I climb out of bed.
My master suite is enormous. There’s a treadmill by one of the windows.
You wouldn’t believe the size of my closet. I step inside and choose a robe. It’s black satin—very suave.
As I walk down the hallway toward the kitchen, the phone rings. I let it go. It’s only 8:15—much too early to be answering the phone.
While I peruse the fridge for fruit and orange juice, the answering machine picks up.
“This is Jim. Leave a message and do keep in mind that brevity is the soul of wit.”
I pour a glassful of juice. It’s organic.
“Hey, Jim, I was thinking, you remember that scene we wrote involving Bernard and the hooker? Bring it with you, since you’re holding onto all the drafts. At least I hope you are. It might actually work if we put it after Bernard leaves the Christmas party. I don’t know. Just a thought. See you at ten.”
I have a pleasant breakfast on the patio. It’s still misty up here in the hills. Very cool and refreshing. When I finish the cantaloupe, I just sit back in that Adirondack chair, basking.
On a tree several yards down the hill, I notice this massive spider web. You wouldn’t believe it if you saw it. I mean, the thing stretches five or six feet between the branches. And in the middle of it, this spider just sits there, waiting, stoic. The sun burning through the mist makes the silk web glisten. As I sit there looking at this marvel of nature, it occurs to me: this is as much sense as anything ever makes. I am intensely moved by a spider web. I’m happy about being happy about a spider web.
After breakfast, I take a tour of my bungalow—the home theatre, the living room, the kitchen, dining room, hallway, and three spare bedrooms, and the master suite.
I don’t bother with the room of mirrors.
In a corner of my bedroom, there’s a desk, and in the drawers I find everything I need. Wallet, car keys, BlackBerry account information, bank statements (I am so fucking rich!), contracts…
It turns out that I’m currently writing a screenplay with the actor Brad Morton. (He’s been in a whole slew of movies. His most famous was The Golftress about this guy who’s a mediocre professional golfer and undergoes a sex change operation so he can play on the Ladies’ PGA tour. It’s one of the funniest movies you’ll ever see. Morton’s garnered a couple Golden Globes, but no Oscar. I’m sure I hold this over his head at every opportunity).
Morton’s phone number is in my BlackBerry, and I call him up, sounding very sickly and tired, like I’ve been throwing up all night. He offers to come over and make me some chicken soup, but I tell him not to bother. I’d probably just puke it up anyway. He asks if it’s a hangover, and I tell him “a vicious one.”
I take a bath in my garden tub and test myself on my PIN number for my bank account, my social security number, the alarm code, my address, and date of birth. It’s always good to keep these things fresh in mind.
I can see the Valley while splashing in the tub.
After my bath, I choose an outfit for the day.
As it turns out, I’m a big fan of black silk. My closet is full of it, so I go with black leather pants, a black silk short-sleeved button-up, and these interesting crocodile shoes which raise me an inch and a half.
I set the alarm and lock up the house.
It’s 10:30 in the morning.
I drive the Hummer back to Exotic Car Rentals of Beverly Hills, turn it in, recover my deposit.
Then I call a cab and have the driver take me to the Brick Room.
Thank God my Porsche is still there. I lower the top and peel out onto Fairfax.
Man, this car is a kick to drive. I like it even more than the Hummer. It’s so fast and low to the ground. Just for fun, I take it out on I-10 and scream toward the ocean.
I have lunch at the bungalow and read through the latest draft of Brad’s and my screenplay. It’s called The Great Wide Open, and I have no idea what it’s about. The only thing that really happens in the first twenty pages is this guy named Bernard finds out that his newest wife is cheating on him with his son, and then he sort of has a mental meltdown in a bathroom. One minute, he’s washing his hands, the next, he’s beating up an electric hand dryer. It’s pretty funny. I’m a very good writer.
Since I have several hours before the movie premiere, I drive down to Century City.
Ravenous Games occupies a suite in this office building across the street from 20th Century Fox Studios.
I ride the elevator to the fourth floor and walk down the drab, impersonal hallway. It doesn’t even have the name of his company on the door.
Bo’s office is incredibly messy. There are no windows. The walls are covered with posters advertising videogames with names like Blood Bath XII—The Reckoning.
Bo sits in front of a television playing a videogame. I’m sure he doesn’t get paid to do this. He’s so focused on the game, he doesn’t hear me walk in.
“You’re telling me you get paid to play videogames?” I ask.
Bo pauses the game and looks over his shoulder.
“What’s up, Lance?” Fuck, I hate that.
“Just thought I’d stop by. See where you work.”
“You’re looking at it.”
“What are you working on right there?”
“Just testing a late phase of this first-person shooter. Look, I hate to be this way, but I am insanely busy.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“Could we talk tonight? I was thinking of grilling a few steaks.”
I lean against the doorframe. On the paused television screen, a samurai warrior is on his knees. Another samurai is swinging a huge sword at his head, which will undoubtedly roll when Bo resumes the game.
“I won’t be here tonight,” I say. “I’m leaving.”
“When?”
“Right now. I came to tell you goodbye.”
Bo turns the videogame off and stands.
“Let’s go outside.”
Bo’s office building is one of four in a small business park called the Quadrangle. In the courtyard between the buildings, there’s a manmade pond with a fountain in the middle. Swans sail through its green water.
We sit down on a bench near the water. It’s two-thirty and very hot. Someone sits by themselves on an identical bench across the pond, reading a book and eating lunch.
Bo asks me where I’m going, and I tell him that I don’t know for sure. I’m considering taking what money I’ve got left, buying a used car, and driving down into Mexico.
“What’s in Mexico?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Desert, ocean, tacos. I’ve always wanted to go.” This is true. I have always been intrigued by its wildness.
“You have to leave this afternoon? Why can’t you stay with us a little longer. I love having you here.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Hannah doesn’t.”
“Fuck her. You’re my brother.”
I pat Bo on the shoulder, and then something happens that I never even expected. I start to cry. Not weeping or anything, just tears rolling down my cheeks.
“I’m going to miss you very much,” I say.
Bo squeezes the back of my neck.
“I’m sorry about what I said the other night, Bo.”
He smiles. “Don’t be.”
“No, I should never have—”
“It’s fine. Look, I thought a lot about our talk out on the soccer field. Especially after I never saw you yesterday, and you didn’t come home last night.” Bo looks at me the way only he looks at me. Sometimes, I think he’s the only person in the world who loves me. “I don’t know what’s going on with you right now, Lance. I don’t know why you came out here. Why you’re leaving now. I love you. You know that. You know that?” I nod yes. “Maybe I’m off base here, but I’m just going to say it. And I say this in love. You seem to me like a man who’s lost his bearings. You come out here, you buy flashy clothes.” He motions to my beautiful leather pants. “You rent a Hummer, you do the nightclub thing. I don’t understand where you’re at, Lance, but if I can help you in any way—money, a place to stay, finding a job, whatever—please let me. The other night, I sort of made it sound like my boring suburban life is the only way. I know it’s not. I know it’s probably not for you. And I’m sorry I pulled that shit on you.”