Famous (10 page)

I walk down the hall into the kitchen. Bo is
fixing breakfast. I smell eggs and sausage and even grits. We all
exchange good mornings and did I sleep okay, and yes, beautifully.
Sam is curious and shy of me. I sit down at the breakfast table
across from his highchair. He’s exceptionally cute, but I guess you
have to be cute at three, otherwise, you’ve got a pretty rough time
ahead of you.

Bo sets a cup of black coffee in front of me
and a plate of food. We eat together. It’s a comfortable meal. Bo
and I eat grits. Hannah doesn’t. Sam becomes increasingly
fussy.

I find out that Bo now designs video games
for a living. Hannah is a psychologist, and fuck, I get a little
nervous about that. I don’t know how you could live with one of
those people. All the time, they’re studying you, figuring out all
the things that are wrong with your brain. I’ll have to watch out
for her. She’s probably already got me pegged. I mean, I don’t
exactly know the details, but I’m fairly confident I’m fucked up on
a whole range of levels. But that’s the thing about people—no
matter what anyone says, they never think they’re crazy. I guess to
be really crazy, you can’t know that you’re crazy. It’s kind of
funny if you think about it.

We get to talking about our childhood, and
you can tell that Hannah is pretty interested to hear what her
husband was like as a boy. I tell her that Sam looks just like Bo
when he was little, because you know parents love to hear stuff
like that.

Then I tell about the vacations we used to
take to North Myrtle Beach every August, the week before school
started back, how we’d stay in the same motel every year. It was
called the Windjamer, and though it wasn’t oceanfront, you only had
to cross two streets to reach the beach. I can’t really tell if it
bothers Bo to hear me talk about this stuff. He isn’t the biggest
fan of Mom and Dad. But just when I think I’m making him
uncomfortable, he pipes in about the time we got down there and a
hurricane was blowing in. Dad loved hurricanes, and while every
other family was getting the hell away from the coast, Dad made us
bunker down in our motel room and ride the thing out. I know it
sounds pretty exciting and all, but at the time, when all that wind
and rain was kicking up, Mom, Bo, and I thought we were going to
die.

“I never saw so much wind,” Bo says. “Oh, and
you remember when Dad walked out into the worst of it and he had to
hold onto the rearview mirror so he wouldn’t get blown down the
street?”

He’s smiling at me, and I think we’re having
one of those moments.

After breakfast, I get Bo to drive me to
Exotic Car Rentals of Beverly Hills where I have a reservation for
a gleaming yellow Hummer. Actually, I let him drop me at a
Starbucks across the street. He shouldn’t concern himself with my
need for upscale transportation.

Bo tells me he’ll pick me up in three hours
(he’s going to work on a video game he’s designing), but I tell him
not to worry. I’ll catch a cab back to his place.

When he’s gone, I buy a hot chocolate and
cross Little Santa Monica Boulevard to the rental company and get
the luxury Hummer for a week. It comes to $6,295. $895/day.
$37/hour. About a penny each second.

You might think that’s excessive, but would
James Jansen drive anything that had a price tag under $70,000?

I climb behind the wheel of that beautiful
machine and take a drive along Mulholland, where I cruise the Santa
Monica Mountains. I finally come to one of those overlooks that’s
featured in practically every movie ever made about dreamful people
coming to Hollywood. Usually, the scene occurs at night. We find
the characters in a pivotal moment, and all of the Valley lies
glittering, beautiful, and unattainable. There’ll be a tenor sax
playing, or moody synthesizers. The characters will say dramatic
things like, “I always wanted this” or “I never should’ve come to
this city.” Crying will ensue, and hope will be lost as the lights
of LA twinkle indifferently in the backdrop.

But on this bright, hot morning, with midday
approaching and dust blowing across the parched ground, it holds
none of that passionate, neon magic. I sit on the front bumper of
my Hummer, simply registering the environment—haze, distant
glimmering chrome, the fly on my hand, the silent crawl of traffic
on the highways below, and the blue plate of ocean this will all
fall into.

I am alone up here on this spectacular vista,
and do you want to know what I’m really thinking? It’s not what
you’d guess. I’m not full of that anxious hope the aspiring actors
come up here to feed. I’m not the least bit dreamy. Not even
optimistic. I don’t need to hedge myself with optimism, because the
things I envision will happen. Dreams are no longer necessary. I’m
falling in love with reality.

