Famous (2 page)

I lay my gray Hugo Boss across the backseat
of Mom’s Buick, drop the four bags containing slacks, socks, three
pairs of shoes, belts, silk mock-turtlenecks, polo shirts, and
Oxfords in the trunk, and set out for Salon 87, several blocks up
the street.

The chic receptionist informs me that I’m
lucky. They’re normally much too busy for walk-ins. She gives me a
brochure to choose which treatment package is right for me, but I
don’t have time to read the thing. Celebrities are always pressed
for time.

“Just give me the most expensive package you
offer,” I tell her. “Money is no object.”

“Fantastic, then I’ll put you down for the
Day of Tranquility.”

The next six hours are almost unbearable, but
I have to cleanse myself of Lancelot, so I let the “pampering
specialist” have free reign over my entire body, even my feet which
are fairly hideous.

I get a facial, body exfoliation, clay
treatment, a massage, seaweed body wrap, 15 minutes of reflexology,
and finally, a shampooing and hair-styling.

The stylist, Roger, asks before he starts if
I have a particular look in mind.

“James Jansen.”

“Sure. You know…oh my God, you could be his
twin!”

I just smile.

I think Roger is gay. At least I hope. If I’m
paying a hundred dollars for a haircut, the stylist damn well
better be a homosexual, because from what I hear, they can really
cut some hair.

My flight will depart Charlotte at 8:20
tomorrow morning, so when I arrive home a little before five, I
head directly up to my room with the day’s purchases and drag my
single piece of luggage out from under the bed.

My room is not, as you probably fear, a
tribute to James Jansen. I don’t have a closet full of candles and
pictures and articles of his clothing. No posters of him on my
walls. I don’t even own all twenty-four of his movies. See, this is
the thing—I don’t love him. I’m sure he has fans more rabid than
me. I’m only intrigued by him because we share a close resemblance.
The obsession stems from the opportunities this affords me, not the
man himself.

Mom has cooked shepherd’s pie for supper
again. The three of us always eat together in the den and watch
Entertainment Magazine
. I’m not going to miss sitting on the
sofa between them with our trays.

Entertainment Magazine
is particularly
interesting tonight. The show is broadcasting live from a movie
premier. Gives me chills to watch the Stars stroll down the red
carpet. So poised. Witty. These are things I have to perfect. I’ve
been practicing. I’m nearly there.

The female host stops one of the Stars of the
movie and asks how she’s feeling tonight as a thousand fans scream
behind her and the SoCal sun falls into the Pacific.

“Well, you know, I love this part of it. The
work’s done. And you know, John was just so great to work with. I
was a little intimidated before I met him, because, he’s John, you
know? But he really treated me like an equal, a colleague, and as a
result, I think we’ve made a fabulous film.”

Beautiful. See how she complimented her
costar while at the same time bringing glory to herself? That’s a
professional.

After dinner, Dad turns off the television.
We’re all sitting there with our trays in the silence of the living
room. There’s a painting of Jesus above the TV set that’s been on
that wall since I was a kid. Kind of a strange place to put the
Lord. I don’t know.

In a minute, Dad will get up and go to bed
since he’s boozed out of his mind on Aristocrat gin. Mom will go
clean up the kitchen and read her Bible. I’ll retire to my room
above the garage, and while I pack, watch a Jansen movie and
several episodes of
Hollywood Starz!
(I tape them. They’re
fascinating studies in Star behavior).

“I have something to tell you guys,” I say.
“I’m leaving for New York tomorrow morning.”

“What for?” Mom asks.

I put my arms around the both of them. Not
because I really want to. Just seems like the thing to do.

“Since I dropped out of college nineteen
years ago, this has been my home. But I’ve had a dream, Mom, Dad.
And dreams cost money. I’ve saved my money for this dream, and now
the time has come for me to go after it.”

They don’t know what the devil I’m talking
about. I haven’t told anyone my plans.

Mom begins to tear up.

Dad doesn’t say anything. He kind of nods.
Then he gets up, pats me on the shoulder, and walks out of the
room. He doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s just genuinely not
interested in much these days.

