LUMINOUS BLUE: A Novel of Warped Celebrity

  After Wittig and I exchange pleasantries, he turns to his students and says, “I know you’re all probably shocked, but I wanted this to be a surprise. I’m sure you already recognize him, but if not, it is my distinct pleasure to introduce you all to James Jansen. He’s starred in more movies than I can count, many of which I’m sure you’ve all seen. He’s been nominated four times for an Academy Award, and he won one ten years ago. He’s been kind enough to come talk to you and maybe,” he glances at me as he says this, and fuck was I afraid this might happen, “do some scene work with you. Jim, the class is yours.”

  Wittig takes a seat along the wall with his students, and I’m standing there in this big airy room, listening to the rain on the windows, and I don’t have the first inkling of what to say.

  “Can I get everyone’s name?” I ask. “Starting at this end. And, in one sentence, why you want to be an actor.”

  “I’m Jonathan Moore, and I want to act, oh jeez, that’s hard, let me think…because I love creating characters. Just getting into them, I mean.”

  “Jen Steele. Because I can’t do anything else.”

  Everyone chuckles at this.

  “Pete Meyers. I don’t really know. I just do it.”

  More laughter.

  “Anne Winters. I want to act because…”

  While the fourteen students fumble for answers, I try to figure out what the hell I’m going to talk about, and by the time the last student bumbles through a heartfelt “I’ve always known ever since I was a little kid that I was meant to act,” I’ve got an idea.

  The room is quiet again. I walk over to a wooden cube and push it back across the room so I don’t have to stand.

  “It’s wonderful to be here this morning,” I say. “Now what I just asked you was sort of an unfair question, right?” Everyone sort of laughs nervously and agrees that it was. Man, when people are in awe of you, they hang on your every word. It’s pretty cool.

  “It’s like asking a man why he loves his wife. In front of her. He just does. Why do you love to act? You just do. You can’t necessarily express it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not the most important thing in your life.

  “When Professor Wittig invited me to come talk to you, I was a little hesitant because I didn’t know quite what I should say. I’ve been in this business a long time. Twenty-two years. And I’ve been mulling over all the experiences I’ve had, searching for something I can tell you about making it in the movie business. Been looking for some nugget of wisdom I can relate to you. Well, much to my surprise, I’ve found there’s really only one thing I can say. I mean sure, I could stress the importance of not letting directors push you around, about choosing projects wisely, about not letting your head explode in the good times. But is that what you need to hear right now? No. This is what you need to hear right now. What you have to understand if you want to go all the way, and I’m assuming you all do. Otherwise you’d be in the real world right now.

  “Well, this is it—it’s a hard, hard, hard, hard business. And it is a business, and if you ever forget for one second that it’s anything but, they’ll send you packing. The bottom line is not digging into your characters, or mastering your emotions and being able to turn on the spigot at will. The bottom line is—can you make money for other people with your acting talent? That’s it. If you can’t, forget it. What you have to do is hone your craft and become so damn riveting that people pay—eagerly—to watch you on a screen or a stage.

  “Let me tell you a hard truth. There are people in LA who don’t give a remote shit about the craft. Here’s a harder truth. They’re brilliant actors. They make gobs of money. So what am I saying? Let’s condense it to this. Care about your craft. Care more about making other people care about your craft. ’Cause let me tell you. You might be the best actor on the planet, but if you never get beyond theatre in the park, what does it matter? And don’t say it matters to you and that’s enough. Bullshit. Acting is more about what you give the audience than what you give yourself.”

  That’s all I’ve got. And you know what? I made it up. A Lancelot original speech. Actually, that’s not true. It’s from Jansen’s Inside the Actors Studio interview with James Lipton. But it felt like I made it up.

  Since I get quiet for a minute, all the students sort of look at each other like “are we supposed to clap?” And even though I’ve probably ripped the hope right out of their chests, and they’re ready to hang themselves, they clap for me! Wittig, too! He’s beaming like I’ve just espoused a hard, honest truth that these students are going to take with them for the rest of their lives. I can’t think about it too hard, or I’ll start laughing.

