“Johnny,” Cliff says. “I’m glad to see you. You weren’t at the hotel this morning for pick up.”
“Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d get to set early.”
“That’s good,” he says, an edge to his voice that tells me he doesn’t think it’s good at all. Any break in habit is concerning. “Just tell me next time.”
He lurks, lingering, taking a seat to do some work on his Blackberry, so Jazz doesn’t bring anything up again, everyone just doing their jobs.
“Well, would you look at that,” Jazz says after half an hour. “You look like Johnny Cunning again.”
I stare at my reflection.
“Wasn’t sure it would ever happen,” Cliff says. “He was becoming unrecognizable.”
People come in and out of the trailer, greeting me and welcoming me back, being overly friendly. I don’t mind it. It’s kind of nice, being back at it, especially once I put on the suit. The material feels tighter than usual, and wardrobe works hard to get it to look how it should. I stand there, surrounded by mirrors, and smile.
“Boy, if you keep making that face, it’s liable to get stuck,” Jazz says, spinning around in an office chair as she watches.
“Don’t you have work to do?” I ask her. “Someone else to be fixing up?”
“Nope, just you, superstar.”
At eight-thirty, I’m called to set. We’re filming inside today, so I don’t have to worry about the gathering crowd. Excitement stirs inside of me. I feel hopeful. On top of my fucking game. I’m ready to take on the world and conquer it… until the camera starts rolling.
It moves in a blur. We have a lot to cover. Jumping from scene to scene, from moment to moment, trying to get my head right and channel the emotions. I’m out of sorts, out of breath, completely exhausted by the time we wrap for the day.
“Get to the gym tonight,” Cliff says, walking beside me on the way back to wardrobe to take the suit off. “Build up that stamina, or you’re going to have the longest month of your life. It’s not going to get any easier.”
“I know,” I mutter, heading into the trailer.
It takes another hour before I’m back in my clothes, ready to leave, but I can’t because the director is requesting a meeting and a producer wants a quick word and my script needs altered after my schedule gets updated. The excitement is wearing off as the pressure mounts. I grab a muffin from the caterer before he can pack up, and endure a few dirty looks because I’m supposed to stay in tip-top shape and that doesn’t leave room for shit like carbs.
Cliff, meanwhile, is talking to PR, and I want to have a word with them myself, but they leave before I can.
“You ever tell anyone how you discovered me?” I ask Cliff when we head for the car. “You ever talk about it?”
“No,” he says. “Why would I?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it just came up.”
“What’s this about?” he asks.
“Chronicles mentioned something about me being a thief.”
He sighs loudly. “How many times do I have to tell you not to read that? You shouldn’t even be looking at it. Stop worrying about them.”
“I’m not worried,” I say. “I just found it strange they knew.”
“This industry springs more leaks than the Titanic. People like to talk. That’s why I push for the confidentiality agreements—so we can control the narrative as much as possible.”
“But not many people knew what I did back then,” I say. “Me. You. My therapist.”
“Your girlfriend,” he says, not even looking up from his Blackberry.
“I never told her.”
“Come on, you think she didn’t figure it out?”
“Even if she did, she wouldn’t have said anything,” I say, “and my therapist can’t.”
“Okay, then, they made a lucky guess,” he says, that edge back to his voice again. “They’ve accused you of a lot. Throw a bunch of darts and something is bound to stick. But I don’t know why you’re stressing. You have people for this. Let the grown ups handle it.”
Few things are more infuriating as a grown man than having someone tell me to let the grown ups handle things.
“Did you fuck up?” Jack’s voice sounds incredibly hopeful. “I bet you fucked it all up, didn’t you?”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I tell him, “but even when I suck, I’m damn good.”
He snickers, not bothering to hold back. I realize how those words sound the moment I say them, and Jack being Jack isn’t going to let it slide. “Is that how you keep landing these roles? Blowing your way straight to stardom?”
“Fuck off.”
“You know, now that I think about it, you do talk about people riding your ass a lot.”
I laugh at that one, strolling through the hotel lobby, wearing an old white t-shirt and sweats, looking like I ought to be in bed. Wish I could, frankly. I tried calling Kennedy but got no answer, so instead I called Jack and well, you know how it is.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” I tell him. “At least I’m doing something.”
“I’ll have you know I’m doing something as we speak.”
“What? Whacking it to tentacle porn?”
“Christ, are you spying on me, man? How the hell did you know?”
“I figured it was either that or you were trolling dating sites using my picture.”
“Ha-ha, you’re the last person I’d use to pick up ladies,” he says. “I’m not sure how you even get them, running around looking like that.”
“Like what?”
“Sweatpants,” he says. “Pretty sure that t-shirt has holes in it. And those Nikes are filthy.”
Brow furrowed, I glance down at myself. “Are you spying on me?”
“Would I do that?”
“Yes.” I look around the lobby, my gaze shifting outside the front doors, spotting him standing along the curb. He waves. “That’s creepy as hell, Jack.”
“Creepy is my middle name.”
Hanging up, I slip my phone in the pocket of my sweats before strolling out of the hotel, meeting him on the sidewalk.
I haven’t seen him in a while. We’ve only hung out in person a handful of times. Our lives are so different that the opportunity doesn’t happen often.
“Am I going to have to get a restraining order?”
“Probably,” he says. “I was in the neighborhood, knew you’d be here, so I thought maybe you’d want to do something.”
“Well, I was on my way to the gym, but any excuse not to work out tonight is good with me,” I say. “What do you have in mind? Video games? Fast food? I’m going to have to draw the line at prostitutes.”
He grins. “Something much more exciting.”
“What’s more exciting than that?”
A meeting, it turns out. You’ve gotta be fucking kidding. Thirty minutes later, I’m sitting in a dim basement, listening to another alcoholic’s sob story. They take turns sharing before the room goes quiet. An awkward silence. Those are a nightmare for an actor.
Fuck it.
I stand.
“My name’s Jonathan and I’m an alcoholic.”
They welcome me. Half of them probably recognize me, but I don’t care. As many of these as I’ve been to, this is the first time I’ve spoken, always too worried about my damn image.
So I tell my story, not sugarcoating. I tell them how much of a fuck-up I was. My daughter went the first few years of her life without a father because I chose it all over her. The drugs. The alcohol. The movies. The red carpets and the parties and the people I didn’t even like, but I humored them because they were famous.
The meeting ends a few minutes after I finish.
As we’re leaving, Jack turns to me and says, “So, how about a drink?”
I laugh, shoving him. “I don’t think I could’ve chosen a worse sponsor.”
“Yeah, you suck at making decisions.”
“I’m getting better, though.”