“Maybe. Yeah. I think I do.”
“Ben?”
“It’s his show, man.”
“Well, I feel it, Matt,” I say, stepping down toward him onto the next panel. “I feel it in my bones, man.”
Matt removes his glasses and squeezes the bridge of his nose between his eyes.
“So what you’re telling me,” he says, “is you want to do this scene like you can’t act? That’s what you’re saying?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“Do they pretend they can’t act either?” he asks, pointing at Jane and Ben.
“No, just me. Otherwise, the audience would know. They carry on just like in the previous scenes.”
“You’re sure about this?”
I’ve won an Oscar, asshole.
“Absolutely.”
Matt stands and stares at me sort of dumbfounded. He glances up at the lighting grid, at the sofa where his stars sit, at the desk, like he’s taking his whole production in once last time before I royally fuck it all up.
When his eyes come back to mine, he shrugs, says, “All right, Jim. All right. Hell, that’s why we’re at Hamilton. To try shit out.”
He walks back to his seat, sits down, crosses his legs.
“Let’s run it again.”
Chapter 7
Manta ~ eavesdrops on the graduates ~ watches the eel ~ Henry’s ~ “Twice as Deep” ~ the beauty of Corey Mustin ~ like a demon in the house of God
Though the sun has long since descended beneath the metallic range of towers, when I step out of Hamilton Studio, the hot air engulfs me like a waft of furnace heat. The sidewalk brims with the Village night crowd—perfumed, elegant creatures, breezing past en route to food and drink and entertainment. I walk with them. It’s 7:30, and I’m famished.
There’s a Thai restaurant up ahead. I step inside. Very trendy. Very hip. Since I’m alone, the maître d’ promises she can get me seated in fifteen minutes. I can’t quite tell if she recognizes me, so I don’t push it. Besides, you think Jansen has ever dined alone?
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 2nd 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.”