There is a man shaking my hand outside the Chinese Theater. Pumping it, just shaking vigorously and with great excitement. He marched up to me a moment ago, here on Hollywood Boulevard, grinning and waggling his eyebrows. Ah ha ha, he says. It’s perfect. You’ve done it right. You’re his twin!

I mean, he continues, the Spider Man, sure, the Elvis, yes, the Marilyn. We expected to see all of them. And they’re all sort of piss-poor, just disappointing. But you, you could be the real deal!

Nothing he says gives me a clue as to what he’s talking about. He hands me a dollar.

You’ve earned it, he says.

Then he asks to take his photo with me. Everybody snaps pictures of me. People press themselves next to me and wrap their arms around my shoulders, grinning at cameras, pointing their fingers at me. Many give me dollar bills.

The Spider Man doesn’t look happy. When I finally get a minute alone, he comes up to me, arms crossed. Good gimmick, he says to me. Really clever. But haven’t you made enough money? The rest of us need to make a living too, you know.

What? I ask.

Why don’t you fuck off now, he says.

* * *

When I get on the bus and take a seat, the older woman next to me looks amazed. You! she says. What are you doing on the bus?

Going to work, I tell her.

I guess I thought you’d have your own car or a limo would drive you around, she says.

I wish, I say. She laughs.

Everybody on the bus laughs. I look around, and they are all staring back at me, eyes wide, teeth showing. I look at the front of the bus and see the bus driver looking back at me through his mirror. He gives me a thumbs up. You’re all right! he says.

A small man in sunglasses rises from the back of the bus and comes forward to sit next to me. He doesn’t make eye contact, but leans back, so that his shoulder is touching mine.

So how is it? he asks in a low voice. You get a lot of play? I bet you get a lot of play.

What? I ask.

The bus stops at its next stop. A new passenger gets on, a young woman. She sees me and her eyes pop open. Her jaw drops.

The woman next to me laughs and points at me. I know, she says. I know! On our bus!

* * *

My boss comes to talk to me. We have to let you go, he says.

What, why? I ask.

I don’t want to, he says. We thought maybe it would be a good thing to keep you on. Attract some interest, and maybe it would be some kind of a bonus, something we could capitalize on. You, selling CDs here. Who would think it! When we started getting phone calls, asking if it was true that you worked here, that’s what we thought. When we opened the gate this morning and there was a mob outside, we thought, well, here it is. In this economy? A mob outside your door? Has to be a good thing, right? But nobody wants to buy anything. They’re all just autograph hunters, and they’re keeping real customers from getting what they want, and they’re keeping you from doing your job.

How many autographs did you sign this morning? he asks.

I don’t know. Hundreds? My arm is cramped.

And it’s bad for business, he says. We have celebrities come in here all the time. We had Brad Pitt buy $200 worth of CDs a month ago. You think they’re going to come in if the place is full of autograph hounds, sniffing about, looking to get signatures? No, there are a lot of other places they can buy CDs.

I tell him I don’t know how I am going to pay my bills without a job.

He seems surprised. Aren’t there all sorts of offers coming in? he asks. Television? Interview shows? Tabloids?

Frankly, he says, I was surprised you came to work today. I wouldn’t have. I would have just gone my way, without even a phone call. That’s what I would have done, and it’s what we expected from you.

Go get yourself an agent, he says. Do you have a cell phone?

Battery is charging, I say.

Throw it out, he says. Tell people they have to contact you through your agent.

He asks me to leave through the door into the alley. There is a crowd waiting there for me. They surge toward me, pens, paper, and cameras in hand.

* * *

The agent stares at me.

You must have gotten a lot of offers, he says.

I had 200 phone messages waiting for me, I answer.

Why did you you pick us to talk to? he asks.

I tell him I recognized the name of his agency. It’s the sort of name you hear even if you’re not in the industry.

You made the right choice, he tells me. There’s a reason we’re as well-known as we are. The truth is, if you’re just looking for money, we may not be the best agency for you. We manage careers here, and sometimes the best thing for a career isn’t the best thing for a pocket book.

I don’t have a career, I tell him.

Yes you do, he says. You just don’t know it yet.

How are you handling it all? he asks.

I don’t know, I tell him. I confess that I don’t know what is going on.

Yes, he answers. This is how it always is. It happens so quickly. There’s no way to be prepared for it. That’s why agencies like mine exist. We know what needs to be done.

I tell him I don’t even know what happened.

Yes, he says. Yes. Sometimes you don’t know.

He looks forward, very intently. People think they want this, he says. They don’t want this. Everything is different now, and not for the better.

You’ll see, he says. But there’s no going back now.

* * *

Brownie unfriended me online. We’ve known each other for more than a decade.

You’ve changed, he wrote me, part of a long, rambling, angry email. You don’t need me, he told me. You must have a million new friends. The whole world is your friend, and how can Brownie compete?

I don’t have new friends.

Some people email me. People from my past, who I hardly remember, suggesting we get coffee, or a drink, or asking for money. I don’t respond to these emails. My agent says it’s not worth it. But I have been losing my actual friends. Brownie’s email wasn’t the first. I expect more. And there’s worse.

