"No," Janice said. "They call it entertainment. That's all television news is. He's not a journalist, he's an actor, and a damn good one at that. He was given his lines by the people who produce the show and he read them off to you, just like an actor is supposed to."
"Did you know he was going to do that?" Jake asked her.
"Well, of course," she said, rolling her eyes a little. "That's his style. Don't you ever watch Wake Up USA?"
"No. I don't."
"Don't feel too bad. He's done that same shtick to presidential candidates, heads of state, veteran actors and actresses, judges, lawyers, you name it. And some of them came off looking even worse than you did up there."
They began to walk through the terminal, heading toward the line at the security checkpoint. Other people milled around, moving in different direction, heading for different parts of the building. A voice overhead announced arrivals and departures.
"If you knew he was going to do that," Jake asked, "then why didn't you at least warn me beforehand?"
"Warn you?" she asked. "Why would I warn you? You performed perfectly. You came across exactly the way we wanted. I couldn't have scripted you any better than that."
"You wanted me to look like an idiot up there?" he asked, grappling with his temper.
"Idiot is not the word I would use," she said. "Disorganized, unremorseful, defiant. That's what we wanted."
"That's what you wanted?"
"Of course," she said. "It not your fans who are watching Wake Up USA — your fans are still in bed at that hour — it's their parents. We need to keep their parents outraged at you as much as possible. The more disgusted with you the parents are, the more albums the kids will buy."
This was an old subject for Jake and the rest of the band. The old image is what sells your music argument. Jake didn't hold to it anymore now than he had when they'd tried to change his name to JD King. They made good music, music that people liked to listen to over and over again. That was why Descent Into Nothing had sold 1.3 million copies. That was why The Point of Futility was sitting firmly at the number one position. Not because Jake had once snorted cocaine out of a groupie's ass or because that moron producer had made some horrible videos. And certainly not because some asshole actor on a television show had made him look like an idiot.
But you couldn't tell that to people like Acardio or Janice or even Shaver, their agent. They claimed complete and total credit for the runaway success of Intemperance — a success that had surpassed even their most optimistic imaginings during the early stages of the contract. In their view a band that was promoted correctly with the proper amount of parental outrage and controversy simply had to produce palatable music in order for success to occur. They would make the admittedly compelling argument of Kiss in order to make their point. Musically, Kiss was beyond simple, edging into the territory of hopelessly mundane. All of their songs used the same basic guitar riffs and employed the same style of bland, formulistic lyrics. If not for the make-up and the blood spitting and the outfits, Kiss wouldn't have sold a thousand albums nationwide. Jake knew this was true, of course. Any real lover of music looked at bands like Kiss with contempt. But Kiss was also an anomaly, the one true example of image overcoming artistic ability. Just because the formula had been successful once, record execs had mistakenly concluded that that was the key and tried to duplicate it with every band they signed. The popularity of MTV and music videos in general was only making this trend worse. When the record companies failed to successfully promote an image-only band successfully, they blamed it on poor publicity or on the public not being quite ready for that particular image. And when a band did become successful because of good music — like Ozzy, like Dio, like Motley Crue, like Intemperance — they assumed that their image shaping had simply been a success this time.
"Dude," a voice said on Jake's left. "Aren't you... like... Jake Kingsley, dude?"
Jake suppressed a sigh and put a smile on his face as he turned and beheld two young men in their late teens. They were dressed like college kids heading off somewhere for summer vacation, which was to say they were dressed similarly to Jake himself.
"That's me," Jake told them, already reaching for the pen he habitually kept in his back pocket for just such occasions.
"Dude," the first young man said, his eyes shining. "This is, like, so awesome. Can I get your autograph, dude?"
"Sure," Jake told him, pulling out the pen. "You got something for me to sign?"
The young man handed over his airline ticket stub. Jake asked his name.
"It's Mike," he said. "Mike Millen."
"How do you spell it?"
Mike looked at him strangely. "Uh... M-I-K-E, dude."
"No, I mean your last name," Jake said.
"Oh," Mike said, hitting himself in the forehead. "Like... duh." He spelled it out.
Jake scratched out a variation of his standard autograph scrawclass="underline" To my friend Mike Millen, Keep rockin, dude. Jake Kingsley.
Mike's friend was Jason. Jake signed his airline stub as well.
"Thanks, dude," Jason said. "You really rock, man. I was at your MSG gig. Heard you had a real good time after it, you know?"
"Yeah," Jake said. "I know. Take it easy, guys."
They thanked him, told him he rocked one last time and then wandered off, comparing each other's autographs. Jake hoped that would be the end of it, but of course it wasn't. Others had noticed the interaction and had homed in on it. Many had probably been asking themselves if that could be Jake Kingsley over there but had not been sure enough to approach and ask. Now that they saw him signing autographs for Jason and Mike, their suspicions were confirmed and their fears of approaching a celebrity were assuaged. Within seconds there were more than twenty people clustered about him, all of them chattering away and pushing airline stubs or other scraps of paper in his face.
Jake started signing, asking each person's name and how to spell it and then scrawling out basically the same thing he'd scrawled for Jason and Mike. He passed a few words with each person, shook each hand, and remained polite and soft-spoken. When they asked questions he answered as briefly and as vaguely as possible. And, of course, as always seemed to happen when he stepped out into public these days, the small crowd continued to swell as other people drifted over to see what all the fuss was about, as people leaving the crowd reported to those outside of it that it was Jake Kingsley in there. He began to get claustrophobic as they pushed in at him from all sides, as they all tried to speak at once. His hand began to cramp up after about the thirtieth signing. And, as always also happened, a few people pushed their way through not to get his autograph but to express their disapproval at what he was and what he represented.
"God will punish you harshly come the judgment," said a middle-aged woman dressed in a frumpy ankle-length skirt. "You'll burn in the fires of hell for eternity!"
"Well, at least I won't have to worry about what to wear," he replied blandly.
"Rapist!" shouted another woman, this one college age and wearing a Cornhuskers T-shirt. "Stay away from this pig, girls. He's nothing but a common sex criminal."
Jake didn't have to answer this one. Several members of the crowd spoke up for him.
"He can sex crime me any time he wants," said one young lady.
"You're just mad he won't snort coke out of your fat ass," said a young man.
This led to a shouting match between the Cornhuskers girl and the actual fans, which quickly escalated into something like a pushing match. That was when Jake decided enough was enough.