Famous (8 page)

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 money 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 glass 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!”

PART II
-
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.