by Blake Crouch
I eat fast, because I don’t want to lose JJ.
By 8:55, I’m walking down Fairfax again in the hot Pacific evening.
I run my fingers through my hair and eat a breath mint. The lights of this endless city have begun to wink on. I smile. JJ’s white Porsche is still there.
The Brick Room is mostly empty tonight. It’s a dim place. The bar’s straight ahead, and a couple of televisions hang from the ceiling, though you can’t hear them. On the left end of the room, there’s a small stage. A jazz quartet is swinging through a song called “Black Coffee.” The quartet consists of a guy playing a Fender Rhodes, another guy on stand-up bass, a woman on acoustic guitar, and another tall, pretty woman with short, black hair and a gorgeous voice.
There are booths, tables, and barstools. A few of the tables are occupied, as well as about half of the barstools. All of the booths are empty save one near the stage, where Jansen sits alone, watching the musicians. On his table sits a fifth of Absolut, an ice bucket, and a glass.
I approach the bar, and when the bartender notices me, he comes over and asks, “More ice, Jim?” I’m not quite sure what to say.
“Could I just get a beer?”
He looks over toward the booth where Jansen sits, sees him there, and then returns his gaze to me. His eyes have lost their reverence. He pulls me a pint of beer off the tap and charges me seven dollars for it.
I take my beer to a booth directly across the room from JJ and have myself a seat.
It doesn’t feel real to be in the same room with him. I feel like I’m watching him in a movie, and that him sitting over there in that booth with his bottle of vodka is all a part of the story. But the story goes nowhere, because he just sits there, watching the jazz singer, oblivious to everything else. Plain life is pretty boring.
I could probably scream and he wouldn’t look over. Stars are accustomed to people screaming at them. He doesn’t even know I’m in the room.
I’ll tell you how he sits. He sits with his back against the wall, his legs stretched out across the bench seat. He’s dressed very obscurely. Blue jeans, hiking boots, a tight white polo shirt, buttons undone of course.
When the jazz quartet finishes a song, he always claps.
I steal glances at him for the next hour. Boy, he drinks a lot. He’s already gone a third of the way through the bottle.
When the quartet finishes the set, the jazz singer tells the eight patrons, “We’re going to take a short break, but we’ll be back.”
The three musicians head straight for the bar where they’re probably getting comped. The singer has a seat on her stool and unscrews a bottle of water. While she drinks, she thumbs through several pages of sheet music.
JJ slides out of the booth and walks up to her. You can tell by the way he walks that he’s very drunk, but that he’s been very drunk enough times not to act very drunk. I guess you could call him a professional drunk. This is what he says to her:
“You’re wonderful. I love your voice.”
“Thank you,” she smiles. You can tell she knows who he is. For a second, I thinks he’s hitting on her, but then he pulls out his wallet, removes several fifties, and drops them in the open, velvet-lined guitar case.
“For the record, if you could do “The Summer Wind” it would make my night.”
“Well, that’s a guy’s song, but I’ll see what I can do.”
She smiles, Jansen smiles, and then he returns to his booth and slides back in.
First song of the next set is “The Summer Wind.”
The thing with Stars—they always get their way. People just want to please them.
I wait until Jansen is halfway through the bottle.
It’s after eleven o’clock.
The jazz quartet is on its third, and what I imagine is, its final set. The Brick Room has nearly cleared out. It’s just me, Jansen, this guy drinking martinis at the bar, and a semi-boisterous table on the other side of the room.
I stand. I probably don’t have to elaborate on how insanely nervous I am. My beer remains untouched on the table. I hate beer. Tastes like liquid cardboard.
I cross the room, and Jansen doesn’t even notice me until I slide into his booth right across from him and stretch my feet out on the seat, just like he sits.
Man, do we look like twins.
He just stares at me for a moment, eyes squinted, mouth open.
