Famous (6 page)

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BLACKOUT

Chapter 6

returns to Edenwald * in Central Park * oops
* rehearsal * tries to act * fails * has an epiphany

After the night I’ve had, it’s a bit of a
letdown returning to the Worst Hotel in the World. It’s nearly
11:00 a.m., and the sun already showering through the blinds. I can
tell it’s going to be another blistering day. Laughter reaches me
through the cracked window, and I stand peering through the blinds
for a moment, watching the boys throwing dice down on the baking
concrete steps of their apartment building. I wonder if they do
this all summer long.

It feels terrible to be here, like a great,
fat lie, so I change into a pair of khaki slacks and a white oxford
shirt and get the hell out of this rank hotel.

Since I still have several hours before I
have to be at Hamilton Studio, I catch a cab to W. 110 St., the
northern boundary of Central Park, and follow a path until the
smell of trees is stronger than the smell of traffic.

I wander off the path and find a place in the
shade of a big oak. The grass is soft and warm. Through the
foliage, I see pieces of blue, spring sky, and I smile at that joy
swells up in me again.

I take the script out of my satchel and read
through my lines once more. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a
little scared. Matt’s expecting an Oscar winner to pull off this
scene in his play. Jansen’s a terrific actor. Sure, he does his
share of suspense flicks that don’t call for the nuances of
brilliant acting. But he’s also put out five or six Oscar-caliber
performances, and it’s these against which I’ll be judged.

I’ve got my lines down cold, so I’m not
worried about forgetting them. My memory is photogenic. What I’m
worried about is me reading onstage with the other actors, and Matt
and everyone in the theatre knowing instantly that I’ve never acted
professionally in my life. I have the physical resemblance to
Jansen to pull this off, and I can do his voice. But what concerns
me is not knowing if I have the hardwiring to play this part. Sure
I’ve said Jansen’s famous lines to myself in the mirror while
shaving, and I thought I was pretty good. But honestly, what do
I
know?

I eat lunch at a Greek deli on Central Park
N. Rehearsal is only an hour away, and my mouth runs dry just
thinking about it. As I’m standing to leave, this woman saunters
over to my table and says, “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Jansen,
but could I trouble you for an autograph? I’m a huge fan.” She
hands me a pen and a credit card receipt to sign.

“What’s your name?” I ask, turning the
receipt over on my table.

“Lauren. I just loved you in
My Last
Day
.”

I sign, “To Lauren,” but I can’t really think
of anything remotely witty or charming to write. So I just sign my
name, hand it back to her.

On my way out the door, I realize that I
signed Lancelot Blue Dunkquist.

I hate that fucking name.

I arrive at Hamilton Studio at 2:05 and walk
through the lobby into the theatre. It’s dark and empty except for
the stage, where the director and two stars sit on the sofa
set-piece, basking under that autumn-afternoon lighting.

I’ve never been in a theatre quite like this.
Well, I’ve never been in
any
theatre since I did
Thoroughly Modern Millie
in middle school, so I guess that
doesn’t mean anything. The stage is the low point of the room.
Seats surround it on three sides, each row a little higher than the
one in front of it. For
Love in the 0’s
, the stage consists
of several hardwood panels that jut out from the back wall. There’s
no curtain. Set pieces are swapped out under the cover of
darkness.

“Jim!” Matt calls from the sofa as I descend
toward the stage between the rows. He rises, along with his actors,
and we meet at the foot of the first hardwood floor panel.

He’s still dressed in black. I wonder if he’s
one of those people, who, once they find a cool outfit, stick with
it until the end of time.

“Good to see you again, man,” he says,
sounding genuinely happy to see me. “I want to introduce you to
Jane Remfry and Ben Lardner.” The actors look to be in their
mid-twenties. I wonder if they were in grad school with Matt. Ben
is tall and quirky-looking. He has a goatee, and I’ve never cared
for people who keep goatees. They’re suspect.

“Ben, Jane,” I say, shaking their hands. “A
pleasure.”

I’m turning it on now. I can feel Jansen
flowing through me like a shot of adrenaline.

“I am so honored and excited to be working
with you, Mr. Jansen,” Jane says.

She’s a cutie. Tall and slim. Short, blond
hair. Very Icelandic.

