Famous (19 page)

It’s easier than you might think talking to
someone you don’t remember. Because if you let them, most people
will talk exclusively about themselves. Honestly, they don’t really
want to know how you’re doing. And if they do ask, it’s merely out
of courtesy, and they won’t be listening to your answer. They’ll be
nodding their head, smiling at you, and wondering,
Do I have
something in my teeth? I wonder if John’s here. Oh, there’s Mary! I
need another drink.

Practically everyone asks about the
screenplay Brad Morton and I are writing. Some people seem to have
read portions of it. I’m telling you, there’s a buzz. Everyone asks
me where Brad is, like I’m supposed to be keeping tabs on him or
something. I hate that. I don’t know what I’m going to do about
Brad. I really don’t.

The jazz band is smoking. Especially the
drummer. He’s one cool cat as they say. The only thing that moves
are his arms. The rest of his body is perfectly still, and he just
stares out at the ocean while he plays these blistering fills, like
he could give a shit who he’s playing for.

When I glance through the crowd again, I see
Harvey Wallison making his way toward me. We haven’t made eye
contact, and since he doesn’t know I’ve seen him, I walk through
the French doors, into Rich’s house, moving quickly through the
kitchen, a ridiculous dining room, with a table that could seat
forty guests, and finally arriving at the atrium. There’s a chair
beside this gurgling fountain, so I sit down and cross my legs and
wait, praying Harvey doesn’t see me.

Shortly thereafter, he comes around the
corner from the dining room and stops, looking over the candlelit
atrium and the half dozen people who occupy its chairs and sofas.
I’m hoping he won’t recognize me in the lowlight of the candles,
but when he looks in my direction, he smiles and starts toward
me.

He sits down in the empty chair across from
mine, takes out a handkerchief, pats down his forehead.

“I hate these things,” he says. “Wear me the
fuck out.”

He sips from his glass of Scotch and sets it
on the wrought iron table betwixt us.

“Good to see you out again, Jim.”

“Good to be out.”

“Yeah? You feeling well?”

“I think so. Some people tell me I seem
different.” He nods, touching his index finger to the corner of his
eye. I think Harvey might be one of those rare listeners. “I feel
different,” I say.

“Well, you’re sort of just getting back into
the swing of things.”

“Yeah.”

“And I think it’s terrific that you are, Jim.
You’re a helluva brave soul, and a lot of people are rooting for
you.”

I pat Harvey on the knee.

Harvey sips his Scotch and removes his
glasses.

“I don’t know what your timetable is for
picking your next project. I’ll tell you, Guy Watson and Tyler Law
are hounding me for this part. I’ve had both of them over to read
with Lauren and it was good. I’m not going to say it wasn’t. But it
wasn’t what it could be.”

“What do you mean?”

He looks me hard in the eyes. “Jim, I’ve only
worked with you on one film, but I know when something’s perfect
for you, and buddy, this is it. A role like this comes along once,
maybe twice in a man’s career.”

He leans in closer. I can smell the single
malt on his breath.

“I know I’m coming on strong here, Jim, and
believe me, I don’t want you to do this if you aren’t ready, or if
you don’t want it. But if any part of you is interested, I would
urge you to come up to my place for a read. I won’t lie to you. I
want you at least partly for selfish reasons. I think you’d make
this film the best thing I’ve ever done. I think you’d make it a
classic. But as much as I want these things for me, I want them
also for you.”

He finishes his Scotch, and I’m wondering if
I’m already supposed to know the premise.

I take a chance.

“So what’s it about, Harvey? I apologize, you
may have already told me.”

Harvey gets up and stands in front of me.

I am very uncomfortable.

I keep waiting for him to ask me something I
don’t know.

“You’re a car salesman in the Midwest. A
family man. You have a wife and daughter. You come home early from
work one day to surprise your wife and find her in bed with your
next door neighbor, Michael. You sit outside the door and listen to
them making wild, flagrant love.”

He takes a breath and half-grins at me like,
Are you hooked yet?

And I guess I am. It’s a fairly intriguing
premise.

