Famous (9 page)

They were married under one of the four
concrete picnic shelters that surrounded the pond. The guests sat
at picnic tables. I mean, they tried to decorate the place with
flowers and ribbons and such, but it still looked like a bomb
shelter.

Afterward, they had their wedding pictures
made (you guessed it) under that decrepit gazebo, and my father and
his three brothers grilled hamburgers and hotdogs for everyone. A
very classy ceremony all around. The bride and groom spent their
honeymoon in Myrtle Beach, if that means anything to you.

The only reason I even care to mention it, is
because my brother was there.

Though I’m Bo’s big brother (by four years),
we have one of those relationships where the younger brother feels
more like the older brother. What I’m saying is, he’s done a lot
more with his life than I have with mine. He was married a few
years ago, and now has a three-year-old boy. Bo’s highly
intelligent, too. I don’t know what he does for a living, but I’m
sure he makes gobs of money. And he’s a genuinely nice guy. For
instance, listen to what he did at that wedding I was telling you
about. During the reception, instead of mingling with our family,
he came down to the edge of the dried-up pond where I’d been
sitting since the ceremony ended, avoiding people, as my mother
would say. He asked me if I wanted to take a walk on the hiking
paths, just the two of us. I said all right, and we spent the next
hour strolling through the woods of Lakewood Park. I even remember
what we talked about. Mostly, we laughed about the Worst Wedding in
the World and how funny it was that he’d come all the way from the
Pacific Ocean to witness this piece of shit.

Bo never asked me why I still lived with Mom
and Dad. He never even told me I should get my own place or
anything. And man he hates Mom and Dad.

Instead, he told me all about living in
Seattle, and how it rained “every fucking day.” Just like I was a
regular guy.

If you asked me to tell you when I was
happiest, I would probably say it was that afternoon with my little
brother. I mean, have you ever been around someone, and you know
they just take you as is? That even if they could change you for
the better, they wouldn’t do it?

It’s kind of like that with Bo.

The first thing that passes through my mind
when the jet touches down on the runway of LAX is, I’m twenty miles
from James Jansen’s home. It looks like the tarmac of any other
airport from my first class window, but the feel of this city, the
sprawl of 10 p.m. light and the mansions and studios and activity
they suggest, fills me with energy. As the pilot welcomes us to Los
Angeles, local time 10:02 p.m., temp. 81 degrees, I can hardly sit
still.

All I can think is
I am home now. I’m
home.

It’s after 11:00 when I pay the cab fare and
walk through the grass of my brother’s lawn toward the front porch.
His street is a quiet one. Sprinklers water neighboring yards with
a soothing hush. I hear crickets. There aren’t too many trees from
what I can tell, and the air smells dry and sharp.

The lights are still on inside his bungalow.
Three cars in the driveway. Laughter escapes through the open
windows.

I step onto the front porch, and I’ll be
honest, I’m nervous. Sort of wish I’d let Bo know I was coming.
Instead of knocking on the door right away, I set my luggage down
on the planked porch and take a seat on the bench.

I pick out four distinct voices coming from a
room which I cannot see from the porch. Bo, another man, and two
women. I’ll bet one of them is his wife. I guess that’s what you do
on a Friday night when you’re married: have friends over who are
married, about the same age as you, and sit and laugh in the
kitchen over drinks while your child sleeps. Seems a very safe,
suburban thing to do.

I eavesdrop on their conversation. It’s not
terribly interesting. One of the women is talking about how she got
stuck in traffic for five hours the other day, and that she was so
bored, she sat on the hood of her car and read an entire book. I
know that sounds interesting, but the way she tells it is actually
pretty dull. You can tell
she
thinks it’s a really neat
story. I have to stop listening when she says, “And there I am,
sitting on the hood of my car at four in the afternoon on the 105,
getting a tan and reading a novel!” God, I hope that’s his friend’s
wife.

I wait on his porch for a long time. Finally,
after midnight, I stand up since it doesn’t seem like those two
couples are ever going to say goodnight, and knock on the door.
That’s one thing I’ll say for myself—I’m not a timid knocker.

I hear Bo say, “Who in the world could that
be?” and I feel guilty again for not calling him this
afternoon.