“Call me Jim, please.”

“I feel the same way, sir,” Ben says, and he
actually shakes my hand again which is pretty funny. They’re
star-struck as hell.

“So,” Matt says, putting his hand on my
shoulder, and grinning at me through those thick, black frames.
“How’d things go for
you
last night after the party?”

I smile that I-slept-with-beautiful-twins
smile, and he fills the empty theatre with his laughter.

“Let’s do a scene, shall we?”

I follow everyone up onto the stage.

There’s a brown leather loveseat, and Ben and
Jane sit down.

There’s a desk with a little lamp and a
scattering of books and papers.

I sit on the edge of the desk.

“So, Jim, you’ve read the scene?”

“Several times.”

Boy, my mouth’s dry, my heart pumping like a
piston.

“You off-book, yet?”

I don’t know what that means.

“Yeah.”

“Great. So, how about this?” Matt comes and
sits on the desk beside me. When he speaks, he’s highly expressive
with his hands. “I’ll tell you sort of what I’m thinking for this
scene, and if you see it differently or there’s something else you
want to try, I’m totally open to that. I really want you to follow
your instinct here, because that’s what’s going to make this scene
great.” He hops down. “I know the script says you walk in and sit
down at rise, but when the lights come up I want everyone already
sitting.”

“Okay.”

“Why don’t you take a seat behind the
desk.”

I walk around to the swivel chair and sit
down. My hands tremble now. I set my satchel on the floor, pull the
script out, place it on the desk. Training wheels, just in case I
blank.

Matt stands between the loveseat and the
desk. I feel that light shining down on me from the blackness of
the ceiling. Jane and Ben look so comfortable. I keep reminding
myself of that quote I heard somewhere, that if you’re scared, you
should pretend like you’re at ease, and no one will know.

“Everything,” Matt says to all of us, “hinges
on this scene.”

Great. I’m going to fuck up this guy’s
play.

“I know,” he continues, “there’s this
temptation to take it over the top here, and some directors would
probably go for that, but I don’t think we need to. The play
itself, the way it treats relationships, is already so over the
top, the acting shouldn’t mimic that, you know?”

I most certainly do not know what in the hell
he’s talking about.

“Lookit, there’s comedy here, but fuck up the
timing, you know? This isn’t Neil Simon. I want people to laugh,
but not too much. The goal, honestly, is to unnerve them. They’ll
laugh for the same reason people laugh at funerals. So,” he glances
back at me, “want to give it a go?”

Oh God.

“Why not?”

What is my first line? Shit.

Matt walks off the stage and takes a seat in
the first row.

“Let’s do the whole scene,” he says, “and I
swear I won’t interrupt you the first time. I’ll just go ahead and
tell you, Jim, I’m pretty bad about that. I mean, I could work on
thirty seconds of dialogue for a whole afternoon. But I don’t think
we’re going to have that problem today. Ben, whenever you’re
ready.”

Ben takes a deep breath and stares for a
moment into the floor.

When his eyes come back to mine, he’s a
different person. Vulnerable, wounded.

“Thank you for seeing us on such short
notice, Dr. Lovejoy,” he says gravely.

My line. Fuck. I lean forward and glance at
page fifteen of the script.

“Yes, well. My time is extremely. Limited so
why don’t you tell me the problem.”

That was awful. Wooden. Perfunctory.

“I’m the problem,” Jane says, crossing her
arms and glancing with annoyance into the empty theatre. She really
looks pissed.

“I’ll decide that.”

“No, she’s right, Doctor. She most certainly
is the problem. She’s an enormous problem.” Ben is so good. I feel
like he’s really speaking to me.

My lines have evaporated. I grab the
script.

“Sorry, Matt.”

“It’s all right. Stay with it.”

“So,” I continue, and I know it, everyone in
the theatre knows it—I am dying up here. “You initiated this
session what would you like for me to say?”

“What do you mean?”

“What did you come—”

“Okay!” Matt yells, coming out of his seat,
“I know I said I wouldn’t, but I want to stop here for a second.”
He walks onstage, begins pacing between the sofa and the desk.

“I think I know what you’re up to here,
Jim.”

Man, I wish someone would dim those overhead
lights. I’m sweating like a maniac.

