Read Online The Nobodies Album by Carolyn Parkhurst - Free Book Online Page B

that showcases rock stars’ homes. In each episode, two different celebrities lead the cameras on tours of their houses; afterward, viewers call in to vote on which house they like better. I’ve seen this show once or twice, and I’ve wondered, who are these children, and why are they living by themselves? They don’t seem fully formed somehow, even the ones in their forties who are already doing comeback tours. Video game rooms and waterfalls, ceilings painted with stars and clouds. Gold fixtures and shark tanks. Rooms full of shoes. I didn’t know Milo was slated to appear, though in the past I’ve followed the show’s listings carefully in the hope I might get to see where he lived.
    I click the link, and my computer’s video player pops up. I press Play.
    The clip begins with a shot of a white stucco house against a blue sky. It’s a Spanish mission–style building with a red tile roof and a wrought-iron gate. It’s a beautiful house, but I can’t imagine the process by which Milo would have chosen it above any other. I try to imagine Milo house hunting, ticking off his preferences for a real estate agent. It’s as foreign an idea as seeing him in a military uniform or a ball gown.
    The camera lands on the door, a tall, imposing thing made of dark wood and intricately carved. The door opens a crack and Milo sticks his head out. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll take two boxes of Thin Mints.”
    A prickle of nerve endings at the sight of him. A muted ache in my belly. The camera pulls back and Milo opens the door wider. He’s wearing a ratty maroon T-shirt with the word “Fizz” written on it—I’m not sure whether that’s the name of a band or some kind of product or simply an ironic statement I don’t understand. He’s wearing jeans and a dark wool hat, and he’s barefoot. You can see how tall he is—lanky. He’s looking down into the camera, which must be held by a cameraman of average height. Milo steps backward and gestures us in.
    “Welcome to my turf,” he says. This, I gather, is the standard greeting for participants on the show. Milo voices it with a kind of smirking affection: Yes, this is corny, but I’m happy to be a part of it .
    We’re in an entryway painted blue-green, bright like the pebbles you find at the bottom of a fish tank. There’s a heavy black iron chandelier hanging high enough that Milo doesn’t have to duck when he walks underneath it. In the background, off to the left, I see an oversized red couch. I wonder if that’s where Milo was sleeping when the police arrived.
    “I don’t know who we’re going to be up against,” he says to the camera, “but I can tell you, you’re looking at the winner right here. You ain’t gonna find too many houses out there that can beat this one.” He’s clearly playing around, but I’m fascinated by his grammar decisions. I’ve never once heard Milo say the word “ain’t.”
    We follow Milo into the dining room, which is surprisingly ornate. The walls are papered with flocked cranberry velvet, and there’s an old-fashioned light fixture of glass globes hanging from the ceiling. There’s a long bench along one wall, upholstered in red velvet, punctuated with a line of small round tables. Across the opposite wall there’s a full bar with a zinc counter and tall mahogany stools.
    “I wanted to have fun with this place,” Milo says. “I was going for a kind of hyperreality, like an amusement park, you know? The way that when you walk through Disneyland, one minute you’re in the Old West, and the next minute you’re in outer space.” This is so completely Milo that I laugh out loud. I remember that when he was a kid, he tried to talk us into decorating his room with wallpaper made from undersea photographs, so that he would feel like he was living in the ocean. I can’t remember why we said no.
    “So this room was modeled on a picture I found of a nineteenth-century French bistro. I didn’t really want some big