LUMINOUS BLUE: A Novel of Warped Celebrity

  I take my seat in first class by the window. Before the coach crowd starts to file in, a flight attendant stops to ask what I’d like to drink. Bottled water. She looks at me kind of funny, half-smirking like she suspects I’m somebody she’s seen before. Makes my stomach flutter. But she doesn’t ask. I’m sure first-class flight attendants see the Stars on a regular basis. They’re probably told not to bother them.

  I don’t look at the coachers as they trudging past me toward the back of the plane. I stare contemplatively out the small window at the distant pines which frame the tarmac. But I can feel people staring at me as they pass, and man it feels good.

  So the jet’s loaded up and I think we’re getting ready to taxi on out of here when a woman in a lavender business suit steps into the cabin. Her hair is mussed, as they say, like she just sprinted through the airport. Wouldn’t you know it—she sits next to me, and I start to get all flushed like I normally do when interaction with people is imminent.

  Our eyes meet, and what I do next is what clinches it. I cut this smile I’ve been practicing for ten years. Jansen possesses an unmistakable grin: he smiles quick, and only from the right corner of his mouth like he’s had a stroke or something. But it works. It’s playful, mischievous, and I’ve got it down cold. In fact, when I flash it, I actually see it take her breath away. The realization of who I am spreading blatantly across her face, glossy lips parting, but she doesn’t say anything. She catches herself, smiles back, and turns her attention to the fastening of her seatbelt.

  As we go airborne and I feel that funny pressure against my chest, I wonder if Partner Jeff is looking out the window of his magnificent office. I think I’d like for him to see me in this moment. He’d probably respect what I’m doing. Ambitious people admire the hell out of other ambitious people. We’re all in this big secret club.

  After I get bored of looking out the window, I glance at the woman beside me. Her briefcase is open on her lap and she’s sorting through some papers. Bet she’s too shy to initiate a conversation, but unfortunately, I can’t do it. See, Stars never initiate conversations with non-Stars. It’s one of the most important rules. I probably shouldn’t even realize that another human being is even sitting beside me, because I’m so engrossed in myself.

  So here’s what I do.

  Since Miss Lavender Suit is so focused on her briefcase, I reach down and lift my leather satchel from under the seat. Then I unbuckle the strap, throw back the flap, and pull out a script. There’s this website you can go to that has all the scripts from practically every movie ever made. Few weeks ago, I ordered one for this movie made fifteen years back that nobody ever saw. I hadn’t even heard of it.

  The movie was called “The Way,” about this married guy who gets dissatisfied with his life and winds up going to the Amazon Jungle or someplace like that. They didn’t even have it on Netflix, so I had to buy a used copy on eBay. I can see why it wasn’t very popular. It’s almost four hours, and the only good part comes near the end where the guy goes native with this tribe. At least if going native means what I think it means. I never looked it up or anything.

  So I pull out this script, and then I lower my tray and set my bottled water and glass of ice down so I can pretend to read the thing. Man, does Miss Lavender Suit get interested in a hurry. I mean, if I hadn’t been watching to see if she was interested, I probably wouldn’t have noticed. But I have my radar out, and she’s cutting peeks left and right. I figure she’ll be initiating a conversation any minute now, but she keeps clammed up like you wouldn’t believe.

  Once we hit cruising altitude, I have to pee. I start to take the script with me, since I’m a Star and all and not supposed to trust anybody, but I don’t want her to think I’m reading on the toilet. Besides, I’ll bet the balance of my checking account that while I’m gone she steals a nice long glance at that script. So I just close the booklet and leave it face-up in my seat.

  She doesn’t have to stand up to let me out, first class being roomier than coach. Instead, she does that thing where she moves her legs to the side, so I can slide by. Man, I love that. We also meet eyes again, and she’s looking at me like I’ve never been looked at before.

  While I’m in the microbathroom, I think of what I’ll do if she doesn’t say anything. But I don’t stay in there long, because Stars don’t do disgusting, ordinary things like taking a shit.

