Famous (7 page)

It’s insanely loud. I make my way between
tables to the crowded bar. When the bartender asks me what I’d
like, I order Jansen’s specialty without even considering it. I’ve
worked hard today. A drink is very much in order.

The restaurant is called Manta, and it’s
filled with aquariums. There’s one behind the bar teaming with
these swollen goldfish that look like they’ve been puffed up and
deformed by gamma radiation or something. Sitting in my barstool, I
sip the Absolut and watch them drift lazily through the bright blue
water.

I glance over at a staircase, where a tiny
waitress carries two monstrous trays up the steps to the second
level. I know it’s sort of mean, but it’d be funny as hell if she
took a tumble with all of that food.

The maitre d’ returns and I follow her across
the room to this other bar which backs up against an enormously
long aquarium. All of the stools are occupied except for one. She
seats me, leaves a menu. I glance down the bar at my tablemates.
Most have books open beside their steaming plates, and a sort of
concentration in their eyes which precludes engagement.

After the waiter brings me a glass of water
and takes my order, I pull out the script and bury myself in my
lines. I won’t have this safety net tomorrow night. It knots my
stomach just thinking about the performance. Matt’s nervous, too,
doubting whether he should let me go the acting-like-you-can’t-act
route. But it’s a done deal, because that’s the only route I know.
I keep telling myself I have no reason to be nervous, because the
worse I am, the more uncomfortable I appear to the audience, the
better it will be.

The peanut chicken is good and spicy as hell.
I spend most of my meal sucking on ice cubes, trying to quell the
fire on my tongue. There’s a table directly behind me, and
everyone’s having a terrific time. From what I can gather, they all
attend NYU, and they’re graduating this coming weekend. It’s four
guys and three girls, and they can’t stop laughing about this time
one of them “blew chunks” all over an English professor after a
hard night of partying.

Man, they’re happy. They keep saying things
like “Dude, I was so fucking wasted!” and “yeah, but we only hooked
up that first night in Nassau” and “totally, we’ll like totally
hook it up.” And they really seem to enjoy saying fuck. But that’s
understandable. It’s a fun, versatile word.

What’s most interesting about this group, is
they’re all business majors, so they’re going on to law school or
grad school or into the workplace. And you can tell they think
they’re very well-adjusted, since they’re not only exceptional
students, but “know how to party.” They’d probably describe
themselves as intelligent professionals by day, and wild, clubbing
maniacs by night. I suppose they think that juxtaposition makes
them interesting, which is fairly sad, because if you were sitting
here listening to them, it’d take you all of five seconds to
conclude they’re the dullest young people you’ve ever seen. That
constant laughter doesn’t fool me. But they don’t know they aren’t
interesting yet. That realization will be along in about five
years.

After they leave, I put away my script and
just sit there with a cup of black coffee, mesmerized, because on
this end of the aquarium, a moray eel moves ribbon-like through the
teal, glowing water. With a huge, birdlike head and these
terrifying teeth, he glides openmouthed through his section of the
tank, restlessly circling the same rock, and watching me through
beady, reptilian eyes.

When I leave Manta, it’s only 9:00 p.m., so I
don’t feel much like returning to my Bronx hotel. I walk up
2
^nd
Ave. for a long, long time, not really conscious of
anything except the underlying murmur of the city.

A few blocks north of Stuyvesant Square, I
pass the door of a club called Henry’s. The Blues pours from the
open doorway, and I hear the crowd applauding the moaning of a
guitar. I’ve gone nearly to the end of the block when I turn
around. Returning to the door, I shell out the twelve-dollar cover
charge and enter the smoky room.

It’s loud as hell. I don’t really want a
drink, so I don’t bother with the line to reach the bar in back.
Instead, I squeeze my way through the crowd, until I spot a
recently-vacated table in a corner. The martini and shotglasses
have yet to be cleared, but I don’t mind. I hang my jacket on a
chair and take a seat.

The club is small. Posters of famous
musicians adorn the walls, and the stage is well-lit and lined with
enormous speakers aimed at the audience. It’s the kind of place
that’s so dark, you don’t even notice who else is in the room. Just
you and the band.

