Famous by Blake Crouch

into the lighting grid. I wonder if they’re embarrassed
for me.
    “Thank you for seeing us on such short
notice, Dr. Lovejoy,” Ben says, beginning the scene again.
    “Yes. Well. My time is extremely limited…” I
stop. If I don’t take control of this situation immediately, I may
lose everything. I begin to shake my head. Then I stand and look at
Matt.
    “I’m sorry, but I strongly disagree with you
here. Look, you’ve written a cutting edge play. There’s no doubt
about that. And what is it you told me earlier that your goal was?
To unnerve people. Right?”
    An uneasy nod.
    “What is more unnerving and uncomfortable
than watching someone onstage who is totally dying? They’re trying
so hard, but they’re forgetting lines, rushing lines, overacting.
Mumbling. Trembling even. It’s painful to watch, but it’s also
funny. Isn’t that the juxtaposition you’re going for? Uneasy
laughter? What better captures that than a character who comes on
stage before a few hundred people, and everyone’s thinking ‘is he
acting like this on purpose’? Honestly? You tell me.”
    “I see what you’re saying, Jim, I do,
but—”
    “But what? It’s staring you right in the
face, Matt. You told me to go with my instinct. ‘That’s what’s
going to make this scene great.’ Didn’t you say that?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Well, my instinct is screaming at me, and
this doesn’t happen often, but I know in my gut, that this is how I
should play this scene. Don’t you feel it? We’ve had an epiphany
here.” I look at Jane. “Do you feel it?”
    “Maybe. Yeah. I think I do.”
    “Ben?”
    “It’s his show, man.”
    “Well, I feel it, Matt,” I say, stepping down
toward him onto the next panel. “I feel it in my bones, man.”
    Matt removes his glasses and squeezes the
bridge of his nose between his eyes.
    “So what you’re telling me,” he says, “is you
want to do this scene like you can’t act? That’s what you’re
saying?”
    “That’s what I’m saying.”
    “Do they pretend they can’t act either?” he
asks, pointing at Jane and Ben.
    “No, just me. Otherwise, the audience would
know. They carry on just like in the previous scenes.”
    “You’re sure about this?”
    I’ve won an Oscar, asshole.
    “Absolutely.”
    Matt stands and stares at me sort of
dumbfounded. He glances up at the lighting grid, at the sofa where
his stars sit, at the desk, like he’s taking his whole production
in once last time before I royally fuck it all up.
    When his eyes come back to mine, he shrugs,
says, “All right, Jim. All right. Hell, that’s why we’re at
Hamilton. To try shit out.”
    He walks back to his seat, sits down, crosses
his legs.
    “Let’s run it again.”
     
     

Chapter 7
     
    Manta * eavesdrops on the graduates * watches
the eel * Henry’s * “Twice as Deep” * the beauty of Corey Mustin *
like a demon in the house of God
     
    Though the sun has long since descended
beneath the metallic range of towers, when I step out of Hamilton
Studio, the hot air engulfs me like a waft of furnace heat. The
sidewalk brims with the Village night crowd—perfumed, elegant
creatures, breezing past en route to food and drink and
entertainment. I walk with them. It’s 7:30, and I’m famished.
    There’s a Thai restaurant up ahead. I step
inside. Very trendy. Very hip. Since I’m alone, the maître d’
promises she can get me seated in fifteen minutes. I can’t quite
tell if she recognizes me, so I don’t push it. Besides, you think
Jansen has ever dined alone?
    It’s insanely loud. I make my way between
tables to the crowded bar. When the bartender asks me what I’d
like, I order Jansen’s specialty without even considering it. I’ve
worked hard today. A drink is very much in order.
    The restaurant is called Manta, and it’s
filled with aquariums. There’s one behind the bar teaming with
these swollen goldfish that look like they’ve been puffed up and
deformed by gamma radiation or something.