Famous (3 page)

Chapter 3

the worst hotel in the world *
what it smells like * Columbia * Professor Wittig * funnel cakes on
5
^th
Ave. * O. Wilde’s *
vodka, one ice cube, no lime

I’ll be honest with you—I don’t know the
first damn thing about New York. I grew up in the South, and I only
visited the city once with my parents when I was thirteen, and that
was only for a night.

But I do know one thing going in. It’s
expensive as hell. Which is why I don’t bother to reserve a room at
some swanky hotel near Times Square. Instead, I tell the taxi
driver at La Guardia that I’m going to a hotel on 227
^th
Street. That’s Edenwald. The Bronx. And I know a lot of bad shit
goes down there, as they say, but I really don’t care. In a way, if
I got knifed or something, it wouldn’t bother me at all. I’m not
saying I’m looking to get knifed. It just wouldn’t be the end of
the world.

So I check into this perfectly terrifying
hotel, and I’ll bet every hooker in New York has been in my room,
because the place smells like a blowjob. But hey, for $100 a night,
I’m not complaining. And I check in for a whole week. I’ll bet no
one in the history of this place has ever stayed longer than thirty
minutes.

I unpack my things. My window overlooks some
public housing project, and I sit on the sill for awhile and watch
these kids throwing dice for money on the steps of an apartment
building.

It makes me nervous as hell leaving my
belongings here, but it’s only one o’clock. I’ve got the whole
afternoon ahead of me.

So I step out into the hall and lock the
door. The carpet is squishy. Someone grunts in a nearby room.

I take the stairs down four dusty flights,
and then I’m standing on the sidewalk. Man, is it hot for mid-May.
I never noticed the smell of a real city before—oily concrete and
concentrated exhaust, like the greasy innards of a car engine. And
it’s noisy. Not loud noisy. Busy noisy. Like a hundred thousand
little sounds all coming together to make one city sound.

A cab finally shows the hell up and I tell
the Somali fellow to take me to Columbia University.

My heart starts going as I walk into Dodge
Hall, home to Columbia’s School of the Arts.

First door on my left is closed, but I can
hear someone speaking inside.

“It’s the idea of dirty pantyhose, Dan.
You’re sick.”

Another voice: “Lauren, you rushed that last
bit.”

I continue on, the walls papered with
audition notices and advertisements for upcoming productions.

I’m still wearing my sunglasses, because
that’s another rule. The bigger the Star, the darker the
environment in which they’re allowed to wear shades, even dim
corridors like this one where I can hardly see the first damn
thing.

I knock on the door of Professor Paul
Wittig’s office.

Maybe I’ll tell you how I found out about him
later. I’m an excellent researcher.

This small, very Jewish man opens the door
and looks up at me through glasses without lenses.

I remove my deep dark shades.

“May I help you?” he says. He has thinning
gray hair, a charcoal beard.

“Professor Wittig?”

“Yes?”

He looks highly intelligent. That’s probably
why he doesn’t recognize me yet—he’s been in his office thinking so
hard.

“I was looking for Jerry Boomhower. He has an
office down the hall, but he isn’t in. I wanted to drop in,
surprise him.”

“Jerry’s taking the summer off.”

“Oh, okay. Yeah. Hmm. Well, I was just in the
city, wanted to see him. Thanks.” Wittig nods curtly and starts to
shut his door, but I stop him. “Say, I’m here for a couple days,
and I was hoping to see some first-rate theatre. Not Broadway
bullshit. Something cutting edge.”

Wittig really looks at me for the first
time.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I extend my hand. “Jim
Jansen.”

“Paul Wittig,” he mumbles, and man does his
interest level rise. His eyes get very twinkly. “What an honor. My
goodness. You have no idea how much I admire your work.”

“Oh, thank you. That’s very kind of you to
say.”

“I obviously have no manners. Please come
in.”

I step inside his office and sit down on a
leather couch. I figure he’s going to take a seat in the matching
chair, but instead he sits down beside me and leans back and
crosses his legs. He’s a superior dresser, one of those guys who
look better in slacks and a white linen shirt than most men do in a
tux. I can tell he’s pretty jazzed to be sitting here with me. He’s
left his door open, and I’ll bet he’s praying someone will walk by,
catch him shooting the shit with James Jansen. It’s understandable.
Probably the highlight of his life. That’s what being famous is
really all about—wherever you go, you’re the highlight of
everyone’s life.

