One-Off Gig 

Read from the beginning at I Don’t Own My Likeness 1.

Vince sat slumped in the cracked leather armchair across from Randy’s desk, a pair of crumpled parking tickets in one hand and his phone in the other, thumb hovering above a bank app that displayed an overdrawn balance. The red digits blinked up at him with the same quiet finality as a flatline. He exhaled through his nose and let his head tilt back against the wall behind him. 

Randy hunched over a first-generation MacBook Pro so old it looked like it ran on diesel. He twirled a toothpick between his teeth as he pecked at the keyboard with two fingers, then let out a triumphant little grunt. “Here we go,” he said, swiveling the laptop around. “Take a look at this.” 

Vince blinked and leaned forward. 

SUBJ: Appearance Request – Capt. Derek Vesta at PrideNight, Fort Wayne, IN 

Randy removed the toothpick and stabbed it into a half-eaten bagel on his desk. “Full costume, on-float appearance, basic catchphrases. Hotel, business class airfare, and meals covered, plus the standard appearance fee and a per diem for expenses.” 

Vince read it twice before responding. “That’s… real money.” 

Randy nodded, folding his arms like he was resisting the urge to say I told you so. “It is, kid. Real gig, real paycheck, real easy.” 

Vince rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. “But what about Orion7? I thought they hated anything even slightly off brand. What if I say the wrong catchphrase or smile too much or wear the wrong holster? Won’t that—what’s the word they used—‘confuse the audience’? ‘Dilute the brand’?” 

Randy leaned back and gave him a flat look. “Kid, appearing as Vesta is the brand. You think they care if the costume’s on a parade float instead of a soundstage? This one’s approved. Even got an email from Legal to confirm it. They’ve also pre-approved up to six additional appearances of the same nature between now and December. Float, fan convention, comic shop opening, whatever. Long as you stay in the box, they’re fine with you dancing in it.” 

Vince stared at the email again. He could already envision the hotel minibar. He could feel the quiet of a clean room with blackout curtains and a working thermostat. The appearance fee alone would cover his bills for the next two months. 

He didn’t say yes. But he didn’t say no, either. 

Randy noticed. “This is what I’ve been telling you all along. Work with them. Smile, wave, take the cash. Then go make your weird indie short or do your one-man show, or whatever it is you still think will fix your soul.” 

Vince sank back into the chair, arms folded, his mouth tightening to that default half smile he used whenever the truth started to sting. The parking tickets crinkled in his fist. He didn’t look at the email again. 

“I’ll never get cast against type if I’m making public appearances in the Vesta costume,” he said, more to the ceiling than to Randy. 

Randy scratched the back of his neck and gave a lazy shrug. “As far as paid gigs go, kid, this one’s about as low stakes as it gets. A couple hours on Main Street in some go-nowhere town. No red carpets, no press. Just the gays and the glitter.” 

Vince raised an eyebrow. “That’s supposed to be comforting?” 

“It’s supposed to be real.” Randy turned the laptop back toward himself. “You want to get cast against type, then go do The Crucible at some community theater in Pasadena. You want to pay your water bill, you put the suit on and wave at some drag queens.” 

Vince rubbed his eyes again, fingers digging hard into his brow. “You want me to put the suit back on.” 

“I want you to get some paid work,” Randy said, matter of factly. “If only to get you to shower and shave once in a while. I’m starting to get worried you’re gonna grow mushrooms behind your ears.” 

Vince looked down at his clothes. The shirt, a once-nice Henley, was wrinkled beyond recovery, and the jeans had that sag in the waistband that came from being worn too many days in a row. He’d yanked both out of the hamper that morning, convinced no one would notice. The stale funk rising off his armpits suggested otherwise. 

He leaned forward and spun Randy’s laptop back around, trying to reread the details. His own odor met him halfway. He pulled back fast, nose wrinkling. “Jesus.” 

“Look, kid,” Randy’s voice lost some of its usual snap. “I know this isn’t where you thought you’d be. But the world didn’t end. You’re still here. You’ve got a gig. A real one.” 

