by Byron Lane
“So good to see you, Stepmom,” I say.
“Is that him beside you?” Kathi asks, not breaking eye contact with me. “Is that the boyfriend? I’m ignoring him intentionally for a moment until I can gather my sense of humor.”
“That’s him,” I say.
Kathi Kannon turns and looks at Reid. She grabs both of his hands. “Jesus,” she says, “you’re taller than I imagined. Your dick must be huge.”
Reid leans toward her. “Massive,” he says, not missing a beat, maybe, at last, an equal sparring partner for Kathi Kannon, wordsmith, conversationalist, auteur.
“Now it all makes sense,” she says kindly, sweetly, her hands touching his, a sign that she means it. The jewelry on her fingers, the bracelet around her wrist, the earrings dangling under her hair, I recognize all of them, the various items she would forget on airplane seats and under hotel beds and in restaurant parking lots, the items I used to follow behind her and collect, locking them in the jewelry drawer in her closet, until I realized, What good is protecting all of her favorite things if she never gets to use them? Her fine jewelry, like her life, like my life, should be worn, used, lived. I wonder how much I held back her spirit versus maybe how much I held back her demons.
Reid nods, now up to speed. A devilish grin appears on his face. He blushes, putting his hands in front of his face as if he’s holding a bowl, opens his mouth, and gives an air blowjob to a huge imaginary dick, enormous imaginary balls resting in his cupped hands, a perfect mirror to Kathi’s earlier advice to me about relationships.
“Cockring,” she says, smiling, half-hugging me. “You’re telling him all my secrets.”
“Almost all of them,” I say.
Kathi turns back to Reid. “Want a Coke Zero? They ran out at the bar, but I’ve hidden several in the bushes around the pool.”
“Maybe later,” Reid says, a thrill in his eyes—the same thrill I’ve witnessed billions of times before in the countless strangers smitten by meeting this wonderful woman, delighted through and through that she’s offered a simple soda.
“Nice to finally meet you,” Kathi says.
“Likewise,” Reid says, this easy exchange, a solace.
Kathi then tugs on Reid’s arms, pulling him down to her. She whispers something in his ear. It’s strange watching them together, touching, Kathi Kannon and my Reid, the two most favored people in my life, the two most relevant entities in both my inner and outer worlds.
Reid smiles at whatever she’s saying to him. She’s smiling, too, holding his hands a bit longer than what’s natural, a bit sweeter than the mark of some casual moment. And, to my delight, I notice I’m smiling, too, faithful that what’s happening here is something special. This feels like the moment of endorsement. Like Kathi Kannon telling me it’s okay to keep Reid around, that it’s all okay that it ended up here, with the three of us together, our long and storied journey to this point.
While Kathi and Reid have their moment, I scan the room and lock eyes with Roy. He bounces up off the bed, dashes through the crowd over to me, and throws himself at me, adorable lower front fangs first. I squat down and rub his butt the way he likes, him spinning and spinning, happy and safe, seemingly ecstatic to see me—like a dog reuniting with a veteran. “I love you, buddy,” I whisper to him, scratching that special spot behind his ear. I’m thinking of Roy nearly every day, these days. We’ve been through a lot together, we’ve been through her together—us, war buddies, brothers, sharing an experience no one else will ever know. And I think about those dreams Roy used to have at night, where his feet would kick and kick and he was running and running and running—I’ve always been certain he’s running to her. I’m certain because I have those dreams, too.
“Oh!” Kathi shouts. “I have something to show you, Cockring.” She turns to me. I stand as she starts to unbutton the top of her gown.
“I’ve already seen them,” I say.
She reaches into her dress and pulls out a gold chain, and on the end of it, an oval-shaped gold locket, the gold locket.
I purse my lips. I slow my breathing. I feel my heart beating in my temples. I don’t want to cry.
“I had this made for you,” Kathi says. “Well, I had it put on a chain for you. But then I liked it too much and said, ‘Fuck him, I’m keeping it.’ I hope that’s okay?”
Through a smile, I nod and say, “It’s perfect.”
With Roy now nipping at her knees, Kathi turns to Reid. “Okay, you guys, be on the lookout for Courtney Love,” she says. “She’s coming tonight and owes me seven thousand dollars. Bring her to me as soon as you see her!” Kathi shifts her foot, not much, less than half an inch toward the bed, but I’ve seen it before. I know she’s done.
“Will do,” I say, and as I pivot politely away from her, I turn right back. “Wait,” I say.
Kathi faces me. That face, so open and powerful and almost begging for attention—I’m reminded, that’s the face of a movie star.
“I have so much I want to tell you,” I say.
“I already know, Cockring,” she says. And with that, and our absurd grins, Kathi Kannon turns, Roy beside her, and the little ocean of people around her parts, allowing the two of them back to their place in bed, swallowing them up again, with me and Reid standing there, not part of it, outside of it, and literally being sent away, sent on a task, to find her obsessive thought and handle it. I’m thinking, with fondness, Just like old times.