  When I come back out, she does that thing with her legs again while I ease back into my seat. I lift the script and open it again. Then I give her one more opportunity. I thumb through a few more pages, let out this big sigh, and drop it back into my satchel like I’ve had it or something. Not real serious. Just annoyed.

  And then she does it, and my heart nearly comes up my throat.

  “Excuse me,” she says, “I swear I’m not one of those people who freaks out when they see somebody famous, but you’re James Jansen, aren’t you?”

  “I am.”

  “I just wanted to tell you how much I admire your films. You’re one of my favorite actors.”

  “That’s very kind of you to say.”

  Man, my heart is racing, but I manage to hold myself together, because this happens to me all the time. Nothing new about it.

  “I’m Denise.” She offers her hand, which I accept. It’s a bit sweaty. I’m making her sweat.

  “Jim.”

  “Are you uh…oh forget it. I don’t want to bother you.”

  “It’s fine. You aren’t bothering me, Denise.”

  “Are you reading a script for a potential movie? If you’re allowed to talk about it, I mean.”

  “I am. Friend of mine who happens to be a director slipped me this script a few months ago. I hadn’t had a chance to read it until now. Between you and me, I don’t think I’m going to do it.”

  “Are you working on anything right now?” she asks.

  The real Jansen is not. He hasn’t done a movie in three years. I have to keep tabs on that sort of thing unless I run into a real Jansen fanatic.

  “Not at the moment,” I say. “But I am looking at doing some theatre.”

  “Is that why you’re going to New York?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What play are you considering?”

  “I really shouldn’t say anything yet, since I haven’t met with the director.”

  “Oh, of course, I’m sorry.”

  I glance out the window, just to make sure we aren’t plummeting earthward. To be honest, flying sort of scares me. I’ve only flown once before.

  Below, the land is very rumpled and green—the Appalachians.

  “What do you do, Diane?” I ask, intentionally forgetting her name to see if she lets it slip.

  “I’m a consultant for brokerage firms,” she says, nodding like it’s such a commonplace job and she’s a little embarrassed to tell me. “I’ve got several meetings over the next week in New York. Can I ask you something?” she says, leaning in.

  “Sure.”

  “I read once somewhere that you remember every line from every film you’ve ever done. Is that true?” It is true. Jansen is smart as hell.

  I say, “Well, I do have a photogenic memory.”

  For some reason, Denise laughs and takes a magazine from her briefcase. I’d like to know where she’s staying in New York. The real Jansen isn’t married. I almost ask her if she’d care to have a drink one evening in the city, but before I do, I try to see her through Jansen’s eyes. Through eyes that can have any woman they want. Don’t get me wrong. Denise is a very attractive woman, but Jansen grazes in the stratosphere. She’s the-most-beautiful-woman-on-the-plane attractive, not Hollywood attractive, so I don’t ask. Nothing against her. If I were me, I’d ask her out without a thought. She’s as far beyond Lancelot as Jansen is beyond her.

  Chapter 3

  the worst hotel in the world ~ what it smells like ~ Columbia ~ Professor Wittig ~ funnel cakes on 5th Ave. ~ O. Wilde’s ~ vodka, one ice cube, no lime

  I’ll be
honest with you—I don’t know the first damn thing about New York. I grew up in the South, and I only visited the city once with my parents when I was thirteen, and that was only for a night.

  But I do know one thing going in. It’s expensive as hell. Which is why I don’t bother to reserve a room at some swanky hotel near Times Square. Instead, I tell the taxi driver at La Guardia that I’m going to a hotel on 227th Street. That’s Edenwald. The Bronx. And I know a lot of bad shit goes down there, as they say, but I really don’t care. In a way, if I got knifed or something, it wouldn’t bother me at all. I’m not saying I’m looking to get knifed. It just wouldn’t be the end of the world.

  So I check into this perfectly terrifying hotel, and I’ll bet every hooker in New York has been in my room, because the place smells like a blowjob. But hey, for $100 a night, I’m not complaining. And I check in for a whole week. I’ll bet no one in the history of this place has ever stayed longer than thirty minutes.