Mom and I sit on the couch for awhile. I look
around the living room seeing as how this will be the last time I
see it for awhile. Maybe ever. Such a normal-looking house. Smells
like cabbage. Always has.

Mom’s bottom lip quivers. She rests her head
against my shoulder. I’m not convinced she’s really sad. Sure
she’ll miss me, but I think they’ve been hoping this day would come
for quite awhile.

Chapter 2

through the portal * first class * Miss
Lavender Suit * The Way * 29

With a boarding pass in hand and my luggage
checked, I stroll toward the metal detector, imagining it’s a
portal, and that once I cross the threshold, I cease to be Lancelot
Blue Dunkquist.

My pace quickens. I walk straight, confident,
and tall through the terminal, relishing that transient airport
smell but maintaining the stoic façade the great Stars don in
public.

I am James Jansen.

I am James Jansen.

James Jansen is flying out of Charlotte,
North Carolina this morning. James Jansen sports a gray Hugo Boss
with a T-shirt underneath (Stars can get away with it), and shoes
as mirror-black as volcanic glass. He is clean-shaven, his hair an
immaculate brown mane of style. He is larger than life. Oblivious
to the mundane act of walking through an airport. This concourse is
only a channel transporting him from one place where he is the
focus, to another. He is bigger than all of this. He is
electric.

I take my seat in first class by the window.
Before the coach crowd starts to file in, a flight attendant stops
to ask what I’d like to drink. Bottled water. She looks at me kind
of funny, half-smirking like she suspects I’m somebody she’s seen
before. Makes my stomach flutter. But she doesn’t ask. I’m sure
first-class
flight attendants see the Stars on a regular
basis. They’re probably told not to bother them.

I don’t look at the coachers as they trudging
past me toward the back of the plane. I stare contemplatively out
the small window at the distant pines which frame the tarmac. But I
can feel people staring at me as they pass, and man it feels
good.

So the jet’s loaded up and I think we’re
getting ready to taxi on out of here when a woman in a lavender
business suit steps into the cabin. Her hair is mussed, as they
say, like she just sprinted through the airport. Wouldn’t you know
it—she sits next to me, and I start to get all flushed like I
normally do when interaction with people is imminent.

Our eyes meet, and what I do next is what
clinches it. I cut this smile I’ve been practicing for ten years.
Jansen possesses an unmistakable grin: he smiles quick, and only
from the right corner of his mouth like he’s had a stroke or
something. But it works. It’s playful, mischievous, and I’ve got it
down cold. In fact, when I flash it, I actually see it take her
breath away. The realization of who I am spreading blatantly across
her face, glossy lips parting, but she doesn’t say anything. She
catches herself, smiles back, and turns her attention to the
fastening of her seatbelt.

As we go airborne and I feel that funny
pressure against my chest, I wonder if Partner Jeff is looking out
the window of his magnificent office. I think I’d like for him to
see me in this moment. He’d probably respect what I’m doing.
Ambitious people admire the hell out of other ambitious people.
We’re all in this big secret club.

After I get bored of looking out the window,
I glance at the woman beside me. Her briefcase is open on her lap
and she’s sorting through some papers. Bet she’s too shy to
initiate a conversation, but unfortunately, I can’t do it. See,
Stars
never
initiate conversations with non-Stars. It’s one
of the most important rules. I probably shouldn’t even realize that
another human being is even sitting beside me, because I’m so
engrossed in myself.

So here’s what I do.

Since Miss Lavender Suit is so focused on her
briefcase, I reach down and lift my leather satchel from under the
seat. Then I unbuckle the strap, throw back the flap, and pull out
a script. There’s this website you can go to that has all the
scripts from practically every movie ever made. Few weeks ago, I
ordered one for this movie made fifteen years back that nobody ever
saw. I hadn’t even heard of it.

The movie was called “The Way,” about this
married guy who gets dissatisfied with his life and winds up going
to the Amazon Jungle or someplace like that. They didn’t even have
it on Netflix, so I had to buy a used copy on eBay. I can see why
it wasn’t very popular. It’s almost four hours, and the only good
part comes near the end where the guy goes native with this tribe.
At least if going native means what I think it means. I never
looked it up or anything.

