The cell was approximately eight feet by ten feet, with concrete walls, a steel
toilet, and a single bunk that looked like it had been rejected by a budget motel. Lady Gaga stood in the center, her silver gown now torn and smudged, examining the space with the critical eye of a woman who had seen far too many five-star hotels to be impressed.
“This,” she announced, “has got to be the second worst hotel I’ve ever stayed in.”
Catherine Zeta-Jones, seated on the edge of the bunk with her head in her hands, looked up with the expression of a woman who had reached the absolute limits of her patience. “This is prison, Gaga. Prison! Do you understand? We are incarcerated. We are in custody. We are not guests at a boutique resort!”
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“Of course I understand!” Gaga said, waving her hand dismissively. “I’m leaving!”
She strode to the bars of their cell, wrapped her hands around the cold steel, and leaned through as far as she could. Her voice echoed down the corridor with theatrical authority.
“Concierge! Excuse me, concierge! Please call my chauffeur! I require immediate transport to the nearest five-star accommodation. And bring me a mint for my pillow!”
[Menu]
Silence.
A distant cough. The sound of a guard shuffling papers.
Nothing else.
Rihanna, who had claimed the only corner of the cell that wasn’t actively depressing, looked up from where she was perched on the toilet lid. Penelope the rosella was tucked under her arm, while Gerald the king-parrot had taken up residence on her head, surveying the cell like a feathered emperor.
“You haven’t been in prison before, have you?” Rihanna asked, her voice flat.
Gaga turned around, affronted. “What makes you say that?”
“The way you just asked a guard for a pillow mint,” Catherine said. “The way you called this a hotel. The way you’re still
wearing those heels.”
“I’ll have you know,” Gaga said, gesturing at her feet, “these are very comfortable heels. They’re custom-made. They have memory foam. I could run a marathon in these heels.”
“Good,” Rihanna said. “Because you’ll probably need to run when we stage our escape.”
Gaga ignored her, turning back to the bars. “What’s the name of that prison I was in
where the coffee was absolutely atrocious? It was terrible. Bitter. Undrinkable. They served it in a chipped mug. I nearly wrote a strongly worded letter.”
She paused, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Actually, I think that might have
been a Hilton. The one in Chicago. They had a very aggressive coffee machine. It hissed at me.”
Catherine groaned and buried her face in her hands. “We’re never getting out of here.”
“We’re getting out,” Rihanna said calmly. “We’re celebrities. They’ll process us, we’ll pay a fine, and we’ll be out by morning.”
“But I have a performance in six hours,” Gaga wailed. “I can’t perform in a prison cell. The acoustics are terrible. And the lighting! Look at this lighting, Rihanna. It’s fluorescent. It’s unflattering. I look like a ghost who’s been through some things.”
“Boo hoo,” Rihanna said, not unkindly. “Try having a parrot perched on your head. Gerald hasn’t moved in twenty minutes. I think he’s sulking.”
The king-parrot let out a low, mournful chirp, as if to say, I am not sulking. I am contemplating my life choices.
“I want a telephone,” Gaga announced. “I want to call my manager. I want to call my stylist. I want to call Kevin from Hoboken. He’ll know what to do.”
“Kevin from Hoboken,” Catherine said, lifting her head. “The man we used as a battering ram. The man who bounced off Taylor Swift’s door. That Kevin?”
“That very same Kevin,” Gaga said proudly. “He has connections. He knows people. He once got me out of a very sticky situation involving a llama and a hot air balloon.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” Rihanna said.
“It’s a long story,” Gaga said. “And it ends with me getting a free scarf. Very nice scarf. Cashmere.”
A guard appeared at the end of the corridor, accompanied by the unmistakable shuffling sound of someone who had seen too much and cared too little. He was carrying a clipboard and looked deeply unimpressed.
“Quiet down in there,” he called. “You’re disturbing the other inmates.”
“There are other inmates?” Gaga asked, genuinely surprised. “I thought this was a private wing.”
“It’s a prison, Gaga,” Catherine said. “There are other people in prison. That’s how prisons work.”
Gaga’s face fell. “But I don’t want to share a hotel with other people. I’m a very private person. I need my space. I need my candles. I need my—”
The guard cut her off. “You have a visitor.”
Gaga’s face lit up. “Is it my chauffeur? Did the concierge finally call my chauffeur?”
“It’s a man. Says his name is Kevin. From Hoboken.”
Rihanna and Catherine exchanged a look of disbelief. Gaga practically vibrated with triumph.
“I knew it!” she crowed. “I knew Kevin would come through! He always comes through! He has the heart of a champion and the resilience of a man who has been used as a battering ram!”
Kevin from Hoboken appeared behind the guard, looking remarkably worse for wear. His shirt was rumpled, his hair was askew, and there was a large bruise forming on his forehead. He was clutching a stack of papers that looked suspiciously like Spotify gift vouchers.
“Kevin!” Gaga shrieked. “You came! What’s happening? Are we getting out?”
Kevin shuffled forward, waving the vouchers sheepishly. “Yeah, funny story,” he said. “The police have started accepting Spotify vouchers as bail. They’re testing out a new system. Something about community engagement. I don’t really understand it, but it’s working. I brought two hundred dollars worth.”
Catherine stared at him. “They accepted Spotify vouchers? As legal tender?”
“Crazy, right?” Kevin said, grinning. “Apparently, some of the officers are really into the new Taylor Swift album. They were willing to make a deal.”
“Let me get this straight,” Rihanna said slowly. “We’re being bailed out of prison because the police wanted to listen to Taylor Swift’s new album. The same woman whose house we tried to break into.”
“The very same,” Kevin confirmed.
Gaga threw her arms around Kevin, causing the birds on Rihanna’s shoulders to squawk in protest. “Kevin! You did it! You saved us!”
“I got you a playlist too,” Kevin said, holding up a crumpled piece of paper. “I made you a ‘Getting Out of Prison’ mix. Very upbeat. Lots of ABBA.”
The guard sighed heavily and unlocked the cell door. “You’re free to go. Try not to use any more people as battering rams. And tell your friend Kevin to stop bribing officers with Taylor Swift tickets.”
“Those were vouchers,” Kevin corrected. “Big difference.”
Gaga swept out of the cell, her gown billowing behind her. Catherine followed, shaking her head in disbelief. Rihanna brought up the rear, the birds safely perched on her shoulders.
As they emerged into the cool night air, Gaga turned to Kevin. “I have one question. How did you know we were here?”
Kevin shrugged. “I got a text. Some guy named Reginald. Mustache. Very serious. He said you threatened to write a song about him. He seemed pretty shaken up.”
Gaga beamed. “I knew he’d come around.”
Rihanna, Catherine, and Gaga shared a long look. The birds chirped in agreement.
Somewhere in the distance, Reginald the officer was already humming a tune he couldn’t quite get out of his head. It was catchy. It was haunting. And he absolutely, categorically, did NOT like it.