by Blake Crouch
“Lance,” Bo says, “I’m glad you’re here, pal. I really am.”
I look at my brother and smile. I think I’ll just ask him.
“Could I have your opinion on something?” I say.
“Sure.”
I polish off the rest of my beer and set the bottle beside me.
“I haven’t really told Kara the truth about some things.”
“Like what?”
“About living with Mom and Dad for seventeen years and being sort of a loser.”
“You aren’t a loser, Lance.”
“Oh, I know.”
“Lance.” He takes hold of my arm and finds my eyes. “You aren’t a loser. I’ve always thought you had this special insight, that you really saw people for what they were.”
“Who’d you want to be when you were a kid?”
“You mean like a profession?”
“No, a person. Like a star.”
“Oh.” He considers this for a moment. “When I was thirteen, I wanted to be Tommy Fields.”
“From The No-Names?”
“Yeah.”
I laugh, because Tommy Fields was a skinny, long-haired rock star from the mid-70’s. He was always being rebellious in interviews, and all of the songs he wrote were titled “Bad Love” or “Dying for You.” Real subtle themes. But he accidentally lit himself on fire during a concert in 1980, and no one ever heard about him after that.
“Why’d you want to be him?” I ask.
“I don’t know. It was just a stupid fantasy.”
“No, really. Think about it.”
He thinks about it.
“Well, I loved rock-and-roll. I mean, who doesn’t want to stand in front of a screaming crowd? It’d be a thrill.”
“Yeah. To have everyone know you and love you. Doesn’t it ever make you sad being obscure?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Right now, you and I are sitting here in a huge, exciting world, just two normal guys that no one’s ever heard of, and no one ever will. Doesn’t that make you sad?”
“No.”
“Well, it does me.”
“Why?”
“Because when I die, I’ll be instantly forgotten. You and Mom and Dad will remember me, but that’s just until you croak. Think about how presidents feel, even the bad ones. And movie stars. Even washed-up ones. They know that even if they were to die tomorrow, they’d be remembered. They made a dent, you know? Can you imagine what that must feel like?”
“Probably not as good as you think, Lance.”
“No. Better. I think it must be the best feeling in the world.”
Bo finishes his beer and slings the bottle out into the grass.
“You want to know what the best feeling in the world is?” he asks me. “Happens to me once a day. It’s ten-thirty, the news has ended. I turn off the television, and before I go to bed, I walk down the hallway and crack the door to Sam’s room. And I peek in at my son, sleeping peacefully in bed, under a roof I’ve provided for him. That, Lance, is the best feeling in the world.”
I get up from the bleacher and recover Bo’s empty bottle from the grass. I don’t condone littering. When I return, I see that Bo has stretched himself out on the top rung, staring up at the hazy stars.
“That’s just an instinctive feeling,” I say to him, a little angry. “And anyone with a functioning reproductive system can have it.”
“You’re losing me, pal. I think you’re confused. And that’s fine. Nothing wrong with that. Maybe you could go talk to someone like Hannah, and they could help you figure out what you want.”
“I know what I want.”
Bo sits up and looks at me.
“What do you want?” he asks me.
Of course I don’t tell him.
Instead, I start off down the street.
It’s after one o’clock in the morning. The house is so quiet. I can only hear the refrigerator cutting on and off, and outside, the chirp of crickets.
I sit in a rocking chair by the window. Light from a telephone pole in the backyard floods between the blinds and spreads a pattern of lucent rectangles across my chest, and on the hardwood floor.
I am very awake. Fearfully awake. In two days I have a movie premier and a party to attend. Other social engagements will surely follow. It’s tempting to carry on as I have this past week. No, not tempting. Safe. I could find a job, hit the clubs on weekends, get recognized occasionally, play at being Him.
But that’s all I’ve done, and all I would be doing. Playing. I realize this now. And perhaps playing would be satisfactory for most people, but it isn’t good enough for me any longer. Every time I come back to this house as Lance, the pain intensifies. I was not meant to be this man. I was not meant to be obscure.