Man, this guy is just wailing on his guitar,
and what’s interesting, is he’s as far from the epitome of a blues
guitarist as you can imagine. He looks like a computer
engineer—thin, tall, silver-framed glasses, smooth-faced, and
dressed like someone who has never given a thought to style in
their life. We’re talking blue jeans, tennis shoes, and a white,
sweat-soaked tee-shirt. You’d probably think that he had the voice
of a timid, fourteen-year-old boy, but when he finishes his guitar
solo and steps back toward the mic, what springs from his mouth is
the grittiest, wisest, most mournful crooning I’ve ever heard.

The song is apparently called “Twice as
Deep,” and he sings this chorus over and over:

“
I put you in the ground

but you crawled back out

You been hauntin’ me, baby

You been spookin’ me, baby

I’m a ghost, too, but I gotta sleep

Next time I’ll bury you twice as deep.”

When the song’s over, he introduces the
drummer and the bass player.

“And I’m Corey Mustin,” he says, “and we’re
going to play the Blues for you all night. Two, three, four…”

They rip into another song, this one slower,
softer, sadder. It’s about how he’s been so lonely since he moved
to New York, and I wonder if the song is really autobiographical.
By the middle of the song, I’m feeling pretty sorry for the guy. He
sings with his eyes closed, like he doesn’t care if everyone knows
what’s in his heart.

“
I ain’t seen a soul

Since I got off the bus

Who smiled like they smile back home

I been wanderin’ the streets

Cause I got no friend

And I can’t stop thinking about home

I drink through the nights

And sleep through the days

Can’t take much more on my own

A man needs a woman

A man needs a friend

But all I’ve got is this gun.”

Man, I like the Blues. Corey Mustin breaks
into another solo, and I settle back into the chair and just watch
him go, his fingers sliding up and down the neck of the guitar like
they were designed for nothing else. And the look on the guy’s face
while he plays is something you so rarely see these
days—purposeful, not a glimmer of self-consciousness, pure
fluidity, unselfishly doing what he was put here to do.

And as I sit here watching him play, I start
feeling kind of sad, and what makes me sad is how beautiful Corey
Mustin is on stage. His talent is a glimpse of truth. It touches me
like nothing I can remember. It unnerves me, too, and the only way
I can describe it is to compare it to how demons must feel in the
presence of God. He’s beautiful. They know He’s beautiful. But they
hate Him because He’s beautiful, because they’re ugly and
despicable, and nothing will ever change that.

I haven’t been here ten minutes, but I stand
up and push desperately through the crowd, tears welling in my
eyes, beginning to spill down my face. He’s singing that chorus
again by the time I reach the door

“
A man needs a woman,

a man needs a friend

but all I’ve got is this gun.”

And as I step back out into the night, all I
can think is fuck you Corey Mustin. I’d kill him if I met him on
the street right now. I really would.

Chapter 8

rain * the acting workshop * warns of the
hardships of Hollywood * the big night * into the black

I promised Wittig I’d come talk to one of his
acting workshops on Thursday, but when I wake up in that disgusting
bed, the only thing on my mind is that I’ll be on stage in less
than ten hours.

I slip into these olive slacks and a baize
button-up, so I’m looking pretty sharp. Since I’m not supposed to
be at Columbia until 11:00, I drag the chair over to the window and
sit down.

It’s raining for what must be the first time
in days, so I crack the window and let the cool damp air filter
into the room. Before long, I’m inundated with the smell of wet
concrete and metal. The sound is all raindrop-pattering and
tire-sloshing over wet streets.

Those dice-throwing boys must be indoors
today. I wonder what games they play when it rains.

I walk into the classroom at five minutes
past 11:00, and wait until I’ve shaken Wittig’s hand to remove my
sunglasses. It’s the ultimate I-am-a-Star statement—wearing
sunglasses on a rainy day. But, you know, people expect this sort
of thing from me now, and I’m not in the business of letting them
down.

I can tell you the class of fourteen students
is pretty thrilled to meet me. Seven girls, seven boys, and they’re
all sitting on the hardwood floor along the wall. This isn’t a
normal classroom with chairs and a blackboard and all that
educational jazz. For one thing, it’s a very large room called a
studio, with big, curved windows looking out on the misty campus.
Pretty breathtaking actually. And there are props all over the
place—chairs, couches, wooden cubes—that make the room look kind of
like a playroom for college students.

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.”