Polaroid

(Fiction inspired by a dream)

 

Of the various celebrity photos in the museum display, I lingered over one longer than the rest. It was a Polaroid, grainy and old yet displayed between rich white matting and a heavy black frame. The girl was someone I'd never heard of, a B-list celebrity from before my time. In the Polaroid, she wore a hot pink mini dress and black combat boots. She was bending over a table, blowing out the candles on what appeared to be her birthday cake. The caption below the photo read: "Tiffany originally wore heels, for the party was expected to attract around 200 guests." 

The cake was massive, yet even from the one photo it was clear the group of partiers blurring around the edges was only about a tenth of the anticipated size. No other information was given about what had happened. Was someone meant to get the word out about the party, yet neglected this task? Was her celebrity status expected to attract a large crowd on it's own, yet didn't? The sad details were not provided, but as I stared at the photo I instinctively knew that she had worn heels in high hopes of a glorious night and had then exchanged them for the comfort or rebellion of combat boots in a kind of self-armoring move. Maybe those were normally her shoes of choice, and she'd only worn the heels while hoping for something more. The one Polaroid of her, snuck in between larger shots or photo series of more famous personalities, indicated that she'd never reached peak stardom. She'd skimmed just enough along the surface for someone to decide to include her in the display; a hidden gem of an anecdote, if one paused to give it their attention. 

The girl in the photo used one hand to push back her short dark hair. The other hand rested on the table behind the cake as she leaned forward. Her eyes were unreadable, appearing to be focusing wholly on blowing out the candles. Around her, some people watched, smiling, and some weren't paying attention at all. To a viewer like me, it was an unfinished story, yet an arresting one nonetheless. 

I imagined her showing up at the party, all nervous excitement in her pink dress and heels. Possibly staring admiringly at the giant cake, possibly getting a drink and chatting to a friend, possibly anticipating a party which would make the next day's news and pique the interest of casting directors. A few people would trickle in, but then it would grow later, and later, and the rave she was expecting never happened. Even so, she didn't abandon ship, as a more dramatic starlit might have done. Her one remittance was to take off the heels and put on the combat boots. She was, at least in my imagination of events, hurt and disappointed, and perhaps her shoe choice indicated a return back to a place of comfort. Still, there she was in the pink dress, blowing out the candles despite it all. 

It's funny, but the photos of the celebrities I recognized by sight haven't stayed in my memory the way Tiffany's did.  I hope she enjoyed her birthday cake with friends, one of whom snapped that photo and saved it for years before it ended up in the museum. I hope she found peace with her level of success, rather than be continuously antsy for more. I hope she wore whatever kind of shoes she wanted to wear, letting the world see her true personality, or at least a glimpse, and her being okay with it.