LUMINOUS BLUE: A Novel of Warped Celebrity

by Blake Crouch

  I am alone up here on this spectacular vista, and do you want to know what I’m really thinking? It’s not what you’d guess. I’m not full of that anxious hope the aspiring actors come up here to feed. I’m not the least bit dreamy. Not even optimistic. I don’t need to hedge myself with optimism, because the things I envision will happen. Dreams are no longer necessary. I’m falling in love with reality.

  I own this. All of it. It’s my kingdom.

  That’s what I’m thinking.

  Chapter 12

  Jansen’s star ~ the blonde at the stoplight ~ more shopping ~ watches The Fam having supper ~ talks to Bo in the shower ~ gets dolled up properly ~ waits in line ~ eavesdrops ~ makes a proper Star arrival ~ trouble with the doormen ~ guarantees the termination of their employment

  Next, I drive to Hollywood Boulevard and have a stroll down the Walk of Fame. Takes me half an hour, but I finally locate Jansen’s star. It has his name on it, and the image of a film camera underneath. As I stand there smiling down at this beautiful tribute, I hear the unmistakable click of cameras.

  I look up. A group of Japanese tourists are taking my photograph, and I start to smile for them, but then I realize it’s probably not cool, if you’re a major celebrity, to get caught standing on top of and smiling down at your very own star.

  I depart quickly.

  Everyone should own a Hummer for at least one week of their life. It’s like driving a tank. I mean the thing barely fits in one lane. And if you relish people noticing when you drive by, choose a flashy color, like yellow.

  It’s four in the afternoon (I’ve been driving around all day, familiarizing myself with my town) and I’m sitting at a stoplight on Sunset when this silver Ferrari pulls up beside me. That’s the thing about Beverly Hills. Where else in the country is it possible for a Ferrari and a Hummer to pass within twenty miles of each other?

  I’m of course sporting my gray Hugo Boss, deep dark shades, and the top is still down, so the wind is blowing through my hair, and the sun is warm on my face. You can’t imagine how good I look. The window on the passenger side of the Ferrari hums down and reveals this blonde that I won’t even try to describe. But trust me. Not unpleasant to look at.

  “I like your tank there, Jim! Is it new?”

  “Just got it,” I say, and for a second, I worry that perhaps she really knows James Jansen, and therefore, I should appear to know her. But then I realize that the beauty of being a Star is that you don’t have to remember anybody. In fact, it enhances the effect if you don’t.

  “What are you doing tonight?” I ask, because I can.

  “La Casa, of course. DJ SuperCas is spinning.” I wonder what that means.

  The car behind me honks. The light has gone green.

  “I may see you there,” I say.

  She winks, and the Ferrari screeches on through the intersection, the growl of its engine audible for several blocks. I put my banana tank into gear and ease on down Sunset, scanning for the kind of stores where you can drop a few thousand on nice pants.

  I’m ready for tonight, but I need things first.

  Specifically, cologne, a real watch, a cell phone, and club attire.

  By the time I’ve finished shopping and returned to Altadena, it’s seven o’clock. The sun is falling into the Pacific, glazing the hills behind Bo’s neighborhood with peachy light. I realize it’s pointless to try and hide my Hummer from Bo, so I just park the thing in his driveway.

  I walk inside and carry my bags into my bedroom. The Fam is having dinner at the picnic table in the backyard. I watch them while I undress in my room. Bo talks to Sam practically the whole time. So does Hannah. They keep leaning toward their son and making these silly faces. It’s neat to watch them when they don’t know I’m watching them. This is probably how they act when no one’s around. My brother’s a good daddy. It sounds funny and strange to say, but I’m proud of him. I really am.

  While I’m in the shower, someone knocks on the door, and I hear Bo ask, voice muffled, if he can come in for a minute.

  I tell him sure.

  He comes in.

  “What the fuck is in my driveway?” he says. I’m just standing out of the stream of water, letting the conditioner condition.

  “I rented a car.”

  “That’s a Hummer, Lance.”

  “All they had.”

  “Isn’t that a little expensive?”

  “Not as bad as you might think.”

  “Why do you need a Hummer?”

