The Autograph

Yelawolf signs his first autograph and looks to Eminem for advice.

 

“I used to give a f**k, now I could give a f**k less

What do I think of success? It sucks, too much press I'm stressed

Too much cess, depressed, too upset

It's just too much mess, I guess I must just blew up quick (yes)

Grew up quick (no) was raised right

Whatever you say is wrong, whatever I say is right”

-          “I’m Back”, Eminem

 

Dear Yelawolf,

            I honestly don’t know where I’d be without you, Ever since Trunk Muzik I have been more confident and a happier person. I have your posters on my wall and at night I look at them and thank you for being there for me when no one else was. I’m so proud of you on all of your successes and it helps me believe that one day I can make an impact as much as you have in the world. When I listen to your music I feel like Superman �" like I can do anything. Not only that, but you are just so beautiful. Your eyes are brilliant, your body is so sexy, I just want to run my fingers through your sleek hair, and your lips are just so kissable.

            I’m blushing right now as I write this, but it’s true. If we were together I would make you breakfast every morning, go to all of your shows, make lunch for your kids, and maybe even be the inspiration to your next songs. And at night we would cuddle up together watching your favorite movies and listen to Johnny Cash until we fall on the bed together and I make you feel like a king, screaming my name as I give you everything your beautiful heart desires and more. I just love you so much my Alabama Prince.

                      - Love, Jeff]

Yelawolf pauses for a moment as he reads the signature. He knows that there is no way a woman in this world has the name “Jeff”- pretty f*****g positive actually. His heart starts pumping furiously and he believes that there is no way the earth could still be rotating, yet he still feels dizzy and he swallows but his throat is so dry nothing goes past. The heartfelt letter drops from his shaking hands. He wants to stand up from the couch but his legs feel like jello.

 

Some dude wants to get in my pants.

 

And that’s when it hits him hard like a subway train.

 

Early this morning in Norway he was flabbergasted by the huge abundance of fans lined up to see him literally hours before he was set to go on. They saw him and almost sold their right arms for a picture and an autograph. Yela was so flattered and almost confused- not even having a pen on him as his fans (Jesus Christ he has fans) spoke in a tongue he wasn’t too familiar with.

 

“Yelawolf, I luh yuuu,” one bold fan exclaimed in broken English. Yela blushed and signed his first autograph- a beautiful, pixie-haired girl with a tight tank-top and a big smile. She thanked him and he moved to the next; a sweet, black Barbie with actual tears in her eyes as Yela gave her a stunning smile. And then he moved on to a tall, blonde, built kid.

 

He was the only English kid there, a surprising New York accent coming from him as he gave Yela an adorable, shy grin. Yela felt his knees buckle slightly as he signed the kid’s arm and a poster he had. Yela gave him a big, celebrity smile as he tried to move on, but the kid stopped him.

 

“Wait, Michael.” And he damn near fell to his knees as the kid grabbed his arm gently and beckoned him back. He stared at the kid in confusion as he put a small, blue envelope in his tatted hand. “I wanted to give you this. Wait til you get backstage, ‘kay?” and the kid smiled so brightly that Yela couldn’t breathe, just nodded at his adoring fan with a grin and then he got the hell out of there.

 

He was going to play one of the best shows he’s ever done tonight, forgetting about the note and just going out there with its words burning a hole in his mind. And now here he was, wishing he had never read it.

 

His whole European tour promoting his upcoming release had gone great until now. Every night was filled with beauty and adventure, people of all ages and colors creating a mosh pit at his feet. He thought about Liverpool where he visited the birthplace of the Beatles. He thought about the Eiffel Tower in Paris and its beaming lights when the sky fell asleep. He thought about the hot air of Barcelona. He thought about the gay fan from Norway that wanted to f**k him senseless.

 

He wants to be disgusted, borderline afraid even, but he’s not. He’s almost…flattered actually. Yela hadn’t had sex in four months- surprisingly- so it’s nice to know that it’s not because he’s unappealing. His wonderful wife recently left him, not being able to cope with her husband rarely being around, and he’s so busy nowadays that getting laid is nearly impossible. Hell, he’s surprised there’s even an offer on the table.