  When they finally stop clapping, I say, “I’d be happy to answer any questions you have.”

  Wittig butts in and tells his students, “Let’s keep the questions on a useful level. Like technique and relaxation. Let’s try to stay away from ‘what’s it like to be famous?’ Okay?”

  This very tall girl with long, straight black hair actually stands up and she blushes so deeply I think she’s going to faint.

  “I’m Natalie. Um…I’m sorry, Mr. Jansen, I’m just nervous.”

  “Oh, no, I’m more nervous than you are.” It’s true, too. I probably am.

  Natalie smiles. She’s so thin and pale I feel kind of sorry for her, so I give a real serious if-I-like-you-you-must-be-okay smile.

  “Okay,” she says, “I have a hard time getting out of myself when I do a part? It’s like, when I watch these actors onscreen or onstage, I can just look at them and tell they’re so engrossed in the part, and I see it when I watch you, too, so could you tell me how you do it? How you get into character so convincingly?”

  “You always hear ‘get out of yourself, get into the part.’ Well, I disagree with that. When I’m doing an intense scene, the truth is, I’m usually thinking about myself. What I’m going to get at the grocery store next time, about some book I’m reading, what I want for lunch. I find it helpful not to think about the character I’m portraying, you know?” That, I did make up on the fly. “Confidence also helps,” I say, and I suddenly have another great idea. “Tell you what, Natalie, let’s do something. Do you have an audition monologue in your head?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Are you… Okay. Hold on. Oh my God.”

  “Stop. I’m not really serious. I just wanted to make a point. You’re standing here, and if you had the sort of confidence I was talking about, it shouldn’t have even crossed your mind not to do it. You should dive right in. Don’t be scared. That’s wasted brain power. It takes your attention away from doing the part effectively. So Natalie, everyone, don’t wait for success to be confident. Go ahead and just believe in yourself right now. It’ll make you a better actor, and it’ll get you work.”

  I’m starting to enjoy this. You know, it wouldn’t be that difficult to be a professor. You just say the same thing over and over, and when that gets old, ask questions. I could do this all day.

  The lights will go down in less than fifteen minutes, and I feel deliriously happy. I’m sitting in the green room in my costume, a heavy brown wool suit and yellow bowtie, drumming my fingers against my knees and not even worrying over my lines.

  Jane and Ben are sitting on the couch, Ben bitching about one of his roommates drinking his soy milk, Jane nodding attentively. I try to absorb their ease. I succeed. The greatest moment of my life so far is coming, and I’m ready for it.

  “It’s been a pleasure working with you two,” I say, interrupting Ben.

  They look over at me and smile.

  Then I get up and head for the bathroom for one last pee.

  When the lights come up, I’m sitting behind the desk, looking down the stage at Ben and Jane on the couch. The darkness beyond the stage is now full and alive. The play is sold out, the theatre packed. Time crawls by in chest-shuddering increments. I register the audience, know that suited men and perfumed women have paid mone
y to come here and watch me, that Wittig and his students sit somewhere out in that audience darkness, anxious to receive the genius of my talent.

  “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Dr. Lovejoy.”

  The air is buzzing. I can hear the blood in my brain. My line. My line. I can feel the audience collectively wondering why I’m not responding. How much time has passed since Ben spoke? My line. My line. I need to hear him say it again if I’m going to remember.

  I clear my throat. It’s so quiet. Above us, I hear those autumnal lights humming.

  “Could we start over?” I ask.

  God, my voice sounds strange in this theatre. Even through their masks of acting, the shock on the faces of Ben and Jane is unmistakable, their eyes widening in unison. In rehearsal, I said my lines with nervousness and imperfect timing, but I always said them. This is not how it was supposed to go. I’m too nervous to act nervous.