“That night, about two in the morning, you
sneak over to your neighbor’s house and murder him and bury him in
his backyard. His wife and children are visiting family in another
state.

“The next hour and forty-five minutes
chronicles Michael’s body being discovered your wife’s growing
suspicion that you murdered him, and your own deteriorating mental
state brought on by an ocean of guilt. It’s called
Next
Door
.”

He’s smiling. I am, too.

I say, “Wow.”

“Yeah?”

“Harvey, I want to see this movie.”

“See it? Star in the motherfucker!”

I take a deep breath. I think the only way
Harvey’s going to leave me alone is if I agree to do a reading.

“All right. I’ll read with Lauren.” I don’t
even know which Lauren he’s talking about.

“Really?” I don’t think he expected me to
agree.

“Well, you hooked me.”

Harvey kneels down and hugs my legs. It’s
sort of embarrassing.

Heading back toward my place, Kara puts her
hand on the back of my neck and runs her fingers through my
hair.

“What’s wrong, Jim?” she asks.

I don’t turn around. I don’t say
anything.

She snuggles close to me, so that when she
speaks, I feel her warm, moist breath on my ear.

“Did something happen at the party?”

“Harvey Wallison wants me to star in his new
movie.”

“That’s great!”

“Everyone wants to know how my screenplay is
coming along. They can’t wait to read it.”

“That’s wonderful!”

Our limo is winding up Laurel Canyon. The
road is very steep. If Rex were to make a steering mistake, we’d go
plunging down into a ravine.

“These things aren’t wonderful,” I say, still
gazing out the window.

“Why?”

“Everyone wants things from me.”

“Well, isn’t that—”

“What if I can’t deliver?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if I can’t do the things these people
want?”

“But you can, Jim. You’re a brilliant actor.
I know. I’ve seen your films. You’ve won an Oscar, for
Chrissakes.”

It’s two a.m., and I’m so angry. It even
surpasses the fear.

There’s nothing like getting exactly what you
want and it still not being enough.

Chapter 24

with Kara in the bungalow * Kara holds the
Oscar * Margot’s curiosity * the angry goldens * the worst thing
that can possibly happen when you’re making love to a woman (it’s
not what you think) * finishes the job * finishes the other job *
Kara takes the Defender * digs a hole * the Star Wars analogy

Even though we just came from the mansion to
end all mansions, Kara’s pretty blown away by my bungalow. I take
her inside and give her the quick tour. She seems particularly
enthralled with my home theatre.

“You have to have me over to watch a movie
some time,” she says. Of course that won’t happen. I’ve decided
now, but I smile just the same and say that of course we will.
We’ll pop popcorn and do the whole shebang.

Kara spends a moment staring at Oscar.

I open the case for her and let her hold it.
I see flakes of dried blood in the crevices, but they’re
microscopic. I’m sure she won’t notice.

“It’s so heavy,” she tells me.

“That’s what everyone says.”

“Was this like the best night of your
life?”

“It was.”

I fix her a drink (Crown and Coke, very easy
on the Crown) and take her out onto the patio. After the obligatory
drooling over my extraordinary view of Los Angeles, we settle back
into Adirondack chairs and talk superficially about the Haneline
party and our interactions with various guests.

Then Kara mentions her conversation with
Margot.

“Yeah, Margot was pretty interested in you,”
Kara tells me.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, she was just asking how you’d been doing
and all.”

“Been doing with what?”

“You know.”

“No, Kara, I don’t know.”

“With the uh…the substance abuse thing,” she
whispers the last part.

“Oh. Thank you, Margot.”

“Jim, it’s fine. None of my business. I don’t
care.”

“You don’t care if I’m a drug addict?”

She sighs, and I can tell by the way she
plays with her ice that she’d love to have a second crack at not
bumbling into this topic.

“Of course I care,” she says finally.

I reach over and take hold of her hand which
is wet and cold from holding the Crown and Coke.

“I’m doing much, much better,” I tell her.
“You should know that I went through some hard times a while back,
but that I’ve come through it. I’m healthy now, Kara.”

