Famous (4 page)

Don’t ever ask me what
Love in the 0’s
was about. Wittig tries explaining it to me in the cab on the way
to the director’s apartment, says it has to do with the way people
like hurting each other. A reaction to the absurd. I don’t know.
Only reason I care even a little bit is in case I talk to Matthew
the director. I mean, I’m not going to tell the guy I didn’t know
what the hell his play was about.

So I’m sitting in the back, trying to think
of something I can say I liked about the thing as the lights of the
Village blur by, sidewalks loaded with keen dressers. The city’s
gorgeous at night. Vital. I roll down my window and the night air
rushes hot into my face, perfumed with the smell of garlic and
women and spicy meat and coffee beans and storm gutters. For a
moment, everything kind of stops, and I’m overwhelmed with this
city and this man, Wittig, who I’ve only known for nine hours, and
the fact that I woke up this morning in the room above my parents’
garage, and that only yesterday I was fired and had the wherewithal
to put this beautiful idea I’ve been planning for ages into motion.
Funny how life goes. The same thing every week, year after year,
and then one night you’re in a cab in New York City on the way to a
party at the apartment of a director whose play you’ve just seen,
and everyone thinks you’re a movie Star, and they might just be
right.

Wittig pats me on the knee. He’s always
patting me on the knee.

“You must tell me, Jim. The play—what’d you
think?”

“I think your boy Matthew’s got a lot on his
mind.”

“Do tell.”

I severely wish he’d just leave it at that,
but I can tell he won’t.

“I could rave all night,” I say. “Let me make
one criticism.”

“It’s our critics who teach us,” he says.

I guess you have to say that sort of thing
when you’re a professor.

“I think Matthew—what’s his last name?”

“Gardiner.”

“I think Mr. Gardiner is too eager to lecture
his audience. There’s a certain anxiousness and immaturity there. I
knew what he wanted me to see in the first five minutes. He spent
the next twenty-five beating me over the head with it.”

“Fascinating.”

I’m not making this up. Jansen starred in a
movie ten years ago that was savaged because it felt more like a
lecture than a story. It was called
Room 116
, about a guy
who’s lying in a hospital bed (in Room 116) dying slowly and in
immense pain. And the doctors can’t kill him ’cause it’s against
their creed or whatever. Jansen played his part well, but it’s just
scene after scene of this guy moaning in bed, and by the end of the
movie it’s like, okay, we get it, fucking kill him already. Anyway,
that little spiel I just delivered was adapted from Ebert’s review
of that movie.

“But Matthew’s a talented director,” I add,
because I don’t want Wittig to think I’m one of those people who
hate everything. And I’m not. I like most things.

Strange music leeches through the door of
Matthew the director’s apartment. It’s this highly danceable music
with this guy speaking monotonously over a drumbeat and
synthesizers. I can’t tell what he’s saying yet.

There’s a note on the door: “Just come right
in.”

So we go right in, me following Wittig and
feeling a little nervous but not quite as bad as you might think.
The first and only time I went to the Lewis Barker Thompson Hardy
Christmas party, I threw up in the bathroom as soon as I got to the
restaurant. I hate stuff like that. Social engagements. Mingling.
Finding that stride of charming superficiality. I just don’t know
what to say to people. I’m good for about a minute, but after that
I’m unbearable. I’m just not that interesting. I mean, I wouldn’t
want to talk to me at a party.

But tonight is different.

Tonight, I am not me, and that is the
greatest comfort in the world.

Find a place. In the park. Sit and watch the
ducks. Watch the sky and turn around. I’ll be there in your dream.
Find a place. In the park. Sit and watch the ducks. Watch the sky
and turn around. I’ll be there in your dream.

That’s what the monotone voice is saying.
Over and over.

I like it. I don’t know why.

It’s a studio apartment, and people have
crammed themselves between the walls like you wouldn’t believe.
There’s way more people here than were at the play. I follow Wittig
through the crowd, since he seems to know where he’s going. The
floor is hardwood, the ceiling high. Paintings, sculptures abound.
If I were the kind of person who used words like
chic
, I’d
say this is a very chic apartment.