 

But he’s a dude.

 

He tries to tell himself that it’s still nice. He tries to tell himself that it doesn’t matter. He tries to forget that he’s a good Christian man who just went to church yesterday.

 

“…and what’s this s**t about us ‘meant to be together’? That type o’ s**t’ll make me not want us to meet each other…”

 

Marshall.

 

Obviously Marshall knows what to do. Regardless if “Stan” is a fictional story, Marshall has gone through enough obsessive fans to last him a lifetime.

 

Before he calls though, he calculates the time difference and asks John Newport if there is some Eminem holiday that he forgot about (just in case).

 

He realizes that there are literally a hundred more people he can call- hell, he doesn’t even have to call anybody since there really is no issue here, but he wants to talk to Marshall. Almost needs to.

 

Maybe this little fan obsession isn’t the only obsession he needs to worry about.

 

~*~*~

 

Marshall thinks James is a total sweetheart. He’s a big, strapping, Italian piece of meat with witty charm and a dazzling smile for an added accessory. He has muscles for days and his shirts are always too tight for his body, yet they look so good on him. He drives a silver Lexus and is always playing some rap music or goofy love songs on full blast. And Holy s**t his eyes are stunning, like drops of caramel candy- too bad sometimes their color is diluted from contact lenses. His head is shaved and he has the sexiest scruff on any man. He works for Shady Records- not too fancy, just a mail deliverer- and he has his eye out for any dangerous individuals. He’s always suspiciously turning down many sexy ladies’ phone numbers, but Marshall hopes to himself that it’s only because he has a little- stupid- crush on a special executive. He knows that he will inevitably get hurt by divulging into his own superfluous vices, but it can’t help to try and woo someone who he has wanted from day one.

 

James moves his steel cart down the narrow hallway towards his love’s office, a special delivery in store. It’s lunchtime and although he usually doesn’t deliver food, he considers this a special occasion…even though it’s just a boring Tuesday in July. But he wants to do this for his angel, a meal of fruit and sandwiches that any hard worker would love. Hopefully. He parks his cart, cold and rusted with squeaky wheels, in front of a smooth, chocolate brown door with a silver name plate attached at eye level- James’ eyes at least. Tall f****r.

 

“Delivery for Mr. Mathers!” he commands in a tender voice, knocking softly as to not disturb the genius’ process.

 

“Come in, James,” Marshall allows but his voice sounds focused and concentrated. James’ heart flutters a bit and he enters with the click of a door handle- silver and clean. He sees Mr. Mathers hunched over and manipulating the sound board as Kid Rock’s voice plummets through speakers that have been here since 2001.

 

He remembers when Kid Rock came here with some stupid skater rat with a dumb haircut. James came in with Marshall’s mail- cute little fan letters that he thought Slim should read- and Mr. Mullet-Mohawk blew cigarette smoke in his face, staring at Marshall like he wanted to jump his bones. Was James jealous? Of course, but that wasn’t the only reason to hate the southern f****t.

 

“Hi James, just put it in the corner,” Marshall says distantly, not looking at him. It’s nothing James isn’t used to, but once Marshall smells the tenderloin steaks James is hard to ignore. “James!” There we go. “It’s only 1, you don’t have to do that for me,” Mr. Boss Man says cheerfully, spinning around his chair to face his cute little waiter, smiling at him sweetly.

 

He’s too young for you, Marshall thinks to himself but he could barely hear his conscience as James passes him a nice looking sandwich just when his stomach growls.

 

“Come on, James. I can’t eat all of this by myself,” but he probably could if he tried. James just waves him off politely.

 

“I already picked at it a bit, it’s fine.” And Marshall takes a big bite- bitterly failing at trying to look sexy for his guest, and suddenly wishes that instead of a steak sandwich he would rather want to dine on the Italian hero in front of him. “Do you need me for anything else Mr. Mathers?”

 

“For the last time, James, call me Marshall,” he demands with a cunning smile.

 

“Sorry, but it’s Shady policy,” James jokes.

