“Can I have a kiss on the cheek, too? I could die happy.”
She’s probably twenty or twenty-one. She’s not a knockout or anything, but I’m feeling pretty generous, so I plant one on her cheek. She and everyone around her commence screaming. I wave up to the crowd above their heads, shout, “I love you!” and then Kara and I walk on.
“You’re very good at this, Jim,” she whispers, as we approach a woman with a microphone standing in front of a camera. “You should feel my heart. It’s just racing.”
The woman with the microphone spins around as we pass by.
She’s one of the anchors for Hollywood Starz!. She wears a highly glittery dress.
“Look who it is,” she tells the camera, “Oscar-winner James Jansen.”
I stop walking and stand beside the reporter. I think her name is Marcy Meyers, but I’m not certain. When you’re a Star, you have to talk to the reporters. It’s sort of a rule.
“How are you doing tonight, Jim? You look fabulous!” She puts her hand on my shoulder.
“So do you.” Always complement the female reporters. It’s easy with Marcy, because she honestly looks exceedingly hot.
“So are you guys looking forward to seeing the movie?” No, I think it’s going to be a steaming pile. Ever notice how reporters, for the most part, ask blazingly stupid questions?
“Oh absolutely. I think Rich has worked some magic in this film.”
“That’s certainly the buzz, isn’t it? And you look beautiful, too,” Marcy tells Kara. I squeeze Kara’s hand, and she smiles gracefully.
“Thank you.”
I can see in Marcy’s eyes that she wants to ask Kara something, but she backs off.
“So, Jim, when are we going to be standing at your premier? Not too much longer I hope.”
Right, like I’m going to tell you first. You have to be very careful how you answer that sort of question, because if you say the wrong thing, or even the right thing with less than perfect ambiguity, you’ll wind up in the tabloids.
“Things are in the works, Marcy, and that’s all I can say at this point.”
“Oh, come on, Jim! You’re teasing us!”
I smile that winning, this-conversation-is-over smile.
“Well, thanks for stopping by to chat with us. You guys enjoy the movie.”
As we walk away, I wonder if two people are sitting in Huntersville, North Carolina at this moment, on an old, stinky couch, in a house that smells like cabbage. The man is soused up pretty good on cheap gin, the woman thinking about Jesus, and neither of them realize who just strolled across their television screen.
To the households that watch us, we are nothing more than glorious, enviable constellations. We’re symbols of perfection. Charismatic gods. I’m beginning to understand how necessary we are.
We’re drifting through the lobby of the El Capitan, when this guy in a tux steps right in front of us with a big, goofy smile on his face. He wears thick, black-rimmed glasses, and his hair is black and curly.
“Jim! What’s going on?”
I smile, guardedly.
“Hey, there,” I say. “Good to see you.”
“Great to see you. Look, are you going to Rich’s afterward?”
“I think we’re planning on it.”
“Great, because I want to talk with you about something. It’s a project that’s in development, and I’d love to tell you about it. I think it’d be perfect for you.”
“Sounds good.”
“And nice to see you,” he says to Kara. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Kara Suthers,” she says, extending her hand.
“Harvey Wallison. A real pleasure. Well, you guys enjoy the movie, and we’ll talk later, Jim.”
When Kara and I have taken our seats in the theatre, she leans over and whispers into my ear: “Who was that man?”
“You mean Harvey Wallison? You haven’t heard of him?”
“Should I have?”
“He’s a brilliant director. Did Down From the Sleeping Trees, and if you tell me you haven’t heard of that, I’ll take you home right now.” I smile to let her know I’m only kidding. She smiles back, and as the lights go down, we kiss.
The Action, I’m delighted to say, is one of the best movies I’ve seen in a long, long time. Rich’s performance as Wally Miller may very well earn him an Oscar nomination. I even mist up, and as a rule, movies never make me cry. The scene that got me happens toward the end of the movie. Wally has blown the last of his $110,000 dollars at the blackjack table, and he sort of has a meltdown in the casino. It’s very poignant, as they say. He crumples down on the floor and just starts wailing, and practically everyone in the casino is staring at him. Then this lady walks over to him, kneels down, and gives him a $1,000-dollar chip. Wally looks up at her and says, “I can’t do it anymore. I just can’t.” I’m telling you, everyone in the theatre lost it at the same moment. Then Wally starts crying again, and the pit boss has security drag him out of the casino.
Everybody’s mascara is running as they leave the theatre. And it’s quiet, too, like we’re coming out of church on Good Friday. I’ve got a feeling that when the reporters ask the Stars what they thought of the movie, and everyone raves about how wonderful it was, this is one of the rare times they’ll mean it.
Chapter 22
misgivings ~ Santa Monica Pier ~ the trouble with perfection ~ arrives at the mansion of Richard Haneline ~ greets the host ~ the view no one sees ~ goes to get drinks ~ the finger wave ~ a strange encounter
We have a couple hours before Rich Haneline’s party, since the studio is throwing a bash at the Roosevelt directly following the premiere. And I’m sure we’re on the guest list and all, but I’ve got to tell you, I’m feeling a tad nervous about the prospect of mingling with hundreds of Stars and industry types who I’m supposed to know, some very well, most at least superficially.
It feels wonderful and safe when Kara and I are back in the limousine and Rex is driving us south out of Hollywood toward a surprise destination.
“That was amazing,” she tells me. “I mean, Jan Bollinger shook my hand and told me she loved my dress. I know that’s probably no big deal for you, but you have to understand, I’ve watched her movies all my life. She’s going to Richard’s party. She told me, ‘I’ll see you there.’ This is so much fun, Jim.”
We reach our surprise destination, and Rex gets out and opens the door for us.
“What are we doing here?” Kara asks.
“I thought it’d be nice to kill an hour or two watching the sunset.”
“And here’s what you asked for,” Rex says, handing me a small cooler.
Rex is a wonderful driver. While we watched the movie, he went out and purchased champagne at my request.
It’s 8:30, and if I squint and measure with my thumb and index finger, the sun is roughly an inch above the horizon of calm blue ocean.
Kara and I walk onto the Santa Monica Pier.
We stroll all the way to the end and only pass three people—a starry-eyed couple, and an old man, fishing.
We have the end of the pier all to ourselves, and we sit down on a bench and watch the sun sink into the sea.
I open the cooler, remove the bottle of champagne and two plastic flutes.
“Look at you,” Kara says as I work out the cork.
It pops off, clears the railing, gone.
To tell you the truth, I’m kind of sad as I pour the champagne. It’s like what I realized that morning in New York. Sometimes, things are so perfect, you know it can’t get any better. The most tragic point of existence isn’t when you’ve bottomed out. It’s when you’ve peaked, when you’ve just crested perfection and can see it beginning to fall away in your rearview mirror.
“To you, Kara.”
“To you, Jim.”