“Holy shit,” he laughs. “I’m pretty fucked up right now, but I’m fairly confident you look exactly like me.”
“It’s not the vodka.”
“What?”
“It’s not the vodka. I do look like you.”
“Did you have plastic surgery or something?”
“No.” Probably wise not to mention the scar I gave myself.
The bartender is suddenly standing at our booth.
“Is this a guest, Jim, or should I show him the fucking door?”
JJ looks at the bartender, grins, and then looks at me. He’s amused. I think Stars are often amused by nobodies.
“I’ll leave if you want to be left alone,” I say. “I just thought you’d—”
“No, stay. Bruce, we’re all good here.”
“Sure, Jim.” Bruce stills glares at me like, the fuck are you doing at his booth? I just hate guys like that. You can tell he really wanted to show me the door. He’s a very big, strong guy. I suppose if you spend that much time in the weight room, you live for the moments when you get to show people the door.
“Hey, Bruce!” I yell after he’s started walking away. “I’ll take an Absolut straight up.”
He nods. You can tell he’s super-pissed he has to get me a drink now.
When Bruce is gone, JJ says, “What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
“You a reporter?”
“No.”
He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, taps one out, brings it to his mouth. Wish I had a light for him.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Lancelot.”
“Cute. How’d you know?”
“What?”
He sighs and leans forward. “I’m not wearing a sign or anything. You read it somewhere?”
“No.” I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“She’s great, isn’t she?” He points to the jazz singer.
I don’t even look. I can’t take my eyes off him.
“You’re pretty drunk, aren’t you?” I ask.
“Not too drunk.” He blows a mouthful of smoke toward my face.
“You’ve put down half that bottle.”
“It’s a light night.”
I turn around and watch the jazz singer finish up the song. I don’t hear her though. I don’t hear anything. This doesn’t feel real.
“We could be twins,” he says. I smile. “What’s that called?” he says.
“What?”
“When you look exactly like someone else but you aren’t related to them?”
“A pretty strange fucking coincidence, I’d say.”
He laughs. I’ve made JJ laugh.
Bruce the bartender brings me my glass of vodka.
“Ten dollars,” he says.
I go for my wallet, but Jansen reaches forward and touches my wrist.
“I got it, Bruce.”
Good thing, too. I’m down to my last thousand.
As Bruce walks away, I dip my hand into the bucket, lift out an ice cube and drop it into my glass. Jansen raises his.
“To you, Lancelot.”
I raise my glass.
“To you, Jim.”
We clink glasses.
I sip my Vodka.
Jansen throws his back and sets it down hard on the table. He leans back and watches the jazz singer.
I nurse my drink and try not to stare at him. I’m sitting across from this man I’ve fantasized being and knowing for five years, and do you know what I’m thinking? Nothing. I can’t think of anything to say to him that wouldn’t be
worshipful fan bullshit: What was it like winning the Oscar? What are you working on now? Who are your influences? How do you get into character? Which director do you most admire? If I watched enough Hollywood Starz! or skimmed enough gossip columns, I could find the answers to those questions. Maybe just sitting here with him is enough. Maybe knowing that he has uttered my former name and looked into my eyes and bought me a vodka straight up with one cube of ice is sufficient.
“Lancelot,” he says, finding my eyes. It’s like looking at myself. The perfection of me.
“Yes?”
“Do you want to come home with me?”
Chapter 19
drives Jansen home in the Hummer ~ why Lancelot is out in Hollywood ~ into the bungalow ~ Chip & Bailey ~ Oscar ~ a proposition ~ in the room of mirrors ~ getting naked ~ head ~ Oscar: a weapon ~ calls Kara ~ on the patio, remembering
Because Jansen is fairly “tight” as they used to say, I offer to drive him home in the Hummer. He gives me directions, since I don’t know where he lives. The warm night air floods over us, and Jansen sits back, unbuckled, eyes closed, a half-grin on his face. Seems like quite the carefree guy.
