“She’s great, isn’t she?” He points to the jazz singer.
I don’t even look. I can’t take my eyes off him.
“You’re pretty drunk, aren’t you?” I ask.
“Not too drunk.” He blows a mouthful of smoke toward my face.
“You’ve put down half that bottle.”
“It’s a light night.”
I turn around and watch the jazz singer finish up the song. I don’t hear her though. I don’t hear anything. This doesn’t feel real.
“We could be twins,” he says. I smile. “What’s that called?” he says.
“What?”
“When you look exactly like someone else but you aren’t related to them?”
“A pretty strange fucking coincidence, I’d say.”
He laughs. I’ve made JJ laugh.
Bruce the bartender brings me my glass of vodka.
“Ten dollars,” he says.
I go for my wallet, but Jansen reaches forward and touches my wrist.
“I got it, Bruce.”
Good thing, too. I’m down to my last thousand.
As Bruce walks away, I dip my hand into the bucket, lift out an ice cube and drop it into my glass. Jansen raises his.
“To you, Lancelot.”
I raise my glass.
“To you, Jim.”
We clink glasses.
I sip my Vodka.
Jansen throws his back and sets it down hard on the table. He leans back and watches the jazz singer.
I nurse my drink and try not to stare at him. I’m sitting across from this man I’ve fantasized being and knowing for five years, and do you know what I’m thinking? Nothing. I can’t think of anything to say to him that wouldn’t be worshipful fan bullshit: What was it like winning the Oscar? What are you working on now? Who are your influences? How do you get into character? Which director do you most admire? If I watched enough Hollywood Starz! or skimmed enough gossip columns, I could find the answers to those questions. Maybe just sitting here with him is enough. Maybe knowing that he has uttered my former name and looked into my eyes and bought me a vodka straight up with one cube of ice is sufficient.
“Lancelot,” he says, finding my eyes. It’s like looking at myself. The perfection of me.
“Yes?”
“Do you want to come home with me?”
Chapter 19
drives Jansen home in the Hummer ~ why Lancelot is out in Hollywood ~ into the bungalow ~ Chip & Bailey ~ Oscar ~ a proposition ~ in the room of mirrors ~ getting naked ~ head ~ Oscar: a weapon ~ calls Kara ~ on the patio, remembering
Because Jansen is fairly “tight” as they used to say, I offer to drive him home in the Hummer. He gives me directions, since I don’t know where he lives. The warm night air floods over us, and Jansen sits back, unbuckled, eyes closed, a half-grin on his face. Seems like quite the carefree guy.
“What are you doing out here, Lancelot?” he asks as we cruise up some road called Carmella Drive. The Valley lights twinkle in the darkness below, and I feel happy and afraid. It’s 12:02 a.m. on the best day of my entire life.
“I’m a screenwriter.”
“No shit?” he says, but you can tell he’s not very interested. “Written anything I might’ve heard of?”
“I did this art-house thing a couple years ago called ‘Growing Old.’”
“Sure, I’ve heard of that.”
You can tell people anything and they’ll say they’ve heard of it, because honestly, who wants to admit they don’t know something? You ought to try it some time. It’s pretty funny.
I see his bungalow in the distance, and he tells me his place is just ahead. As I slow down to turn into the opening gate, he reaches over and strokes my face. I’m not too sure what I think about that, but I look over at him and smile anyway.
Jansen’s driveway is very steep. It circles in front of the house and I park behind a silver Lotus. There’s also an army green Land Rover Defender and an old Stingray Corvette.
We climb out of the Hummer and I follow Jansen across the walkway to the front door. It’s cool up here. Wind rattles the bushes and shrubs.
Jansen unlocks the front door and I enter his home. He punches in the alarm code, says, “Lights.” The living room appears. There are potted trees and long, curving furniture and leather and glass and sculptures and paintings. Even aquariums. Dogs bark somewhere in the house, and I hear their padded paws heading for us.
Two golden retrievers are suddenly at our feet, panting, squirming between our legs, licking my hands, and crying for joy.
“This is Bailey and Chip,” he says. I kneel down and pet the dogs. They’re highly friendly.
Then I follow Jansen through a living room into the plushest den I’ve ever seen. It’s a long, windowless room with a tall ceiling. There’s a screen at one end and a projector at the other. Couches and chairs and black leather beanbags fill the space between.
“Another vodka?” he asks from behind a bar at the back of the room.
“Sure. This is quite a place, Jim.”
What a really dumb fucking thing to say. He knows it’s quite a place. That’s why he paid millions of dollars for it.
I realize suddenly that I’m standing in front of a glass case filled with plaques and statues. My eyes immediately fix upon the bright gold Oscar. Jansen brings my drink over. He hands it to me and opens the cabinet.
“Here.” Hands me the statue, which is even heavier than you might imagine. It feels incredible to see my fingers wrapped around it. I can almost hear the applause.
“Was this the best night of your life?” I ask him.
“Sure was.”
I see him staring at the statue. In this moment, I love him. I want to tell him what he means to me. The smell of his sweat, slightly sweetened with remnants of cologne, drifts over me.
“I want you to fuck me Lancelot.”
I don’t even consider it. I just ask, “Can I bring Oscar?”
He nods, sips his drink, and walks out of the room.
I follow him, holding my statue. We pass through a kitchen with a brick oven, and then move down a long, wide corridor. He takes off his shirt as he walks and throws it at me. Very toned for an alcoholic.
We turn a corner. He tugs his belt out of his jeans and steps out of his hiking boots.
We enter a small dark room. Jansen begins lighting candles in each corner. As their flames come to life, I see that the walls and ceiling are mirrored.
“This is my yoga room. Take off all your clothes,” he tells me. I’m not homosexual, but I’ll be honest. I’m aroused. I remove my shirt and kick off my shoes. The floor is covered with highly plush carpet, and there’s a mattress fitted with black silk sheets in the center of the room. Jansen unbuttons his jeans and pushes them down his muscular legs. He steps out of them, kicks them into a corner. The way he stares at me is interesting. Very intense. Sultry even. He slides his blue boxer shorts off, and his member points at me. I can’t help but look. This is JJ.
Jansen steps forward and unbuttons my jeans. He slides his hand into my pants, then pulls my slacks and briefs down together and drops to his knees.
I watch us in the mirror. It’s the strangest, most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
It doesn’t take me long, and then he’s staring up at me, still on his knees, smiling.
I tighten my grip on Oscar and smash Jansen on top of his head.
He stumbles back, still conscious.
People don’t drop in real life like they do in the movies.
You have to hit them again and again.
It’s 1:00 a.m. when I step out onto my patio. You should see my view of the Valley, silent and shimmering below. I sit down in an Adirondack chair with a glass of vodka and my cell. I dial Kara’s number, and she answers sleepily after five rings:
“Hello?”