  I unpack my things. My window overlooks some public housing project, and I sit on the sill for awhile and watch these kids throwing dice for money on the steps of an apartment building.

  It makes me nervous as hell leaving my belongings here, but it’s only one o’clock. I’ve got the whole afternoon ahead of me.

  So I step out into the hall and lock the door. The carpet is squishy. Someone grunts in a nearby room.

  I take the stairs down four dusty flights, and then I’m standing on the sidewalk. Man, is it hot for mid-May. I never noticed the smell of a real city before—oily concrete and concentrated exhaust, like the greasy innards of a car engine. And it’s noisy. Not loud noisy. Busy noisy. Like a hundred thousand little sounds all coming together to make one city sound.

  A cab finally shows the hell up and I tell the Somali fellow to take me to Columbia University.

  My heart starts going as I walk into Dodge Hall, home to Columbia’s School of the Arts.

  First door on my left is closed, but I can hear someone speaking inside.

  “It’s the idea of dirty pantyhose, Dan. You’re sick.”

  Another voice: “Lauren, you rushed that last bit.”

  I continue on, the walls papered with audition notices and advertisements for upcoming productions.

  I’m still wearing my sunglasses, because that’s another rule. The bigger the Star, the darker the environment in which they’re allowed to wear shades, even dim corridors like this one where I can hardly see the first damn thing.

  I knock on the door of Professor Paul Wittig’s office.

  Maybe I’ll tell you how I found out about him later. I’m an excellent researcher.

  This small, very Jewish man opens the door and looks up at me through glasses without lenses.

  I remove my deep dark shades.

  “May I help you?” he says. He has thinning gray hair, a charcoal beard.

  “Professor Wittig?”

  “Yes?”

  He looks highly intelligent. That’s probably why he doesn’t recognize me yet—he’s been in his office thinking so hard.

  “I was looking for Jerry Boomhower. He has an office down the hall, but he isn’t in. I wanted to drop in, surprise him.”

  “Jerry’s taking the summer off.”

  “Oh, okay. Yeah. Hmm. Well, I was just in the city, wanted to see him. Thanks.” Wittig nods curtly and starts to shut his door, but I stop him. “Say, I’m here for a couple days, and I was hoping to see some first-rate theatre. Not Broadway bullshit. Something cutting edge.”

  Wittig really looks at me for the first time.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” I extend my hand. “Jim Jansen.”

  “Paul Wittig,” he mumbles, and man does his interest level rise. His eyes get very twinkly. “What an honor. My goodness. You have no idea how much I admire your work.”

  “Oh, thank you. That’s very kind of you to say.”

  “I obviously have no manners. Please come in.”

  I step inside his office and sit down on a leather couch. I figure he’s going to take a seat in the matching chair, but instead he sits down beside me and leans back and crosses his legs. He’s a superior dresser, one of those guys who look better in slacks and a white linen shirt than most men do in a tux. I can tell he’s pretty jazzed to be sitting here with me. He’s left his door open, and I’ll bet he’s praying someone will walk by, catch him shooting the shit with James Jansen. It’s understandable. Probably the highlight of his life. That’s what being famous is really all about—wherever you go, you’re the highlight of everyone’s life.

  “So are you in town on business, Jim?” he asks, like we’re fast friends.

  “To be honest, I’m looking at doing some theatre. I’ve got several months before I start my next project, which incidentally, is about an aspiring actor trying to get work in New York.”

  “Marvelous, so you’re doing a bit of research then.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, if there’s anything I can do to lend some insight, I hope you’ll impose on me.” He kind of brushes his hand against my knee when he says this, and I’m not sure if it’s one of those unconscious brushes or an I-want-to-ride-your-bones brush.

  “You know, I may take you up on that,” I say, and I sort of graze his knee back with my fingers. Instantly, I regret it, because I can see in his eyes that he’s trying to determine whether or not that was a pass.

  “Look,” he says, “I’m sure you have plans already, but I’m thinking of seeing a show tonight. This off-off thing one of my former students is directing. If you wanted to join me…”

  “What’s the play called?”

