the fence, onto the sycamore-fig tree, and back down the trunk, heading towards the bus station downtown that would take him home.

As he smoothed back his McKing-style haircut, he looked around at the masses of celebrity copy cats seated alongside him. Some were fresh from their latest surgery operations, comparing before and after photos of their faces with images of their idol. Others were planning meetups to go stalk Bobbie Dylan, hoping to order the same meal as him at whichever restaurant they followed him to. Yet others had just had their hair and makeup done so they could go to meet and greets and take selfies with the celebrity they were trying to resemble. Conversation about the latest album that dropped or the new piercings an actress had gotten floated in and out of Conrad’s ears, barely making an impact on his consciousness.

Frustrated, Conrad got off the bus and headed to the nearest barber’s shop, where he shaved off his McKing hairstyle for a buzzcut. Heading to the mall, he browsed the racks for anything that wasn’t a knockoff of a designer item, but all he found were shelves of hoodies bearing the faces of the band that had been dubbed ‘The Kings of Rock & Roll.’

Kicking at the sidewalk curb as he walked home, he couldn’t prevent the growing dissatisfaction that was twisting his insides. What was the purpose of celebrity worship if beyond the flashy jobs and cars, these stars were no different from ordinary citizens? How had they placed these people on a pedestal to chant and make sacrifices too? He was born with the same chances of being up there, worshipped by adoring followers whom lacked the direction to guide their own lives.

As he entered his home, his father looked up with an expression of surprise that quickly slipped back to indifference.

“Did you go somewhere, Conrad?”

“Yeah, I took the bus to Alhsom...” Conrad stated irritably, before he was cut off.

“Check out the latest on McKing. He began filming a new action film today, and he got a buzzcut for the role. You’re doing a spot on job of keeping up with him, son,” his father stated. Conrad felt a sting of remorse as he realized that his father cared more about his haircut than where he had gone for the past couple of days.

Without another word, Conrad went to his room, packed some clothes, and walked out the front door. He was desperate to escape this never ending cycle of devouring the latest gossip. Like everyone, he had believed that he had a special connection to these celebrities, but now he wasn’t so sure he’d even care to know these people in real life. If his father did not even care for him, then who was to say that the self-obsessed McKing would ever care about anyone besides himself? Thinking about this made his head spin, and as he boarded a train east, he did not have a care in the world as to where it would take him.