  “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Dr. Lovejoy,” Ben says again.

  “Yes, well, my time’s limited.”

  More silence.

  Jane mouths something, but I can’t decipher it.

  I mouth back, “What?”

  “Why don’t you tell me the problem?” she mouths again.

  “Why don’t you tell me the problem?” I vocalize woodenly.

  “I’m the problem,” Jane says. I can’t even remember her character’s name.

  Someone sneezes in the audience, and I look out into the darkness for the sneezer. My line. My line. My line. My chest is really heaving.

  I smile that Jansen smile and stand. As I walk around the desk (not rehearsed either) Jane’s still trying to mouth my lines to me, and boy does that make me angry.

  “Cut that out,” I say.

  Her face goes white, and she eyeballs the floor. Ben turns red. I feel so lightheaded. Numb. I stop several feet from the couch and look down on them from my towering six foot, three-inch frame. I do not feel well.

  I manage to turn and throw up on the stage instead of on Ben and Jane.

  I wipe my mouth.

  “Look at me,” I say, and they do, and man you wouldn’t believe how utterly mortified they are. I think they’re more uncomfortable than I am.

  I have to save this scene, so I blurt out the only thing that comes to mind.

  “By God, you may walk out of here with that money, but which one of you is it going to be?”

  Jane’s eyes fill with tears.

  The lights go down.

  No.

  I go down, my cheek against the hardwood floor.

  The audience is gasping, the darkness spinning, voices calling that name which I covet.

  Chapter 9

  the night He won the Oscar ~ back in the green room ~ scares them with the threat of vomiting ~ makes an exit ~ going home ~ a hypothetical conversation between you and Lance (indulge him)

  One of my best memories is watching James Jansen step onstage at the Academy Awards that early March evening ten years ago. He hadn’t been picked to win the Oscar, but when they announced his name, the crowd roared and rose to its feet.

  He won for his lead in a film called Down From the Sleeping Trees. Played this guy who’s a junior in college when his father kills himself. What happens next is his mother freaks out and moves from Boston to this cabin in the North Carolina mountains, and Jansen, or his character I mean, drops out of school to help her. I won’t say how it ends in case you haven’t seen it, but it’s genius. The actress who played his mother won an Oscar, too. And the movie got best picture. I’ve watched the tape of that Academy Awards at least once a week for the last five years. Sometimes, I even dress up and order in Chinese.

  Anyway, he stepped onstage and gave the most gracious acceptance speech you’ve ever seen. Didn’t even use a cheat sheet. And he was twenty-nine. Unreal.

  Sometimes, when things aren’t going too good, like now, I think about that night, and pretend I’m Jansen saying all those brilliant things to the crowd, just charming the hell out of everyone. You’d be surprised at how good it makes me feel. You really would.

  I’m trying to do that now as I lie on the couch in the green room, but everyone’s talking to me, Matt especially. He keeps asking what the fuck happened out there, and Wittig’s in the room, too. I hear him talking to Ben, saying, “I just don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  Jane keeps asking when the ambulance is coming, and this stagehand is trying to shove a glass of water in my face.

  All of the sudden, I get this very panicky feeling because of all the people around me and I say, very quietly and calmly, “Could everybody just leave me alone for a minute?”

  But they don’t hear me, because Matt asks me again what the fuck happened, and Wittig continues to tell Ben he just doesn’t know.

  “LEAVE ME ALONE!” I shout, and man does everybody shut up in a hurry.

  Matt orders everyone out, even Ben and Jane and Wittig.

  When it’s just Matt and me, I sit up on the couch and lift the glass of water off the carpet and down the whole glass.

  “I want to ask you something,” Matt says. In (you guessed it) black again, he kneels down by the couch and stares at me through his black-framed glasses. I haven’t been looked at like this since I left Charlotte. It makes me feel like Lance again, and I don’t have to tell you how awful that feels.

  “What just happened out there,” he says.

