“Five years next month.”
I try to meet his eyes. I can’t. He’s so intelligent—only 34 or 35. I’m 38. I could be his big brother. I tell myself this over and over but it doesn’t help. I stare out the window again at the Charlotte skyline. I wish I could see the pond from his office. I feel the zeroing-in of his glare, smell waves of his cologne lapping at my face. His suit looks so expensive. Custom-tailored even.
“Lance, you heard of eye contact?”
I meet his eyes.
“Why are you sweating, Lance?”
“I, uh, took the stairs up.”
Opening a drawer, he pulls out a 9” by 12” Tyvex envelope and tosses it into my lap. Our return address label has been circled and “Return To Sender” stamped on the envelope. “We received that in the mailroom Friday afternoon. Take out the letter.”
I remove the single sheet of paper.
“Recognize that, Lance?”
“No.”
“You should. You wrote it for me a week ago. See your initials at the bottom?” Beneath Jeff’s signature, I see JH:lbd. I’m lbd.
“I remember this now,” I say.
“Look at the envelope.”
I look at the envelope.
“You sent it to the wrong client.” He pauses to let the weight of this crush me. “Dr. David Dupree, to whom you misdirected it, fired us this morning, before you graced us. He called me and said, among other things: ‘if you aren’t taking care of your other clients, how do I know you’re taking care of me?’ He’s got a point.”
“I’m sorry. That was just—”
“A big fuck-up, Lance. A big fucking fuck-up. Do you know what we invoiced him for last month?” I shake my head. “$8,450.00 I invoiced him for that. And that was a light month. I was on the verge of writing five new patent applications for him. You cost this firm money. You cost me money. Go clear out your cube.”
I stand. My head throbbing. Jeff stands, too, his eyes wide and angry. I look out the windows, Charlotte Douglas International Airport visible in the distance, the speck of a jet lifting off a runway.
“Here’s a tip,” he says. “When you go in for your next job interview, dress like you give a shit. No one appreciates you walking around here like a slob. This isn’t your living room. It’s my office. It’s the office of hard-working, brilliant men.”
My face is hot. I can stare at him now.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m nothing. I could be your big brother.”
“Get out of my office.”
The first thing I do is drive to the bank since it’s just down the street from the building where I used to work. I walk in and tell the teller to transfer everything from my money market to my checking account. Then I withdraw $2,000 in cash, slip her a twenty for her trouble, and drive uptown.
It doesn’t really hit me that I’ve been fired until I’m walking in the cool, spring shadow of the First Union Tower. I’d planned to work until I saved up $50,000, but I think I can manage on what I have. It feels surprisingly good to be unemployed, especially at this early hour of a Monday morning, when thousands of people are just beginning their workday all around me.
The store I’m looking for is on the corner up ahead—McIntyre’s Fine Men’s Clothing. I’ve heard their advertisements on the radio.
Inside, an exquisitely-dressed older gentleman puts down a sweater he’s folding and comes over.
“My name is Bernard. May I help you find something?”
“I want the most expensive suit in the store.”
“Well, why don’t you follow me.” He leads me over to the dressing rooms. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”
I sit down, the only customer in the store. The smell of clean, unworn fabric engulfs me.
Bernard returns carrying a jacket in each hand. One is dark blue, one dark gray.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Lance.”
“Well, Lance, I’m holding the two finest suits in the store. You’re a forty-two, right?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re a 42. At any rate, they’re both Hugo Boss. One hundred percent wool. Single breasted. Three buttons. Very smart.”
James Jansen wore a gray suit in the movie The Defendant. He played a man wrongly accused of murder. It almost won him an Oscar.
“The gray one.”
“Well, why don’t we try it on then?” Bernard opens one of the dressing rooms and hangs up the gray one. “Let me just measure your neck and we’ll get you a crisp Oxford shirt to go with it.”
I lay my gray Hugo Boss across the backseat of Mom’s Buick, drop the four bags containing slacks, socks, three pairs of shoes, belts, silk mock-turtlenecks, polo shirts, and Oxfords in the trunk, and set out for Salon 87, several blocks up the street.
The chic receptionist informs me that I’m lucky. They’re normally much too busy for walk-ins. She gives me a brochure to choose which treatment package is right for me, but I don’t have time to read the thing. Celebrities are always pressed for time.
“Just give me the most expensive package you offer,” I tell her. “Money is no object.”
“Fantastic, then I’ll put you down for the Day of Tranquility.”
The next six hours are almost unbearable, but I have to cleanse myself of Lancelot, so I let the “pampering specialist” have free reign over my entire body, even my feet which are fairly hideous.
I get a facial, body exfoliation, clay treatment, a massage, seaweed body wrap, 15 minutes of reflexology, and finally, a shampooing and hair-styling.
The stylist, Roger, asks before he starts if I have a particular look in mind.
“James Jansen.”
“Sure. You know…oh my God, you could be his twin!”
I just smile.
I think Roger is gay. At least I hope. If I’m paying a hundred dollars for a haircut, the stylist damn well better be a homosexual, because from what I hear, they can really cut some hair.
My flight will depart Charlotte at 8:20 tomorrow morning, so when I arrive home a little before five, I head directly up to my room with the day’s purchases and drag my single piece of luggage out from under the bed.
My room is not, as you probably fear, a tribute to James Jansen. I don’t have a closet full of candles and pictures and articles of his clothing. No posters of him on my walls. I don’t even own all twenty-four of his movies. See, this is the thing—I don’t love him. I’m sure he has fans more rabid than me. I’m only intrigued by him because we share a close resemblance. The obsession stems from the opportunities this affords me, not the man himself.
Mom has cooked shepherd’s pie for supper again. The three of us always eat together in the den and watch Entertainment Magazine. I’m not going to miss sitting on the sofa between them with our trays.
Entertainment Magazine is particularly interesting tonight. The show is broadcasting live from a movie premier. Gives me chills to watch the Stars stroll down the red carpet. So poised. Witty. These are things I have to perfect. I’ve been practicing. I’m nearly there.
The female host stops one of the Stars of the movie and asks how she’s feeling tonight as a thousand fans scream behind her and the SoCal sun falls into the Pacific.
“Well, you know, I love this part of it. The work’s done. And you know, John was just so great to work with. I was a little intimidated before I met him, because, he’s John, you know? But he really treated me like an equal, a colleague, and as a result, I think we’ve made a fabulous film.”
Beautiful. See how she complimented her costar while at the same time bringing glory to herself? That’s a professional.
After dinner, Dad turns off the television. We’re all sitting there with our trays in the silence of the living room. There’s a painting of Jesus above the TV set that’s been on that wall since I was a kid. Kind of a strange place to put the Lord. I don’t know.
In a minute, Dad will get up and go to bed since he’s boozed out of his mind on Aristocrat gin. Mom will go clean up the kitchen and read her Bible. I’ll retire to my room above the garage, and while I pack, watch a Jansen movie and several episodes of Hollywood Starz! (I tape them. They’re fascinating studies in Star behavior).