Famous (16 page)

“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?”

“Kara, do you know who this is?”

“Jim. Hey. What time is—”

“I’m sorry to be calling you so late. I just
got back from a long night and wanted to hear your voice. I’ve been
thinking about you all day.”

“I’ve been thinking about you, too.” She
sounds so tired, but I think she’s glad I called.

“Did you get a dress for the premier
tomorrow?”

“I bought one today.”

“Can’t wait to see you in it. Well, I know
it’s late. I don’t want to keep you up.”

“It’s all right.” She has a beautiful sleepy
voice. I’m tempted to invite her over, but I’m sure she’s much too
tired.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow around five,” I
say.

“Okay.” God, I want to tell her I love
her.

“Night, Kara.”

“Goodnight.”

I’m exhausted, but I don’t want to sleep yet.
The night is warm and luscious, and I feel an intense love for
everyone. I’ve got Oscar sitting between my legs, and it makes me
reminisce about that wonderful night I received this award. When
Henry Goodson started reading the nominees, I didn’t even give
myself a chance. I’m humble that way. People have told me that my
acceptance speech was one of funniest, most charming in the history
of the Academy Awards. It wasn’t planned, but I can tell you, it
came straight from my heart.

Being famous is the very best thing in the
world. I wish you knew.

Chapter 20

wakes up happy * listens to the message *
breakfast on the patio * the spider web * a walkthrough of his new
bungalow * a cancellation * takes a bath * returns the Hummer * fun
in a Porsche * the screenplay he’s writing * Ravenous Games * Lance
for the last time * goodbye to Bo at the fountain

Sunlight spills through my bedroom window. I
stretch and kick off the blankets.

From my pillow, I can see morning in the
Valley.

The sky is an early blue.

I climb out of bed.

My master suite is enormous. There’s a
treadmill by one of the windows.

You wouldn’t believe the size of my closet. I
step inside and choose a robe. It’s black satin—very suave.

As I walk down the hallway toward the
kitchen, the phone rings. I let it go. It’s only 8:15—much too
early to be answering the phone.

While I peruse the fridge for fruit and
orange juice, the answering machine picks up.

“This is Jim. Leave a message and do keep in
mind that brevity is the soul of wit.”

I pour a glassful of juice. It’s organic.

“Hey, Jim, I was thinking, you remember that
scene we wrote involving Bernard and the hooker? Bring it with you,
since you’re holding onto all the drafts. At least I hope you are.
It might actually work if we put it after Bernard leaves the
Christmas party. I don’t know. Just a thought. See you at ten.”

I have a pleasant breakfast on the patio.
It’s still misty up here in the hills. Very cool and refreshing.
When I finish the cantaloupe, I just sit back in that Adirondack
chair, basking.

On a tree several yards down the hill, I
notice this massive spider web. You wouldn’t believe it if you saw
it. I mean, the thing stretches five or six feet between the
branches. And in the middle of it, this spider just sits there,
waiting, stoic. The sun burning through the mist makes the silk web
glisten. As I sit there looking at this marvel of nature, it occurs
to me:
this is as much sense as anything ever makes.
I am
intensely moved by a spider web. I’m happy about being happy about
a spider web.

After breakfast, I take a tour of my
bungalow—the home theatre, the living room, the kitchen, dining
room, hallway, and three spare bedrooms, and the master suite.

I don’t bother with the room of mirrors.

In a corner of my bedroom, there’s a desk,
and in the drawers I find everything I need. Wallet, car keys,
BlackBerry account information, bank statements (I am so fucking
rich!), contracts…

It turns out that I’m currently writing a
screenplay with the actor Brad Morton. (He’s been in a whole slew
of movies. His most famous was
The Golftress
about this guy
who’s a mediocre professional golfer and undergoes a sex change
operation so he can play on the Ladies’ PGA tour. It’s one of the
funniest movies you’ll ever see. Morton’s garnered a couple Golden
Globes, but no Oscar. I’m sure I hold this over his head at every
opportunity).

Morton’s phone number is in my BlackBerry,
and I call him up, sounding very sickly and tired, like I’ve been
throwing up all night. He offers to come over and make me some
chicken soup, but I tell him not to bother. I’d probably just puke
it up anyway. He asks if it’s a hangover, and I tell him “a vicious
one.”

I take a bath in my garden tub and test
myself on my PIN number for my bank account, my social security
number, the alarm code, my address, and date of birth. It’s always
good to keep these things fresh in mind.

I can see the Valley while splashing in the
tub.

After my bath, I choose an outfit for the
day.

As it turns out, I’m a big fan of black silk.
My closet is full of it, so I go with black leather pants, a black
silk short-sleeved button-up, and these interesting crocodile shoes
which raise me an inch and a half.

I set the alarm and lock up the house.

It’s 10:30 in the morning.

I drive the Hummer back to Exotic Car Rentals
of Beverly Hills, turn it in, recover my deposit.

Then I call a cab and have the driver take me
to the Brick Room.

Thank God my Porsche is still there. I lower
the top and peel out onto Fairfax.

Man, this car is a kick to drive. I like it
even more than the Hummer. It’s so fast and low to the ground. Just
for fun, I take it out on I-10 and scream toward the ocean.

I have lunch at the bungalow and read through
the latest draft of Brad’s and my screenplay. It’s called
The
Great Wide Open
, and I have no idea what it’s about. The only
thing that really happens in the first twenty pages is this guy
named Bernard finds out that his newest wife is cheating on him
with his son, and then he sort of has a mental meltdown in a
bathroom. One minute, he’s washing his hands, the next, he’s
beating up an electric hand dryer. It’s pretty funny. I’m a very
good writer.