LUMINOUS BLUE: A Novel of Warped Celebrity Page 13

  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.

  Since I have several hours before the movie premiere, I drive down to Century City.

  Ravenous Games occupies a suite in this office building across the street from 20th Century Fox Studios.

  I ride the elevator to the fourth floor and walk down the drab, impersonal hallway. It doesn’t even have the name of his company on the door.

  Bo’s office is incredibly messy. There are no windows. The walls are covered with posters advertising videogames with names like Blood Bath XII—The Reckoning.

  Bo sits in front of a television playing a videogame. I’m sure he doesn’t get paid to do this. He’s so focused on the game, he doesn’t hear me walk in.

  “You’re telling me you get paid to play videogames?” I ask.

  Bo pauses the game and looks over his shoulder.

  “What’s up, Lance?” Fuck, I hate that.

  “Just thought I’d stop by. See where you work.”

  “You’re looking at it.”

  “What are you working on right there?”

  “Just testing a late phase of this first-person shooter. Look, I hate to be this way, but I am insanely busy.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

  “Could we talk tonight? I was thinking of grilling a few steaks.”

  I lean against the doorframe. On the paused television screen, a samurai warrior is on his knees. Another samurai is swinging a huge sword at his head, which will undoubtedly roll when Bo resumes the game.

  “I won’t be here tonight,” I say. “I’m leaving.”

  “When?”

  “Right now. I came to tell you goodbye.”

  Bo turns the videogame off and stands.

  “Let’s go outside.”

  Bo’s office building is one of four in a small business park called the Quadrangle. In the courtyard between the buildings, there’s a manmade pond with a fountain in the middle. Swans sail through its green water.

  We sit down on a bench near the water. It’s two-thirty and very hot. Someone sits by themselves on an identical bench across the pond, reading a book and eating lunch.

  Bo asks me where I’m going, and I tell him that I don’t know for sure. I’m considering taking what money I’ve got left, buying a used car, and driving down into Mexico.

  “What’s in Mexico?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. Desert, ocean, tacos. I’ve always wanted to go.” This is true. I have always been intrigued by its wildness.

  “You have to leave this afternoon? Why can’t you stay with us a little longer. I love having you here.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hannah doesn’t.”

  “Fuck her. You’re my brother.”

  I pat Bo on the shoulder, and then something happens that I never even expected. I start to cry. Not weeping or anything, just tears rolling down my cheeks.

  “I’m going to miss you very much,” I say.

  Bo squeezes the back of my neck.

  “I’m sorry about what I said the other night, Bo.”

  He smiles. “Don’t be.”

  “No, I should never have—”

  “It’s fine. Look, I thought a lot about our talk out on the soccer field. Especially after I never saw you yesterday, and you didn’t come home last night.” Bo looks at me the way only he looks at me. Sometimes, I think he’s the only person in the world who loves me. “I don’t know what’s going on with you right now, Lance. I don’t know why you came out here. Why you’re leaving now. I love you. You know that. You know that?” I nod yes. “Maybe I’m off base here, but I’m just going to say it. And I say this in love. You seem to me like a man who’s lost his bearings. You come out here, you buy flashy clothes.” He motions to my beautiful leather pants. “You rent a Hummer, you do the nightclub thing. I don’t understand where you’re at, Lance, but if I can help you in any way—money, a place to stay, finding a job, whatever—please let me. The other night, I sort of made it sound like my boring suburban life is the only way. I know it’s not. I know it’s probably not for you. And I’m sorry I pulled that shit on you.”

  I smile at my brother.

  “I envy your life, Bo. No, I envy your ability to love it. To let it settle you. ”

  “You’re not at peace are you?”

  “No. But I’m getting there. I honestly am.”

  And I start to tell him about the spider web, but I stop myself. I don’t think I could bear him not getting it.

  Chapter 21

  Rex saves the day ~ looking fabulous ~ picks up Kara ~ quells her fear ~ on the Red Carpet ~ talks with Entertainment Magazine ~ Harvey Wallison ~ The Action ~ the scene that made Jim cry

  At 4:30, I realize I haven’t called the limousine service. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Stars don’t step out onto the Red Carpet from their Hondas. In my BlackBerry, there’s a number for Rex Smothers with “limo” in parentheses beside the name. I call up Rex and tell him I’d forgotten to call him, but that I’m attending the premier of Richard Haneline’s new movie at the El Capitan Theatre tonight and would give him any amount of money if he could pick me up at my place in one hour.

  Sure he can. Rex is a hell of a guy.

  I don’t go the traditional tuxedo route (we’ll save that for the Oscars). Several years ago, I wore this slick gray Armani to the premier of Under the Sea. I find that very suit hanging on a row of two dozen Armanis, and it puts a smile on my face like you wouldn’t believe.

