coffee, he was kicking himself for continuing to fly with commercial airlines instead of buying himself a private jet. He could certainly afford one, and he could have avoided all this mess.
This is what I get for trying to lower my carbon footprint,
he said to himself.
Justin shook his head in disgust. He just wanted to be home.
The day had started poorly, even before he left New York. His girlfriend dumped him. For the past year, Justin had been dating Francesca Wolff, the slinky actress on the hot new TV series
Virtual World
. Just about every week there was another picture of the couple in
People
magazine, frolicking on some beach or shopping in L.A. Then she sent him a textâa
text
!âsaying that if he didnât want to marry her, it was all over between them. She said she wanted a man who was willing to make a commitment.
Justin was willing to make a commitment. But not to Francesca Wolff. She was beautiful and they looked great together, but when there were no cameras pointing at them, they simply didnât have much to say to each other. He couldnât imagine spending the rest of his life with somebody like that.
To make the day even worse, Justinâs cell phone was dead. He had forgotten to charge it in the hotel room the night before. Living without a cell was almost like living without oxygen.
With his flight canceled, Justin had to figure out what to do next. Hoping to avoid being recognized, he pulled his Dodgers cap down over his eyes and walked over to the departures board in the terminal. It was already past four oâclock. There were no more flights to L.A. for the rest of the day.
âMr. Chanda, can I have your autograph?â
He looked down. It was a girl, probably ten or eleven years old. She was staring up at him like she was looking at Santa Claus. The girl held out a pen and a little autograph book. On one side of the open page, the words âDonald Duckâ were written in sloppy handwriting. The girlâs parents stood a few feet behind her, beaming under their Mickey Mouse ears.
Justin didnât mind signing
one
autograph. The problem was that if anybody spotted him signing the girlâs book, they would come over and ask for an autograph too. And if he was spotted signing for two people, ten more would come over. And ifhe was seen signing for those ten, a crowd would appear. It always did. Then he might have to sign a
hundred
autographs. He had already signed a bunch for the people on the flight from New York. Justin loved his fans, but writing his name repeatedly on little scraps of paper was the part of celebrity that he could do without.
âYeah, sure,â he told the girl without much enthusiasm. He took the pen and scrawled his name next to Donaldâs. The girlâs mother snapped a photo to preserve the moment.
A menâs room was a few yards away, and Justin dashed into it before any other autograph seekers could accost him. He went into a stall, closed the door, and sat down. This was the only place he could be alone and think things over.
Justin reviewed his options. He could see if a nearby airport might have a flight to L.A that night. Or he could stay overnight at a Tulsa hotel and try to catch a flight home to L.A. in the morning. Or, he could rent a car and drive home ⦠1,400 miles. That last option was the least attractive. Plus, it would pump tons of carbon into the atmosphere, which he was opposed to on moral grounds. Just last week he had performedin a benefit concert to save the rainforest.
Justin rooted around in his carry-on bag for his wallet. He would need his credit card and photo ID no matter what he decided to do. While he searched, his fingers came upon a envelope. His lawyer had handed it to him in New York. It was a personal letter. Most of Justinâs fan mail was answered by secretaries. But this one came from his hometown, so his lawyer thought it might be important. The return address said âMary
This is what I get for trying to lower my carbon footprint,
he said to himself.
Justin shook his head in disgust. He just wanted to be home.
The day had started poorly, even before he left New York. His girlfriend dumped him. For the past year, Justin had been dating Francesca Wolff, the slinky actress on the hot new TV series
Virtual World
. Just about every week there was another picture of the couple in
People
magazine, frolicking on some beach or shopping in L.A. Then she sent him a textâa
text
!âsaying that if he didnât want to marry her, it was all over between them. She said she wanted a man who was willing to make a commitment.
Justin was willing to make a commitment. But not to Francesca Wolff. She was beautiful and they looked great together, but when there were no cameras pointing at them, they simply didnât have much to say to each other. He couldnât imagine spending the rest of his life with somebody like that.
To make the day even worse, Justinâs cell phone was dead. He had forgotten to charge it in the hotel room the night before. Living without a cell was almost like living without oxygen.
With his flight canceled, Justin had to figure out what to do next. Hoping to avoid being recognized, he pulled his Dodgers cap down over his eyes and walked over to the departures board in the terminal. It was already past four oâclock. There were no more flights to L.A. for the rest of the day.
âMr. Chanda, can I have your autograph?â
He looked down. It was a girl, probably ten or eleven years old. She was staring up at him like she was looking at Santa Claus. The girl held out a pen and a little autograph book. On one side of the open page, the words âDonald Duckâ were written in sloppy handwriting. The girlâs parents stood a few feet behind her, beaming under their Mickey Mouse ears.
Justin didnât mind signing
one
autograph. The problem was that if anybody spotted him signing the girlâs book, they would come over and ask for an autograph too. And if he was spotted signing for two people, ten more would come over. And ifhe was seen signing for those ten, a crowd would appear. It always did. Then he might have to sign a
hundred
autographs. He had already signed a bunch for the people on the flight from New York. Justin loved his fans, but writing his name repeatedly on little scraps of paper was the part of celebrity that he could do without.
âYeah, sure,â he told the girl without much enthusiasm. He took the pen and scrawled his name next to Donaldâs. The girlâs mother snapped a photo to preserve the moment.
A menâs room was a few yards away, and Justin dashed into it before any other autograph seekers could accost him. He went into a stall, closed the door, and sat down. This was the only place he could be alone and think things over.
Justin reviewed his options. He could see if a nearby airport might have a flight to L.A that night. Or he could stay overnight at a Tulsa hotel and try to catch a flight home to L.A. in the morning. Or, he could rent a car and drive home ⦠1,400 miles. That last option was the least attractive. Plus, it would pump tons of carbon into the atmosphere, which he was opposed to on moral grounds. Just last week he had performedin a benefit concert to save the rainforest.
Justin rooted around in his carry-on bag for his wallet. He would need his credit card and photo ID no matter what he decided to do. While he searched, his fingers came upon a envelope. His lawyer had handed it to him in New York. It was a personal letter. Most of Justinâs fan mail was answered by secretaries. But this one came from his hometown, so his lawyer thought it might be important. The return address said âMary
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