“What are you doing out here, Lancelot?” he asks as we cruise up some road called Carmella Drive. The Valley lights twinkle in the darkness below, and I feel happy and afraid. It’s 12:02 a.m. on the best day of my entire life.
“I’m a screenwriter.”
“No shit?” he says, but you can tell he’s not very interested. “Written anything I might’ve heard of?”
“I did this art-house thing a couple years ago called ‘Growing Old.’”
“Sure, I’ve heard of that.”
You can tell people anything and they’ll say they’ve heard of it, because honestly, who wants to admit they don’t know something? You ought to try it some time. It’s pretty funny.
I see his bungalow in the distance, and he tells me his place is just ahead. As I slow down to turn into the opening gate, he reaches over and strokes my face. I’m not too sure what I think about that, but I look over at him and smile anyway.
Jansen’s driveway is very steep. It circles in front of the house and I park behind a silver Lotus. There’s also an army green Land Rover Defender and an old Stingray Corvette.
We climb out of the Hummer and I follow Jansen across the walkway to the front door. It’s cool up here. Wind rattles the bushes and shrubs.
Jansen unlocks the front door and I enter his home. He punches in the alarm code, says, “Lights.” The living room appears. There are potted trees and long, curving furniture and leather and glass and sculptures and paintings. Even aquariums. Dogs bark somewhere in the house, and I hear their padded paws heading for us.
Two golden retrievers are suddenly at our feet, panting, squirming between our legs, licking my hands, and crying for joy.
“This is Bailey and Chip,” he says. I kneel down and pet the dogs. They’re highly friendly.
Then I follow Jansen through a living room into the plushest den I’ve ever seen. It’s a long, windowless room with a tall ceiling. There’s a screen at one end and a projector at the other. Couches and chairs and black leather beanbags fill the space between.
“Another vodka?” he asks from behind a bar at the back of the room.
“Sure. This is quite a place, Jim.”
What a really dumb fucking thing to say. He knows it’s quite a place. That’s why he paid millions of dollars for it.
I realize suddenly that I’m standing in front of a glass case filled with plaques and statues. My eyes immediately fix upon the bright gold Oscar. Jansen brings my drink over. He hands it to me and opens the cabinet.
“Here.” Hands me the statue, which is even heavier than you might imagine. It feels incredible to see my fingers wrapped around it. I can almost hear the applause.
“Was this the best night of your life?” I ask him.
“Sure was.”
I see him staring at the statue. In this moment, I love him. I want to tell him what he means to me. The smell of his sweat, slightly sweetened with remnants of cologne, drifts over me.
“I want you to fuck me Lancelot.”
I don’t even consider it. I just ask, “Can I bring Oscar?”
He nods, sips his drink, and walks out of the room.
I follow him, holding my statue. We pass through a kitchen with a brick oven, and then move down a long, wide corridor. He takes off his shirt as he walks and throws it at me. Very toned for an alcoholic.
We turn a corner. He tugs his belt out of his jeans and steps out of his hiking boots.
We enter a small dark room. Jansen begins lighting candles in each corner. As their flames come to life, I see that the walls and ceiling are mirrored.
“This is my yoga room. Take off all your clothes,” he tells me. I’m not homosexual, but I’ll be honest. I’m aroused. I remove my shirt and kick off my shoes. The floor is covered with highly plush carpet, and there’s a mattress fitted with black silk sheets in the center of the room. Jansen unbuttons his jeans and pushes them down his muscular legs. He steps out of them, kicks them into a corner. The way he stares at me is interesting. Very intense. Sultry even. He slides his blue boxer shorts off, and his member points at me. I can’t help but look. This is JJ.
Jansen steps forward and unbuttons my jeans. He slides his hand into my pants, then pulls my slacks and briefs down together and drops to his knees.
I watch us in the mirror. It’s the strangest, most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
It doesn’t take me long, and then he’s staring up at me, still on his knees, smiling.
