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.