To have, 250-plus nights a year, audiences of thousands chanting your name. Most people would be overjoyed to have Tim Bergling's life. When Tim twists around from the jiggy little dance he's doing behind the decks to accept a glass, he is smiling like the happiest guy in the world. "Happy New Year!" shouts Felix Alfonso, his bodyman, popping open the first of many bottles of Dom Pérignon. "Dog!" An assistant sweeps in to take the Pomeranian from the girlfriend's arms.
"Security!" the promoter shouts, and hulking figures fall into step beside us. His girlfriend, his booking agent, his tour manager, a club promoter, a guy with a video camera, and a reporter surge after him. "People paid money for this!" The doors slide open, and Tim steps forward, purposeful as a heart surgeon headed to perform a triple bypass. better get to XS soon!!" some douchebag is saying on Twitter.
Now he is twenty-one minutes late, and twenty-one minutes matters when it's the biggest party night of the year, New Year's Eve, in the biggest party city in the world, Vegas, and you're the star of the show, scheduled to go on at midnight, which was-Tim reaches into the pocket of his jeans, barely held up by a Gucci belt, and pulls out his phone to check the time-twenty-two minutes ago. Even with the police escort and the private plane.
It was a crazy thing to do, in retrospect, two shows in two different cities, Anaheim and Las Vegas, with only an hour and a half between them. He is staring straight ahead, so quiet that everyone with him has gone silent, too, out of respect or maybe a little fear.
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