 

“Not for me, babe. In fact, every time you call me Mr. Mathers from now on, I’m deducting a dolla from your pay,” Marshall says with a grin. He licks the grease off his fingers which makes James’ eyes seer with fire, and he looks awkward just standing there. “You can get the garbage if you want,” Marshall offers to help the kid out. James guffaws.

 

“You could pay me one dollar altogether and I would still work for you, which includes picking up this Diet Coke bottle infested trash even though it’s not part of my job description. As long as I get to see your pretty face every day, I’m good,” and James knows that he’s flirting, but it’s up to Marshall if he wants to stop it. Just then James bends down and his cute little a*s sticks up in Marshall’s direct line of vision, the top of the kid’s boxers peeking out of his pants.

 

Ooh, Calvin Klein, Marshall remarks in his head while licking his lips. He’s too damn young for you. And then the phone rings. He doesn’t want to take his eyes off the Italian god in front of him, but then again the call could be urgent. Hailie forgot her homework. Whitney wants a pony. Alaina wants to complain about her uptight professor some more.

 

“Yo?”

 

“Hey Marshall.” F*****g Yelawolf and his bullshit. He’s starting to get real tired of the kid and his petty phone calls. Sure it was nice that he wanted to talk to him a lot, but not all of the time. He sighs so he can give the kid a little hint.

 

“Whaddup Yela?” And that’s when James head shoots up, an annoyed look in his eyes. Marshall looks back at him with pleas in his gorgeous eyes, forcing James to stay in the room. He’s not that happy about it, though.

 

“Hey…um, I gotta ask you a question. Ya got a minute?” Yela rasps through the phone, sounding nervous. Marshall furrows his brow.

 

“Yeah, man. Whaddup?” Then Yela sighs, pausing. James leans forward from the wall he’s resting against, beyond curious and left in the dark from Yela’s end.

 

“Uhhh…I got a ‘fan letter’ today,” he seethes out, enunciating the term like it burns his throat. Marshall laughs a bit; James’ heart tightens.

 

“What kind of fan letter?” And for some reason it’s really easy for the words to fall from Marshall’s mouth, so in frustration Yela pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. James, however, is very calm as he is all caught up.

 

“Like a…love letter.”

 

“A ‘love’ letter? Jesus Christ, that’s it?” Marshall snorts.

 

“Whadya mean ‘that’s it’? It’s insane!”

 

“I thought maybe it was a death threat or stalker letter or somethin’. Lord knows I’ve had enough o’ those,” Marshall says, smiling brightly. For some reason it was always easier to smile in front of James, and for that James is honored…blessed even. Marshall looks at him with stars in his eyes.

 

“What? F**k no, man! Thank the Lord for that. But no, get this…it’s from a dude!”

 

That’s when everything gets quiet. James is curious and borderline angry when he sees Marshall’s face go white as he gulps, eyes shifty.

 

“Oh?” Marshall asks, too nervous to say much else. Yela laughs like the Devil. Hitler watching his Jews.

 

“Yeah, man! F****n’ dick an’ everything. F****n’ f*g.” And Marshall know that he isn’t saying “f*g” to mean an “a*****e” or “douchebag”, no, he means it as “fairy princess boy-who-likes-boys”; Marshall feels his heart sadden a bit, but he isn’t one to give up.

 

“So?” It’s the least homophobic thing that Eminem has ever said. He can almost hear the protestors of yesteryear standing up and cheering. It’s just a shame he had to say this to his own signee.

 

“Whaddya mean ‘so’? That’s f****n’ gross! I don’t want no dickslurper near me!”

 

“Then how is it any different from a female dickslurper?” There’s a long pause. He’s got him.

 

“…ye…you know what? Everything. Everything’s different. It’s cool when women want to grab my junk when I stage dive, but if I see one f*g tough me like that, he’s gettin’ slapped. I wasn’t raised like that and my fans shouldn’t have been neither. There’s only one way to live in this life, and that’s pretty evident: straight. I can’t even believe I’m havin’ to explain this to you.”

 

And that last sentence hurts more than the entire homophobic rant. Yela, someone who Marshall has befriended and worked with for almost two years now, is one of those people that still believe Eminem is homophobic. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until James brushes a tear off his cheek, looking like he wants to murder the southern rapper on the other line.