I own this. All of it. It’s my kingdom.

That’s what I’m thinking.

Chapter 12

Jansen’s star * the blonde at the stoplight *
more shopping * watches The Fam having supper * talks to Bo in the
shower * gets dolled up properly * waits in line * eavesdrops *
makes a proper Star arrival * trouble with the doormen * guarantees
the termination of their employment

Next, I drive to Hollywood Boulevard and have
a stroll down the Walk of Fame. Takes me half an hour, but I
finally locate Jansen’s star. It has his name on it, and the image
of a film camera underneath. As I stand there smiling down at this
beautiful tribute, I hear the unmistakable click of cameras.

I look up. A group of Japanese tourists are
taking my photograph, and I start to smile for them, but then I
realize it’s probably not cool, if you’re a major celebrity, to get
caught standing on top of and smiling down at your very own
star.

I depart quickly.

Everyone should own a Hummer for at least one
week of their life. It’s like driving a tank. I mean the thing
barely fits in one lane. And if you relish people noticing when you
drive by, choose a flashy color, like yellow.

It’s four in the afternoon (I’ve been driving
around all day, familiarizing myself with my town) and I’m sitting
at a stoplight on Sunset when this silver Ferrari pulls up beside
me. That’s the thing about Beverly Hills. Where else in the country
is it possible for a Ferrari and a Hummer to pass within twenty
miles of each other?

I’m of course sporting my gray Hugo Boss,
deep dark shades, and the top is still down, so the wind is blowing
through my hair, and the sun is warm on my face. You can’t imagine
how good I look. The window on the passenger side of the Ferrari
hums down and reveals this blonde that I won’t even try to
describe. But trust me. Not unpleasant to look at.

“I like your tank there, Jim! Is it new?”

“Just got it,” I say, and for a second, I
worry that perhaps she really knows James Jansen, and therefore, I
should appear to know her. But then I realize that the beauty of
being a Star is that you don’t have to remember anybody. In fact,
it enhances the effect if you don’t.

“What are you doing tonight?” I ask, because
I can.

“La Casa, of course. DJ SuperCas is
spinning.” I wonder what that means.

The car behind me honks. The light has gone
green.

“I may see you there,” I say.

She winks, and the Ferrari screeches on
through the intersection, the growl of its engine audible for
several blocks. I put my banana tank into gear and ease on down
Sunset, scanning for the kind of stores where you can drop a few
thousand on nice pants.

I’m ready for tonight, but I need things
first.

Specifically, cologne, a real watch, a cell
phone, and club attire.

By the time I’ve finished shopping and
returned to Altadena, it’s seven o’clock. The sun is falling into
the Pacific, glazing the hills behind Bo’s neighborhood with peachy
light. I realize it’s pointless to try and hide my Hummer from Bo,
so I just park the thing in his driveway.

I walk inside and carry my bags into my
bedroom. The Fam is having dinner at the picnic table in the
backyard. I watch them while I undress in my room. Bo talks to Sam
practically the whole time. So does Hannah. They keep leaning
toward their son and making these silly faces. It’s neat to watch
them when they don’t know I’m watching them. This is probably how
they act when no one’s around. My brother’s a good daddy. It sounds
funny and strange to say, but I’m proud of him. I really am.

While I’m in the shower, someone knocks on
the door, and I hear Bo ask, voice muffled, if he can come in for a
minute.

I tell him sure.

He comes in.

“What the fuck is in my driveway?” he says.
I’m just standing out of the stream of water, letting the
conditioner condition.

“I rented a car.”

“That’s a Hummer, Lance.”

“All they had.”

“Isn’t that a little expensive?”

“Not as bad as you might think.”

“Why do you need a Hummer?”

I can tell you I’m getting pretty tired of
these questions.

“Haven’t you ever wanted to drive around in
something flashy?” I ask.

“Sure. But…Lance, you don’t even have a
job.”

I poke my head out of the shower curtain.
“Don’t worry about me, Bo. I’ve got plenty of money.”

“You do, huh?” He shakes his head and gives
me this smug grin he’s always had. “Hungry?” he says.

