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!”

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.

They were married under one of the four concrete picnic shelters that surrounded the pond. The guests sat at picnic tables. I mean, they tried to decorate the place with flowers and ribbons and such, but it still looked like a bomb shelter.

Afterward, they had their wedding pictures made (you guessed it) under that decrepit gazebo, and my father and his three brothers grilled hamburgers and hotdogs for everyone. A very classy ceremony all around. The bride and groom spent their honeymoon in Myrtle Beach, if that means anything to you.

The only reason I even care to mention it, is because my brother was there.

Though I’m Bo’s big brother (by four years), we have one of those relationships where the younger brother feels more like the older brother. What I’m saying is, he’s done a lot more with his life than I have with mine. He was married a few years ago, and now has a three-year-old boy. Bo’s highly intelligent, too. I don’t know what he does for a living, but I’m sure he makes gobs of money. And he’s a genuinely nice guy. For instance, listen to what he did at that wedding I was telling you about. During the reception, instead of mingling with our family, he came down to the edge of the dried-up pond where I’d been sitting since the ceremony ended, avoiding people, as my mother would say. He asked me if I wanted to take a walk on the hiking paths, just the two of us. I said all right, and we spent the next hour strolling through the woods of Lakewood Park. I even remember what we talked about. Mostly, we laughed about the Worst Wedding in the World and how funny it was that he’d come all the way from the Pacific Ocean to witness this piece of shit.