My heart really thumps as I hear approaching
footsteps on the hardwood floor. I stand very tall and straight and
remove my sunglasses. The door swings open. Bo and I stand two feet
apart, and man do his eyes get wide.

“Lancer!” Oh yeah, he calls me Lancer. I
don’t know why, but I don’t mind. No one else calls me that. No one
else really calls me anything. “What are you doing here, man?” he
says, but he doesn’t say it mean. Just very excited and curious,
and I suppose it’s a reasonable question to ask someone who’s
knocked on your door after midnight. He has liquor on his breath
and this disappoints me, though I’m not sure why.

I don’t say anything, because I don’t really
know what to say. I just step forward and embrace my brother. He
hugs me back, and God it feels good.

“You look great,” he tells me. And I do. It’s
true.

“You, too,” I say, but he doesn’t really.
He’s put on some weight. He isn’t
I-have-to-be-lifted-out-of-my-house-with-a-crane fat. Just, married
with one kid fat. Comfortable fat. Suburban fat. We don’t look
anything alike. I’m definitely much handsomer than Bo. I’m not
saying he’s ugly or anything. But no one’s mistaking him for a
movie star.

“Come in,” he says, and I lift my two
suitcases off the porch and walk inside.

He has a very succinct bungalow that has most
certainly benefited from the touch of a woman. Right off, as we
walk through the foyer toward the kitchen, I notice these pieces of
tribal art. I don’t know if they’re really tribal, but when I see a
stone carving of a guy holding a spear, my first thought is,
Look at that strange tribal art
.

Bo looks so different. He’s wearing corduroy
pants, leather sandals, and a cream-colored linen shirt that is not
tucked in. I guess he’s going for the whole I’m-on-a-safari look.
I’m Hugo Bossing it of course. He has brown hair like mine, though
not as thick and luxurious. Plus, he’s only six feet tall and wears
glasses. The only glasses I wear are my deep dark shades.

A man and two women are sitting around a
kitchen table. There’s a candle, a half-empty bottle of Patron,
four clear glasses.

“Guys,” he says as we enter the small, bright
kitchen which smells like scrambled eggs, “Meet my brother,
Lance.”

Everybody says hi Lance, and I say hi
everybody.

Bo’s holding my right arm above the elbow,
and he starts pointing at people.

“Lance, this is Nick.”

“Hi, Nick.”

“His wife, Maggie.”

“Hi, Maggie.”

“Hi, Lance. Wow, has anyone ever told you you
look like James Jansen?”

“No, why? Do I?”

“A lot.”

Bo says, “And finally, meet Hannah, my
wife.”

I haven’t shaken anybody’s hand yet, but I
figure I’d better hug my sister-in-law, so I set my suitcases down
and she rises and we embrace.

“I wish I could’ve come to your wedding,” I
say. And I really do. I just didn’t have money to fly out to
California four years ago.

“It’s so good to meet you, Lance. Bo talks
about you all the time.”

I sort of doubt that. But I guess you have to
say that sort of thing if you’re my new sister-in-law. I’m sorry to
say she’s the avid traffic jam reader. She’s very shapely and
brown, her hair black.

The downside of my arrival is that I think I
break up their little party, because Nick and Maggie stand and say
they should probably be getting back to Davie. I really hope
Davie’s their dog, because anyone who would name a child Davie
deserves to die.

I have to pee like you wouldn’t believe, so
before Bo and Hanna walk their suburban friends out to the car, Bo
shows me the way to the bathroom. On the way, he tells me to be
quiet because Sam is sleeping. I can’t wait to meet Sam. He’s my
nephew.

Chapter 11

Hannah prepares him a room * chats with Bo on
the deck * sees his sleeping nephew * Ani the Anteater * breakfast
with the Dunkquists * recalls their annual trips to N. Myrtle Beach
and the hurricane * rents a Hummer * takes a drive and beholds the
Valley

When I emerge from the bathroom, I’ve washed
my face, brushed my teeth, and changed into a pair of plaid
pajamas. Hannah has carried my luggage into the guest bedroom at
the end of the hall, laid out clean linens, and turned back the
comforter. After three nights in that shithole in the Bronx, this
room looks cozy and inviting.