Vince pushed himself out of the chair and walked to the window, the weight of the conversation dragging behind his shoulders. The blinds were half closed, casting angled slats of light across the threadbare carpet. Outside, Burbank was a wash of beige buildings and lukewarm sun. He chewed at his thumbnail like it owed him something. 

“I haven’t worn that thing in months,” he said without turning around. 

“It still fits,” Randy replied, almost gently. “You look good. You know, when you clean yourself up.” 

“That’s not the point.” 

“No,” Randy agreed. “But it’s beside the point. So what is the point, kid?” He leaned forward in the chair, elbows on knees, voice tightening. “You gonna wait for someone to cast you as a wise barista in a turtleneck? Maybe a sad dad who gives good speeches to misfit kids before dying offscreen? Or do you want to work?” 

Vince didn’t answer. Not at first. He stood there, hands in the pockets of sagging jeans, watching a woman on the sidewalk wrestle with an overenthusiastic golden retriever. The leash slipped, and the dog bounded off in the direction of a man carrying takeout. The woman ran after them, apologizing profusely. The man laughed. It looked like he landed a smooth pickup line. She laughed and touched his arm. It was such a mundane, ridiculous moment, and for a second, Vince envied them all, even the dog. They all had somewhere to be. 

He ran a hand over his scratchy, uneven beard. He could feel where it had grown wild on one side. The image of himself in the mirror this morning, hair matted and circles under his eyes, flashed in his mind like a rebuke. He was retreating into his own rough edges. 

He turned slowly, swallowing the lump in his throat before it could turn into anything embarrassing. Randy watched him, silent now, giving him space to find his way. 

“A couple hours on a float,” Vince said. “They want me to say the catchphrases.” 

Randy nodded. “The usual. ‘Ad Astra.’ ‘Activate the hyperactive whatever.’ Salute the crowd. Throw a few beads. Smile. Collect the check.” 

Vince gave a short, bitter laugh. “What if I’ve forgotten how to smile?” 

Randy rolled his eyes. “Actors. Always so dramatic. Fake it. You remember how to do that? It’s literally your only job.” 

A long pause passed between them. Vince’s eyes dropped to the floor, then back to Randy. 

“Is the belt still in storage?” he asked finally. 

Randy’s mouth twitched into something resembling approval. “Yeah. Box labeled ‘Karros.’ Been sitting in the locker since you gave it to me.” 

Vince nodded. “Guess I’d better go get it.” 

Randy slid the paperwork across the desk without a flourish, just a man moving an object from one point to another. The corner of the form curled slightly where it had been folded, and the words APPEARANCE AGREEMENT–ORION7 LICENSING sat bold and unbothered across the top. 

Vince didn’t even glance at the rest of it. Not the fine print, not the numerous blank lines waiting for initials. Not the boxed checkmarks under “Media Clearance.” His eyes stared at that single phrase. Orion7 Licensing. Even now, the name had a smooth, almost surgical coolness to it, like the gloved hand of a very polite doctor who was about to remove something you once considered essential. 

“They’ve got a handler waiting,” Randy said quietly. “Fort Wayne’s gays are going to love you. Fitting’s tomorrow afternoon. You fly out Friday.” 

Vince stared at the pen on the table, a cheap plastic blue ballpoint with teeth marks in the cap. He picked it up and twirled it between his fingers. Tapped it once. Twice. The paper shifted beneath the motion, the edges whispering against the faux wood of the desk. 

Then he signed. A quick, slanted signature. Nothing showy, just ink on paper, same as a thousand times before. But not really the same at all. 

“Just this one appearance,” he muttered, already regretting how small his voice sounded. 

Randy smiled. Not wide or victorious, just a tired, measured upward arc of the lips. “Of course,” he said, already reaching for the file folder to slide the contract away. His tone was careful, like someone trying not to frighten a wounded animal. 

Vince stood slowly, pushing the chair back with the backs of his knees. His eyes lingered on the folder for a second too long. 

He didn’t say goodbye. Just walked toward the door, tugging the sleeves of his shirt down past his wrists. 

Want to get regular updates and fun stuff like free stories that are only for subscribers? Sign up for My newsletter.