  “Well, I was standing there and—”

  “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. What happened out there was the most fucked-up piece of theatre I’ve ever seen. You froze.”

  “Stop right there.” I hold out my hand, because if he says what I think he’s going to say, I don’t know what I’ll do. “I think I’m going to puke,” I say, and sort of make this highly regurgitative sound. Matt instantly backs off. I guess the fear of being vomited on pretty much trumps all.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say, and I rush out of the room.

  Everybody’s lined up against the wall of dressing rooms, and before they can say anything, I mention how I’ll be upchucking momentarily.

  Since I don’t know where the rear exit of Hamilton Studio is, I accidentally walk right out onto the stage as the dramaturge is telling the crowd how there’s been a medical emergency and that I’m being ambulanced away as he speaks.

  I walk right up the aisle between the most bewildered playgoers you’ve ever seen, and stop at the doors to the lobby. For some reason, I’m still not sure why, I turn around and face the audience, all of whom are looking at me. You can’t tell me they aren’t getting their money’s worth tonight. Even my costars and the director and Wittig have come out onstage.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen!” I shout at the top of my voice. Man, I feel strange. How often do you have the undivided attention of a hundred perplexed people? “Don’t be alarmed! This is all part of the show!”

  And with that I rush through the lobby and out the front doors, into a hard, warm rain.

  A pessimist might say that tonight didn’t go so well. And I’ll be honest with you, the thought has crossed my mind. But as I walk through this wonderful rain, I have got to tell you, I don’t feel so bad. I’ve been in New York just three days, and consider all I’ve done. Wittig, Matt’s party, the model twins, landing this terrific acting gig, speaking to Wittig’s class, my performance tonight. I’ll tell you, I’m hard pressed not to smile right now. So I’m not a great actor. Who is really? We don’t love actors. We love Stars. And being a Star has nothing to do with acting. It has to do with being recognizable. You’re like a walking, breathing brand name. You bring comfort to people. Constancy. Who cares who I really am? In New York, to these people I’ve encountered, I was Jansen.

  And as I stroll into a crowded, cheerful diner called Poppy’s, it occurs to me that my time in New York is done. I can do it. I can be Him. At will. And people lap it up.

  Soaking wet, I slide into a booth and apologize to the waitress who appears with a gla
ss of water and silverware rolled in a napkin. I explain to her how I’ve just come from doing a play, and I’d love to give her tickets for tomorrow night’s show if she could find it in her heart to bring me a towel.

  All smiles, of course she can.

  I will have breakfast tonight. I will leave tomorrow morning. I’m glowing inside. You should see me. If you asked me where I’m going next, I would tell you, “Home.”

  And you’d say “Charlotte, North Carolina?”

  And I’d smile and say, “No, friend. LA. I’ve got this fabulous home in the Hollywood Hills. And the view from my veranda! You should see the Valley at night!”

  LA

  Chapter 10

  Bo ~ the worst wedding in the world ~ as is ~ arrives in LA late and excited ~ sits on the porch and eavesdrops ~ enters his brother’s bungalow

  The last time my brother Bo and I were together was nine years ago at a wedding in Statesville, North Carolina. He was living in Seattle at the time, and he came down to see one of our cousins get married since we’d all known each other and made a lot of dumb childhood memories. The wedding ceremony and reception was held at a place called Lakewood Park. All it was really was a little pond filled with ducks and surrounded by woods and paved hiking trails. There were playgrounds, too, and a gazebo at one end of the pond that looked as though it might rot apart into the water at any moment.

  The wedding was on a Saturday in July, and man it was hot. Since North Carolina was in the midst of a drought, the pond had nearly dried up, so all the ducks were congregated in the largest evaporating puddle of brown water in the center. They were so loud. You could see the lakebed, and it was cracked and the whole place smelled like dead fish. Even worse, since Lakewood was a city park, there were loads of people and their noisy, shitty children in the vicinity, so you had to really strain to hear the preacher.