“So are you in town on business, Jim?” he
asks, like we’re fast friends.

“To be honest, I’m looking at doing some
theatre. I’ve got several months before I start my next project,
which incidentally, is about an aspiring actor trying to get work
in New York.”

“Marvelous, so you’re doing a bit of research
then.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, if there’s anything I can do to lend
some insight, I hope you’ll impose on me.” He kind of brushes his
hand against my knee when he says this, and I’m not sure if it’s
one of those unconscious brushes or an I-want-to-ride-your-bones
brush.

“You know, I may take you up on that,” I say,
and I sort of graze his knee back with my fingers. Instantly, I
regret it, because I can see in his eyes that he’s trying to
determine whether or not that was a pass.

“Look,” he says, “I’m sure you have plans
already, but I’m thinking of seeing a show tonight. This off-off
thing one of my former students is directing. If you wanted to join
me…”

“What’s the play called?”

“
Love in the 0’s
. It’s a one-act. He
actually wrote it for his thesis.”

“Any good?”

“You’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I did have a dinner party tonight…”

“Don’t break your plans.”

“No, no, this is a wonderful opportunity. To
attend a play with an acting professor. Just the sort of experience
I need to really get inside this character I’m going to do. Could
you introduce me to the actors afterward? I’d love to get their
perspective on the whole theatre scene.”

“Absolutely!” He pats my knee again, probably
already picturing me at the Academy Awards, Oscar in hand, thanking
him in my rambling, charming acceptance speech.

I’m supposed to meet Wittig at this bar on E.
4
^th
Street at 7:30 for pre-show drinks, but there’s no
way I’m showing up in the same Hugo Boss. When Stars choose to
mingle with and be seen by the public, they aren’t supposed to wear
the same thing for more than several hours. It’s a pretty serious
rule.

So I catch a cab down to Fifth Avenue and buy
this slick Donna Karan and a silk shirt. When I finish shopping,
it’s nearly three and I realize I haven’t eaten anything since my
flight this morning. A street vendor is selling funnel cakes
sprinkled with powdered sugar. I eat one in the cab on the way back
to Edenwald, which takes
forever
to reach.

It’s a sizeable relief to walk back into my
room. I lock the door and hang my new suit in the tiny closet. It’s
intolerably hot. I strip down to my underwear and pull a wooden
chair over to the window and sit there watching those dice-throwing
boys as the afternoon light goes bronze.

O. Wilde’s is the first bar I’ve set foot in
since college, and I make sure to show up twenty minutes late,
because arriving on time is a sign of pure desperation. It’s a loud
place across the street from Hamilton Studio, where
Love in the
0’s
will be starting in less than an hour.

I spot Wittig standing with his back to the
bar, surveying the room. He waves when I enter, wineglass already
in hand. I remove my shades and squeeze through the crowd of
hipster playgoers, everyone in black like they’ve all just come
from a wake.

Wittig’s halfway through a glass of white
when I edge up to the bar, and all I can think about is not making
an enormous ass of myself when I order Jansen’s favorite drink. For
people who don’t frequent bars, the barkeep is a fairly
intimidating persona. They’re like oracles or something. See right
through you.

“What are you drinking, Jansen?” Wittig asks,
real helluva guy-like, and I wonder if he’s calling me by my last
name so everyone will figure out who he’s with.

“I think I’ll have my old tried and true,” I
say as the bartender sidles up.

“Can I get you, sir?”

“Double Absolut with one ice cube. No
lime.”

“Find the place all right?” Wittig asks while
I watch the bartender make my drink.

“Yep.”

Wittig’s sporting this tweed suit and bowtie
that makes him look exceptionally scholarly. Good thing I changed,
seeing as how he did.

“Where you staying, Jim?”

“The Waldorf Hysteria. Finally cooling off
out there.”

“Here you are, sir.”

I lift my drink, gaze down at the single cube
floating in the vodka.

“That’s interesting,” Wittig says. “What’s
with the single piece of ice?”