The back wall consists of windows, and they
look out high above the city. People are standing outside on the
balcony as well, leaning against the railing, smoking
cigarettes.

Wittig turns and says something to me, but I
can’t understand him. There must be a hundred people here. Like
ants, most have assembled in the middle of the room. Bouncing.
Gyrating. A colony of dancing. Others stand in the kitchen around
the stove island. Or sit on counters, or along the walls. Certainly
this guy can’t know everyone here. If I invited everyone I knew to
a party, there’d be about eight people in the room, including my
parents. All you can hear is a jumble of voices and above
them—
find a place. In the park. Sit and watch the ducks…

Next thing I know, we’re standing in front of
this guy garbed in black, with moussed black hair, black-framed
glasses, who isn’t even thirty, and Wittig’s got his arm around my
shoulder and he’s saying, “Matt, I want you to meet a dear, dear
friend of mine. I brought him to the show tonight. This is James
Jansen. I think you’ve probably seen his work.”

Right off, I don’t like this kid. He’s
impressed to meet me, it’s obvious, because for three seconds his
mouth hangs open and he doesn’t, or can’t, speak. I mean, James
Jansen is standing in his house, you know? But then he catches
himself and gets this cool, smug look on his face that I’d like to
peel right off. He’s not honest, and I don’t respect that. It’s
okay to be blown away that I’m standing here. That I took time out
of my important, maniacally busy life to come to your weird fucking
play.

I thrust my hand forward. “Jim,” I say, real
understated-like.

“Matt.” He shakes my hand, then looks at
Wittig and breaks. “You brought James fucking Jansen to my show?”
He releases my hand and hugs Wittig. Okay, now he’s coming around.
Kid might be all right. But if I were a lesser Star, you can tell
he’d try to come off like it was no big deal.

“Guys want a drink?” Matt offers.

“I’d like one of those with Tanqueray.”
Wittig points to the martini in Matthew’s hand, “and Jim would
like, I know this, hold on…a double Absolut with one cube of ice,
no lime.”

Matthew threads his way to the open bar. A
spinning disco ball dangles from the ceiling, its radials of light
causing the liquor bottles to flicker intermittently.

He returns with our drinks, and I really wish
Jansen liked cranberry juice or something, because I can’t stomach
downing another glass of vodka.

“It’s too fucking loud in here!” Matthew
shouts over the music, like he’s annoyed he has enough friends to
fill an apartment. “Let’s step outside!”

I barely sip the vodka, but by the time we
push through the horde of dancers and reach the glass doors, I can
feel the alcohol behind my eyes.

When we step outside, I try not to act too
enthralled, but man the city is stunning tonight. We’re thirty-nine
floors up and the breeze is gentle and mild. The three of us find a
place on the railing, and we stand there just gazing out over the
sweep of light and motion and sound far below. I’m damn near in
tears, but like I said, I don’t show it. You’ve got to figure
Jansen’s experienced far more beauty than some off-off Broadway
director’s balcony.

Wittig’s standing between us and he puts his
arms around the both of us.

“Gentlemen,” he says, “what a night,
huh?”

Matt and I don’t say anything, because what
are you going to say? I think he’s being rhetorical.

“Matt, it came off even better than I thought
it would,” Wittig continues.

“Even the scenes with the therapist? You
know, I’ve had concerns they’re too chauvinistic.”

“Especially those. They’re the make-or-break
scenes of your play, and they make it. You really pulled it off.”
Wittig takes a big sip of his martini, really pounding down the
gin.

“I appreciate you saying that, Paul.”

“I mean you really, really pulled it off.
Really.”

Wittig’s sloshed. He’s getting ready to say
something else, but then notices his martini glass is empty.

“Gentlemen, I’m going for a refill. I shall
return.”

Wittig walks back into the party and Matt
watches him go, shaking his head.

“He was my advisor at Columbia.”

“He was bragging on you tonight before the
show.”

“Was he now.”

“He a playwright, too?”

“He wrote a masterpiece when he was
twenty-four called
In the Can
. I don’t know if you’ve heard
of it. He doesn’t write much now. But he’s brilliant. Look, I
really appreciate you coming. It’s not typical theatre.”

