by Blake Crouch
LUMINOUS BLUE
by BLAKE CROUCH
Copyright © 2010 by Blake Crouch
Cover art copyright © 2010 by Jeroen ten Berge
All rights reserved.
LUMINOUS BLUE is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information about the author, please visit www.blakecrouch.com.
For more information about the artist, please visit www.jeroentenberge.com.
I won’t be happy ’til I’m as famous as God.
MADONNA
The highest form of vanity is love of fame.
GEORGE SANTAYANA
The image is one thing and the human being is another…It’s very hard to live up to an image, put it that way.
ELVIS PRESLEY
It stirs up envy, fame does.
MARILYN MONROE
He lives in fame that died in virtue’s cause.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
NY
Chapter 1
fame and money ~ James Jansen ~ goes to work ~ gets fired ~ a shopping spree ~ the day of tranquility ~ a $100 haircut ~ the movie premier ~ says goodbye to mom and dad
Let me tell you something about being famous. First off, it doesn’t make you depressed or dissociated from humankind. That’s all bullshit. Being famous…is like the very best thing in the world. Everybody knows you, everybody loves you, and it’s just because you’re you. And that’s supposed to make you want to eat sleeping pills? Only reason celebrities say fame blows is so we won’t hate them. Because if we really knew how happy they are, how incredible it is just to be them, to own the world, we’d hate them, and then they’d just be notorious.
And the money. Jesus. If I hear one more multi-millionaire tell me that money won’t make me happy, I’m going to hurt someone. Really.
My name is Lancelot Blue Dunkquist, and the best thing about me is, when you doll me up right, I look like a Movie Star.
I’ve been mistaken for James Jansen twenty-eight times. Of course you know who James Jansen is. Remember And Then There Was One? That’s his most successful movie, sorry, film to date. Actors don’t make movies. They make films. Anyway, James Jansen played the detective. You know the part at the end where the guy walks in on the bank robbery and he’s only got one bullet left? He knows he’s dead, but he stares down the two robbers and says, “By God you may walk out of here with that money, but which one of you is it going to be?” What a line.
I’m actually an inch taller than James Jansen, but you see, this works to my advantage, because when people see me, they’re thinking It’s JJ! He’s larger than life!
Yes. I am larger than life.
In my real life, I work as a legal secretary in a patent firm in Charlotte, North Carolina. It’s very convenient, because I live just up the interstate in Huntersville, above the garage in my parents’ house. A perfect setup really. I get to use Mom’s car four days a week (on Tuesdays she takes me to work and picks me up, because she volunteers in the office of their Baptist church). Dad doesn’t even make me pay rent, so I’m saving money like crazy. As of my last bank statement, $41,617.21 was simmering in my money market account.
I usually wake up at 6:45 a.m. Lewis Barker Thompson Hardy is quite the casual work environment. Since the thirty-five attorneys only practice corporate patent law, we rarely have clients in the office. So the dress code is extremely lax. Today for instance, I’m sporting gray sweatpants, a T-shirt, and Adidas flip-flops.
I’m running later this morning, but normally I arrive at our building around 8:10. I always park in a visitor space since they’re the closest to the main entrance.
Our offices are located on the seventh floor, but I only take the elevator if I have it all to myself. I don’t excel at chitchatting with people. I learned this neat trick: once I’m inside, I press seven, and then as long as I hold the button down, the elevator won’t stop until it reaches our floor. But I don’t even like riding by myself. The walls consist of mirrors, and the light is dim and eerie.
So nine times out of ten, I huff it up the stairwell like I’m doing today, downside being that I’m always sweaty when I reach our floor.
Our suite is already in full operation when I enter. Heading through the conference room into the break room, I open one of the four refrigerators and stow the lunch mom prepared for me inside.
I walk down the hallway. File Rooms A-D are on the right, the partners’ offices on the left. Through their windows, I see morning light spreading over the green piedmont forest and reflecting off a distant pond. I always see that glinting pond on the way to my desk, except when it’s cloudy. The buildings of uptown Charlotte shimmer in early sun.
At the end of the hall, I enter the large room of cubicles. Mine sits in the center grouping. It’s very neat. The other paralegals keep messy workstations. They’re more concerned with plastering the walls with pictures of their husbands and children. I don’t display any pictures. The only non-work-related item I have is a cutout from a magazine article in Hollywood Happening. I taped it to the top of my monitor a year ago. It’s just two letters: JJ. Janine once asked me what it meant, but I didn’t tell her.
I turn on my computer and pull out a case file I’ve been working on since Friday. My duties involve corresponding with clients. It’s not terribly exciting stuff…Dear Mr. Smith: We are pleased to inform you that the above-identified U.S. patent application has been granted a Notice of Allowance by the United States Patent and Trademark Office…that sort of thing.
I’m getting ready to begin the first letter of the day when footsteps stop at my cubicle.
“Lance?”
I swivel around. It’s Janine, the Office Manager. The other paralegals despise her. I don’t really have an opinion. She’s kind of pretty—highly blond, tan, quite a dresser.
