Three more interviews followed, including one with the guy on the poster, but I didn’t pay much attention to him. I was more focused on mycereal until Jack’s parents appeared on-screen. Mr. Ross said he was very proud, that his career as a pianist had taken too much time away from his children, but he was glad he could see them more often now. Mary, standing next to him, didn’t get the chance to open her mouth, and I didn’t catch a glimpse of Mike, Sue, Naya, or Will.
Jack looked uncomfortable during the interview with his manager. There were fans behind him begging him to turn around, but he ignored them, and I’m not even sure he really registered the reporter’s presence. He answered the questions absent-mindedly, as though his mind were elsewhere. More people from the press soon crowded in, talking over each other so that it was impossible to hear clearly. The reporter asked if he was nervous about the film premiering in the city where he was born. He said no.
“How do you feel? Proud? Worried?”
“Indifferent,” Jack responded.
What was going on with him? His attitude was worrying me, and I couldn’t imagine what his agent was thinking as he kept glancing over nervously. The questions went on:
REPORTER: “How does your family feel about your success?”
JACK: “Ask them.”
REPORTER: “Did you come here alone?”
JACK: “Yes.”
REPORTER: “What about Vivian Strauss?”
JACK: “What about her?”
REPORTER: “You are in a relationship with her, aren’t you?”
JACK: “No.”
REPORTER: “Is there another special someone?”
Joey interrupted them. “Movie questions only, please. He’s not here to discuss his personal life.” Jack continued responding apathetically to the reporter’s prying: No, the rumors of the film being based on a truestory weren’t real. It was fiction, imagination, not inspired by anything in particular. Eventually, Jack got pissed and told them to just watch the movie. Then all their questions would be answered. Joey could tell things were about to go south, and he smiled and dragged Jack off. Then the press attacked the producers and everyone else. None of what any of them had to say interested me, so I changed the channel to my favorite radical makeovers program and watched it till I dozed off.
I opened my eyes to find something else on and heard the door struck the wall. I put on my glasses, assuming the whole gang was back, but it was only Jack. He tossed his keys blithely on the counter. Was I seeing things? He looked like he’d just returned from smoking a cigarette on the roof.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Nice to see you, too!”
He took off his jacket and tossed it onto a chair, struggled to get off his bow tie, finally gave up, and sat down next to me. I lent him a hand and then made space for him to lie down next to me. He looked tired. Noticing my empty bowl, he went to the kitchen and got some cereal for himself, then sat down and zoned out to the TV.
Perplexed, I asked, “Aren’t you supposed to be at your premiere?”
“Yep.”
“The movie’s still showing, isn’t it?”
“Yep.”
“You don’t care?” I asked.
“Nope.”
I paused a moment, trying to analyze the situation, and when I couldn’t, asked, “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
He swallowed an enormous spoonful of cereal and shrugged. “Is something wrong? You don’t want me here?”
“Of course I do! That’s not what I meant. It’s just… You cut out on your own premiere!”
“No one’s going to miss me. They’re there to see the movie, not me. What’s the point of me being there?”
That sounded absurd, but I couldn’t think of a counterargument, so I said nothing as he wolfed down his cereal, took our two bowls to the kitchen, and walked back, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling his bow tie up over his head. I wanted to scold him when he wadded everything up and threw it into a chair, but it wasn’t my place. Anyway, I had other things to worry about, like not staring at his bare torso as he walked back and forth. That required an Olympic level of effort.
