Free Famous by Blake Crouch Page A

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!”
     
     
    PART II
- 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