I eat fast, because I don’t want to lose JJ.

By 8:55, I’m walking down Fairfax again in the hot Pacific evening.

I run my fingers through my hair and eat a breath mint. The lights of this endless city have begun to wink on. I smile. JJ’s white Porsche is still there.

The Brick Room is mostly empty tonight. It’s a dim place. The bar’s straight ahead, and a couple of televisions hang from the ceiling, though you can’t hear them. On the left end of the room, there’s a small stage. A jazz quartet is swinging through a song called “Black Coffee.” The quartet consists of a guy playing a Fender Rhodes, another guy on stand-up bass, a woman on acoustic guitar, and another tall, pretty woman with short, black hair and a gorgeous voice.

There are booths, tables, and barstools. A few of the tables are occupied, as well as about half of the barstools. All of the booths are empty save one near the stage, where Jansen sits alone, watching the musicians. On his table sits a fifth of Absolut, an ice bucket, and a glass.

I approach the bar, and when the bartender notices me, he comes over and asks, “More ice, Jim?” I’m not quite sure what to say.

“Could I just get a beer?”

He looks over toward the booth where Jansen sits, sees him there, and then returns his gaze to me. His eyes have lost their reverence. He pulls me a pint of beer off the tap and charges me seven dollars for it.

I take my beer to a booth directly across the room from JJ and have myself a seat.

It doesn’t feel real to be in the same room with him. I feel like I’m watching him in a movie, and that him sitting over there in that booth with his bottle of vodka is all a part of the story. But the story goes nowhere, because he just sits there, watching the jazz singer, oblivious to everything else. Plain life is pretty boring.

I could probably scream and he wouldn’t look over. Stars are accustomed to people screaming at them. He doesn’t even know I’m in the room.

I’ll tell you how he sits. He sits with his back against the wall, his legs stretched out across the bench seat. He’s dressed very obscurely. Blue jeans, hiking boots, a tight white polo shirt, buttons undone of course.

When the jazz quartet finishes a song, he always claps.

I steal glances at him for the next hour. Boy, he drinks a lot. He’s already gone a third of the way through the bottle.

When the quartet finishes the set, the jazz singer tells the eight patrons, “We’re going to take a short break, but we’ll be back.”

The three musicians head straight for the bar where they’re probably getting comped. The singer has a seat on her stool and unscrews a bottle of water. While she drinks, she thumbs through several pages of sheet music.

JJ slides out of the booth and walks up to her. You can tell by the way he walks that he’s very drunk, but that he’s been very drunk enough times not to act very drunk. I guess you could call him a professional drunk. This is what he says to her:

“You’re wonderful. I love your voice.”

“Thank you,” she smiles. You can tell she knows who he is. For a second, I thinks he’s hitting on her, but then he pulls out his wallet, removes several fifties, and drops them in the open, velvet-lined guitar case.

“For the record, if you could do “The Summer Wind” it would make my night.”

“Well, that’s a guy’s song, but I’ll see what I can do.”

She smiles, Jansen smiles, and then he returns to his booth and slides back in.

First song of the next set is “The Summer Wind.”

The thing with Stars—they always get their way. People just want to please them.

I wait until Jansen is halfway through the bottle.

It’s after eleven o’clock.

The jazz quartet is on its third, and what I imagine is, its final set. The Brick Room has nearly cleared out. It’s just me, Jansen, this guy drinking martinis at the bar, and a semi-boisterous table on the other side of the room.

I stand. I probably don’t have to elaborate on how insanely nervous I am. My beer remains untouched on the table. I hate beer. Tastes like liquid cardboard.

I cross the room, and Jansen doesn’t even notice me until I slide into his booth right across from him and stretch my feet out on the seat, just like he sits.

Man, do we look like twins.

He just stares at me for a moment, eyes squinted, mouth open.

“Holy shit,” he laughs. “I’m pretty fucked up right now, but I’m fairly confident you look exactly like me.”

“It’s not the vodka.”

“What?”

“It’s not the vodka. I do look like you.”

“Did you have plastic surgery or something?”

“No.” Probably wise not to mention the scar I gave myself.

The bartender is suddenly standing at our booth.

“Is this a guest, Jim, or should I show him the fucking door?”

JJ looks at the bartender, grins, and then looks at me. He’s amused. I think Stars are often amused by nobodies.

“I’ll leave if you want to be left alone,” I say. “I just thought you’d—”

“No, stay. Bruce, we’re all good here.”

“Sure, Jim.” Bruce stills glares at me like, the fuck are you doing at his booth?  I just hate guys like that. You can tell he really wanted to show me the door. He’s a very big, strong guy. I suppose if you spend that much time in the weight room, you live for the moments when you get to show people the door.

“Hey, Bruce!” I yell after he’s started walking away. “I’ll take an Absolut straight up.”

He nods. You can tell he’s super-pissed he has to get me a drink now.

When Bruce is gone, JJ says, “What do you want?”

“Nothing.”

“You a reporter?”

“No.”

He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, taps one out, brings it to his mouth. Wish I had a light for him.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Lancelot.”

“Cute. How’d you know?”

“What?”

He sighs and leans forward. “I’m not wearing a sign or anything. You read it somewhere?”

“No.” I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“She’s great, isn’t she?” He points to the jazz singer.

I don’t even look. I can’t take my eyes off him.

“You’re pretty drunk, aren’t you?” I ask.

“Not too drunk.” He blows a mouthful of smoke toward my face.

“You’ve put down half that bottle.”

“It’s a light night.”

I turn around and watch the jazz singer finish up the song. I don’t hear her though. I don’t hear anything. This doesn’t feel real.

“We could be twins,” he says. I smile. “What’s that called?” he says.

“What?”

“When you look exactly like someone else but you aren’t related to them?”

“A pretty strange fucking coincidence, I’d say.”

He laughs. I’ve made JJ laugh.

Bruce the bartender brings me my glass of vodka.

“Ten dollars,” he says.

I go for my wallet, but Jansen reaches forward and touches my wrist.

“I got it, Bruce.”

Good thing, too. I’m down to my last thousand.

As Bruce walks away, I dip my hand into the bucket, lift out an ice cube and drop it into my glass. Jansen raises his.

“To you, Lancelot.”

I raise my glass.

“To you, Jim.”

We clink glasses.

I sip my Vodka.

Jansen throws his back and sets it down hard on the table. He leans back and watches the jazz singer.

I nurse my drink and try not to stare at him. I’m sitting across from this man I’ve fantasized being and knowing for five years, and do you know what I’m thinking? Nothing. I can’t think of anything to say to him that wouldn’t be worshipful fan bullshit: What was it like winning the Oscar? What are you working on now? Who are your influences? How do you get into character? Which director do you most admire? If I watched enough Hollywood Starz! or skimmed enough gossip columns, I could find the answers to those questions. Maybe just sitting here with him is enough. Maybe knowing that he has uttered my former name and looked into my eyes and bought me a vodka straight up with one cube of ice is sufficient.