Immaterial Boy - fan fiction by Greg Gillam

One night my friend Greg Gillam and I were discussing the phenomenon of "fan fiction," whereby fans of a particular television show or movie will write their own erotic stories based on the fictional characters already created. Greg thought it would be hilarious to have "Jason Pettus fan fiction," in which an overanalytical nerd has sex with someone famous and then screws up the relationship through his own self-destructive behavior.

Well, lo and behold, Greg has written his first piece of Pettus fan fiction. I found it really funny so decided to post it here at my site. (He has also created a set of rules so that you too can write your own Pettus fan fiction. Feel free to send it to me if you do!)

In spring of 1998 a bar named Hunny Pub opened on Division east of Ashland. It was a extremely swank joint, and the design was centered on Winnie the Pooh - the Pub's logo was Pooh reaching into a huge cocktail glass. A Disney lawsuit shut the bar after four months. The Pub became legendary as a result because it didn't outlive its ultra-hip status. It closed the week New City wrote it up; when the frat/sorority horde (who ruin all hot spots) lined up they found an empty storefront.

Oddly enough, we were semi-regulars at the Hunny Pub. This was thanks to Shappy, who knows every bartender in Wicker Park, and Krystal, who was a special guest bartender there - the "Hunny Pub Mission Statement" was that every attractive woman in the trade would appear there at least once. The owner welcomed us as local color gave to give the legitimacy. We didn't know if we should be insulted by this, but we went.

At first, Jason was reluctant to go with Shappy and I. Aside from staff and some friends, we were isolated from the crowd. Unbeknownst to us, we were being pimped as "the poets." Our exclusion was actually exclusive. We were presented as dissolute writers, neo-Algrens - mysterious figures of unkempt, cheap-ass decadence. We were intensely interesting, especially when observed from afar.

Then the Hunny Pot made audiences with us a status symbol. The encounters were brief, to preserve the mystique and to keep us from finding out the truth. Jason and I were the best for this scam. Shappy was convivial, but people expected poets to be darker. Jason would say just about anything when drunk and frustrated; while he could careless about being ignored by the elite, the cute girls with short hair among the elite drove him crazy. Harnessed by the right level of alcohol, this made him a perfectly intense writer patrons sought. I was fed bloody marys, which turned me nasty yet urbane.

Hunny Pub servers were astute at controlling us. I never became too verbose, and Jason didn't boil over at the vast untouchable beauty. Despite not knowing our role, we were still transformed by it. The more others treated us like poets, the more poetic we became. We met the rich or powerful hip - PR ad execs, gallery owners, etc. - but few celebrities. We met a few - John Goodman, James Woods, Robert DeNiro, James Cameron, George Wendt, Lili Taylor (I had to punch Jason in the kidneys to keep him from kissing her), and many musicians, DJs and producers that we should have known, but didn't. More stars just waved or stared with envy. Billy Corgan said, "If I wasn't rich and famous, I'd like to be you guys."

I started taking dates to the bar - it always impressed the pants off them. Jason, however, held on to the hope of dating a Hunny girl. The Hunny Pub held special events - largely involving fashion shows and DJs, or surprise sets by big names. We missed most of these as they occurred on weekends when we weren't needed. We did see U2 do a bizarre acoustic/karaoke set (Shappy and Bono doing "Endless Love" is forever burned in my mind).

One rainy June night, the owner asked if we would read at a special Saturday midnight. It was, of course, a fashion show. The stage was set up like a coffee house, and DJs spun acid jazz as models came out in beatnik-influenced outfits and watched us read. They changed between every few poems. (It's important to note that the week after our show the place closed down. This proves my theorem that a club that allows poetry is a club in trouble.)

We went over much better than I expected. Of course, anything that a group of models are paying rapt attention to is going to look good. We didn't know that it was an after-show event for Madonna. Some of the models were her dancers. As Chicago had the rep of being home to the slam, she had requested a poetic display for the party. We weren't told, and were in the back room getting baked when she came in.

One poem Jason read was "She's Eating A Bagel." Before he went on stage he told me that the woman who inspired the poem was in the Pub. "Should I say something?" he asked. Usually I was reluctant to encourage Jason's disclosures, but considering the extreme situation I replied, "Dude, it would be a crime against nature if you didn't say something."

Here fate struck: There was a large buffet for this event. While the Honey Pub outstripped most Midwest restrictions on cool, the spread was singularly banal in that way you can only find in Chicago. This included lox and stale bagels, one of which Madonna picked up and attempted to consume before tossing it in the trash.

When Jason introduced the piece, blurting out "this is about someone in the room," mixing just the right tone of quaint and obscene as he said it, Madonna said to her entourage, "Gawd, that's me." Jason had no idea who spoke and said (sarcastically), "That's right, lady."

Afterwards, Madonna came up and praised all our pieces. Shappy and I were too stunned to remember what she said. Then she turned to Jason. "As for you, well, come over here..." Shappy and I were about to follow, but someone bought us drinks and everything got blurry after that.

The next afternoon Jason and I met at La Piazza. I walked in and sprawled across one of the coffee shop's overstuffed couches, almost too hung over to move. I noticed that Jason was clean shaven, in new clothes and staring at his laptop though it wasn't turned on.

I asked, "Are you okay?"

Jason looked up, lit by an inner light. "I..." he said, and then gazed out the window. He looked back. He drew a breath. "I had sex with Madonna last night. And she said I was great!"

The rest of the summer was bizarre. Anytime Madonna was near Illinois she'd send for Jason. He'd get a page and say to us, "That's Madonna, I'm gonna go meet her for sex." He'd even say it in front of girls he was dating, because everyone would just groan, thinking it one of Jason's catchphrase jokes. Only Shappy and I knew the truth.

It continued until one night in September. Jason and Madonna were basking in the afterglow, discussing an upcoming tv concert. She wanted to shoot it in Chicago, and asked if he knew a local artist who could open up for her. "I'll let you pick the band," she said. "I don't care if they fit my style or not. I can work with anyone." She snuggled in his arms, "Come on, who should it be?"

Jason thought: "Ummm...how about Liz Phair?"

Madonna sat up. "How about me kicking your ass in front of millions of my fans?" she replied.

Minutes later Jason was on the street in only his underwear. He had to beg the bodyguard for his keys and wallet. Some cops picked him up and gave him a ride home. When he told me, Jason was still trying to figure out what happened.

"Jason," I said, "she read your website. She knows about your thing with Phair."

"But why should she care?" he said, "She's Madonna, an uber-woman! I'm a toy to her. I'm a boy toy. That's something a crazy girlfriend would do!"

"Well, of course Jason!" I replied, "As an uber-woman, Madonna is also the ultimate crazy girlfriend."

That was it. As the Pub was closed, we never got close to the beautiful people again. Jason insists that Runaway Lover is about him.

Copyright 2000, Greg Gillam. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.