Deck Chairs
Courtney Lawrence invites me out to dinner on Monday night and the invitation seems vaguely sexual so I accept, but part of the catch is that we have to endure dinner with two Camden graduates, Scott and Anne Smiley, at a new restaurant they chose on Columbus called Deck Chairs, a place I had my secretary research so thoroughly that she presented me with three alternative menus of what I should order before I left the office today. The things that Courtney told me about Scott and Anne—he works at an advertising agency, she opens restaurants with her father’s money, most recently 1968 on the Upper East Side—on the interminable cab ride uptown was only slightly less interesting than hearing about Courtney’s day: facial at Elizabeth Arden, buying kitchen utensils at the Pottery Barn (all of this, by the way, on lithium) before coming down to Harry’s where we had drinks with Charles Murphy and Rusty Webster, and where Courtney forgot the bag of Pottery Barn utensils she’d put underneath our table. The only detail of Scott and Anne’s life that seems even remotely suggestive to me is that they adopted a Korean boy of thirteen the year after they married, named him Scott Jr. and sent him to Exeter, where Scott had gone to school four years before I attended.
“They better have reservations,” I warn Courtney in the cab.
“Just don’t smoke a cigar, Patrick,” she says slowly.
“Is that Donald Trump’s car?” I ask, looking over at the limousine stuck next to us in gridlock.
“Oh god, Patrick. Shut up,” she says, her voice thick and drugged.
“You know, Courtney, I have a Walkman in my Bottega Veneta briefcase I could easily put on,” I say. “You should take some more lithium. Or have a Diet Coke. Some caffeine might get you out of this slump.”
“I just want to have a child,” she says softly, staring out the window, to no one. “Just … two … perfect … children.”
“Are you talking to me or Shlomo here?” I sigh, but loudly enough for the Israeli driver to hear me, and predictably Courtney doesn’t say anything.
The Patty Winters Show this morning was about Perfumes and Lipsticks and Makeups. Luis Carruthers, Courtney’s boyfriend, is out of town in Phoenix and will not be back in Manhattan until late Thursday. Courtney is wearing a wool jacket and vest, a wool jersey T-shirt and wool gabardine pants by Bill Blass, crystal, enamel and gold-plated earrings by Gerard E. Yosca and silk-satin d’Orsay pumps from Manolo Blahnik. I am wearing a custom-made tweed jacket, pants and a cotton shirt from the Alan Flusser shop and a silk tie by Paul Stuart. There was a twenty-minute wait at the Stairmaster machine at my health club this morning. I wave to a beggar on the corner of Forty-ninth and Eighth, then give him the finger.
Tonight the talk centers around Elmore Leonard’s new book—which I haven’t read; certain restaurant critics—who I have; the British sound track from Les Misérables versus the American cast recording; that new Salvadorian bistro on Second and Eighty-third; and which gossip columns are better written—the Post’s or the News’s. It seems that Anne Smiley and I share a mutual acquaintance, a waitress from Abetone’s in Aspen who I raped with a can of hairspray last Christmas when I was skiing there over the holidays. Deck Chairs is crowded, earsplitting, the acoustics lousy because of the high ceilings, and if I’m not mistaken, accompanying the din is a New Age version of “White Rabbit” blaring from speakers mounted in the ceiling corners. Someone who looks like Forrest Atwater—slicked-back blond hair, nonprescription redwood-framed glasses, Armani suit with suspenders—is sitting with Caroline Baker, an investment banker at Drexel, maybe, and she doesn’t look too good. She needs more makeup, the Ralph Lauren tweed outfit is too severe. They’re at a mediocre table up front by the bar.
“It’s called California classic cuisine,” Anne tells me, leaning in close, after we ordered. The statement deserves a reaction, I suppose, and since Scott and Courtney are discussing the merits of the Post’s gossip column, it’s up to me to reply.
“You mean compared to, say, California cuisine?” I ask carefully, measuring each word, then lamely add, “Or post-California cuisine?”
“I mean I know it sounds so trendy but there is a world of difference. It’s subtle,” she says, “but it’s there.”
