“Look,” he says, “I’m sure you have plans already, but I’m thinking of seeing a show tonight. This off-off thing one of my former students is directing. If you wanted to join me…”
“What’s the play called?”
“Love in the 0’s. It’s a one-act. He actually wrote it for his thesis.”
“Any good?”
“You’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I did have a dinner party tonight…”
“Don’t break your plans.”
“No, no, this is a wonderful opportunity. To attend a play with an acting professor. Just the sort of experience I need to really get inside this character I’m going to do. Could you introduce me to the actors afterward? I’d love to get their perspective on the whole theatre scene.”
“Absolutely!” He pats my knee again, probably already picturing me at the Academy Awards, Oscar in hand, thanking him in my rambling, charming acceptance speech.
I’m supposed to meet Wittig at this bar on E. 4th Street at 7:30 for pre-show drinks, but there’s no way I’m showing up in the same Hugo Boss. When Stars choose to mingle with and be seen by the public, they aren’t supposed to wear the same thing for more than several hours. It’s a pretty serious rule.
So I catch a cab down to Fifth Avenue and buy this slick Donna Karan and a silk shirt. When I finish shopping, it’s nearly three and I realize I haven’t eaten anything since my flight this morning. A street vendor is selling funnel cakes sprinkled with powdered sugar. I eat one in the cab on the way back to Edenwald, which takes forever to reach.
It’s a sizeable relief to walk back into my room. I lock the door and hang my new suit in the tiny closet. It’s intolerably hot. I strip down to my underwear and pull a wooden chair over to the window and sit there watching those dice-throwing boys as the afternoon light goes bronze.
O. Wilde’s is the first bar I’ve set foot in since college, and I make sure to show up twenty minutes late, because arriving on time is a sign of pure desperation. It’s a loud place across the street from Hamilton Studio, where Love in the 0’s will be starting in less than an hour.
I spot Wittig standing with his back to the bar, surveying the room. He waves when I enter, wineglass already in hand. I remove my shades and squeeze through the crowd of hipster playgoers, everyone in black like they’ve all just come from a wake.
Wittig’s halfway through a glass of white when I edge up to the bar, and all I can think about is not making an enormous ass of myself when I order Jansen’s favorite drink. For people who don’t frequent bars, the barkeep is a fairly intimidating persona. They’re like oracles or something. See right through you.
“What are you drinking, Jansen?” Wittig asks, real helluva guy-like, and I wonder if he’s calling me by my last name so everyone will figure out who he’s with.
“I think I’ll have my old tried and true,” I say as the bartender sidles up.
“Can I get you, sir?”
“Double Absolut with one ice cube. No lime.”
“Find the place all right?” Wittig asks while I watch the bartender make my drink.
“Yep.”
Wittig’s sporting this tweed suit and bowtie that makes him look exceptionally scholarly. Good thing I changed, seeing as how he did.
“Where you staying, Jim?”
“The Waldorf Hysteria. Finally cooling off out there.”
“Here you are, sir.”
I lift my drink, gaze down at the single cube floating in the vodka.
“That’s interesting,” Wittig says. “What’s with the single piece of ice?”
“One cube cools and dilutes the vodka perfectly.” I didn’t just make that up. In last January’s issue of Celebrity, the feature was an interview with Jansen at a bar near his home in the Hollywood Hills. That “one cube cools and dilutes” bit was verbatim what he said to the journalist when asked the same question.
I sip the vodka. Rubbing alcohol. All I can do not to grimace. Jansen’s a big drinker. I haven’t had a drink since college.
Wittig taps me on the arm, leans over, whispers, “See that table in the corner? Other corner. In about two minutes, those women are going to have the nerve worked up to come over here.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“You want to leave?”
“Paul, if it ever gets to the point where I can’t go into a bar and have a drink, I’ll quit making movies. Just part of it, you know?”
“No.” He smiles. “I don’t. Fortunately. Can’t imagine what it must be like for you.”
I steal another micro-sip of my drink, but it’s no use. Oh well. I throw it back in one burning swallow.
“Another, sir?” the bartender asks, before my empty even hits the bar.
“No, I’m good.”
Wittig orders another wine.
“So tell me about this play, Paul.”
“I think you’ll be intrigued. It’s Mamet meets Simon meets Pinter meets Beckett. I’m tempted to say more, but I’m afraid it would spoil your experience.”
“So am I going to see this kid’s stuff on Broadway in the near future?”
“The question, Jim,” he points at me, and I hope he isn’t getting drunk, “is are you going to see Broadway on Matthew? If he stays true to himself, Broadway will have to come to him. ’Cause I don’t see him selling out. This kid is fucking special, Jim.”
Everywhere I look, eyes are on me. Male and female. I look at Wittig, his cheeks fire engine red as he knocks back a substantial sip of wine.
“Ready to walk over?” I ask.
I’m ready to get the hell out of O. Wilde’s.
I shouldn’t be swimming in the deep end my first time in the pool.
Chapter 4
in Hamilton Studio ~ a real piece of shit ~ beholds the city at night ~ offers criticism ~ attends a party ~ strange music ~ meets the director ~ an offer ~ another offer
Lights down. Lights up.
Onstage, a park bench. An overtly fake tree. Cardboard clouds hanging from visible cables.
A man enters stage left, dragging a fake dog by a leash. A woman enters stage right. They stroll starry-eyed toward center stage and bump into each other in front of the bench.
The woman says, “Oh, excuse me. I didn’t see you.”
“No, no, it’s my fault,” the man responds. “This damn dog won’t heel.”
He tugs on the leash, and the stuffed poodle slides across the stage.
“Is your dog stuffed?” she asks.
“Why yes, of course.”
“You’re walking a fake dog?”
“No, she’s real.”
The man pulls the dog up into his arms and smothers it with kisses.
“This is Poopsie, yes it is.”
Wow.
Thank fucking God it’s only one act.
Wittig whispers: “Brilliant opening. You’re about to see an entire relationship condensed to thirty minutes. You like it?”
“It’s first-rate, Paul.”
I have a hard time concentrating on shit, so for the next five minutes I sort of zone out and glance around the theatre. Even though Hamilton Studio is quite small, with only a hundred seats, there’s no full house tonight. Maybe thirty playgoers. Vivid lighting makes the stage look as sharp as an autumn afternoon.
This woman behind us has a big, sloppy grin across her face, and I wonder if it’s because she’s enamored with the play, or if she thinks it’s comical what gets produced these days.
Now, the man and woman onstage are sitting up in bed.
The man puts a cigarette in his mouth, and the woman removes it.
“Honey, that’s so cliché,” she says. Then, “You were wonderful.”
“I know.”
The audience laughs. Not a big laugh. I’d say about a 4 on a scale of 1 to 10.
“How do you know?”
“Because you just told me.”
“I mean it,” the woman insists. “You really were good.”