  I shave, style my hair, and put on a touch of eyeliner. Honestly, I’ve never looked so good. It’s frightening. There’s a change now in my eyes, too. A calm, blue confidence.

  Kara’s waiting in the lobby of her apartment building when Rex pulls up in the
black limo. I step out and hold the door for her. Man, she’s beautiful. I tell her so. She’s wearing a chiffon evening dress, which is such a deep shade of green it could be black.

  We climb in and we’re off. Rex looks back and tells us we’ll be at the theatre in ten minutes. He’s a small, black man. You can hardly see him over the steering wheel.

  “It’s so good to see you,” I tell Kara.

  “I’m scared, Jim.”

  I pull her close to me and take a whiff of her hair. I stroke her bare shoulder.

  “Are people going to ask who I am?”

  “They might.”

  “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  “Look at me.” She looks at me. “I’ve done this so many times it’s boring. You’re with me tonight. No one’s going to bother you. If a reporter happens to ask you something inappropriate, I’ll be right there beside you. Besides, all the questions will probably come at me anyway.” I kiss her forehead. “Just smile and enjoy it. You’re going to be famous tonight, Kara.”

  “I don’t want to be famous, Jim. I just want to be with you.”

  Richard Haneline’s new movie is called The Action, and from the previews I’ve seen, I have to say it actually looks halfway decent. It’s apparently about this degenerate gambler who takes out a second mortgage on his house, cashes in his kids’ college savings, and sneaks off to Vegas. It’s good to see Rich starring in a character-driven movie. If I have to watch him blow up one more thing, I’m seriously not going to be his friend anymore.

  The clock on the dashboard reads 6:40 when Rex stops the limousine at the Red Carpet and opens his door. As he walks around to open the door for us, I look at Kara and kiss her on the lips.

  She squeezes my hand.

  “If you move more than two feet away from me at any time this evening, I’ll kill you, Jim.”

  Beyond the tinted glass, I see swarms of people. I put on my deep dark shades.

  Rex opens our door. My heart throbs like a migraine, but I smile through it and step out of the limousine onto the blood-Red Carpet. These are the things I will always remember:

  -The brilliant evening sun.

  -The roar of fans screaming from the bleachers.

  -The van-size dice hanging above the theatre entrance.

  -Flashbulbs going off like machinegun fire.

  -A wave of weightlessness, as though I’m on the verge of floating up into the sky.

  -Kara’s sweaty hand gripping mine as she steps out of the limo.

  “Are we going, Jim? Why aren’t we moving?” I hear her, but I’m not ready to move yet. I’m looking down at the ground, at that beautiful Red Carpet beneath my mirror-black shoes. Have you ever stood on Red Carpet that’s been rolled out exclusively for you? It means you’re too important to walk on the pavement. Normal people can walk on pavement but not you. You’re better. You’re special. That’s the implication, and it feels so good.

  No one can ever take this moment away from me.

  I look up into the bleachers. Fans are waving and shouting my name. I smile the smuggest, coolest smile you’ve ever seen and wave back at them.

  We begin to walk. The carpet ahead of us is crowded with Stars and normal people involved in the production of The Action.

  “James, please! I love you!” This girl literally screams. She’s on the front row behind the metal railing, holding out a notepad. I walk toward her, and the crowd squeezes in, crushing her up against the bars.

  “Could I have an autograph, Mr. Jansen?”

  “Of course you can.” I release Kara’s hand and take the pen and pad. “What’s your name?”

  “Bethany.”

  I scribble down, “To Bethany, Love, James Jansen.”

  “Can I have a kiss on the cheek, too? I could die happy.”

  She’s probably twenty or twenty-one. She’s not a knockout or anything, but I’m feeling pretty generous, so I plant one on her cheek. She and everyone around her commence screaming. I wave up to the crowd above their heads, shout, “I love you!” and then Kara and I walk on.

  “You’re very good at this, Jim,” she whispers, as we approach a woman with a microphone standing in front of a camera. “You should feel my heart. It’s just racing.”

  The woman with the microphone spins around as we pass by.

  She’s one of the anchors for Hollywood Starz!. She wears a highly glittery dress.

  “Look who it is,” she tells the camera, “Oscar-winner James Jansen.”

  I stop walking and stand beside the reporter. I think her name is Marcy Meyers, but I’m not certain. When you’re a Star, you have to talk to the reporters. It’s sort of a rule.

  “How are you doing tonight, Jim? You look fabulous!” She puts her hand on my shoulder.

  “So do you.” Always complement the female reporters. It’s easy with Marcy, because she honestly looks exceedingly hot.