 

“How f****n’ dare you.”

 

Marshall hangs up so hard the plastic cracks beneath his fingers. Yela is left stunned once again by a Mathers phone call gone wrong. He hangs up, distraught.

 

“It’s okay, Marshall,” James coos in his boss’ ear, who is breaking down in front of him. It’s not enough for James to just put a hand on his shoulder, so he wraps his strong arms around his love with chivalry and softness, blanketing him in comfort and warmth. He can almost feel Marshall cracking within his grasp, breaking inside with sobs.

 

“How-w c-can h-he…”

 

“Shhh. It’s fine, hon. Don’t speak.”

 

The warmth from James is so immense that Marshall can barely breathe, adding onto the sobs racking his body.

 

“D-don’t leave me…” Marshall whispers and James closes his eyes, taking in his boss’ scent and feeling his warmth, thinking to himself that there is literally nowhere else in the world he would rather be.

 

“Never.”

 

It’s a couple minutes before Marshall calms down completely- with the exception of a few gasps. James is hesitant to let go of this precious gem, but he does in turn with close proximity. Marshall wipes away tears that James wanted to kiss off his face.

 

“I don’t even know why I’m so upset. We’re not even that close.” James denies that since the kid literally calls Marshall every week. However, he looks at Marshall and sees swollen eyes with pleads in his weak voice, so he tosses the thought away like a s****y rap verse.

 

“I guess you expected a little more from him, like common human decency,” James reiterates with sarcasm. Marshall smiles sadly, feeling better just because James is here. He wonders if James knows.

 

“James?”

 

“Yes?” James whispers, listening intently.

 

“You know I’m gay, right?” he asks, upfront and bold. James grins.

 

“In the beginning, no. What with me always walking in on you getting’ blown by some groupie broad. But yeah, about two years ago I kind of suspected,” James replies honestly. He’s hoping this conversation is going where he wants it to go. Marshall grins.

 

“And you’re okay with it?” Marshall prompts.

 

“More than okay with it, actually.” James grabs Marshall’s hand, taking a deep breath. “That’s why I wanna give you my number.” He looks into his boss’ eyes to see if he understands.

 

Marshall’s lip curls up, his eyes studying James’ face intensely. He even c***s his head at one point, amazed.

 

“I prolly never would’ve suspected,” Marshall says. James laughs.

 

“Why does everyone tell me that?” he jokes, writing down his number on a random slip of paper. Marshall feels butterflies in his stomach, biting his lip with nervousness.

 

I guess he’s not too young for me.

 

“Here, hon. Don’t take too long to call, I’m very impatient,” James explains. The paper feels warm in Marshall’s hands, and his heart skips a beat.

 

“Well it’s not every day cute boys give me their phone numbers.”

 

It’s also not every day his bad mood fades in an instant by a boy’s smile.

 

~*~*~

 

The roars are like synchronized swimmers. High and low are interchangeable, unrecognizable. Each one sings in tune with another; here, this is no such thing as a bad singer. And as the symphony hits Yela’s ears, he feels a swell in his heart, dancing in his head, and butterflies in his stomach. The roars are the howls of wolves in once single pack, beckoning for their alpha in a sea of sweat and intensity.

 

He smokes a cigarette, getting smaller and smaller with each puff. The ashes drop and fly like angels from the white, paper container, stained by Yela’s saliva filled with alcohol. He pulls the cig from his dry and sticky lips, begging for water but delighted by fresh beer as he sips from a tiny plastic cup. The ridges upon it tickle his fingertips, stinging still from raw-bitten nails. As the alcohol burns his throat, he wonders if his wolves will ever stop calling for him.

 

Yela wishes he could see them, but he remains backstage in his wolf den, forced to breathe in the screams and cries. His Ray Bans cover his eyes, dark with confidence but ringed with nervousness and fear. What if their alpha is simply a lone wolf, looking for care and warmth? He realizes that his wolf pack is as interchangeable as the notes they sing: he takes care of them, and they take care of him.

