I Don’t Own My Likeness 8

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

Do Vesta

“You’re doing what now?” Joe asked, one hand buried in a greasy bag of chips. 

Vince didn’t look up from his phone, just reached over to the coffee table, grabbed a wad of napkins, and dropped them into his best friend’s lap. He’d spent the last half hour scrolling through a queue of video requests, and he’d felt the beginnings of a callus forming on his right thumb. Birthday wishes. Anniversary congratulations. A shout out to a guy retiring from thirty years in the Navy who “salutes like Captain Vesta.” That one had five stars already. 

“It’s called LinePlease,” Vince said, finally glancing over at Joe, who had upended the empty bag of chips and was tapping the remaining crumbs into his mouth. “It’s a gig thing. Fans pay for custom videos. I record a little message, send it in, and they cry, or laugh, or post it online, or whatever. 

Joe made a face. “Sounds weird. Who turned you onto this?” 

“A lot of actors do it. Well, reality stars mostly. Drag queens. I think that guy from Honest to Todd makes his living doing these now.” 

Vince tapped into one of the pending requests, a sweet message from a woman in Iowa asking him to surprise her husband for their 25th wedding anniversary: He’s always had a man crush on you. I tell him I’m not jealous, but I kinda am, lol. 

“God,” Vince murmured, smiling despite himself. “Some of these are actually…” He trailed off, not sure how to finish the sentence. 

Joe tossed the chip bag aside and squinted. “So you just… film yourself saying hi to strangers?” 

“Yup,” Vince said. “In my apartment. In a T-shirt. For 40 bucks a pop.” 

“And they just… let you be you?” 

Vince shrugged. “Some do. Enough to pay rent this month. Which is more than I can say for my agent. No more chips until I’m done with this one.” 

He hit record and held the phone out, smile soft and steady. “Hey, Tony. Vince Karros here. Your wife says 25 years deserves a medal and a martini, preferably in that order. I’m not saying I’ll officiate your vow renewal, but if you need a best man who looks good in a tux, I know a guy.” 

He winked, stopped the recording, clicked send, and sat back. 

Joe gave a low whistle. “Damn. Smooth.” 

“I’m a professional.” 

A few seconds later, the app pinged with a new comment on a video Vince recorded earlier that day. This made my mom’s year. She cried when she saw it. The client left a five-star rating and a $10 tip. 

Vince stared at the screen just a little too long.  

Joe glanced over and saw it. “That hit a vein, huh?” 

Vince smiled faintly. “It’s not TV money, but it’s something. It’s people.” 

“People paying you to talk into your phone,” Joe said, shaking his head. “What a world.” 

“They’re not all paying me to be myself,” Vince murmured. “They’re paying me to give them what they want.” 

Joe ignored the napkins, wiped his fingers on his jeans, and leaned forward. “All right. You’ve got this hustle going. Why not lean into it? Give the people what they want, like that Honest to Todd guy.” 

Vince flicked his thumb across the screen, opening another request. This one was blunt: Can you do the Season 5 finale line? In the suit, if you still have it. 

Another one, almost identical: My boyfriend LOVES you. Can you wear the uniform and say the ‘Honor demands sacrifice’ line? You know the one. 

A third came with an attached screenshot of Vesta mid salute, eyes blazing, background glowing from a plasma explosion. The request read simply: THIS. Do this. Please. 

Vince let out an exasperated breath. “This is why.” 

He turned the phone so Joe could see the stack of pending requests. At least two-thirds had some variation of the same instruction. Do Vesta. Say the line. Put on the damn suit. 

Joe’s brows rose. “So? You’ve still got the suit, right?” 

“Yeah,” Vince muttered, nodding toward the hallway. “I’ve got it. In the linen closet. Right next to my last two shreds of dignity.” 

Joe leaned back. “Okay, dramatic. But if it pays, why not just… I dunno, do a little wink and nod, say the line, hit record, boom. Beer money.” 

“Because I can’t,” Vince snapped, more sharply than he meant to. He rubbed his face with both hands. “Orion7 owns Derek Vesta, and everything Vesta does. Accent, posture, wardrobe, tone. It’s all in the likeness clause. If I even sound like I’m channeling him, I’ll get another cease and desist. Or worse.” 

“Jesus,” Joe said. “You really signed that away?” 

“In perpetuity,” Vince said flatly. “After I’m dead, there’ll probably be AI-hologram Derek Vesta cereal commercials.” 

Joe whistled. “But what about that married couple? The man crush? The anniversary?” 

“Sweet request. One of the few that actually want me instead of Vesta. But they’re the exception. The rest?” Vince tapped into the reviews tab, where a wall of fresh one- and two-star grumbles continued to populate. 

