When I was a teenager, I dreamed of becoming a singer. My older brother lent me his old guitar, and I practiced day and night, pouring my heart into songs by Elvis Presley. The King’s music made me believe I could be someone greater than the girl growing up in a run-down neighborhood.
One day, I heard about a local audition. I worked up the courage, took my guitar, and sang my favorite Elvis tune. It didn’t go as well as I’d hoped, but I was proud of myself for trying. Afterward, as I waited for the bus, a man approached me. He was older, well-dressed, with a camera slung over his shoulder.
“You’ve got something,” he said, snapping a photo before I could respond. Then, he asked for my number.
A week later, he called. He wasn’t from the music world but worked with an entertainment agency. “Have you ever thought about modeling?” he asked. I hadn’t, but I needed the money and thought it might be a stepping stone to my dream. I said yes.
At first, it was just photo shoots—clothing catalogs and magazine spreads. But one day, he asked, “Would you be interested in acting?” I thought it could be fun. Before I knew it, I was in a world I hadn’t imagined—adult films. At first, I told myself it was temporary, just a way to fund my singing lessons. But as time went on, I stopped caring. My dream felt farther away with every film.
One day, my manager introduced me to a businessman at a party. He was a towering figure, charismatic but with a hint of awkwardness. He owned a string of real estate ventures and had started dabbling in politics. “You should date him,” my manager said, half-joking but not really.
The man—let’s call him Jack—was unlike anyone I’d ever met. He carried himself with bravado, but his eyes gave him away. Behind the confidence, there was a boyish vulnerability, a sense of insecurity that intrigued me. It reminded me of my father, a man who could charm anyone in the room but broke down when the world turned against him.
As I got to know Jack, I learned about his past—his multiple bankruptcies, his carefully concealed failures. He had dodged the draft, something he never spoke about but that weighed heavily on him. To be honest, I thought he was a mess of contradictions, a man whose confidence was a fragile mask. But I stayed. Maybe because he was so much like my father. Or maybe because I saw a reflection of my own struggles in him.
Our affair lasted years. When he decided to run for president, he paid me hush money through his manager. I didn’t mind. By then, I’d long abandoned my dream of singing.
This year, Jack shocked the world—and probably himself—by getting re-elected. I watched him on TV during his victory speech. The bravado was still there, but I could see the cracks. The way his shoulders slumped when he thought no one was looking.
I know he regrets the things he’s done, especially dodging the draft. It’s something that haunts him, even now. I think he wants to redeem himself, to prove he’s worthy of the flag he once avoided. Maybe he’s hoping to find peace before it’s too late.
As for me, I still hum Elvis songs when I’m alone. My guitar is long gone, and my voice isn’t what it used to be. But sometimes, I wonder—if I’d taken a different bus that day, would things have been different? Or was this always my song to sing?
All names of people and organizations appearing in this story are pseudonyms.
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