“I’ve heard of post-California cuisine,” I say, acutely aware of the design of the restaurant: the exposed pipe and the columns and the open pizza kitchen and the … deck chairs. “In fact I’ve even eaten it. No baby vegetables? Scallops in burritos? Wasabi crackers? Am I on the right track? And by the way, did anyone ever tell you that you look exactly like Garfield but run over and skinned and then someone threw an ugly Ferragamo sweater over you before they rushed you to the vet? Fusilli? Olive oil on Brie?”
“Exactly,” Anne says, impressed. “Oh Courtney, where did you find Patrick? He’s so knowledgeable about things. I mean Luis’s idea of California cuisine is half an orange and some gelati,” she gushes, then laughs, encouraging me to laugh with her, which I do, hesitantly.
For an appetizer I ordered radicchio with some kind of free-range squid. Anne and Scott both had the monkfish ragout with violets. Courtney almost fell asleep when she had to exert the energy to read the menu, but before she slid off her chair I grabbed both shoulders, propping her up, and Anne ordered for her, something simple and light like Cajun popcorn perhaps, which wasn’t on the menu but since Anne knows Noj, the chef, he made up a special little batch … just for Courtney! Scott and Anne insisted that we all order some kind of blackened medium-rare redfish, a Deck Chairs specialty which was, luckily for them, an entrée on one of the mock menus that Jean made up for me. If it hadn’t, and if they nevertheless insisted on my ordering it, the odds were pretty good that after dinner tonight I would have broken into Scott and Anne’s studio at around two this morning—after Late Night with David Letterman—and with an ax chopped them to pieces, first making Anne watch Scott bleed to death from gaping chest wounds, and then I would have found a way to get to Exeter where I would pour a bottle of acid all over their son’s slanty-eyed zipperhead face. Our waitress is a little hardbody who is wearing gold faux-pearl tasseled lizard sling-back pumps. I forgot to return my videotapes to the store tonight and I curse myself silently while Scott orders two large bottles of San Pellegrino.
“It’s called California classic cuisine,” Scott is telling me.
“Why don’t we all go to Zeus Bar next week?” Anne suggests to Scott. “You think we’d have a problem getting a table on Friday?” Scott is wearing a red and purple and black striped cashmere intarsia sweater from Paul Stuart, baggy Ralph Lauren corduroys and Cole-Haan leather moccasins.
“Well … maybe,” he says.
“That’s a good idea. I like it a lot,” Anne says, picking up a small violet off her plate and sniffing the flower before placing it carefully on her tongue. She’s wearing a red, purple and black hand-knitted mohair and wool sweater from Koos Van Den Akker Couture and slacks from Anne Klein, with suede open-toe pumps.
A waiter, though not the hardbody, strides over to take another drink order.
“J&B. Straight,” I say before anyone else orders.
Courtney orders a champagne on the rocks, which secretly appalls me. “Oh,” she says as if reminded by something, “can I have that with a twist?”
“A twist of what?” I ask irritably, unable to stop myself. “Let me guess. Melon?” And I’m thinking oh my god why didn’t you return those goddamn videos Bateman you dumb son-of-a-bitch.
“You mean lemon, miss,” the waiter says, giving me an icy stare.
“Yes, of course. Lemon.” Courtney nods, seeming lost in some kind of dream—but enjoying it, oblivious to it.
“I’ll have a glass of the … oh gosh, I guess the Acacia,” Scott says and then addresses the table: “Do I want a white? Do I really want a chardonnay? We can eat the redfish with a cabernet.”
“Go for it,” Anne says cheerily.
“Okay, I’ll have the … oh jeez, the sauvignon blanc,” Scott says.
The waiter smiles, confused.
“Scottie,” Anne shrieks. “The sauvignon blanc?”
“Just teasing,” he snickers. “I’ll have the chardonnay. The Acacia.”
“You complete jerk.” Anne smiles, relieved. “You’re funny.”
“I’m having the chardonnay,” Scott tells the waiter.
“That’s nice,” Courtney says, patting Scott’s hand.
“I’ll just have …” Anne stalls, deliberating. “Oh, I’ll just have a Diet Coke.”
Scott looks up from a piece of corn bread he was dipping into a small tin of olive oil. “You’re not drinking tonight?”
“No,” Anne says, smiling naughtily. Who knows why? And who f*cking cares? “I’m not in the mood.”
“Not even for a glass of the chardonnay?” Scott asks. “How about a sauvignon blanc?”