I tell Hannah thank you very much for letting
me impose on them, and she says it’s no trouble at all, but I kind
of wonder if she’s just being hospitable.

Bo went and married a beautiful woman. She’s
wearing these Capri pants and a little white tank top with no bra.
I know you aren’t supposed to notice such attributes on your
brother’s wife, but man she’s got these gazongas like you wouldn’t
believe.

Hannah tells me again that she’s really glad
to meet me, which practically assures me that she isn’t, and then
says it’s time for her to turn in.

After she’s gone, I unpack my suitcase since
I’ll probably be staying awhile. I don’t feel like going to sleep
yet, so I tiptoe out into the hallway and make my way back to the
kitchen.

Bo’s clearing dishes from the dining room
table.

“Want a hand with that?” I ask.

“No, I’ll wash them tomorrow.”

I sit down at the breakfast table. The
glasses of tequila are still there, and I can smell that sweet
Mexican liquor.

“You want a drink, Lance?” he asks.

“No thanks.”

He clears all of the glasses except one, and
fills it about two inches high.

I follow him out the back door.

Their neighborhood truly lies on the
outskirts of Altadena. From the small deck, I can see beyond their
fenced backyard. The town ends here. No question. Black hills rise
in the distance. I wonder what this place will look like in the
morning.

We sit down in these highly suburban lawn
chairs and Bo takes a sip of tequila.

“It’s beautiful here,” I say, though I can’t
really tell. Just seems like the right thing to say at the moment.
“And Hannah, she’s very sweet.”

He touches the back of my head, ruffles my
hair.

“Been a long time, hasn’t it?” he says.

“Yeah.”

“Why are you here, Lance?”

“I quit my job.”

“Really? What’d you do?”

“I was a legal assistant. Also, I’d had
enough of living in that house with Mom and Dad.”

“I can understand that.”

“I should’ve called first, Bo. I’m sorry. I
really am.”

“You don’t ever have to call me, man. You
just fuckin’ show up. This is your house, too. You all right on
money?”

“Yeah, of course.” The truth is my treasury
has been greatly depleted, down to around $15K.

I look over at him, the crickets chirping, a
coyote yapping somewhere in all that darkness. He sips tequila. You
ought to see the way he smiles at me.

With some people, I’d feel compelled to tell
them the story I’ve decided upon—how I’ve come out to LA to stay
for awhile. I would want to ask them if it was all right to stay in
their house until I found a job, a place to live. Not with Bo. The
thing about Bo, which I’m now remembering, is he lives in the
moment. He could give a shit about why I’m here. Right now, all
that matters to him, is it’s a lovely night, and he’s sipping
tequila, and his brother is beside him. At least I hope he feels
this way.

We sit outside for awhile. Sometimes, there’s
so much to say you can’t say any of it. It kind of feels like that
tonight. After awhile, Bo struggles to his feet and whispers, “I
want to show you something.”

I follow him back into the house, and we
creep barefooted down the hallway, into a dark room with toys all
over the floor.

We stop at the foot of a tiny bed. A
darkhaired little boy sleeps with his blanket and a toy robot,
thumb in mouth, breathing delicately.

I feel Bo’s lips near my ear.

“That’s your nephew, Sam,” he whispers. “He’s
three, and I’ve told him all about you.”

I wake with the sun, but I lie in bed for a
long time, listening to the movements of Bo’s family in the
kitchen. Little Sam is awake. I think he’s having breakfast because
Hannah keeps telling him to finish his oatmeal. But he’s more
interested in somebody named Ani the Anteater who sounds a lot like
Bo and talks in a highly inflective voice about counting, learning
the alphabet, and eating ants. Sam has been begging Bo all morning:
“Pease do Ani! Again, Daddy! Ani!” Sam knows his letters all the
way up to C. I know it’s not very impressive, but he’s only three.
I’m sure he’s trying his best.

Since I’m only Lance under this roof, I climb
out of bed and don’t bother changing into my suit yet. The first
thing I do is walk over to the window and open the blinds. I see a
swing set, a picnic table, and an inflated aquamarine-colored
swimming pool sitting half-full in the blazing morning sun. There
are no trees. A couple miles beyond the fence, there are
sage-covered hills. It’s Saturday. A chorus of lawnmowers already
in full voice.