“One cube cools and dilutes the vodka
perfectly.” I didn’t just make that up. In last January’s issue of
Celebrity
, the feature was an interview with Jansen at a bar
near his home in the Hollywood Hills. That “one cube cools and
dilutes” bit was verbatim what he said to the journalist when asked
the same question.

I sip the vodka. Rubbing alcohol. All I can
do not to grimace. Jansen’s a big drinker. I haven’t had a drink
since college.

Wittig taps me on the arm, leans over,
whispers, “See that table in the corner? Other corner. In about two
minutes, those women are going to have the nerve worked up to come
over here.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“You want to leave?”

“Paul, if it ever gets to the point where I
can’t go into a bar and have a drink, I’ll quit making movies. Just
part of it, you know?”

“No.” He smiles. “I don’t. Fortunately. Can’t
imagine what it must be like for you.”

I steal another micro-sip of my drink, but
it’s no use. Oh well. I throw it back in one burning swallow.

“Another, sir?” the bartender asks, before my
empty even hits the bar.

“No, I’m good.”

Wittig orders another wine.

“So tell me about this play, Paul.”

“I think you’ll be intrigued. It’s Mamet
meets Simon meets Pinter meets Beckett. I’m tempted to say more,
but I’m afraid it would spoil your experience.”

“So am I going to see this kid’s stuff on
Broadway in the near future?”

“The question, Jim,” he points at me, and I
hope he isn’t getting drunk, “is are you going to see Broadway on
Matthew? If he stays true to himself, Broadway will have to come to
him. ’Cause I don’t see him selling out. This kid is fucking
special, Jim.”

Everywhere I look, eyes are on me. Male and
female. I look at Wittig, his cheeks fire engine red as he knocks
back a substantial sip of wine.

“Ready to walk over?” I ask.

I’m ready to get the hell out of O.
Wilde’s.

I shouldn’t be swimming in the deep end my
first time in the pool.

Chapter 4

in Hamilton Studio * a real piece of shit *
beholds the city at night * offers criticism * attends a party *
strange music * meets the director * an offer * another offer

Lights down. Lights up.

Onstage, a park bench. An overtly fake tree.
Cardboard clouds hanging from visible cables.

A man enters stage left, dragging a fake dog
by a leash. A woman enters stage right. They stroll starry-eyed
toward center stage and bump into each other in front of the
bench.

The woman says, “Oh, excuse me. I didn’t see
you.”

“No, no, it’s my fault,” the man responds.
“This damn dog won’t heel.”

He tugs on the leash, and the stuffed poodle
slides across the stage.

“Is your dog stuffed?” she asks.

“Why yes, of course.”

“You’re walking a fake dog?”

“No, she’s real.”

The man pulls the dog up into his arms and
smothers it with kisses.

“This is Poopsie, yes it is.”

Wow.

Thank fucking God it’s only one act.

Wittig whispers: “Brilliant opening. You’re
about to see an entire relationship condensed to thirty minutes.
You like it?”

“It’s first-rate, Paul.”

I have a hard time concentrating on shit, so
for the next five minutes I sort of zone out and glance around the
theatre. Even though Hamilton Studio is quite small, with only a
hundred seats, there’s no full house tonight.
Maybe
thirty
playgoers. Vivid lighting makes the stage look as sharp as an
autumn afternoon.

This woman behind us has a big, sloppy grin
across her face, and I wonder if it’s because she’s enamored with
the play, or if she thinks it’s comical what gets produced these
days.

Now, the man and woman onstage are sitting up
in bed.

The man puts a cigarette in his mouth, and
the woman removes it.

“Honey, that’s so cliché,” she says. Then,
“You were wonderful.”

“I know.”

The audience laughs. Not a big laugh. I’d say
about a 4 on a scale of 1 to 10.

“How do you know?”

“Because you just told me.”

“I mean it,” the woman insists. “You really
were good.”

“I mean it. I know.”

More laughter. I gauge it at 8. I even laugh
this time, because it is pretty funny. But it doesn’t stay funny
for long. It gets weird again, and I zone right the hell back out
and watch the faces in the audience instead. They’re like children,
most of them—curious, happy children, trying to see their lives
onstage.