“I have this aerobics class at nine,” she says, slipping, losing control. “I really shouldn’t.”
“Well then, I don’t want anything,” Scott says, disappointed. “I mean I have one at eight at Xclusive.”
“Does anyone want to guess where I won’t be tomorrow morning at eight?” I ask.
“No, honey. I know how much you like the Acacia.” Anne reaches out and squeezes Scott’s hand.
“No, babe. I’ll stick to the Pellegrino,” Scott says, pointing.
I’m tapping my fingers very loudly on the tabletop, whispering “shit, shit, shit, shit” to myself. Courtney’s eyes are half closed and she’s breathing deeply.
“Listen. I’ll be daring,” Anne says finally. “I’ll have a Diet Coke with rum.”
Scott sighs, then smiles, beaming really. “Good.”
“That’s a caffeine-free Diet Coke, right?” Anne asks the waiter.
“You know,” I interrupt, “you should have it with Diet Pepsi. It’s much better.”
“Really?” Anne asks. “What do you mean?”
“You should have the Diet Pepsi instead of the Diet Coke,” I say. “It’s much better. It’s fizzier. It has a cleaner taste. It mixes better with rum and has a lower sodium content.”
The waiter, Scott, Anne, and even Courtney—they all stare at me as if I’ve offered some kind of diabolical, apocalyptic observation, as if I were shattering a myth highly held, or destroying an oath that was solemnly regarded, and it suddenly seems almost hushed in Deck Chairs. Last night I rented a movie called Inside Lydia’s Ass and while on two Halcion and in fact sipping a Diet Pepsi, I watched as Lydia—a totally tan bleached-blonde hardbody with a perfect ass and great full tits—while on all fours gave head to this guy with a huge cock while another gorgeous blonde little hardbody with a perfectly trimmed blond p-ssy knelt behind Lydia and after eating her ass out and sucking on her cunt, started to push a long, greased silver vibrator into Lydia’s ass and f*cked her with it while she continued to eat her p-ssy and the guy with the huge cock came all over Lydia’s face as she sucked his balls and then Lydia bucked to an authentic-looking, fairly strong orgasm and then the girl behind Lydia crawled around and licked the come from Lydia’s face and then made Lydia suck on the vibrator. The new Stephen Bishop came out last Tuesday and at Tower Records yesterday I bought the compact disc, the cassette and the album because I wanted to own all three formats.
“Listen,” I say, my voice trembling with emotion, “have whatever you want but I’m telling you I recommend the Diet Pepsi.” I look down at my lap, at the blue cloth napkin, the words Deck Chairs sewn into the napkin’s edge, and for a moment think I’m going to cry; my chin trembles and I can’t swallow.
Courtney reaches over and touches my wrist gently, stroking my Rolex. “It’s okay Patrick. It really is.…”
A sharp pain near my liver overcomes the surge of emotion and I sit up in my chair, startled, confused, and the waiter leaves and then Anne asks if we’ve seen the recent David Onica exhibit and I’m feeling calmer.
It turns out we haven’t seen the show but I don’t want to be tacky enough to bring up the fact I own one, so I lightly kick Courtney under the table. This raises her out of the lithium-induced stupor and she says robotically, “Patrick owns an Onica. He really does.”
I smile, pleased; sip my J&B.
“Oh that’s fantastic, Patrick,” Anne says.
“Really? An Onica?” Scott asks. “Isn’t he quite expensive?”
“Well, let’s just say …” I sip my drink, suddenly confused: say … say what? “Nothing.”
Courtney sighs, anticipating another kick. “Patrick’s cost twenty thousand dollars.” She seems bored out of her mind, picking at a flat, warm piece of corn bread.
I give her a sharp look and try not to hiss. “Uh, no, Courtney, it was really fifty.”
She slowly looks up from the corn bread she’s mashing between her fingers and even in her lithium haze manages a stare so malicious that it automatically humbles me, but not enough to tell Scott and Anne the truth: that the Onica cost only twelve grand. But Courtney’s frightening gaze—though I might be overreacting; she might be staring disapprovingly at the patterns on the columns, the Venetian blinds on the skylight, the Montigo vases full of purple tulips lining the bar—scares me enough to not elaborate on the procedure of purchasing an Onica. It’s a stare that I can interpret fairly easily. It warns: Kick me again and no p-ssy, do you understand?
