Famous

Famous

Chapter 1

fame and money • James Jansen • goes to work • gets fired • a shopping spree • the day of tranquility • a $100 haircut • the movie premiere • 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 multimillionaire 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 just right, I look like a Movie Star.

I’ve been mistaken for James Jansen eighty-seven 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-law 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. It’s 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 administrative office of our 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 Baker Thompson Hardy is quite the casual work environment. The fifteen attorneys practice only corporate patent law, meaning 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 slides.

I’m running late 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 take the elevator only if I have it all to myself. I don’t excel at chitchat. 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 seven. But also, I don’t like riding by myself. The walls are 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 my floor.

Our suite is already in full operation when I enter. Heading into the break room, I open one of the refrigerators and stow the lunch Mom prepared for me inside.

I walk down the hallway. File Rooms A through 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 the 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 photos 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 wouldn’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-colored carpet.

Jeff has a corner office. He’s the Hardy from Lewis Baker 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 into a handheld tape recorder when Janine pokes her head through the doorway.

“Jeff?” she says reverently. He’s the scary partner. “Lance is here to see you.”

He stops the recorder. “Send him in, shut the door.”

I walk inside and take a seat in a chair in front of his desk. The door closes behind me. Jeff is thin-lipped and very sleek. The only time he ever 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 résumés and cover letters on the floor by my feet. I’ve just begun to read the body of the one on top when Jeff says, “Lance, how long have you been with us?”

“Five years next month.”

I try to meet his eyes. I can’t. He’s so intelligent—only thirty-four or thirty-five. I’m thirty-eight. 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, wishing 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 very 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 Tyvek envelope and tosses it across the desk into my lap. It’s a really good throw. Lands perfectly. 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. This happened before you graced us with your presence at 8:17 a.m. He called me directly 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, no?”

“I’m sorry. That was just—”

“A big f***-up, Lance. A big f***ing f***-up. Do you know what we invoiced him for last month?” I shake my head. “Eight thousand, five hundred dollars. I invoiced him for that. And it 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 is throbbing. Jeff stands, too, his eyes wide, angry. I look out the windows one last time. Charlotte Douglas International Airport is visible in the distance. I can even make out 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 hardworking, 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.”