Nikki Hunter is the lead vocalist in the band Trials of Evolution – or TOE, as I like to call them. She is my little cousin, and was once the apple of my eye. I have spent many a hard week’s wages on McDonald’s, Target gear and outings for our “niece and aunt” days in the late ‘90s when she was a wee tyke and had an affinity for Goosebumbs chapter books. I’ve therefore earned the right to parody this future rock goddess.
A stray ray of sunlight crept through the curtains and slowly made its way to rest on Nikki’s closed eye lids. She blinked in aggravation, grunting her disapproval at being so subtly roused from her sleep. Trials of Evolution had just rocked Madison Square Garden the night before, and she was exhausted from crowd surfing and signing autographs for celebrities in the green room.
“I’ll just your music,” Shaq had gushed just hours before. “I’ve been a fan since…well since forever!”
“Thank you, Shaq,” Nikki said graciously. She waved to her assistant, Mona. “Mona? Please make sure Shaq gets a complimentary fanny pack from my line of handbags, will you?”
Shaq squealed in delight, his massive frame convulsing and shivering as though the news was more than his massive 7 foot frame could handle. Nikki placed her slim hand on his belly to steady him.
“I know, Shaq, I know. It’s overwhelming. Take the fanny pack and go in peace and joy.”
Shaq lumbered out of the room, pressing his new gift to his chest like a thirsty man presses his first sip of water to the roof of his mouth with his tongue.
Things had been going well for the band in the last 2 years, and for Nikki in particular. She was one of the most sought after singers in the world, touring Tokyo, Cairo, and Sydney on a regular basis. As a celebrity, she had launched the requisite fashion/handbag/fragrance/shoes and accessory lines following her success on stage. All the elements of his business were doing well. Being the only female in a band of 4, it was only to be expected that her trajectory would outpace her male mates. It was just the nature of the business. The music industry loves to create queens that would otherwise languish in utter obscurity in groups of 3 or more.
This morning, weary and still wearing the make-up from the show last night, she rolled onto the floor and lay there, cursing her assistant inwardly. She could not believe that Mona had scheduled an interview with OK! Magazine, E! online, and Essence all on the same day – at the same time. She wouldn’t go Naomi Campbell on her and throw a cell phone at her head, but she would certainly punish Mona for this misstep…perhaps by hiding her eye drops. Mona had incredibly dry eyes.
Chris, her adoring and very hot husband, interrupted her menacing thoughts. His ice blue eyes peered at her with concern.
“Nik? What are you doing on the floor?”
“Getting ready for my interview,” she mumbled into the carpet.
“Oh. Well, all the journalists are here. They’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes,” he said, his voice trailing off.
Nikki rolled over and stared at him, her eyes blood shot red and blackened by a smoky mix of mascara, eyeliner and gray eye shadow. Her bronze hair was disheveled and matted. She looked absolutely rabid.
“Pass me the silk robe from Sumatra; the one with the pink lotus flowers,” she commanded. “I’m doing this interview raw.”
The pack of journalists was all assembled in the parlor of her Columbus home. They rose to greet her, each enthusiastically shaking her hand in. She smiled wildly at them, her perfect teeth smudged with MAC lipstick.
“Ladies, please sit.”
“Ladies, please join me in the kitchen.”
Bewildered, they gathered their recording devices and note books and followed her to the kitchen. Nikki was already slinging pots around, preparing to cook breakfast.
“You’ll want to take pictures,” she advised them. “I’m making eggs for you all today. These eggs are $8 apiece. They are a free range quail egg, imported from Scotland.”
The journalists scribbled ferociously. The one from Essence spoke up first.
“Is there anything wrong with American eggs?”
Nikki slammed down her skillet, and then smiled benevolently.
“There is nothing wrong with American eggs – for the average American,” she replied. “However, I have special dietary needs. You don’t get Gwen Stefani abs by eating American eggs. You have to eat foreign eggs.”
“But the Scottish aren’t particularly trim,” quipped the journalist from OK!
“Nor are they particularly fit,” added the one from E!
Nikki was getting irritated. It was 2 o’clock in the afternoon and by all accounts she should have still been sleeping. She tried to remain gracious, but her hands were trembling in fury over all this argument concerning the source and validity of her choice and source of protein.
“Eat these eggs,” she seethed. “They are optimal just above room temperature. Do not let them get cold.”
Being the second most powerful woman in the world after Oprah, the journalists did as they were told. Suddenly, understanding sparked in their eyes, one by one.
“Do you see what I mean?” asked Nikki.
They grunted in unison.
“Now, I will permit you one picture, and one picture only. You will all have to share this picture for your print publications. You will photoshop this picture, and I will have white eyes, white teeth and hair billowing by an artificial wind; understood?”
The Essence journalist spoke next, timidly.
“But what about our interviews?”
“Write about the eggs,” Nikki said solemnly. “The eggs have the answers you need.”
She gazed intensely into each of their eyes. They gazed back in bewilderment.
“The eggs,” she whispered gruffly. Just then, a trap door opened up in the floor beneath them, removing them from her home. Their screams of surprise were silenced by the floor resealing itself. She chuckled to herself and munched contentedly on her $8.00 eggs.
Did this story make any sense to you? Nope. Not to me either. I love fiction.