But on this bright, hot morning, with midday approaching and dust blowing across the parched ground, it holds none of that passionate, neon magic. I sit on the front bumper of my Hummer, simply registering the environment—haze, distant glimmering chrome, the fly on my hand, the silent crawl of traffic on the highways below, and the blue plate of ocean this will all fall into.

I am alone up here on this spectacular vista, and do you want to know what I’m really thinking? It’s not what you’d guess. I’m not full of that anxious hope the aspiring actors come up here to feed. I’m not the least bit dreamy. Not even optimistic. I don’t need to hedge myself with optimism, because the things I envision will happen. Dreams are no longer necessary. I’m falling in love with reality.

I own this. All of it. It’s my kingdom.

That’s what I’m thinking.

Chapter 12

 

Jansen’s star ~ the blonde at the stoplight ~ more shopping ~ watches The Fam having supper ~ talks to Bo in the shower ~ gets dolled up properly ~ waits in line ~ eavesdrops ~ makes a proper Star arrival ~ trouble with the doormen ~ guarantees the termination of their employment

Next, I drive to Hollywood Boulevard and have a stroll down the Walk of Fame. Takes me half an hour, but I finally locate Jansen’s star. It has his name on it, and the image of a film camera underneath. As I stand there smiling down at this beautiful tribute, I hear the unmistakable click of cameras.

I look up. A group of Japanese tourists are taking my photograph, and I start to smile for them, but then I realize it’s probably not cool, if you’re a major celebrity, to get caught standing on top of and smiling down at your very own star.

I depart quickly.

Everyone should own a Hummer for at least one week of their life. It’s like driving a tank. I mean the thing barely fits in one lane. And if you relish people noticing when you drive by, choose a flashy color, like yellow.

It’s four in the afternoon (I’ve been driving around all day, familiarizing myself with my town) and I’m sitting at a stoplight on Sunset when this silver Ferrari pulls up beside me. That’s the thing about Beverly Hills. Where else in the country is it possible for a Ferrari and a Hummer to pass within twenty miles of each other?

I’m of course sporting my gray Hugo Boss, deep dark shades, and the top is still down, so the wind is blowing through my hair, and the sun is warm on my face. You can’t imagine how good I look. The window on the passenger side of the Ferrari hums down and reveals this blonde that I won’t even try to describe. But trust me. Not unpleasant to look at.

“I like your tank there, Jim! Is it new?”

“Just got it,” I say, and for a second, I worry that perhaps she really knows James Jansen, and therefore, I should appear to know her. But then I realize that the beauty of being a Star is that you don’t have to remember anybody. In fact, it enhances the effect if you don’t.

“What are you doing tonight?” I ask, because I can.

“La Casa, of course. DJ SuperCas is spinning.” I wonder what that means.

The car behind me honks. The light has gone green.

“I may see you there,” I say.

She winks, and the Ferrari screeches on through the intersection, the growl of its engine audible for several blocks. I put my banana tank into gear and ease on down Sunset, scanning for the kind of stores where you can drop a few thousand on nice pants.

I’m ready for tonight, but I need things first.

Specifically, cologne, a real watch, a cell phone, and club attire.

By the time I’ve finished shopping and returned to Altadena, it’s seven o’clock. The sun is falling into the Pacific, glazing the hills behind Bo’s neighborhood with peachy light. I realize it’s pointless to try and hide my Hummer from Bo, so I just park the thing in his driveway.

I walk inside and carry my bags into my bedroom. The Fam is having dinner at the picnic table in the backyard. I watch them while I undress in my room. Bo talks to Sam practically the whole time. So does Hannah. They keep leaning toward their son and making these silly faces. It’s neat to watch them when they don’t know I’m watching them. This is probably how they act when no one’s around. My brother’s a good daddy. It sounds funny and strange to say, but I’m proud of him. I really am.

While I’m in the shower, someone knocks on the door, and I hear Bo ask, voice muffled, if he can come in for a minute.

I tell him sure.

He comes in.

“What the fuck is in my driveway?” he says. I’m just standing out of the stream of water, letting the conditioner condition.

“I rented a car.”

“That’s a Hummer, Lance.”

“All they had.”

“Isn’t that a little expensive?”

“Not as bad as you might think.”

“Why do you need a Hummer?”

I can tell you I’m getting pretty tired of these questions.

“Haven’t you ever wanted to drive around in something flashy?” I ask.

“Sure. But…Lance, you don’t even have a job.”

I poke my head out of the shower curtain. “Don’t worry about me, Bo. I’ve got plenty of money.”

“You do, huh?” He shakes his head and gives me this smug grin he’s always had. “Hungry?” he says.

“Little bit.”

“Hannah made Santa Fe rice salad. It’s in the fridge if you want some. I wish you’d told me you weren’t coming back until this evening. I was kind of hoping we’d all eat outside together.”

I guess when you’re a family guy like Bo, you really look forward to sitting down to dinner with everyone. It’s been five minutes, so I step back under the water and begin rinsing the conditioner from my hair.

“You have plans tonight?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m going to head back out.”

He chuckles, “In the big, bad Hummer,” and walks out.

Fuckin’ Bo. I love him, but he gets these attitudes sometimes.

The woman at The Closet helped me assemble an outfit of what she called, “extremely chic clubwear.” And I’ve got to tell you, it’s like no clothing I’ve ever owned. I’m wearing a black, silk short-sleeved button-up from Armani. Black leather pants. Armani, as well. And my boots which are alligator or crocodile, cost two grand! I don’t even think Partner Jeff would’ve paid that for footwear.

When I’m dressed, I rub on a little of this new cologne I bought. I’d tell you what it was called, but I can’t pronounce it. Sounds very French, and the bottle is green and exceptionally small. $375.00/ounce. It makes me smell like an evergreen forest or something. I don’t know. Clarice at Sacs told me it matched my biorhythms.

I get some pomade on my hands and run them through my hair, even apply a little eyeliner (another tip from Clarice). So by the time I’m dolled up properly, I hardly recognize myself. I look very, very hip. You should see me.

The Fam is watching a news program when I pass through the living room. It seems such an adult thing to do—watching the news on a Saturday night. I’d get pretty sad if I really thought about it.

I tell them not to wait up for me, that I might not be back until tomorrow. I can tell that Hannah’s kind of blown away that I’m going out on the town and all. I’m guessing that from what Bo’s told her, she didn’t count me as a terribly happening guy.

I kiss Sam on the forehead on my way out and promise him we’ll play in the backyard tomorrow. It’s the sort of thing you have to do when you’re an uncle.

The nightclub La Casa is in a big warehouse on Hollywood. I let the valet park my Hummer, since that’s probably what every good Star would do, slip him a $20 for his trouble (I’m carrying $2,000 in cash in my back pocket) and survey the enormous line. The doors opened at 9 p.m. Three very big, very scary-looking men are standing at the double doors leading into La Casa.  A burgundy rope separates them from the crowd of several hundred. They keep pointing at people, unhooking the rope, and letting them inside. When the doors open, I feel the pulse of music vibrate in my chest. Sometimes, they point at someone and shake their head and laugh. These people in turn look highly embarrassed and usually leave immediately.