I tighten my grip on Oscar and smash Jansen on top of his head.
He stumbles back, still conscious.
People don’t drop in real life like they do in the movies.
You have to hit them again and again.
It’s 1:00 a.m. when I step out onto my patio. You should see my view of the Valley, silent and shimmering below. I sit down in an Adirondack chair with a glass of vodka and my cell. I dial Kara’s number, and she answers sleepily after five rings:
“Hello?”
“Kara, do you know who this is?”
“Jim. Hey. What time is—”
“I’m sorry to be calling you so late. I just got back from a long night and wanted to hear your voice. I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
“I’ve been thinking about you, too.” She sounds so tired, but I think she’s glad I called.
“Did you get a dress for the premier tomorrow?”
“I bought one today.”
“Can’t wait to see you in it. Well, I know it’s late. I don’t want to keep you up.”
“It’s all right.” She has a beautiful sleepy voice. I’m tempted to invite her over, but I’m sure she’s much too tired.
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow around five,” I say.
“Okay.” God, I want to tell her I love her.
“Night, Kara.”
“Goodnight.”
I’m exhausted, but I don’t want to sleep yet. The night is warm and luscious, and I feel an intense love for everyone. I’ve got Oscar sitting between my legs, and it makes me reminisce about that wonderful night I received this award. When Henry Goodson started reading the nominees, I didn’t even give myself a chance. I’m humble that way. People have told me that my acceptance speech was one of funniest, most charming in the history of the Academy Awards. It wasn’t planned, but I can tell you, it came straight from my heart.
Being famous is the very best thing in the world. I wish you knew.
Chapter 20
wakes up happy ~ listens to the message ~ breakfast on the patio ~ the spider web ~ a walkthrough of his new bungalow ~ a cancellation ~ takes a bath ~ returns the Hummer ~ fun in a Porsche ~ the screenplay he’s writing ~ Ravenous Games ~ Lance for the last time ~ goodbye to Bo at the fountain
Sunlight spills through my bedroom window. I stretch and kick off the blankets.
From m
y pillow, I can see morning in the Valley.
The sky is an early blue.
I climb out of bed.
My master suite is enormous. There’s a treadmill by one of the windows.
You wouldn’t believe the size of my closet. I step inside and choose a robe. It’s black satin—very suave.
As I walk down the hallway toward the kitchen, the phone rings. I let it go. It’s only 8:15—much too early to be answering the phone.
While I peruse the fridge for fruit and orange juice, the answering machine picks up.
“This is Jim. Leave a message and do keep in mind that brevity is the soul of wit.”
I pour a glassful of juice. It’s organic.
“Hey, Jim, I was thinking, you remember that scene we wrote involving Bernard and the hooker? Bring it with you, since you’re holding onto all the drafts. At least I hope you are. It might actually work if we put it after Bernard leaves the Christmas party. I don’t know. Just a thought. See you at ten.”
I have a pleasant breakfast on the patio. It’s still misty up here in the hills. Very cool and refreshing. When I finish the cantaloupe, I just sit back in that Adirondack chair, basking.
On a tree several yards down the hill, I notice this massive spider web. You wouldn’t believe it if you saw it. I mean, the thing stretches five or six feet between the branches. And in the middle of it, this spider just sits there, waiting, stoic. The sun burning through the mist makes the silk web glisten. As I sit there looking at this marvel of nature, it occurs to me: this is as much sense as anything ever makes. I am intensely moved by a spider web. I’m happy about being happy about a spider web.
After breakfast, I take a tour of my bungalow—the home theatre, the living room, the kitchen, dining room, hallway, and three spare bedrooms, and the master suite.
I don’t bother with the room of mirrors.
In a corner of my bedroom, there’s a desk, and in the drawers I find everything I need. Wallet, car keys, BlackBerry account information, bank statements (I am so fucking rich!), contracts…