“Little bit.”

“Hannah made Santa Fe rice salad. It’s in the
fridge if you want some. I wish you’d told me you weren’t coming
back until this evening. I was kind of hoping we’d all eat outside
together.”

I guess when you’re a family guy like Bo, you
really look forward to sitting down to dinner with everyone. It’s
been five minutes, so I step back under the water and begin rinsing
the conditioner from my hair.

“You have plans tonight?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m going to head back out.”

He chuckles, “In the big, bad Hummer,” and
walks out.

Fuckin’ Bo. I love him, but he gets these
attitudes sometimes.

The woman at The Closet helped me assemble an
outfit of what she called, “extremely chic clubwear.” And I’ve got
to tell you, it’s like no clothing I’ve ever owned. I’m wearing a
black, silk short-sleeved button-up from Armani. Black leather
pants. Armani, as well. And my boots which are alligator or
crocodile, cost two grand! I don’t even think Partner Jeff would’ve
paid that for footwear.

When I’m dressed, I rub on a little of this
new cologne I bought. I’d tell you what it was called, but I can’t
pronounce it. Sounds very French, and the bottle is green and
exceptionally small. $375.00/ounce. It makes me smell like an
evergreen forest or something. I don’t know. Clarice at Sacs told
me it matched my biorhythms.

I get some pomade on my hands and run them
through my hair, even apply a little eyeliner (another tip from
Clarice). So by the time I’m dolled up properly, I hardly recognize
myself. I look very, very hip. You should see me.

The Fam is watching a news program when I
pass through the living room. It seems such an adult thing to
do—watching the news on a Saturday night. I’d get pretty sad if I
really thought about it.

I tell them not to wait up for me, that I
might not be back until tomorrow. I can tell that Hannah’s kind of
blown away that I’m going out on the town and all. I’m guessing
that from what Bo’s told her, she didn’t count me as a terribly
happening guy.

I kiss Sam on the forehead on my way out and
promise him we’ll play in the backyard tomorrow. It’s the sort of
thing you have to do when you’re an uncle.

The nightclub La Casa is in a big warehouse
on Hollywood. I let the valet park my Hummer, since that’s probably
what every good Star would do, slip him a $20 for his trouble (I’m
carrying $2,000 in cash in my back pocket) and survey the enormous
line. The doors opened at 9 p.m. Three very big, very scary-looking
men are standing at the double doors leading into La Casa. A
burgundy rope separates them from the crowd of several hundred.
They keep pointing at people, unhooking the rope, and letting them
inside. When the doors open, I feel the pulse of music vibrate in
my chest. Sometimes, they point at someone and shake their head and
laugh. These people in turn look highly embarrassed and usually
leave immediately.

I’ve never been to a nightclub. I’m excited
and anxious. Everyone looks fabulous. I’ve never seen so many
beautiful people in one place, and this makes me feel kind of
small.

I eavesdrop on this pack of girls ahead of me
as my section of crowd slowly pushes toward the rope boundary.

“That’s him. I kind of know the doorman on
our side,” this total bombshell directly in front of me says. She
smells very good. Delightful even. “He’s in my yoga class. He told
me to find him and he’d let me in and whoever I brought. You either
have to know the doorman, be famous, or look totally fucking hot,
otherwise forget it.”

“Oh my God, if we get into La Casa, I am
totally going to tell everyone I know. I’m going to send out
fucking announcements and shit.”

“I’m so glad you didn’t bring Amanda.”

“Are you crazy? No fucking way!”

“I totally agree.”

“Yeah, totally.”

“Oh totally.”

“Whoa, look at the hottie.”

“Where?”

I realize that I’m doing this all wrong when
I see this white limo pull up. The door opens and this couple steps
out who I recognize but can’t recall their names. They’re Stars for
sure. Not the heavyweight I am. Medium Stars.

One of the doormen yells, “Move back!” and
the crowd splits.

The couple, extraordinarily dressed, moves
quickly through the divided crowd. They pass through the rope
barrier as flashbulbs explode everywhere. They’re smiling at the
doormen, oblivious to the crowd of hopefuls all around them. The
doors open for them, and they disappear into the inner dance
utopia.