Cattle are not pets.
Marty cracked the shell off a pistachio with his teeth, and tossed the bits on the floor of the limo.
Samantha just stared at him, her mouth slightly ajar.
He looked at her. "What? The driver said to put 'em on the floor-it's easier to just vacuum them up."
"Not that," she said, shaking her head, and then glancing back over her shoulder. "Don't you think you were a little... harsh with that guy?"
Marty looked at her as if she had just accused him of being excessively purple. "What? The fan?"
"Yeah, that guy," she said, lowering her voice and leaning toward Marty, "He didn't ask for anything too-"
"Not yet," Marty said, cutting her off. He sighed. "You don't understand. It's like..." He peered up through the moonroof. "Like breaking up with a teenage boy. You got to do it sharp. And blunt. You can't leave any room for discussion."
He picked up some more nuts, then settle back in the seat.
She sat back, too, but her eyes narrowed. "That's your audience, you know. The reason you get this nice ride."
Marty raised an eyebrow at her. "Yes, I am well aware that is my audience. The problem is, my audience doesn't always realize that."
"Realize what?"
"That they're my audience. They're not my friends." He hacked for a moment. "Damn things are salty-pass me a Coke?"
"Diet?" she asked, reaching.
"That's what they pay me to drink," he said, then took the bottle she handled him. He hacked briefly, screwed off the top and took a drink. "God, I hate this shit," he said.
She broke a half a smile. "Anything for money?" she said, sardonically.
"Nah," he said, and settled back. "I like it when I signed the contract. But you drink just one thing all the time? After a while, it's just terrible. I mean, I know it's not bad-it doesn't taste bad. It's just the, the experience of drinking it. It gets old. And nasty." He muffled a belch.
They rode in silence for a moment. But she couldn't let it go. "So, you don't like your fans?" she said.
"What?" Marty's eyes popped a little wider. "Oh, the guy."
"Yes, they guy," she said, and folded her arms. "Your fan."
"Like I said," and Marty shrugged, "He's not my friend. Fans aren't your friends. It's like a cattle rancher.
"A rancher, he cares about his cows. They're important to them. If one cow gets sick, or lost or whatever, the rancher will risk his life for that cow. In a way, they are his world.
"But," he said, taking a drink, "at the end of the ride, he kills them. He cuts them up. And he eats them." He took a drink. "The cows aren't his pets. They're his job, not his family."
Samantha plopped back into her seat. Head cocked a little to one side, she said, "I... understand what you're saying. But I don't get it."
"And that's why you wouldn't cut it as an entertainer," he said. She shot him a look. "You might make it as a politician," he said, smiling a little. "Politicians-they want to be your friend. But not so much with entertainers.
"Hell," he said, reaching for more nuts, "Don't you wonder why more entertainers don't transition to being politicians? It's because they don't want to improve people's lives. They just want to do what they enjoy doing, and have people applaud-because that means they've done a good job. And they get to do it again."
Samantha took a out a Diet Coke for herself. "So, the audience isn't the point, it's just the measuring stick?"
"Not entirely," said Marty, "But you're in the ballpark. Entertainers just enjoy doing some schtick. But the schtick is pointless without an audience. So, the fans, you need them. But they aren't the reason for doing it. They're an input, maybe, an ingredient."
"So," Samantha said, wriggling into the seat, arching her back a little. "Are you there for the fans, or are the fans there for you?"
"We're there for each other, let's say." Marty's glance rested for a moment on Samantha. "But that guy ain't my friend. And I don't want him to be."
"What about me?"
"Oh, I'd be more than happy to make your acquaintance, if I may...."
Later, the driver had to use the shampoo machine to get the Diet Coke stains out of the seats.
Samantha just stared at him, her mouth slightly ajar.
He looked at her. "What? The driver said to put 'em on the floor-it's easier to just vacuum them up."
"Not that," she said, shaking her head, and then glancing back over her shoulder. "Don't you think you were a little... harsh with that guy?"
Marty looked at her as if she had just accused him of being excessively purple. "What? The fan?"
"Yeah, that guy," she said, lowering her voice and leaning toward Marty, "He didn't ask for anything too-"
"Not yet," Marty said, cutting her off. He sighed. "You don't understand. It's like..." He peered up through the moonroof. "Like breaking up with a teenage boy. You got to do it sharp. And blunt. You can't leave any room for discussion."
He picked up some more nuts, then settle back in the seat.
She sat back, too, but her eyes narrowed. "That's your audience, you know. The reason you get this nice ride."
Marty raised an eyebrow at her. "Yes, I am well aware that is my audience. The problem is, my audience doesn't always realize that."
"Realize what?"
"That they're my audience. They're not my friends." He hacked for a moment. "Damn things are salty-pass me a Coke?"
"Diet?" she asked, reaching.
"That's what they pay me to drink," he said, then took the bottle she handled him. He hacked briefly, screwed off the top and took a drink. "God, I hate this shit," he said.
She broke a half a smile. "Anything for money?" she said, sardonically.
"Nah," he said, and settled back. "I like it when I signed the contract. But you drink just one thing all the time? After a while, it's just terrible. I mean, I know it's not bad-it doesn't taste bad. It's just the, the experience of drinking it. It gets old. And nasty." He muffled a belch.
They rode in silence for a moment. But she couldn't let it go. "So, you don't like your fans?" she said.
"What?" Marty's eyes popped a little wider. "Oh, the guy."
"Yes, they guy," she said, and folded her arms. "Your fan."
"Like I said," and Marty shrugged, "He's not my friend. Fans aren't your friends. It's like a cattle rancher.
"A rancher, he cares about his cows. They're important to them. If one cow gets sick, or lost or whatever, the rancher will risk his life for that cow. In a way, they are his world.
"But," he said, taking a drink, "at the end of the ride, he kills them. He cuts them up. And he eats them." He took a drink. "The cows aren't his pets. They're his job, not his family."
Samantha plopped back into her seat. Head cocked a little to one side, she said, "I... understand what you're saying. But I don't get it."
"And that's why you wouldn't cut it as an entertainer," he said. She shot him a look. "You might make it as a politician," he said, smiling a little. "Politicians-they want to be your friend. But not so much with entertainers.
"Hell," he said, reaching for more nuts, "Don't you wonder why more entertainers don't transition to being politicians? It's because they don't want to improve people's lives. They just want to do what they enjoy doing, and have people applaud-because that means they've done a good job. And they get to do it again."
Samantha took a out a Diet Coke for herself. "So, the audience isn't the point, it's just the measuring stick?"
"Not entirely," said Marty, "But you're in the ballpark. Entertainers just enjoy doing some schtick. But the schtick is pointless without an audience. So, the fans, you need them. But they aren't the reason for doing it. They're an input, maybe, an ingredient."
"So," Samantha said, wriggling into the seat, arching her back a little. "Are you there for the fans, or are the fans there for you?"
"We're there for each other, let's say." Marty's glance rested for a moment on Samantha. "But that guy ain't my friend. And I don't want him to be."
"What about me?"
"Oh, I'd be more than happy to make your acquaintance, if I may...."
Later, the driver had to use the shampoo machine to get the Diet Coke stains out of the seats.