  “Love in the 0’s. It’s a one-act. He actually wrote it for his thesis.”

  “Any good?”

  “You’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “I did have a dinner party tonight…”

  “Don’t break your plans.”

  “No, no, this is a wonderful opportunity. To attend a play with an acting professor. Just the sort of experience I need to really get inside this character I’m going to do. Could you introduce me to the actors afterward? I’d love to get their perspective on the whole theatre scene.”

  “Absolutely!” He pats my knee again, probably already picturing me at the Academy Awards, Oscar in hand, thanking him in my rambling, charming acceptance speech.

  I’m supposed to meet Wittig at this bar on E. 4th Street at 7:30 for pre-show drinks, but there’s no way I’m showing up in the same Hugo Boss. When Stars choose to mingle with and be seen by the public, they aren’t supposed to wear the same thing for more than several hours. It’s a pretty serious rule.

  So I catch a cab down to Fifth Avenue and buy this slick Donna Karan and a silk shirt. When I finish shopping, it’s nearly three and I realize I haven’t eaten anything since my flight this morning. A street vendor is selling funnel cakes sprinkled with powdered sugar. I eat one in the cab on the way back to Edenwald, which takes forever to reach.

  It’s a sizeable relief to walk back into my room. I lock the door and hang my new suit in the tiny closet. It’s intolerably hot. I strip down to my underwear and pull a wooden chair over to the window and sit there watching those dice-throwing boys as the afternoon light goes bronze.

  O. Wilde’s is the first bar I’ve set foot in since college, and I make sure to show up twenty minutes late, because arriving on time is a sign of pure desperation. It’s a loud place across the street from Hamilton Studio, where Love in the 0’s will be starting in less than an hour.

  I spot Wittig standing with his back to the bar, surveying the room. He waves when I enter, wineglass already in hand. I remove my shades and squeeze through the crowd of hipster playgoers, everyone in black like they’ve all just come from a wake.

  Wittig’s halfway through a glass of white when I edge up to the bar, and all I can think about is not making an enormous ass of myself when I order Jansen’s favorite drink. For people who don’t frequent bars, the barkeep is a fairly intimidating persona
. They’re like oracles or something. See right through you.

  “What are you drinking, Jansen?” Wittig asks, real helluva guy-like, and I wonder if he’s calling me by my last name so everyone will figure out who he’s with.

  “I think I’ll have my old tried and true,” I say as the bartender sidles up.

  “Can I get you, sir?”

  “Double Absolut with one ice cube. No lime.”

  “Find the place all right?” Wittig asks while I watch the bartender make my drink.

  “Yep.”

  Wittig’s sporting this tweed suit and bowtie that makes him look exceptionally scholarly. Good thing I changed, seeing as how he did.

  “Where you staying, Jim?”

  “The Waldorf Hysteria. Finally cooling off out there.”

  “Here you are, sir.”

  I lift my drink, gaze down at the single cube floating in the vodka.

  “That’s interesting,” Wittig says. “What’s with the single piece of ice?”

  “One cube cools and dilutes the vodka perfectly.” I didn’t just make that up. In last January’s issue of Celebrity, the feature was an interview with Jansen at a bar near his home in the Hollywood Hills. That “one cube cools and dilutes” bit was verbatim what he said to the journalist when asked the same question.

  I sip the vodka. Rubbing alcohol. All I can do not to grimace. Jansen’s a big drinker. I haven’t had a drink since college.

  Wittig taps me on the arm, leans over, whispers, “See that table in the corner? Other corner. In about two minutes, those women are going to have the nerve worked up to come over here.”

  “Yeah, I noticed.”

  “You want to leave?”

  “Paul, if it ever gets to the point where I can’t go into a bar and have a drink, I’ll quit making movies. Just part of it, you know?”

  “No.” He smiles. “I don’t. Fortunately. Can’t imagine what it must be like for you.”

  I steal another micro-sip of my drink, but it’s no use. Oh well. I throw it back in one burning swallow.