I hold a scrap of paper which I’ve carried around in my wallet for two years, reading it over and over in the eerie, orange light.
James Jansen
203 Carmella Drive
Beverly Hills, California. 90213.
It’s the address of my new home. It makes me smile to think of it, and a peace settles upon me.
I can sleep now.
Chapter 17
Bo Bo’s ~ the namedropper ~ the Jansen bungalow ~ breakfast in the Hummer ~ a brief synopsis of Jansen’s public profile during the last year ~ Until the End of Time: a screenplay ~ follows the white Porsche ~ makes the namedropper’s day ~ Universal Studios ~ the gated life
I wake before dawn, slip into this pinstripe Brooks Brothers shirt and khaki slacks, and tiptoe out of the house. There’s a diner called Bo Bo’s on Sunset which looks to be the only thing open at this hour of the morning, so I stop off and order a cup of coffee and a bearclaw.
There are these people sitting in one of the booths still wearing their evening attire from the previous night, and you can tell they’re trying to act very excited about being in a diner after partying all night, but they look dead tired. While the cashier withdraws my bearclaw from the pastry case, I overhear this one guy who’s completely monopolizing the conversation, busily listing all the Stars he saw.
“…Brad Locket. Tony Vincent. Angela Murphy. I got a drink for her. A bone dry martini, ’cause I read somewhere that was her favorite. And you know what she said to me? ‘I was just thinking how I could use one of these. How thoughtful.’ She was already sloshed I think. I told her about my screenplay, and she said she’d love to read it. You fuckin’ believe that? I’m going to drop it off at her agent’s office this afternoon. You know, this is how careers get started.”
You really wouldn’t believe what happens next. The namedropper stops mid-sentence, and I hear him whisper, “Look who’s standing at the counter.” Any other time, I’d be mightily pleased to have this recognition, but today is an important day for me, and I can’t tolerate the distractions of faking fame.
I haven’t turned around yet, but I hear the young man slide out of the booth and begin walking across the diner toward me. The cashier hands me the bearclaw and changes my five dollar bill. I gather up my pastry and steaming cup of coffee, and when I turn around, this eager young face stands before me, nervous and hopeful. He sports—well, sports is too strong a word—he’s attempting to wear a tux, but it’s about half a size too large for him. It looks as though he borrowed it off his big brother.
“Mr. Jansen,” he says, and then freezes.
“Yes?” I ask impatiently.
He closes his eyes, takes a big breath. I walk on toward the door, but he steps in front of me.
“Please, I know you’re very busy, but please just let me say this.” He swallows and meets my gaze. “You’re my favorite actor in the entire world, and I’ve written a screenplay with you in mind for the lead. Can I give this to you? Would you take it and not throw it away?” From under his arm, he pulls out this script and practically shoves the thing in my face.
“You know,” I say, accepting the script and smiling, “I’m actually looking for my next project right now. What�
��s your name?” He has to think about this for a moment.
“M. Connor Bennett.”
“Well, Connor. Tell you what. I’m going to read this today, and if I like it, we’ll be in touch.”
“Oh my God. Thank you so much, Mr. Jansen. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. My contact info is on the cover page. Holy shit.”
Then he hugs me.
I drive up into the Hollywood Hills.
It takes me an hour to find Carmella Drive, this little road off Laurel Canyon.
At seven in the morning, it’s quiet and beautiful. You can’t really see the houses from the road, since most of them are enclosed by stone walls, but every so often, you’ll catch a peek through a gate or a thin spot in the foliage. It makes my head swim to think that a Star or director or producer lives in every house I pass.
It’s one colossal mansion after another.
What real estate agents might call “bungalows” also perch on the hillsides which overlook the waking Valley. Do you know what the technical definition of a “bungalow” is? I looked it up once: “A one-story house, cottage, or cabin.” There’s no fucking way these are bungalows.
