“Like what?”
“About living with Mom and Dad for seventeen years and being sort of a loser.”
“You aren’t a loser, Lance.”
“Oh, I know.”
“Lance.” He takes hold of my arm and finds my eyes. “You aren’t a loser. I’ve always thought you had this special insight, that you really saw people for what they were.”
“Who’d you want to be when you were a kid?”
“You mean like a profession?”
“No, a person. Like a star.”
“Oh.” He considers this for a moment. “When I was thirteen, I wanted to be Tommy Fields.”
“From The No-Names?”
“Yeah.”
I laugh, because Tommy Fields was a skinny, long-haired rock star from the mid-70’s. He was always being rebellious in interviews, and all of the songs he wrote were titled “Bad Love” or “Dying for You.” Real subtle themes. But he accidentally lit himself on fire during a concert in 1980, and no one ever heard about him after that.
“Why’d you want to be him?” I ask.
“I don’t know. It was just a stupid fantasy.”
“No, really. Think about it.”
He thinks about it.
“Well, I loved rock-and-roll. I mean, who doesn’t want to stand in front of a screaming crowd? It’d be a thrill.”
“Yeah. To have everyone know you and love you. Doesn’t it ever make you sad being obscure?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Right now, you and I are sitting here in a huge, exciting world, just two normal guys that no one’s ever heard of, and no one ever will. Doesn’t that make you sad?”
“No.”
“Well, it does me.”
“Why?”
“Because when I die, I’ll be instantly forgotten. You and Mom and Dad will remember me, but that’s just until you croak. Think about how presidents feel, even the bad ones. And movie stars. Even washed-up ones. They know that even if they were to die tomorrow, they’d be remembered. They made a dent, you know? Can you imagine what that must feel like?”
“Probably not as good as you think, Lance.”
“No. Better. I think it must be the best feeling in the world.”
Bo finishes his beer and slings the bottle out into the grass.
“You want to know what the best feeling in the world is?” he asks me. “Happens to me once a day. It’s ten-thirty, the news has ended. I turn off the television, and before I go to bed, I walk down the hallway and crack the door to Sam’s room. And I peek in at my son, sleeping peacefully in bed, under a roof I’ve provided for him. That, Lance, is the best feeling in the world.”
I get up from the bleacher and recover Bo’s empty bottle from the grass. I don’t condone littering. When I return, I see that Bo has stretched himself out on the top rung, staring up at the hazy stars.
“That’s just an instinctive feeling,” I say to him, a little angry. “And anyone with a functioning reproductive system can have it.”
“You’re losing me, pal. I think you’re confused. And that’s fine. Nothing wrong with that. Maybe you could go talk to someone like Hannah, and they could help you figure out what you want.”
“I know what I want.”
Bo sits up and looks at me.
“What do you want?” he asks me.
Of course I don’t tell him.
Instead, I start off down the street.
It’s after one o’clock in the morning. The house is so quiet. I can only hear the refrigerator cutting on and off, and outside, the chirp of crickets.
I sit in a rocking chair by the window. Light from a telephone pole in the backyard floods between the blinds and spreads a pattern of lucent rectangles across my chest, and on the hardwood floor.
I am very awake. Fearfully awake. In two days I have a movie premier and a party to attend. Other social engagements will surely follow. It’s tempting to carry on as I have this past week. No, not tempting. Safe. I could find a job, hit the clubs on weekends, get recognized occasionally, play at being Him.
But that’s all I’ve done, and all I would be doing. Playing. I realize this now. And perhaps playing would be satisfactory for most people, but it isn’t good enough for me any longer. Every time I come back to this house as Lance, the pain intensifies. I was not meant to be this man. I was not meant to be obscure.
I hold a scrap of paper which I’ve carried around in my wallet for two years, reading it over and over in the eerie, orange light.
James Jansen
203 Carmella Drive
Beverly Hills, California. 90213.
It’s the address of my new home. It makes me smile to think of it, and a peace settles upon me.
I can sleep now.
Chapter 17
Bo Bo’s ~ the namedropper ~ the Jansen bungalow ~ breakfast in the Hummer ~ a brief synopsis of Jansen’s public profile during the last year ~ Until the End of Time: a screenplay ~ follows the white Porsche ~ makes the namedropper’s day ~ Universal Studios ~ the gated life
I wake before dawn, slip into this pinstripe Brooks Brothers shirt and khaki slacks, and tiptoe out of the house. There’s a diner called Bo Bo’s on Sunset which looks to be the only thing open at this hour of the morning, so I stop off and order a cup of coffee and a bearclaw.
There are these people sitting in one of the booths still wearing their evening attire from the previous night, and you can tell they’re trying to act very excited about being in a diner after partying all night, but they look dead tired. While the cashier withdraws my bearclaw from the pastry case, I overhear this one guy who’s completely monopolizing the conversation, busily listing all the Stars he saw.
“…Brad Locket. Tony Vincent. Angela Murphy. I got a drink for her. A bone dry martini, ’cause I read somewhere that was her favorite. And you know what she said to me? ‘I was just thinking how I could use one of these. How thoughtful.’ She was already sloshed I think. I told her about my screenplay, and she said she’d love to read it. You fuckin’ believe that? I’m going to drop it off at her agent’s office this afternoon. You know, this is how careers get started.”
You really wouldn’t believe what happens next. The namedropper stops mid-sentence, and I hear him whisper, “Look who’s standing at the counter.” Any other time, I’d be mightily pleased to have this recognition, but today is an important day for me, and I can’t tolerate the distractions of faking fame.
I haven’t turned around yet, but I hear the young man slide out of the booth and begin walking across the diner toward me. The cashier hands me the bearclaw and changes my five dollar bill. I gather up my pastry and steaming cup of coffee, and when I turn around, this eager young face stands before me, nervous and hopeful. He sports—well, sports is too strong a word—he’s attempting to wear a tux, but it’s about half a size too large for him. It looks as though he borrowed it off his big brother.
“Mr. Jansen,” he says, and then freezes.
“Yes?” I ask impatiently.
He closes his eyes, takes a big breath. I walk on toward the door, but he steps in front of me.
“Please, I know you’re very busy, but please just let me say this.” He swallows and meets my gaze. “You’re my favorite actor in the entire world, and I’ve written a screenplay with you in mind for the lead. Can I give this to you? Would you take it and not throw it away?” From under his arm, he pulls out this script and practically shoves the thing in my face.
“You know,” I say, accepting the script and smiling, “I’m actually looking for my next project right now. What’s your name?” He has to think about this for a moment.
“M. Connor Bennett.”
“Well, Connor. Tell you what. I’m going to read this today, and if I like it, we’ll be in touch.”