Where’s the Vesta voice? 

It would’ve been better if he had worn the uniform. 

Guess he thinks he’s too good for Vesta now. 

He didn’t even try. 

Vince Karros doesn’t get it. You ARE Derek Vesta. Always will be. 

Joe read the last one aloud. “That’s rough.” 

Vince stared at the comment like it was a prophecy etched into a tombstone. “It’s rough because it’s true. They don’t even realize how true.” 

As if on cue, the app’s dashboard refreshed. His profile rating dipped from 4.8 to 3.6. The screen flashed red. LinePlease Performance Alert: Your visibility has been temporarily limited, and your earnings tier has moved from Gold to Silver due to low fan satisfaction. 

Joe looked over. “So what now?” 

Vince stared at the phone. “Now I guess I’ll learn how to be less disappointing. Somehow.” 

A knock on the door interrupted Vince mid scroll. He didn’t move. 

“Chef Wong’s to the rescue!” Joe said, unintentionally mimicking Vesta’s command cadence. “I got it.” 

Joe grunted, hauling himself up off the sofa with the reluctant grace of a man in his 40s who used to do his own stunts before Craft Services proved too irresistible. His socked feet padded across the floor. A moment later, the smell of sesame oil and garlic sauce filled the room like a delicious, heart-slowing benediction. 

“Bless this greasy offering,” Joe said, shutting the door behind him. 

He dropped the bag on the coffee table, sat, kicked his feet up, and immediately tore into the lo mein. Vince didn’t move. He was still staring at his phone, face lit by the blue-white glow of failure. 

Joe glanced over. “You still spiraling, or is that just your resting actor face?” 

Vince didn’t look at him. “What do I do? They want something I legally can’t give.” 

“Then don’t give it,” Joe said, mouth half full of garlic noodles. “Do what I do. Guest appearances. Recurring cop. Disappointed dad. Lonely neighbor with too many dogs. Nobody expects anything from me except to say the lines and die on cue.” 

Vince finally tore open a bag of crab rangoons. The paper crinkled sharply. “At least you still get to be someone.” 

Joe barked a laugh. “Someone? I get called ‘Detective #2’ in casting memos. You know how many people come up to me at auditions and go, ‘Weren’t you in that thing…?’ Like I’m a walking déjà vu. Nobody remembers my name, buddy. I’m a pub trivia stumper.” 

Vince dug into a crab rangoon with his fingers, biting hard into the shell like it had insulted him. “Yeah, well, people remember me too much. For one role. One guy. One uniform. One goddamn line.” 

Joe pointed at him with a chopstick. “See? That’s the curse of being iconic. You stop being a person and start being a reference.” 

Vince looked up. “And you’re the curse of being forgettable.” 

They both paused. The lo mein slurped. The rangoon crunched. 

Then, quietly, Joe said, “You ever think we should’ve gone into commercials instead?” 

Vince smiled bitterly. “They won’t even let me do that.” 

For a long beat, they just sat there—two men, two piles of takeout, and the long, haunted distance between being too seen and not seen at all. 

They’d moved onto the fortune cookies when LinePlease pinged again. Vince didn’t reach for it at first. He just stared at the little red notification, floating like a buoy in a hurricane. 

Joe nudged him with an elbow. “Hey. See? Some stupid limited visibility algorithm can’t keep your fans away.” 

Vince signed and thumbed it open. One new request, no message, no pleasantries, no name. Just a single line of instruction in the comments. 

Say the line. You know which one. 

Vince’s thumb hovered over the screen. 

Joe leaned in, catching a glimpse. “Seriously? That’s all they wrote?” 

Vince didn’t answer. He stared at the request like it had personally betrayed him. Then, slowly and deliberately, he tapped the three dots in the corner. Decline request. The confirmation box appeared. Are you sure? He hit yes. 

Then he swiped to his profile settings, scrolled all the way down, and hit Deactivate account. 

The screen went dim. A single pop-up appeared. We’re sorry to see you go. 

Below it, the LinePlease logo faded like a sigh. 

Joe didn’t say anything for a second. Then he patted Vince on the shoulder with the gentlest thump of knuckles on cotton. 

“You want another beer,” he said, “or just a time machine?” 

Vince gave a soft, bitter chuckle. “Neither.” 

He looked at the dark screen again. “I want to be an actor,” he said. “A working actor.” 

Joe reached for another fortune cookie and cracked it open. “Hey, buddy, I think this one’s for you.” 

He handed the slip of paper to Vince. Beneath the Chinese vocabulary and lucky numbers was a sentence printed in blurry red type. Your most significant work is yet to come.