 

And as DJ Artime finishes up the introduction filled with pure insanity and expectation, Yelawolf approaches the stage with a racing heart and a burnt cigarette. His pack screams and cheers as “Trunk Muzik” flows through the speakers of the mix table like vodka on ice. The drink ignites his muscles like the lighter to his cigarette, and he feels like he’s on top of the world as his pack jumps in unison with the beat and his demands. Yes, he is an alpha wolf.

 

But while he transitions into the next song, he feels the letter burn into his brain like a stolen image, one he claims as his own and keeps safe before someone could take it away. He can’t spot the fan in the crowd, but he hears Marshall’s words so sharp and prevalent in his head. Suddenly his stars align in a space so deep and dark. His lone wolf needs a leader just as much as an alpha needs the whole pack.

 

“I just wanna…I just wanna take the time ta…thank my fans. I love you, I cherish you, and I need you. So…this next song is for Jeff.”

 

And he forgets what song is next, doesn’t even know the tile until he’s finished singing it, but it doesn’t matter. He’s just glad that he got the opportunity to play the song- any song- at all. Without the fans singing the chorus in a language they don’t even know too well, Yela would be nothing.

 

Finally he spots Jeff, crying uncontrollably but smiling. Yelawolf know that nobody has ever cared for either of them as much as they care for each other.

 

Because an alpha never turns his back on a lone wolf.

 

~*~*~

 

“I think you should call him, Daddy,” Hailie suggests from her seat at the dinner table. She’s twirling her fork to catch the linguini swimming in fresh tomato sauce. She’s so concentrated that she doesn’t even look at her dad from across the table.

 

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?” Marshall asks with a mouthful of meatball.

 

“Because he’s cute,” she says excitedly. Marshall groans. Apparently, when you’re a sixteen year old girl, being a boy and being “cute” is usually all you have to do to get a phone call. “Plus, you’ve known him for years. It’s not like he’s some creep from a bar or an axe murderer.” Marshall thinks about Dexter and American Psycho. Only in television and movies are murderers really sexy, but James has those “movie star” looks. Hmm.

 

“Whitney, what do you think?” he prompts for the girl, very quiet tonight. He smiles at her, hoping that her silence is only because she’s missing iCarly or because she hates linguini.

 

“Does he have a pony?”

 

“No, baby.”

 

“Then you shouldn’t call him.”

 

Marshall chuckles, but the girl is completely straight-faced as she picks up her juice box and takes a long gulp. She doesn’t look at her dad.

 

“If you ask me,” Alaina chimes in. Ever since she came back from college, you couldn’t shut her up. “You should give him a call. Obviously his number has been burning a hole in your pocket, Dad. Even if it doesn’t work out, at least you gave it a shot.”

 

“Yeah, Dad,” Hailie says. “YOLO.”

 

“If you ever say that again, you’re grounded,” Marshall states as seriously as Whitney’s previous argument. “I don’t know though. Am I really ready for another relationship?” At this point, Marshall’s just talking to himself.

 

“No,” Whitney says.

 

“Sweetie, are you jealous?”

 

“You’re gonna spend all your time with him, Daddy. It’s not fair,” Whitney whines.

 

“You know what’s also not fair?” Alaina starts. “Trying prevent your Dad from having fun,” and it’s mean, and Marshall’s about to tell her so, but then the girl turns to him.

 

“We just want you to be happy, Dad.”

 

“But I am happy, hon.”

 

It’s the biggest lie Marshall has ever said, since there’s only one more puzzle piece that he hasn’t found to make his life complete.

 

“A’ight,” he starts, “I’ll call him.” He looks at Whitney. “And I’ll make sure he buys a pony.”

 

“And it feels like yesterday literally like yesterday

When I couldn’t get one motherfucking fan to come and see me play

When I drove that minivan for the ends without a license plate

To ATL so I could play WillPower my demo tape”

-          “Howdy”, Yelawolf

Author's Note

Here's the third installment. Yelawolf's station in Norway is based on his Yelavision episode 10, where towards the end you can see a fan feeling up his leg at a show and that just really sparked the whole chapter. I'm starting to really ship James/Marshall and I may or may not take their relationship to a very big level. Feel free to tell me if there are any grammar mistakes, etc. You know the drill.