There is a woman in Sarasota claiming that I am the father of her child. I have never been to Sarasota.

There are three lawsuits against me. One from an old roommate, claiming thousands of dollars of long-distance phone bills he says I left without paying. One from a fitness club that claims I signed on with them but never paid. One from my brother, claiming I still owe him for a computer he helped finance a few years back.

I don’t know why they are suing me. I don’t have any money.

There’s a little, here and there. Talk shows pay a few hundred dollars per appearance, but my agent has limited how many I may appear on. He says they are useless unless you have something to promote. And, because I am not naturally funny, he must hire a writer to script my anecdotes for me, which I then must memorize. It’s more work than my job in the CD store was, and I get paid less.

We do get some money from possible spokesman jobs. My agent charges a fee just to meet with him. He tells the business that it’s how he can tell that they are serious.

But he’s not serious. There will be no spokesman job. Nothing ruins a career faster, he says. It used to be you could go to Japan and hawk products there, but now, with the Internet, those commercials make it back to the US, and it’s an embarrassment.

He wouldn’t even agree to the meetings, but I can’t have no income at all. After all, I have a personal assistant now, to do my shopping for me, and send my clothes to the cleaners. When I go out, I have a driver. I live in a gated community, as I must have security. It’s expensive.

Some people make a living by charging fees to attend restaurant openings and the like, to make a place seem hip. I mention this to my agent.

You’re not that kind of a celebrity, he says. Nobody is going to go to a restaurant because you do.

* * *

I get letters from women. Some contain photographs of them with their clothes off. Men send similar letters. Under no circumstance am I to respond to any of these letters, my agent tells me. Not unless I want another lawsuit.

When you start making money, we’ll get you hookers, he tells me.

He won’t tell me when I can expect to start making money. It’s an art, not a science, he says. We’re laying the groundwork, he says.

Enjoy what you have, he tells me.

I get free clothes. Companies just mail them to me. And I attend red carpet events. My agent sets me up on dates with rising stars. We travel to the event together in a limo, the rising star talking on her cell phone the whole way. We walk down the red carpet together and stop for photographs. And, once inside the event, my date thanks me and disappears.

I run into a young television actor at one of these events. We’re in the bathroom at the same time. He laughs when he sees me. I love you, he says.

Thank you, I answer.

We talk about you on the set all the time, he says. We love that nobody knows why you’re so famous. You seem like you should be a nobody!

We talk about you too, I say back. Nobody can figure out why you have a career, because you’re a terrible actor.

His smile fades. You’re mean, he says to me.

* * *

     I need more money. I attend a seminar for famous people. There are such things in Hollywood. It’s mostly former child actors and washed up television stars who still get recognized in public. They all need money.

     The man who hosts the seminar says you need a gimmick. A catch phrase, a hand gesture, anything that will add to your recognizability.

     I start dressing like a movie cowboy. It’s a decision I make at random, but it immediately works. I get invited to Western conventions, I get a few walk on parts on Western movies. It’s not lucrative, but it’s more than I was making.

     My agent hates it. Kitchy, he says, shaking his head.

* * *

My agent has passed me down to one of his employees, a former intern who was recently hired on full-time.

I’m sorry to do this, he says. I was waiting until we could capitalize on your actual talents. But the trouble is that you can’t actually do anything.

It’s true. I’m not an actor. I’m not a singer. I’m not a model. I don’t have amusing stories about my life. I can’t design clothes, or make movies, or write a book.

This happens sometimes, he tells me. You’re famous for being famous. And you don’t need me for that. Helmut is very capable. He can handle things for you.

Helmut will not return my phone calls. He is ambitious. He is unimpressed by fame. Money moves him.

You’re not worth a lot of money to me, he told me once.

He plugs me into charity events. I get paid an honorarium for that. It’s enough to pay my bills, and it’s fine. I give a speech and raise a few thousand dollars for dogs, or diseases, or third-world countries. People seem to think I am doing some good. I’m always seated at tables with aging movie stars and their husbands, and they tell me how impressed they are with me.

Some people in this town are just awful monsters, one says. But you, you, you’re doing some good. You’re a philanthropist.

After the luncheons or dinners I meet with millionaire donors and take photos with them and sign autographs. Sometimes they ask to wear my cowboy hat. I let them. Then I go home and watch television.

There are still lawsuits, but not so many. I don’t speak to any of my old friends anymore. An ex-girlfriend wrote a tell-all book about me. It sold very poorly. I didn’t even read it. What was there to tell?

I don’t get invited to red carpet events anymore. There are no more paparazzi. I can do my own shopping now, although I still must occasionally sign an autograph waiting in life for a cashier. It’s all become very normal to me.

* * *

I had a dream last night. I was by the ocean, near the Santa Monica Pier.

On the beach was a mermaid, combing her hair. She saw me and smiled.

Hi cowboy, she said.

Hello, I said.

Do you want a wish? she asked.

Only if you promise it won’t come true, I answered.

Then she asked if she could take her photograph with me. She wore my hat.

– Max Sparber