So I pull out this script, and then I lower
my tray and set my bottled water and glass of ice down so I can
pretend to read the thing. Man, does Miss Lavender Suit get
interested in a hurry. I mean, if I hadn’t been watching to see if
she was interested, I probably wouldn’t have noticed. But I have my
radar out, and she’s cutting peeks left and right. I figure she’ll
be initiating a conversation any minute now, but she keeps clammed
up like you wouldn’t believe.

Once we hit cruising altitude, I have to pee.
I start to take the script with me, since I’m a Star and all and
not supposed to trust anybody, but I don’t want her to think I’m
reading on the toilet. Besides, I’ll bet the balance of my checking
account that while I’m gone she steals a nice long glance at that
script. So I just close the booklet and leave it face-up in my
seat.

She doesn’t have to stand up to let me out,
first class being roomier than coach. Instead, she does that thing
where she moves her legs to the side, so I can slide by. Man, I
love that. We also meet eyes again, and she’s looking at me like
I’ve never been looked at before.

While I’m in the microbathroom, I think of
what I’ll do if she doesn’t say anything. But I don’t stay in there
long, because Stars don’t do disgusting, ordinary things like
taking a shit.

When I come back out, she does that thing
with her legs again while I ease back into my seat. I lift the
script and open it again. Then I give her one more opportunity. I
thumb through a few more pages, let out this big sigh, and drop it
back into my satchel like I’ve had it or something. Not real
serious. Just annoyed.

And then she does it, and my heart nearly
comes up my throat.

“Excuse me,” she says, “I swear I’m not one
of those people who freaks out when they see somebody famous, but
you’re James Jansen, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“I just wanted to tell you how much I admire
your films. You’re one of my favorite actors.”

“That’s very kind of you to say.”

Man, my heart is racing, but I manage to hold
myself together, because this happens to me all the time. Nothing
new about it.

“I’m Denise.” She offers her hand, which I
accept. It’s a bit sweaty. I’m making her sweat.

“Jim.”

“Are you uh…oh forget it. I don’t want to
bother you.”

“It’s fine. You aren’t bothering me,
Denise.”

“Are you reading a script for a potential
movie? If you’re allowed to talk about it, I mean.”

“I am. Friend of mine who happens to be a
director slipped me this script a few months ago. I hadn’t had a
chance to read it until now. Between you and me, I don’t think I’m
going to do it.”

“Are you working on anything right now?” she
asks.

The real Jansen is not. He hasn’t done a
movie in three years. I have to keep tabs on that sort of thing
unless I run into a real Jansen fanatic.

“Not at the moment,” I say. “But I am looking
at doing some theatre.”

“Is that why you’re going to New York?”

“Exactly.”

“What play are you considering?”

“I really shouldn’t say anything yet, since I
haven’t met with the director.”

“Oh, of course, I’m sorry.”

I glance out the window, just to make sure we
aren’t plummeting earthward. To be honest, flying sort of scares
me. I’ve only flown once before.

Below, the land is very rumpled and green—the
Appalachians.

“What do you do, Diane?” I ask, intentionally
forgetting her name to see if she lets it slip.

“I’m a consultant for brokerage firms,” she
says, nodding like it’s such a commonplace job and she’s a little
embarrassed to tell me. “I’ve got several meetings over the next
week in New York. Can I ask you something?” she says, leaning
in.

“Sure.”

“I read once somewhere that you remember
every line from every film you’ve ever done. Is that true?” It is
true. Jansen is smart as hell.

I say, “Well, I do have a photogenic
memory.”

For some reason, Denise laughs and takes a
magazine from her briefcase. I’d like to know where she’s staying
in New York. The real Jansen isn’t married. I almost ask her if
she’d care to have a drink one evening in the city, but before I
do, I try to see her through Jansen’s eyes. Through eyes that can
have any woman they want. Don’t get me wrong. Denise is a very
attractive woman, but Jansen grazes in the stratosphere. She’s
the-most-beautiful-woman-on-the-plane attractive, not Hollywood
attractive, so I don’t ask. Nothing against her. If I were me, I’d
ask her out without a thought. She’s as far beyond Lancelot as
Jansen is beyond her.