  I can tell you I’m getting pretty tired of these questions.

  “Haven’t you ever wanted to drive around in something flashy?” I ask.

  “Sure. But…Lance, you don’t even have a job.”

  I poke my head out of the shower curtain. “Don’t worry about me, Bo. I’ve got plenty of money.”

  “You do, huh?” He shakes his head and gives me this smug grin he’s always had. “Hungry?” he says.

  “Little bit.”

  “Hannah made Santa Fe rice salad. It’s in the fridge if you want some. I wish you’d told me you weren’t coming back until this evening. I was kind of hoping we’d all eat outside together.”

  I guess when you’re a family guy like Bo, you really look forward to sitting down to dinner with everyone. It’s been five minutes, so I step back under the water and begin rinsing the conditioner from my hair.

  “You have plans tonight?” he asks.

  “Yeah, I’m going to head back out.”

  He chuckles, “In the big, bad Hummer,” and walks out.

  Fuckin’ Bo. I love him, but he gets these attitudes sometimes.

  The woman at The Closet helped me assemble an outfit of what she called, “extremely chic clubwear.” And I’ve got to tell you, it’s like no clothing I’ve ever owned. I’m wearing a black, silk short-sleeved button-up from Armani. Black leather pants. Armani, as well. And my boots which are alligator or crocodile, cost two grand! I don’t even think Partner Jeff would’ve paid that for footwear.

  When I’m dressed, I rub on a little of this new cologne I bought. I’d tell you what it was called, but I can’t pronounce it. Sounds very French, and the bottle is green and exceptionally small. $375.00/ounce. It makes me smell like an evergreen forest or something. I don’t know. Clarice at Sacs told me it matched my biorhythms.

  I get some pomade on my hands and run them through my hair, even apply a little eyeliner (another tip from Clarice). So by the time I’m dolled up properly, I hardly recognize myself. I look very, very hip. You should see me.

  The Fam is watching a news program when I pass through the living room. It seems such an adult thing to do—watching the news on a Saturday night. I’d get pretty sad if I really thought about it.

  I tell them not to wait up for me, that I might not be back until tomorrow. I can tell that Hannah’s kind of blown away that I’m going out on the town and all. I’m guessing that from what Bo’s told her, she didn’t count me as a terribly happening guy.

  I kiss Sam on the forehead on my way out and promise him we’ll play in the backyard tomorrow. It’s the sort of thing you have to do when you’re an uncle.

  The nightclub La Casa is in a big warehouse on Hollywood. I let the valet park my Hummer, since that’s probably what every good Star would do, slip him a $20 for his trouble (I’m carrying $2,000 in cash in my back pocket) and survey the enormous line. The doors opened at 9 p.m. Three very big, very scary-looking men are standing at the double doors leading into La Casa. A burgundy rope separates them from the crowd of several hundred. They keep pointing at people, unhooking the rope, and letting them inside. When the doors open, I feel the pulse of music vibrate in my chest. Sometimes, they point at someone and shake their head and laugh. These people in turn look highly embarrassed and usually leave immediately.

  I’ve never been to a nightclub. I’m excited and anxious. Everyone looks fabulous. I’ve never seen so many beautiful people in one place, and this makes me feel kind of small.


  I eavesdrop on this pack of girls ahead of me as my section of crowd slowly pushes toward the rope boundary.

  “That’s him. I kind of know the doorman on our side,” this total bombshell directly in front of me says. She smells very good. Delightful even. “He’s in my yoga class. He told me to find him and he’d let me in and whoever I brought. You either have to know the doorman, be famous, or look totally fucking hot, otherwise forget it.”

  “Oh my God, if we get into La Casa, I am totally going to tell everyone I know. I’m going to send out fucking announcements and shit.”

  “I’m so glad you didn’t bring Amanda.”

  “Are you crazy? No fucking way!”

  “I totally agree.”

  “Yeah, totally.”

  “Oh totally.”

  “Whoa, look at the hottie.”

  “Where?”

  I realize that I’m doing this all wrong when I see this white limo pull up. The door opens and this couple steps out who I recognize but can’t recall their names. They’re Stars for sure. Not the heavyweight I am. Medium Stars.