I’m also thinking, Greed knows no end. Not her greed but mine, for wanting, wanting, wanting more from that moment with her, from our time together. Part of me still wants back in the cocoon I left, back in time to appreciate her more, appreciate all this more. I look around this new room, see these new faces, new clothes, new clutter on her nightstand, and I realize how much I miss it. How much I miss her. It reminds me of the old part of me, the loser part, my sad former self. I can see him clearly now because I’m changed. I see my past through the eyes of my present. The hard truth is I know my life is better because of what we went through, but I don’t want to go back, however tempting the illusion looks.
Like when a drug company finds a cure, and puts themselves out of business, Kathi Kannon taught me to love, helped me get out of debt, showed me how to live a fuller life, even if it turned out to be one without much of her actually in it. It was generous of her, a rare kindness in Hollywood. Kinder still was that she gifted me power, for having known her, and for having left her.
I turn to Reid and notice he’s also looking in the spot where she was standing before us just moments ago, into that slice of space that she once occupied, similarly entranced by her coming and going.
I ask, “What did she say to you?”
He says, “She told me, ‘If you hurt him, I’ll kill you.’”
* * *
Parties seem absurd when you’re not there to party. With too much on my mind and shock at all this revelry surrounding my pensive heart, I nudge Reid. Time to go.
On our way out, I drag Reid around the house. I look for signs that I made a difference. The labels are still on the shelves in her bathroom. The basement is still full of the memorabilia I organized in plastic storage bins. The file cabinets full of her writing are standing guard, ever ready for more, ready for all the great books and films she has yet to pen.
I say polite goodbyes to the few people I know I won’t see again anytime soon, other cast members of Kathi Kannon’s life. Benny is still pretending to work. He will outlive us all. Miss Gracie is near the piano, smiling and regaling and making sure no one steals anything. Roger is busy, making sure the catering is in place, the forks and knives in their proper containers. Roger, his life lived for someone else, someone he worships, and I’m thinking, It’s so fucking sad. I’m thinking, It’s so fucking beautiful.
For a moment I watch Kathi’s newest assistant, obvious in the crowd, the groovy young gay guy holding a yellow notepad, wearing what’s clearly a brand-new gray cardigan, with that goddamned purple le
ather backpack dutifully attached to his shoulders, no doubt full of cash. After I left Kathi, Bruce said, she immediately hired and fired a new assistant. Then another. Then another. Then another. None of them were right. What exactly she was looking for, I can’t say for sure. But in my moments of ego and vanity and sadness and doubt and regret, I wonder if she was looking for me.
God, to think I ever said it: I’m bored.
Therapista says it’s impossible to be bored in this world with all its stimulus and opportunities. She says boredom isn’t actually a feeling at all, but the suppression of a feeling—like anger or shame or loneliness. I wish I would have known sooner. I wonder what feelings I suppress. And Kathi? Therapista says a wonderful, healthy life doesn’t include a requirement to be constantly entertained. She says what we really want is peace of mind, peace in being. Maybe another word for boredom is peace.
This will all be funny one day.
I walk out the front door, past the message painted above the frame that greeted me all those years ago: KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCKING ON HEAVEN’S DOOR. I’m thinking, Yeah, it was kinda like that.
And I find myself leaving, again. Though it’s no easier this time. Something still feels tense. And as Reid and I walk down to my car, something catches inside me. I stop on the path, my feet feel numb, my heart panics, like I’m making another mistake. Tears are being pushed out from the inside. I fear I was too flippant, like I’m at fault for not grabbing Kathi Kannon by the shoulders and forcing her to hear how much I love her. My mind races with thoughts—not of moments or adventures with her—but of looks: The way she looked at me when I made her laugh; the way she looked at me when we both hated our limo driver; the look that meant save me from autograph hounds, or from doing a speech, or from a salesman at Bloomingdale’s; the look and smile she gave when she wanted to hold my hand as a plane landed or when she said “thank you” while literally stuffing my pants with cash for helping her at an autograph show. The look when I told her I was leaving her. The look when she wanted me to stay. The look when I told her no.
Reid pulls me close to him. “I’ll drive?” he asks. And as I nod yes …
“HEY, COCKRING!” I hear her shout. Her, the voice unmistakable.
I turn to face Kathi Kannon, star, Shine, mother figure. I suck in my sobs. I want to be dignified for this dance. Perhaps I can be the man this time. She trots toward me, stops a few feet away, that face again, framed in lights and laughter of the celebration—of her—that’s going on far behind her.
“I was never bored with you,” I blurt.
Kathi Kannon laughs, that infectious laugh, and instantly I’m with her again, instantly transported to our sweetest moments, alone in that sprawling mansion, or in the Greenwich Hotel, or on that white frozen lake, the aurora borealis scorching overhead, Roy’s nub of a tail wagging ferociously, all of us there with each other in my inner world, warm, happy, together, forever, in my mind at least.
“I hope we survive Los Angeles,” she says, my mother’s locket now dangling freely outside of her ball gown.
“Me, too,” I say.
Maybe we don’t always have to say everything.
And Kathi Kannon, film icon, smiles and waves goodbye. And Reid squeezes my hand. And Kathi turns and walks back up her enchanting hill. And Reid and I turn and walk down her magical brick walkway, all of us on our way home.