“Jeff wants to see you in his office first thing.”
“Now?”
“First thing.”
I follow Janine back up the hallway, watching the points of her high heels leave tiny, diminishing marks in the avocado carpet.
Jeff has a corner office. He’s the Hardy from Lewis Barker Thompson Hardy. I wonder why she’s leading me to his office, as if I don’t know where it is.
Partner Jeff is dictating a patent application when Janine pokes her head through the doorway.
“Jeff, Lance is here to see you,” she says reverently. He’s the scary partner.
He stops the recorder, says, “Send him in and shut the door.”
I walk inside and sit down in a chair in front of his desk. The door closes behind me. Jeff is thin-lipped and very sleek, and the only time he smiles is when he speaks to one of the other partners.
He just stares at me. I look out the windows. I count the framed diplomas and plaques on his walls (nineteen). His desk is buried under case files. There’s a stack of resumes and cover letters on the floor by my feet. I’ve just begun to read the body of the top letter when Jeff says, “Lance, how long have you been here?”
“Five years next month.”
I try to meet his eyes. I can’t. He’s so intelligent—only 34 or 35. I’m 38. I could be his big brother. I tell myself this over and over but it doesn’t help. I stare out the window again at the Charlotte skyline. I wish I could see the pond from his office. I feel the zeroing-in of his glare, smell waves of his cologne lapping at my face. His suit looks so expensive. Custom-tailored even.
“Lance, you heard of eye contact?”
I meet his eyes.
“Why are you sweating, Lance?”
“I, uh, took the stairs up.”
Opening a drawer, he pulls out a 9” by 12” Tyvex envelope and tosses it into my lap. Our return address label has been circled and “Return To Sender” stamped on the envelope. “We received that in the mailroom Friday afternoon. Take out the letter.”
I remove the single sheet of paper.
“Recognize that, Lance?”
“No.”
“You should. You wrote it for me a week ago. See your initials at the bottom?” Beneath Jeff’s signature, I see JH:lbd. I’m lbd.
“I remember this now,” I say.
“Look at the envelope.”
I look at the envelope.
“You sent it to the wrong client.” He pauses to let the weight of this crush me. “Dr. David Dupree, to whom you misdirected it, fired us this morning, before you graced us. He called me and said, among other things: ‘if you aren’t taking care of your other clients, how do I know you’re taking care of me?’ He’s got a point.”
“I’m sorry. That was just—”
“A big fuck-up, Lance. A big fucking fuck-up. Do you know what we invoiced him for last month?” I shake my head. “$8,450.00 I invoiced him for that. And that was a light month. I was on the verge of writing five new patent applications for him. You cost this firm money. You cost me money. Go clear out your cube.”
I stand. My head throbbing. Jeff stands, too, his eyes wide and angry. I look out the windows, Charlotte Douglas International Airport visible in the distance, the speck of a jet lifting off a runway.
“Here’s a tip,” he says. “When you go in for your next job interview, dress like you give a shit. No one appreciates you walking around here like a slob. This isn’t your living room. It’s my office. It’s the office of hard-working, brilliant men.”
My face is hot. I can stare at him now.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m nothing. I could be your big brother.”
“Get out of my office.”
The first thing I do is drive to the bank since it’s just down the street from the building where I used to work. I walk in and tell the teller to transfer everything from my money market to my checking account. Then I withdraw $2,000 in cash, slip her a twenty for her trouble, and drive uptown.
It doesn’t really hit me that I’ve been fired until I’m walking in the cool, spring shadow of the First Union Tower. I’d planned to work until I saved up $50,000, but I think I can manage on what I have. It feels surprisingly good to be unemployed, especially at this early hour of a Monday morning, when thousands of people are just beginning their workday all around me.
The store I’m looking for is on the corner up ahead—McIntyre’s Fine Men’s Clothing. I’ve heard their advertisements on the radio.
Inside, an exquisitely-dressed older gentleman puts down a sweater he’s folding and comes over.
“My name is Bernard. May I help you find something?”
“I want the most expensive suit in the store.”
“Well, why don’t you follow me.” He leads me over to the dressing rooms. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”
I sit down, the only customer in the store. The smell of clean, unworn fabric engulfs me.
Bernard returns carrying a jacket in each hand. One is dark blue, one dark gray.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Lance.”
“Well, Lance, I’m holding the two finest suits in the store. You’re a forty-two, right?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re a 42. At any rate, they’re both Hugo Boss. One hundred percent wool. Single breasted. Three buttons. Very smart.”
James Jansen wore a gray suit in the movie The Defendant. He played a man wrongly accused of murder. It almost won him an Oscar.
“The gray one.”
“Well, why don’t we try it on then?” Bernard opens one of the dressing rooms and hangs up the gray one. “Let me just measure your neck and we’ll get you a crisp Oxford shirt to go with it.”
I lay my gray Hugo Boss across the backseat of Mom’s Buick, drop the four bags containing slacks, socks, three pairs of shoes, belts, silk mock-turtlenecks, polo shirts, and Oxfords in the trunk, and set out for Salon 87, several blocks up the street.