195. 197. 199. 201. 203 Carmella Drive.
My heart racing now.
I slow the Hummer to a crawl and drift past the mailbox of James Jansen. His house is a bungalow, set below the road, and from what I can tell, it commands a spectacular view of the Valley. Instead of stone, a wall of hedges hides his home from view.
I cruise on and pull over when the shoulder widens, a couple hundred yards down the hill from his mailbox.
My coffee’s gone cool in the hour it’s taken me to find Jansen’s place.
I sit in the Hummer eating the bearclaw, as close as I’ve ever been to JJ.
To my knowledge, Jansen owns five homes: (1) a 12,000 square-foot log cabin in Montana; (2) this 5,000 square-foot bungalow in the Hollywood Hills, his primary residence; (3) a 5-bedroom apartment overlooking Central Park in Manhattan; (4) a three-story beach house in Nags Head on the Outer Banks of North Carolina; and (5) a villa in the South of France.
According to tabloids, rumors, Web sites, and everything else I’ve read about him in the last year, Jansen has not left LA in nine months. He hasn’t worked on a project in three years, and his public and social appearances have been on the decline. He hasn’t even been out in public (movie premiers, the Oscars, fundraisers…) since before Christmas. And people are beginning to wonder why. I won’t even touch the speculation, but if his seclusion continues much longer, it will become a major story. But as of right now, his absence is only curious.
In my rearview mirror, I can see Jansen’s gate a little ways up the road. Since I have nothing to do now but wait, I lift Connor’s script from the passenger seat.
It’s done up quite professionally. The pages are bound with two brass brads, and the cover is heavy stock, protected by a sheet of plastic.
The screenplay is called Until the End of Time.
It’s three hundred pages.
I turn to the first:
FADE IN:
Sunset over the Caribbean Sea.
EXT.BEACH – DAY
STEWART and BARBARA sit in the sand watching the sunset. A pair of ducks fly by, fucking in midair.
STEWART
Are you sure you’re going to leave me?
BARBARA
(becoming misty)
Yes, Stu. I’ve made my decision.
And you won’t talk me out of it.
STEWART
I’m so sad, Bar-bar.
BARBARA
I never meant to hurt you.
That’s the God’s honest truth.
They kiss one last time as the screen darkens.
The only reason I keep reading this horrid script is because there’s nothing else to do.
The day slowly brightens all around me, and occasionally a jogger passes by. I wonder if they think I’m a private investigator or a bodyguard. This bright yellow Hummer isn’t exactly what you’d call inconspicuous.
Since you’re probably dying to know what happens in Until the End of Time, I won’t keep you in suspense. Stewart, the lead, gets dumped by his wife on their honeymoon in the Caribbean. Understandably, he’s devastated. He returns home to Chicago and goes back to work at the bank, making a concerted effort to get on with his life.
One day, while he’s out to lunch, he happens to see his ex-wife in a restaurant. She’s with a man, and Stu becomes very jealous. He follows them back to their house in the suburbs and learns that they have children together and have apparently been married for several years. Stewart breaks into their house and finds out that Bar-Bar is a Russian spy and the only reason she married him was because she thought he had access to top secret information.
At 10:35 a.m., a white Porsche emerges from Jansen’s gate. I crank the Hummer as it peels out and tears down the street, doing better than sixty by the time it streaks past me. I follow along the winding trajectory of Carmella Drive, doing my best to keep up, but the Porsche is absolutely hauling ass. After several minutes, I think I’ve lost it, but I come around a curve and see the Porsche stopped in front of the slowly opening gate of a Santa Fe-style mansion. It disappears inside, and the gate closes me out.
I think I saw the back of Jansen’s head. He was wearing a baseball cap.
A hundred yards down the street, I pull off the road again to wait.