  One of the doormen yells, “Move back!” and the crowd splits.

  The couple, extraordinarily dressed, moves quickly through the divided crowd. They pass through the rope barrier as flashbulbs explode everywhere. They’re smiling at the doormen, oblivious to the crowd of hopefuls all around them. The doors open for them, and they disappear into the inner dance utopia.

  I don’t waste one more second standing in this ridiculous line. Instead, I go and find the valet and ask him if he wants to make $200? Sure he does. He follows me into the parking lot, and I tell him to get into the driver’s seat, which he does.

  “Look, I don’t have any X on me, man,” he says once we’re in.

  “I don’t want any X. Here,” I pull two hundreds from my wallet and hand them over. He’s young, early-twenties perhaps, with long, stringy hair. I wonder if he’s in a rock band, trying to make it, like everyone else. “Drive me up to the curb and let me out in front of the crowd.”

  “They won’t let you in if they don’t know you, man. Doesn’t matter how you arrive.”

  “I’m James Jansen. They’ll let me in. Now drive.”

  He cranks the Hummer and we roll back out onto Hollywood, do a u-turn at the next light, and head back toward La Casa, my heart bumping as we pull up beside the crowd to the front of the line where the white limo stopped just ten minutes ago.

  The crowd parts. I take a breath, slip on my shades.

  Then I open the door and step out of the Hummer, as nervous as I’ve ever been in my entire life. I muster this sort of irritated scowl on my face, keep my head slightly down, and walk quickly toward the doormen.

  Let me tell you, the eyes are all on me. First, because I stepped out of this huge fucking Hummer like I owned the place, and second, because I think everyone starts to realize who I am.

  “James!”

  “JJ!”

  “I love you, James Jansen!”

  I try not to smile, but it’s pretty hard when cute women scream that they love you.

  But I don’t acknowledge them. Sure, if this were a movie premier, I’d stop and sign autographs and wave and blow kisses and be altogether charming as hell. But I’m here to have a good time. I’m taking a chance coming out and mingling with the commoners, so it’s imperative that I maintain this nobody-better-fuck-with-me iciness in my face.

  I reach the velvet ropeline, and much to my dismay, it has not yet been unhooked.

  The three sentinels have turned their collective attention to me.

  I remove my sunglasses.

  One of the doormen lifts a black notebook off a podium and beings scanning a page of names.

  I feel hot in my face.

  Cameras are beginning to flash all around me—paparazzi.

  “Don’t waste your time. I didn’t get on the list,” I say.

  “Well, that’s a problem,” the doorman with the book says.

  I look dead into the eyes of the doorman standing in front of me.

  “You know who I am?”

  He nods. “Yeah, your last movie was a piece of shit.”

  “Unhook that motherfucking rope.”

  This is one tough, jaded fellow, but fear flickers in his eyes when I say this. I guess it’s sort of an unwritten rule that you should never piss off powerful people.

  The doorman with the book comes over to me, says, “Look, if you aren’t in the book—”

  “I don’t give a shit about your goddamn book. Bill Flanagan, the owner of La Casa, has been a guest in my home for numerous parties. I can’t tell you how angry he’d be to find out I’ve been treated this way.”

  I have no idea who the owner is. First name that came to mind.

  The rope is unhooked, and I’m ushered, apologetically, toward the open door. It sort of scares me, because I don’t know what I would’ve done had that last bit not worked.

  I stop in the threshold and turn back to the three doormen.

  “Gentlemen,” I say. “You will all be fired before the end of the night. I promise you that.”

  Then I put on my shades and enter the mayhem of La Casa.

  Chapter 13

  pink purple neon madness ~ DJ SuperCasanova ~ gets a table ~ observes bodyshots ~ surveys the joint and expounds on the philosophy of the hollow generation ~ walks into the center of the dance floor ~ looks up an Asian woman’s dress ~ the bachelorette party ~ Kara ~ Richard Haneline ~ gets invited to a premier party ~ slow dances to a fast song

  La Casa. Wow. I’ve never seen anything like this. I’m as over-stimulated as I’ve ever been—lights flashing, spinning, flickering in pink purple neon. It’s all light and motion and sound.