“I don’t think the whole acting like you
can’t act thing is going to work for this scene, and I’ll tell you
why. Don’t get me wrong—it’s frighteningly convincing. But like I
said before, it’s way, way over the top, and if this play gets any
goofier, it’ll fall apart. You know what I’m saying, Jim?”

“Absolutely.”

Matt approaches me. “I think it might help if
we get you out from behind this desk. Connect you to Gerald and
Cynthia a little more. Here,” he comes over, “let’s slide your
chair out to center stage.”

This is dynamite. Now I’m sitting six feet
away from Jane and Ben, and they’re going to see the fear dripping
from my face. My inability is so fucking glaring, I’m on the verge
of running the hell out of this theatre right now.

“And Jim?” Matt says as he walks back to his
chair on the front row, “let’s slow things down a little. Feels
like you’re rushing your lines a tad.”

Jane gives me a reassuring smile. Ben’s
looking up into the lighting grid. I wonder if they’re embarrassed
for me.

“Thank you for seeing us on such short
notice, Dr. Lovejoy,” Ben says, beginning the scene again.

“Yes. Well. My time is extremely limited…” I
stop. If I don’t take control of this situation immediately, I may
lose everything. I begin to shake my head. Then I stand and look at
Matt.

“I’m sorry, but I strongly disagree with you
here. Look, you’ve written a cutting edge play. There’s no doubt
about that. And what is it you told me earlier that your goal was?
To unnerve people. Right?”

An uneasy nod.

“What is more unnerving and uncomfortable
than watching someone onstage who is totally dying? They’re trying
so hard, but they’re forgetting lines, rushing lines, overacting.
Mumbling. Trembling even. It’s painful to watch, but it’s also
funny. Isn’t that the juxtaposition you’re going for? Uneasy
laughter? What better captures that than a character who comes on
stage before a few hundred people, and everyone’s thinking ‘is he
acting like this on purpose’? Honestly? You tell me.”

“I see what you’re saying, Jim, I do,
but—”

“But what? It’s staring you right in the
face, Matt. You told me to go with my instinct. ‘That’s what’s
going to make this scene great.’ Didn’t you say that?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, my instinct is screaming at me, and
this doesn’t happen often, but I know in my gut, that this is how I
should play this scene. Don’t you feel it? We’ve had an epiphany
here.” I look at Jane. “Do
you
feel it?”

“Maybe. Yeah. I think I do.”

“Ben?”

“It’s his show, man.”

“Well, I feel it, Matt,” I say, stepping down
toward him onto the next panel. “I feel it in my bones, man.”

Matt removes his glasses and squeezes the
bridge of his nose between his eyes.

“So what you’re telling me,” he says, “is you
want to do this scene like you can’t act? That’s what you’re
saying?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Do they pretend they can’t act either?” he
asks, pointing at Jane and Ben.

“No, just me. Otherwise, the audience would
know. They carry on just like in the previous scenes.”

“You’re sure about this?”

I’ve won an Oscar, asshole.

“Absolutely.”

Matt stands and stares at me sort of
dumbfounded. He glances up at the lighting grid, at the sofa where
his stars sit, at the desk, like he’s taking his whole production
in once last time before I royally fuck it all up.

When his eyes come back to mine, he shrugs,
says, “All right, Jim. All right. Hell, that’s why we’re at
Hamilton. To try shit out.”

He walks back to his seat, sits down, crosses
his legs.

“Let’s run it again.”

Chapter 7

Manta * eavesdrops on the graduates * watches
the eel * Henry’s * “Twice as Deep” * the beauty of Corey Mustin *
like a demon in the house of God

Though the sun has long since descended
beneath the metallic range of towers, when I step out of Hamilton
Studio, the hot air engulfs me like a waft of furnace heat. The
sidewalk brims with the Village night crowd—perfumed, elegant
creatures, breezing past en route to food and drink and
entertainment. I walk with them. It’s 7:30, and I’m famished.

There’s a Thai restaurant up ahead. I step
inside. Very trendy. Very hip. Since I’m alone, the maître d’
promises she can get me seated in fifteen minutes. I can’t quite
tell if she recognizes me, so I don’t push it. Besides, you think
Jansen has ever dined alone?