Acknowledgments
A galaxy of thank-yous to the transcendent Carrie Fisher, as I was lucky enough to be her personal assistant for a few extraordinary years. This book is fiction. It’s not about Carrie. As her loved ones say, if you really want to know Carrie, read her books. But she is one of the greatest forces of inspiration I’ve ever known, having spent much of her brilliance, charm, and generosity teaching me about writing, life, and friendship. I think of her constantly; I miss her profoundly, and I know I’m not alone. I hope the ice cream up there is perfect, and infinite.
Thank you to my agent, Deborah Schneider, for believing in me, believing in this story, and keeping my heart full. I cried when you said “yes.” And to all my friends at Gelfman/Schneider, including Penelope Burns and Cathy Gleason (thanks for my pin!). Much gratitude to the charming Josie Freedman, Sarah Wax, and all my pals at ICM. Also the international team at Curtis Brown with Sophie Baker and Felicity Blunt.
James Melia! James Melia! James Melia! That’s what everyone said to me when the manuscript started going around. And how lucky am I that this story found you and you agreed to be its champion and editor. You’re a joy and a friend. Thank you. And to all the greats at Henry Holt, including the inspiring Amy Einhorn and her wonderful teammates Maggie Richards, Marian Brown, and Caitlin O’Shaughnessy. Thank you Kathy Lord for your keen eye and great advice—sorry about the speculum thing. Thank you to the audiobook team: Robert Allen, Mary Beth Roche, Alyssa Keyne, Dakota Cohen, Matie Argiropoulos, and Samantha Edelson.
Thank you to my fairy godmother Elissa Dauria Smith and the freelance editors who helped get the material in shape in the early stages: Molly Lindley Pisani and Bethany Strout. A special thanks to extraordinary freelance editor Iva Turner—I wish everyone could be so lucky to have you review their work, and luckier still to be able to call you a friend. Rob Weisbach, thanks for your very generous support and wisdom. Thanks, Ron Levin, for your guidance. Thanks to all my friends at Sparkpoint Studio especially Crystal Patriarche, Paige Herbert, and Keely Platte. Thank you to graphic designer genius Kyle Cummings for some cover design inspiration.
Much love to the best of friends who helped so much, in so many ways, along the way: Erin Rodman (my official cult leader), Stacy Saxton (SFB—love you!), Tom Lenk, Tom DeTrinis, Jayne Entwistle, Mark Jude Sullivan, Nicola Bailey-James, Tim McKernan, Claire Mouledoux, Rachel Sciacca, Glenn Millican, Cindy Cesare, Brian Larson, Esteban Rey, John McCoy, John Baumgartner, Michael Crowley, Heath Daniels, Beth Grant, Michael Chieffo, Betsy Burnham Stern, Alisha Brophy, Matt Murphy, Michael Peters, Tobias Trost, Zac Hug, Barry Babok, and the magical Jonathan Van Ness. Thanks, Angela Hill for being my anchor and Rachel Bartur for being my parachute. And thank you Genevieve Ramos Matthews—this is all kinda your fault haha.
Thank you Mom, Dad, Tiffany, Scott, Laurel, Ava, Emmy, Grant, “Miss Patri,” Ashley, Byron, Aubrey, Buddy, Edy, Robert, Na-Nan, Uncle Noel, and my entire family. I love you all!
Hey, fellow assistants! I see you! Thanks for sharing the tribe. I’ll buy us a round at the next meeting.
And thank you to Steven Rowley, my morning light, my nighttime star, and all the magical blue skies in between. I have so much to thank you for: reading endless drafts of this book, helping me live some whisper of what’s in these pages, and lovingly building an exciting and crazy life with Tilda and me. I love us. I love you. Will you marry me?
About the Author
Byron Lane is a playwright and screenwriter. He’s also worked as a journalist and as a personal assistant to celebrities, including Carrie Fisher. He’s originally from New Orleans and lives in Los Angeles with his boyfriend and their rescue dog. This is his first novel. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Part One: Icarus
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part Two: Brush Fire in the Spirit World
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
<
br /> Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Part Three: Pequod
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
Henry Holt and Company
Publishers since 1866
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New York, New York 10271
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Henry Holt® and ® are registered trademarks of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
Copyright © 2020 by Byron Lane
All rights reserved.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Lane, Byron, 1978– author.
Title: A star is bored / Byron Lane.
Description: First edition. | New York: Henry Holt and Company, 2020.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019057802 (print) | LCCN 2019057803 (ebook) | ISBN 9781250266491 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250266484 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PS3612.A54955 S73 2020 (print) | LCC PS3612.A54955 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019057802
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019057803
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First Edition 2020
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
eISBN 9781250266484
1. But seriously, I repeat: This is a work of fiction. That you might speculate as to the identity of certain key characters does not alter the fact that all of the characters in the book, including incidental ones, their names, the dialogue, the locales, and all of the events recounted, are fictional products of the author’s imagination and are not intended to describe or to identify real-life persons or events, nor should any such identification be inferred. Cameo appearances by certain named celebrities are also entirely fictional and are not intended to suggest or describe any association with real celebrities or events.