It’s not much fun admitting to being a drunk
and/or drug addict when you’re not, but I guess you’ve got to make
sacrifices sometimes.

“You want to go inside?” I ask, and yes, I’m
asking exactly what you think I’m asking.

“Love to,” she replies, and by the way her
eyes have gone all soft and intense, I know that she means exactly
what I think she means.

On the way to my bedroom, we pass the golden
retrievers. They’re lying by the closed door to the yoga room, and
when I reach down to pet them, they bare their teeth.

Kara asks what’s wrong with them, and I tell
her they’re just playing, that it was a friendly growl.

We head on into my bedroom and get it on.
It’s quite fun, because I care about Kara, and I feel strongly that
she cares about me.

I even light two candles on my dresser and
turn off the lights. It’s highly romantic.

Things are going very well. I’m making love
to her more passionately than I’ve ever made love to anyone.
Certainly more than the twins from New York. I have to say, we’re
both enjoying ourselves immensely, and every now and then, I’ll
look over through the window and see lovely LA at three in the
morning, and then look down at lovely Kara. Everything’s just
beautiful tonight, and I’m starting to think that maybe things will
be all right, when I hear a noise.

I’m sure Kara can’t hear it, because she’s
making some noise of her own, but it chills my blood. It’s the
sound of a door opening very slowly. Creaking. I hear the tags on
the dogs’ collars clinking, I hear them licking something, and
then, through the open doorway of my bedroom, I see a hand, an arm,
and then a head. Something drags itself out of the yoga room,
slowly, impossibly across the floor.

I hate to do this to Kara, because she’s
awfully close, but I whisper, breathlessly, “The dogs are getting
into something. Can you hold on a second?”

“Jim, what are you—”

“Be right back.”

I hop down from the bed and run naked into
the hall, closing the bedroom door behind me.

“Bad dogs!” I yell.

They growl, but I raise my hand to them, and
they bolt off down the hallway into another part of the house.

I drag it back into the yoga room. I don’t
even know what this thing is. As I make it stop moving, I keep
thinking that I’m stuck in this awful nightmare. I don’t ever want
to see it again.

When I finish, I wash up and walk back into
my bedroom and climb into bed with Kara. She’s lying naked on top
of the covers, head propped up on one elbow.

“Sorry about that,” I say, pressing my body
up against hers. I can’t tell if she’s mad. I think she might be,
but she kisses me anyway and pulls me back on top of her.

In the morning, Kara wakes up frantic,
because she has an eleven o’clock recitation to teach. I tell her
if she can drive a stick, that she’s welcome to take the
Defender.

I walk her out, and we spend a minute saying
all that stuff men and women are supposed to say to each other
after a night like we had.

When she’s gone, I walk around the side of
the house to a tool shed. Inside, I find a shovel and set about
digging a hole a hundred feet or so down the hillside from my
patio. It takes a long time, because the ground is very hard and
dry. In the end, it’s not too deep, but it’ll have to do.

What’s even harder than the digging is the
dragging of that thing out of the yoga room, all the way across my
patio, down the hill, and into the bushes.

The hole is in a particularly nice spot,
shaded from the sun, surrounded by sagebrush. You’d have to really
be looking for it to find it, so I feel pretty good about the whole
deal.

I roll it into the ground, but I don’t start
filling in the hole right away. I just stand there, staring down at
it. It helps if I imagine that this thing I’m burying is all of the
shit that’s inside of me. I’m a firm believer that if you want to
reach self-actualization or enlightenment, or whatever that really
good place is called, you have to kill a part of yourself.

It’s kind of like that scene in
The Empire
Strikes Back
when Luke Skywalker is visiting the little green
guy, and he goes down in that hole in the ground and fights the guy
in the black cape. Well, after Luke kills him with his light sword,
he looks down into the black mask and sees his own face. It’s like
he had to kill a part of himself to become a better human
being.

That’s similar to what I’m doing here. It’s
very metaphorical.

Chapter 25