  I’m standing just inside the doors taking everything in like I’ve stepped out of a spacecraft onto a new planet. What strange creatures these are.

  A spectacular redhead charges me $30 and stamps the back of my hand and I walk into the crowd. From where I stand, I can see four bars, mirrors behind each one, reflecting the crowd. I count five spinning disco balls.

  On the second level, it’s more of the same—a crowd moving together in waves like a field of wheat. More bars. More light. And this constant thumping…boom, boom, boom, boom.

  At last, I see the music source. Atop a large column in the center of the dance floor, DJ SuperCasanova stands behind a shelf of keyboards and turntables and ear-shattering speakers. He’s this white guy sporting a sequin suit and a sequin top hat, and you can tell he loves his job.

  I push my way through the crowd and claim one of the few vacant tables.

  I sit there, taking it all in. On the table beside me, a woman has stretched herself out flat on her back and pulled her shirt up over her bra, to expose her bellybutton. One of the men lifts two shotglasses from the table and holds them up.

  “Tequila or tequila?” he asks and bursts into laughter.

  He straddles the woman, pours a shot very slowly onto her sternum and watches ravenously as the liquor trails into her bellybutton.

  “Oh yeah!” the woman cries out. “Suck it! Suck it!”

  So he sucks the tequila from her naval and runs his tongue up and down the tats on her stomach, lapping up the liquor and making her belly glisten—much to the delight of their company.

  When he finishes, the woman climbs off the table and another girl assumes the position.

  More drinking of liquor from orifices ensues, nipples are exposed, and I’ve got to tell you, it’s all fairly entertaining to behold.

  When I tire of watching the youngfolk beside me, I walk to the nearest bar, order an Absolut, one ice cube, no lime, and return to my table.

  I sit there sipping my drink and watching the multitude of dancers. People in LA certainly know how to look good. Nearly all of the men are tall, tan, muscular, possess perfect hair, and have this superficial charisma down cold. For instance, I watch this guy talking to this girl on the outskirts of the dancing mob, and even though I c
an’t hear what they’re saying, I can read in his face that the only thing he cares about is the possibility of fucking her brains out a little later. I mean, she’s chattering away, and he just keeps nodding and flashing these smiles that aren’t really smiles, and looking around every now and then to make sure something more fuckable isn’t in the vicinity. Real gentlemen, these LA guys.

  And the women. Jeez. Every pair of knockers in the place would win the blue ribbon where I come from. There’s just a bunch of beautiful people in this room, and what I’m realizing now is that’s what it takes not to be lonely out here. You must have the right clothes, body, hair, smell, accessories, and personality. Oh, but when I say personality, I don’t mean you have to be genuinely interesting or original. Personality in the LA sense means you must be able to maintain a conversation which suggests you’re worth hooking up with because you possess all of the required embellishments.

  I saw a television program once about the whole dilemma of attracting a mate. And there were these pitifully normal-looking people who kept saying things like, “eventually, beauty gets old and people are going to want someone who’s actually intelligent and unique and has more to offer than a hard body and nice boobs.” I hear those lonely people talking while I watch this crowd of vibrant people, and I’m thinking yeah, hold your breath. People may tolerate friendship with plain, interesting people, but they certainly don’t want to fuck them, and believe me, fucking is the end result of all this light and makeup and music and alcohol and drugs and dancing. This is all about finding someone to fuck. It has to be. I mean, the group at the table beside me is only a few millimeters of fabric away from doing it. And the dancing—grinding, rather—is pretty much dry humping. I really feel sorry for those bland people, sitting at home, angry and jilted, waiting for all these beauties to come around and realize how interesting they are.

  After I finish my drink, I walk into the crowd. I am in no way a dancer. Not even remotely. I reach the center of the dance floor. It’s ridiculously loud and hot. People move together all around me—sexually, robotically, gracefully, all uninhibited. There are several columns six or seven feet high, and people dance solo on top of these. I stand at the base of one and look up at this Asian woman who is “lost in the music,” as they say. I can see up her dress. She’s not a big fan of underwear.