“You made me think, and not much does these
days.”

God, I hope he doesn’t ask me anything else
about the play. I really feel bad for hating it.

Matt leans over the railing and spits. On the
other end of the balcony, I notice these two women stealing glances
at me. They’re both wearing highly glittery dresses, and on closer
inspection, I see that they’re twins: beautiful, brunette twins. I
flash my best Jansen smile and turn back to Matt.

“Say, Matt?”

“Yeah?”

“Reason I’m in New York is I’m doing research
for an upcoming part. I’m going to play an actor in the
off-Broadway scene. And I’ve never worked here. Always done film.
So there’s a lot I don’t know. And of course to do a character
right, I’ve got to really understand where they’re coming
from.”

“Sure.”

I sip my vodka. It’s growing on me.

“So I was wondering if I could talk to you
about your experience. Not tonight of course, since you’ve got your
party here, but maybe this week. And I’d love to meet the actors
from
Love in the 0’s
, get a window into their lives.”

“Hell, Jim, I’ll put you in my play if you
want.”

“Really?”

“Look, while
Love in the 0’s
runs in
Hamilton, it’s a work in progress. I’ve written a few dozen scenes
that could potentially work. The story’ll stay the same. It’ll stay
a half-hour long, but I’m experimenting with what best depicts the
course of this relationship. In fact, I can think of a scene right
now that would be perfect for you. And I’d love to see how it plays
in front of a crowd.”

“What’s the part?”

Matt polishes off the rest of his
martini.

“You’d play the shrink. I wrote two parts.
One for a man, one for a woman, which you saw tonight. Despite what
Paul says, I’m not sure a woman shrink is the best thing for the
play. You be interested?”

“Absolutely.”

That puts a hell of a smile across his
face.

I take the last sip of vodka. I could breathe
fire.

“If I give you a script before you leave
tonight, could you come read tomorrow?”

Of course I can, but I grimace because Stars
never have time to do anything.

“What time?”

“Two? I’d do it earlier, but I’m going to
feel pretty shitty tomorrow morning.”

I pause for no real reason.

“All right.”

“Since it’s a short scene, what I’m thinking
is, if we nail it fast, which I’m sure we will, we could be ready
to show it by next performance, which is Thursday. That’s perfect,
don’t you think? You get firsthand experience doing theatre in New
York. I get to work with one of the greatest actors of the last
twenty years. It’s a fucking dream, Jim.”

He’s pretty happy now. I think it’s starting
to hit him that he’s recruiting James Jansen for his shitty
play.

“You need another drink, Jim.” He takes my
glass before I can argue and walks back inside.

Now only the twins and I share the
balcony.

I look over at them and smile again.

“Evening, ladies.”

They smile back, far younger than I first
thought. Hardly twenty.

One of them says, “Could you help us settle a
bet?”

Everything is buzzing. This may be the best
I’ve felt my whole life. I step toward them. Champagne and
strawberries on their breaths.

“My sister, Dawn, says you’re that movie
star, James Jansen. But I don’t think you are. I think you just
look like him. Who’s right? I got twenty bucks riding on this.”

“You’re right,” I say, giving her this
soul-penetrating stare.

“So you aren’t him?”

“Nope.” But I say it like I don’t mean it.
Real flirtatious-like. She laughs and sips her champagne. “You’re
pretty cute in person.”

“What? You don’t believe me?”

She steps closer and her sister comes around
the other side so they’ve got me backed up against the railing.

“We had another bet,” Dawn says.

“What’s that?”

“I bet Heather a hundred dollars you’d come
home with us. You wouldn’t let me lose that money, would you?”

“I’d hate to cost you money,” I say. And I
would. Man, these women smell good.

“All right, stand aside.” Matt reaches a hand
between the twins and I take my glass of vodka.

“Do we know each other?” he asks, looking at
Heather and then Dawn. He doesn’t say it meanly, and I guess it’s a
reasonable question. Heather and Dawn glance at each other, and I
wonder if they’re communicating in some special twin way. Matt
looks at me.

“Everything cool, Jim?”