I sit in the Hummer for four hours, and by three o’clock, I’ve got to pee something fierce. I imagine urinating on the side of the road will get you arrested pretty quick in a Star neighborhood. But I chance it, because my bladder is aching.
I feel much better climbing back behind the wheel.
Another four hours pass.
I call Kara, but she says she’s cramming for an exam and to call her back tomorrow before noon. She hangs up quickly, almost like she wasn’t thrilled that I took the time to call. I suppose she’s just stressed. If we’re going to get married, I have to learn to accept this intense side of her. Since I’ve got my cell out, I call the fledgling screenwriter.
He answers: “Talk to me.”
“Connor?”
“Yeah?”
“This is Jim Jansen. We met at Bo Bo’s this—”
“Mr. Jansen! How are you?”
“I’m well. I’ve spent the morning reading your script.” I pause for a moment. It’s fun to mess with people. “And I absolutely…can you hold on one second?”
“Um, sure.”
I put the phone down and stretch my arms. Man, it’s toasty in this Hummer.
You may think it’s mean, but I see it this way. Connor has zero talent, and he’s never going to sell anything. He’ll be a failure all of his life. Why not let him feel important and truly talented for a day or two. I pick up the phone again.
“Connor?”
“Yes.”
“I love it.”
“Really?”
“The writing is exceptional. I think we can do some business.”
“Oh my God, are you kidding me?”
“Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to talk to some people this week, and get you a few meetings. You’re going to pitch them with me attached, and I’ll start hunting up a director. I’ve got a few in mind, but I want to think about it.”
“Okay.”
“Now, I want you to do something for me.”
“What?”
“You and your friends go out and celebrate tonight.”
Connor starts weeping.
“Mr. Jansen, you can’t imagine what this means to me. I’ve dreamed my whole life of something like this, and now—”
The white Porsche pulls out onto the street.
“I got to go now, Conner.”
I crank the engine and zoom off after Jansen. He certainly likes to speed.
I follow him down into West Hollywood, and on N. Highland Avenue, he stops at a red light.
I’m directly behind him. The top is down
on his Porsche. He isn’t wearing a hat anymore. His haircut is similar to mine, though maybe a little longer. In his rearview mirror, I see his deep dark shades.
When the light turns green, he punches it through the intersection, and I follow him at a comfortable distance up the 101 into Universal City.
He turns eventually, and I start to turn as well until I see his destination.
A guard waves him through Gate 4 of Universal Studios.
I’m still stopped in the middle of the road.
The car behind me beeps.
I head on up the street and park in a handicap space.
Chapter 18
famished ~ Mikey’s Slice of Joy ~ The Brick Room ~ the jazz quartet ~ observes Jansen ~ Jansen requests “The Summer Wind” ~ Lance approaches the Star
JJ pulls out of Gate 4 at 7:25, and I follow him, miserably, back up into the hills. I haven’t eaten anything since my bearclaw nearly twelve hours ago, and when he turns back into his driveway, disappearing behind yet another gate, I’m on the verge of abandoning my stakeout.
Fifteen minutes pass, and I’ve just decided to turn around and go home, when the white Porsche emerges from the gate and zips out again.
Once more, I follow him back down into the Valley.
JJ pulls off N. Fairfax into the parking lot of this place called The Brick Room. I park several spaces away and watch him walk quickly across the pavement and disappear inside. Everywhere Stars go, they always move fast because they’re important. Their time is more valuable than ours. Yours, rather.
If I don’t eat something immediately, I’m probably going to die. There’s a pizza joint a couple blocks down, so I leave the Hummer and set out for the restaurant. I gas up on soda and several slices of the greasiest pepperoni pizza you’ve ever seen. The place is called Mikey’s Slice of Joy. I think it’s a high school hangout, because I’m far and away the oldest guy here. There’s this table of a dozen teenagers near my booth. Very loud. Very entertaining. Rich, too. They keep saying things like “yeah, my Lexus is so filthy,” or “I maxed out my Discover again.”