“Probably not as good as you think, Lance.”

“No. Better. I think it must be the best feeling in the world.”

Bo finishes his beer and slings the bottle out into the grass.

“You want to know what the best feeling in the world is?” he asks me. “Happens to me once a day. It’s ten-thirty, the news has ended. I turn off the television, and before I go to bed, I walk down the hallway and crack the door to Sam’s room. And I peek in at my son, sleeping peacefully in bed, under a roof I’ve provided for him. That, Lance, is the best feeling in the world.”

I get up from the bleacher and recover Bo’s empty bottle from the grass. I don’t condone littering. When I return, I see that Bo has stretched himself out on the top rung, staring up at the hazy stars.

“That’s just an instinctive feeling,” I say to him, a little angry. “And anyone with a functioning reproductive system can have it.”

“You’re losing me, pal. I think you’re confused. And that’s fine. Nothing wrong with that. Maybe you could go talk to someone like Hannah, and they could help you figure out what you want.”

“I know what I want.”

Bo sits up and looks at me.

“What do you want?” he asks me.

Of course I don’t tell him.

Instead, I start off down the street.

It’s after one o’clock in the morning. The house is so quiet. I can only hear the refrigerator cutting on and off, and outside, the chirp of crickets.

I sit in a rocking chair by the window. Light from a telephone pole in the backyard floods between the blinds and spreads a pattern of lucent rectangles across my chest, and on the hardwood floor.

I am very awake. Fearfully awake. In two days I have a movie premier and a party to attend. Other social engagements will surely follow. It’s tempting to carry on as I have this past week. No, not tempting. Safe. I could find a job, hit the clubs on weekends, get recognized occasionally, play at being Him.

But that’s all I’ve done, and all I would be doing. Playing. I realize this now. And perhaps playing would be satisfactory for most people, but it isn’t good enough for me any longer. Every time I come back to this house as Lance, the pain intensifies. I was not meant to be this man. I was not meant to be obscure.

I hold a scrap of paper which I’ve carried around in my wallet for two years, reading it over and over in the eerie, orange light.

James Jansen

203 Carmella Drive

Beverly Hills, California. 90213.

It’s the address of my new home. It makes me smile to think of it, and a peace settles upon me.

I can sleep now.

Chapter 17

Bo Bo’s ~ the namedropper ~ the Jansen bungalow ~ breakfast in the Hummer ~ a brief synopsis of Jansen’s public profile during the last year ~ Until the End of Time: a screenplay ~ follows the white Porsche ~ makes the namedropper’s day ~ Universal Studios ~ the gated life

I wake before dawn, slip into this pinstripe Brooks Brothers shirt and khaki slacks, and tiptoe out of the house. There’s a diner called Bo Bo’s on Sunset which looks to be the only thing open at this hour of the morning, so I stop off and order a cup of coffee and a bearclaw.

There are these people sitting in one of the booths still wearing their evening attire from the previous night, and you can tell they’re trying to act very excited about being in a diner after partying all night, but they look dead tired. While the cashier withdraws my bearclaw from the pastry case, I overhear this one guy who’s completely monopolizing the conversation, busily listing all the Stars he saw.

“…Brad Locket. Tony Vincent. Angela Murphy. I got a drink for her. A bone dry martini, ’cause I read somewhere that was her favorite. And you know what she said to me? ‘I was just thinking how I could use one of these. How thoughtful.’  She was already sloshed I think. I told her about my screenplay, and she said she’d love to read it. You fuckin’ believe that? I’m going to drop it off at her agent’s office this afternoon. You know, this is how careers get started.”

You really wouldn’t believe what happens next. The namedropper stops mid-sentence, and I hear him whisper, “Look who’s standing at the counter.” Any other time, I’d be mightily pleased to have this recognition, but today is an important day for me, and I can’t tolerate the distractions of faking fame.

I haven’t turned around yet, but I hear the young man slide out of the booth and begin walking across the diner toward me. The cashier hands me the bearclaw and changes my five dollar bill. I gather up my pastry and steaming cup of coffee, and when I turn around, this eager young face stands before me, nervous and hopeful. He sports—well, sports is too strong a word—he’s attempting to wear a tux, but it’s about half a size too large for him. It looks as though he borrowed it off his big brother.

“Mr. Jansen,” he says, and then freezes.

“Yes?” I ask impatiently.

He closes his eyes, takes a big breath. I walk on toward the door, but he steps in front of me.

“Please, I know you’re very busy, but please just let me say this.” He swallows and meets my gaze. “You’re my favorite actor in the entire world, and I’ve written a screenplay with you in mind for the lead. Can I give this to you? Would you take it and not throw it away?” From under his arm, he pulls out this script and practically shoves the thing in my face.

“You know,” I say, accepting the script and smiling, “I’m actually looking for my next project right now. What’s your name?” He has to think about this for a moment.

“M. Connor Bennett.”

“Well, Connor. Tell you what. I’m going to read this today, and if I like it, we’ll be in touch.”

“Oh my God. Thank you so much, Mr. Jansen. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. My contact info is on the cover page. Holy shit.”

Then he hugs me.

I drive up into the Hollywood Hills.

It takes me an hour to find Carmella Drive, this little road off Laurel Canyon.

At seven in the morning, it’s quiet and beautiful. You can’t really see the houses from the road, since most of them are enclosed by stone walls, but every so often, you’ll catch a peek through a gate or a thin spot in the foliage. It makes my head swim to think that a Star or director or producer lives in every house I pass.

It’s one colossal mansion after another.

What real estate agents might call “bungalows” also perch on the hillsides which overlook the waking Valley. Do you know what the technical definition of a “bungalow” is? I looked it up once: “A one-story house, cottage, or cabin.” There’s no fucking way these are bungalows.

195. 197. 199. 201. 203 Carmella Drive.

My heart racing now.

I slow the Hummer to a crawl and drift past the mailbox of James Jansen. His house is a bungalow, set below the road, and from what I can tell, it commands a spectacular view of the Valley. Instead of stone, a wall of hedges hides his home from view.

I cruise on and pull over when the shoulder widens, a couple hundred yards down the hill from his mailbox.

My coffee’s gone cool in the hour it’s taken me to find Jansen’s place.

I sit in the Hummer eating the bearclaw, as close as I’ve ever been to JJ.

To my knowledge, Jansen owns five homes: (1) a 12,000 square-foot log cabin in Montana; (2) this 5,000 square-foot bungalow in the Hollywood Hills, his primary residence; (3) a 5-bedroom apartment overlooking Central Park in Manhattan; (4) a three-story beach house in Nags Head on the Outer Banks of North Carolina; and (5) a villa in the South of France.