Dead Stars by Bruce Wagner

. . he had to admit his guru was possessed by social genius. She sure could pick friends. Hanging with Toni Morrison
fifteen years before
the Nobel. The perfect marriage: the bride wore black. Now Steve and Karen were talking about W. G. Sebald as the writer who influenced Steve’s placement of paintings throughout
An Object of Beauty . . .
Bud checked out again, letting the African ladies carry him down a ruminative stream
 . . . Toni Morrison, Alice Walker, Maya Angelou 
. . .
Toni Angelou, Maya Walker, Alice Morrisangelalker
—
more
writers whose books he’d never crack . . .
crazed
black swans dressed as royalty (but don’t forget the royalties)—best look out when they hit the ground runnin’ to collect their awards. Cause dese bitches’ll run you
down.
Deez
scary bitches are award-
crayzuh
, ebony & ivory don’t mean
nuthin
to dese bitches but
black- & white-tie
, as in
gala
, as in neverending
shitstorm
of tributes & lifetime achievements hoohahs celebrating mediocre lyrical gifts, shameless shamans mainlinin Kennedy Center Honors like heroin, bitches never had to go too far to cop, cause more
mutherfuckin
awards be waitin on every street corner! But the
Nobel 
. . . woo woo woo! Toni & her
Nobel
——uh, well,
whoa
. Nuff said. Nobel be duh Big One, bigger than der Bingle, fo sho. So big nobody
dared to dream
, nor pay heed, nobody had the
vision
, nobody saw it
comin
—nobody but Fran! The
Nobel!
Took
everybody
by surprise . . . . . everybody but——
    Â 
    Hey ho Hey ho
    It’s off to Sweden we go.
    With S. J. (Ron) Perelman in tow
    Hey ho!
    Â 
    She would offer him lessons not just in patience but endurance. A long-distance careerist, Fran knew how to pace herself to win. Bud dreamed of that moment when his
own
Nobelist would be climbing up his ass in a sold-out Q&A at the New York Public Library . . . the air crackling with pulse-pounding chic, that nearly unbearable, blackout-inducing,
we-have-no-more-tickets-folks,
I-can’t-believe-I-am-here! they-are-legends-and-this-is-history!
mania. Fran astonished him. Only a serious hairdon’t kept her from being the 4th Kardashian———————————————Steve and Karen were standing now and awkwardly embraced. As they held hands, Steve playfully mimed an exhortation for the audience to stand in ovation, which it did, the appreciative mob laughing and applauding. The talk had been rather serious, at times
strenuous
, a bit heavy going—the mood suddenly lightened, and pleasant relief abounded. Karen couldn’t help herself from cracking up as Steve, clown prince, mugged for the crowd, clapping back at them. The applause grew rhythmic as Steve began the Zorba dance. Egged on by her interviewee, Karen Zorba’d too. Sweet pandemonium.
    Steve would be signing books. Bud thought about waiting in line, but there were too many people.
    MISSED CALL/VOICEMAIL was on the face of his phone.
    He listened on the way to the lot.
    It was the office of Chris Silbermann, leaving word.
    The president of ICM.

EXPLICIT
    [Reeyonna]
    gossip girls*
    *(white girl mobbin)
    She
    sat next to Rikki in the school auditorium where some early
Glee
episodes were filmed. Rikki, lightskinned pharaoh-looking Rikki, father of her relatively soon-to-be-born child, gender unknown. The speaker was a darkerskinned handsome-ish young man who was once a child soldier in Sierra Leone. He evidently slaughtered a lot of people (so he said) not just because the commanders of various so-called Lord’s Armies brainwashed him to but because he and his murderous schoolboy friends were loaded on some kind of gunpowder he said they were forced (yeah right) to snort by their leaders, that was like snorting coke.
Oh, is that your excuse?
It was like
The Hunger Games
, but all black and without the games.
    His name was Ishmael Beah.
    The darkerskinned handsome