The chic receptionist informs me that I’m lucky. They’re normally much too busy for walk-ins. She gives me a brochure to choose which treatment package is right for me, but I don’t have time to read the thing. Celebrities are always pressed for time.
“Just give me the most expensive package you offer,” I tell her. “Money is no object.”
“Fantastic, then I’ll put you down for the Day of Tranquility.”
The next six hours are almost unbearable, but I have to cleanse myself of Lancelot, so I let the “pampering specialist” have free reign over my entire body, even my feet which are fairly hideous.
I get a facial, body exfoliation, clay treatment, a massage, seaweed body wrap, 15 minutes of reflexology, and finally, a shampooing and hair-styling.
The stylist, Roger, asks before he starts if I have a particular look in mind.
“James Jansen.”
“Sure. You know…oh my God, you could be his twin!”
I just smile.
I think Roger is gay. At least I hope. If I’m paying a hundred dollars for a haircut, the stylist damn well better be a homosexual, because from what I hear, they can really cut some hair.
My flight will depart Charlotte at 8:20 tomorrow morning, so when I arrive home a little before five, I head directly up to my room with the day’s purchases and drag my single piece of luggage out from under the bed.
My room is not, as you probably fear, a tribute to James Jansen. I don’t have a closet full of candles and pictures and articles of his clothing. No posters of him on my walls. I don’t even own all twenty-four of his movies. See, this is the thing—I don’t love him. I’m sure he has fans more rabid than me. I’m only intrigued by him because we share a close resemblance. The obsession stems from the opportunities this affords me, not the man himself.
Mom has cooked shepherd’s pie for supper again. The three of us always eat together in the den and watch Entertainment Magazine. I’m not going to miss sitting on the sofa between them with our trays.
Entertainment Magazine is particularly interesting tonight. The show is broadcasting live from a movie premier. Gives me chills to watch the Stars stroll down the red carpet. So poised. Witty. These are things I have to perfect. I’ve been practicing. I’m nearly there.
The female host stops one of the Stars of the movie and asks how she’s feeling tonight as a thousand fans scream behind her and the SoCal sun falls into the Pacific.
“Well, you know, I love this part of it. The work’s done. And you know, John was just so great to work with. I was a little intimidated before I met him, because, he’s John, you know? But he really treated me like an equal, a colleague, and as a result, I think we’ve made a fabulous film.”
Beautiful. See how she complimented her costar while at the same time bringing glory to herself? That’s a professional.
After dinner, Dad turns off the television. We’re all sitting there with our trays in the silence of the living room. There’s a painting of Jesus above the TV set that’s been on that wall since I was a kid. Kind of a strange place to put the Lord. I don’t know.
In a minute, Dad will get up and go to bed since he’s boozed out of his mind on Aristocrat gin. Mom will go clean up the kitchen and read her Bible. I’ll retire to my room above the garage, and while I pack, watch a Jansen movie and several episodes of Hollywood Starz! (I tape them. They’re fascinating studies in Star behavior).
“I have something to tell you guys,” I say. “I’m leaving for New York tomorrow morning.”
“What for?” Mom asks.
I put my arms around the both of them. Not because I really want to. Just seems like the thing to
do.
“Since I dropped out of college nineteen years ago, this has been my home. But I’ve had a dream, Mom, Dad. And dreams cost money. I’ve saved my money for this dream, and now the time has come for me to go after it.”
They don’t know what the devil I’m talking about. I haven’t told anyone my plans.
Mom begins to tear up.
Dad doesn’t say anything. He kind of nods. Then he gets up, pats me on the shoulder, and walks out of the room. He doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s just genuinely not interested in much these days.
Mom and I sit on the couch for awhile. I look around the living room seeing as how this will be the last time I see it for awhile. Maybe ever. Such a normal-looking house. Smells like cabbage. Always has.
Mom’s bottom lip quivers. She rests her head against my shoulder. I’m not convinced she’s really sad. Sure she’ll miss me, but I think they’ve been hoping this day would come for quite awhile.
Chapter 2
through the portal ~ first class ~ Miss Lavender Suit ~ The Way ~ 29
With a boarding pass in hand and my luggage checked, I stroll toward the metal detector, imagining it’s a portal, and that once I cross the threshold, I cease to be Lancelot Blue Dunkquist.
My pace quickens. I walk straight, confident, and tall through the terminal, relishing that transient airport smell but maintaining the stoic façade the great Stars don in public.
I am James Jansen.
I am James Jansen.
James Jansen is flying out of Charlotte, North Carolina this morning. James Jansen sports a gray Hugo Boss with a T-shirt underneath (Stars can get away with it), and shoes as mirror-black as volcanic glass. He is clean-shaven, his hair an immaculate brown mane of style. He is larger than life. Oblivious to the mundane act of walking through an airport. This concourse is only a channel transporting him from one place where he is the focus, to another. He is bigger than all of this. He is electric.