  “So are you guys looking forward to seeing the movie?” No, I think it’s going to be a steaming pile. Ever notice how reporters, for the most part, ask blazingly stupid questions?

  “Oh absolutely. I think Rich has worked some magic in this film.”

  “That’s certainly the buzz, isn’t it? And you look beautiful, too,” Marcy tells Kara. I squeeze Kara’s hand, and she smiles gracefully.

  “Thank you.”

  I can see in Marcy’s eyes that she wants to ask Kara something, but she backs off.

  “So, Jim, when are we going to be standing at your premier? Not too much longer I hope.”

  Right, like I’m going to tell you first. You have to be very careful how you answer that sort of question, because if you say the wrong thing, or even the right thing with less than perfect ambiguity, you’ll wind up in the tabloids.

  “Things are in the works, Marcy, and that’s all I can say at this point.”

  “Oh, come on, Jim! You’re teasing us!”

  I smile that winning, this-conversation-is-over smile.

  “Well, thanks for stopping by to chat with us. You guys enjoy the movie.”

  As we walk away, I wonder if two people are sitting in Huntersville, North Carolina at this moment, on an old, stinky couch, in a house that smells like cabbage. The man is soused up pretty good on cheap gin, the woman thinking about Jesus, and neither of them realize who just strolled across their television screen.

  To the households that watch us, we are nothing more than glorious, enviable constellations. We’re symbols of perfection. Charismatic gods. I’m beginning to understand how necessary we are.

  We’re drifting through the lobby of the El Capitan, when this guy in a tux steps right in front of us with a big, goofy smile on his face. He wears thick, black-rimmed glasses, and his hair is black and curly.

  “Jim! What’s going on?”

  I smile, guardedly.

  “Hey, there,” I say. “Good to see you.”

  “Great to see you. Look, are you going to Rich’s afterward?”

  “I think we’re planning on it.”

  “Great, because I want to talk with you about something. It’s a project that’s in development, and I’d love to tell you about it. I think it’d be perfect for you.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “And nice to see you,” he says to Kara. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “Kara Suthers,” she says, extending her hand.

  “Harvey Wallison. A real pleasure. Well, you guys enjoy the movie, and we’ll talk later, Jim.”

  When Kara and I have taken our seats in the theatre, she leans over and whispers into my ear: “Who was that man?”

  “You mean Harvey Wallison? You haven’t heard of him?”

  “Should I have?”

  “He’s a brilliant director. Did Down From the Sleeping Trees, and if you tell me you haven’t heard of that, I’ll take you home right now.” I smile to let her know I’m only kidding. She smiles back, and as the lights go down, we kiss.

  The Action, I’m delighted to say, is one of the best movi
es I’ve seen in a long, long time. Rich’s performance as Wally Miller may very well earn him an Oscar nomination. I even mist up, and as a rule, movies never make me cry. The scene that got me happens toward the end of the movie. Wally has blown the last of his $110,000 dollars at the blackjack table, and he sort of has a meltdown in the casino. It’s very poignant, as they say. He crumples down on the floor and just starts wailing, and practically everyone in the casino is staring at him. Then this lady walks over to him, kneels down, and gives him a $1,000-dollar chip. Wally looks up at her and says, “I can’t do it anymore. I just can’t.” I’m telling you, everyone in the theatre lost it at the same moment. Then Wally starts crying again, and the pit boss has security drag him out of the casino.

  Everybody’s mascara is running as they leave the theatre. And it’s quiet, too, like we’re coming out of church on Good Friday. I’ve got a feeling that when the reporters ask the Stars what they thought of the movie, and everyone raves about how wonderful it was, this is one of the rare times they’ll mean it.

  Chapter 22

  misgivings ~ Santa Monica Pier ~ the trouble with perfection ~ arrives at the mansion of Richard Haneline ~ greets the host ~ the view no one sees ~ goes to get drinks ~ the finger wave ~ a strange encounter

  We have a couple hours before Rich Haneline’s party, since the studio is throwing a bash at the Roosevelt directly following the premiere. And I’m sure we’re on the guest list and all, but I’ve got to tell you, I’m feeling a tad nervous about the prospect of mingling with hundreds of Stars and industry types who I’m supposed to know, some very well, most at least superficially.

  It feels wonderful and safe when Kara and I are back in the limousine and Rex is driving us south out of Hollywood toward a surprise destination.

  “That was amazing,” she tells me. “I mean, Jan Bollinger shook my hand and told me she loved my dress. I know that’s probably no big deal for you, but you have to understand, I’ve watched her movies all my life. She’s going to Richard’s party. She told me, ‘I’ll see you there.’ This is so much fun, Jim.”