Not Being Noticed Is Sometimes Preferred
These are the moments when we stop envying the rich and famous, all they have, all they do. The mansions, the stylish cars, the parties, the yachts, the television lights, the visits to the world’s most dazzling cities - all of it suddenly seems burdensome, dreadful, even foreboding.
In these moments, anonymity no longer seems to be a curse, but a salvation: comfortable anonymity, safe from the delusions of crazed strangers intoxicated by vicarious notoriety. Our Hondas and Chevrolets, for a short time, look more appealing than Ferraris, Porsches and Rolls-Royces. The upper-deck cheap seats seem more satisfying than the courtside V.I.P. tickets. Simple activities - shopping at the grocery store, taking a walk through the mall, having coffee at a local cafe - are transformed, for a while, into exquisite indulgences: the privileges of not being well-known, sought-after, hounded, stalked.
It is only during these moments, when spectacular, perplexing tragedy strikes a well-known figure, that we find ourselves grateful we are not living the glittering lifestyle of someone like Gianni Versace.
Versace, one of the world’s most influential fashion designers, was gunned down in front of his Miami Beach mansion Tuesday morning by somebody who most certainly knew his target - by reputation for sure, if not personally. The victim died, in all probability, simply because he WAS Versace, executed for being widely known and easily recognized; for being famous.
He joins, in bitter infamy, singers John Lennon and Selena, and actor Rebecca Schaeffer as mortal casualties of the obsessed. Tennis star Monica Seles survived her attack; Madonna, Jodie Foster and David Letterman are among the many who have gone to extreme lengths for protection from menaces.
We all dream at times of swapping our lives for theirs. Wouldn’t it be fun to be recognized and loved, traveling in the most exclusive circles, rich enough to never want for anything, having others to do our laundry, our ironing, our phone calls, even our thinking, if we that’s what we wanted.
Not at moments like these. It’s often hard to feel sorry for celebrities - in most cases, they sought and nurtured the limelight, the adoration of fans. But they can be pitied for what fame and glitter often extinguishes: the freedom to be nobody.
Local and federal agents by the droves are working the case. The Versace murder and the hunt for Andrew Cunanan has made front pages around the world.
But the opportunity for your death to make world news, for most of us, isn’t sufficient reason to long for the lives of the rich and famous. Funny society this - the more you are loved, the more sheltered your life must become.
You have to travel with bodyguards. Live behind walls and gates (or have them built on public streets). Have security firms watch for crackpots.
We Americans eat our heroes. We pester them. Demand scandalous photos and salacious stories about them. We expect them to rear our children, then assail them when they show a flash of human weakness. Then after we consume them, we burp and look for another meal.
Then when a true psycho acts out our worst impulses, we’re stunned. Yes, a funny society this.
When Versace died, he was alone outside his home, having just returned from a trip to a popular cafe/newsstand. The next time you savor one of life’s simple pleasures, and no stranger happens to notice your existence, you might say a word of thanks that fate for another day has left you alone.
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