Billy didn’t look as heavenly as he did in the videos
that played all hours of the day on MTV. No, he looked
like a wasted, burnt-out drug addict. That I was not
expecting. While standing in front of him, my face
blushing a deep crimson, shooting his photo, one shot
after the other, he was not in the room. Like Elvis, Billy
had left the building. I don’t think he was ever there, or
would have even remembered being there. He wore a dull
expression and didn’t make eye-contact. As he took a
slow sip of his drink from the small green bottle he held
in his left hand, he looked right past me as if I were
invisible. I caught a glimpse of his unguarded face, the
corners of his mouth drawn downward, the creases
around his weathered eyes were just becoming
noticeable. He was like a ghost, a shadow of what he
once was. Billy reminded me of the Ken Barbie doll – he
looked good, but he was actually vacant.
For a young “fangirl”, this was something I had not
yet faced. Something new. This was a different reality,
and it was not appealing. My charmed little protected life
was entering another dimension: One of darkness and
bleak consequences.