“That seems …,” Anne starts.
I hold my breath, my face tight with tension.
“… low,” she murmurs.
I exhale. “It is. But I got a fabulous deal,” I say, gulping.
“But fifty thousand?” Scott asks suspiciously.
“Well, I think his work … it has a kind of … wonderfully proportioned, purposefully mock-superficial quality.” I pause, then, trying to remember a line from a review I saw in New York magazine: “Purposefully mock …”
“Doesn’t Luis own one, Courtney?” Anne asks, and then tapping Courtney’s arm, “Courtney?”
“Luis … owns … what?” Courtney shakes her head as if to clear it, widening her eyes to make sure they don’t close on her.
“Who’s Luis?” Scott asks, waving to the waitress to have the butter the busboy recently placed on the table removed—what a party animal.
Anne answers for Courtney. “Her boyfriend,” she says after seeing Courtney, confused, actually looking at me for help.
“Where’s he at?” Scott asks.
“Texas,” I say quickly. “He’s out of town in Phoenix, I mean.”
“No,” Scott says. “I meant what house.”
“L. F. Rothschild,” Anne says, about to look at Courtney for confirmation, but then at me. “Right?”
“No. He’s at P & P,” I say. “We work together, sort of.”
“Wasn’t he dating Samantha Stevens at one point?” Anne asks.
“No,” Courtney says. “That was just a photo someone took of them that was in W.”
I down my drink as soon as it arrives and wave almost immediately for another and I’m thinking Courtney is a babe but no sex is worth this dinner. The conversation violently shifts while I’m staring across the room at a great-looking woman—blonde, big tits, tight dress, satin pumps with gold cones—when Scott starts telling me about his new compact disc player while Anne unwittingly prattles on to a stoned and completely oblivious Courtney about new kinds of low-sodium wheat-rice cake, fresh fruits and New Age music, particularly Manhattan Steamroller.
“It’s Aiwa,” Scott’s saying. “You’ve got to hear it. The sound”—he pauses, closes his eyes in ecstasy, chewing on corn bread—“is fantastic.”
“Well, you know, Scottie, the Aiwa is okay.” Oh holy shit, dream on, Scot-tie, I’m thinking. “But Sansui is really top of the line.” I pause, then add, “I should know. I own one.”
“But I thought Aiwa was top of the line.” Scott looks worried but not yet upset enough to please me.
“No way, Scott,” I say. “Does Aiwa have digital remote control?”
“Yeah,” he says.
“Computer controls?”
“Uh-huh.” What a complete and total dufus.
“Does the system come with a turntable that has a metacrylate and brass platter?”
“Yes,” the bastard lies!
“Does your system have an … Accophase T-106 tuner?” I ask him.
“Sure,” he says, shrugging.
“Are you sure?” I say. “Think carefully.”
“Yeah. I think so,” he says, but his hand shakes as it reaches for more of the corn bread.
“What kind of speakers?”
“Well, Duntech wood,” he answers too quickly.
“So solly, dude. You’ve got to have the Infinity IRS V speakers,” I say. “Or—”
“Wait a minute,” he interrupts. “V speakers? I’ve never heard of V speakers.”
“See, that’s what I mean,” I say. “If you don’t have the V’s, you might as well be listening to a goddamn Walkman.”
“What’s the bass response on those speakers?” he asks suspiciously.
“An ultralow fifteen hertz,” I purr, enunciating each word.
That shuts him up for a minute. Anne drones on about nonfat frozen yogurt and chow chows. I sit back, satisfied at having stumped Scott, but too quickly he regains his composure and says, “Anyway”—trying to act blissfully uncaring that he owns a cheap, shitty stereo—“we bought the new Phil Collins today. You should hear how great ‘Groovy Kind of Love’ sounds on it.”
“Yeah, I think it’s by far the best song he’s written,” I say, blah blah blah, and though it’s finally something Scott and I can agree on, the plates of blackened redfish appear and they look bizarre and Courtney excuses herself to the ladies’ room and, after thirty minutes, when she hasn’t reappeared I wander into the back of the restaurant and find her asleep in the coatcheck room.
But at her apartment she lies naked on her back, her legs—tan and aerobicized and muscular and worked out—are spread and I’m on my knees giving her head while jerking myself off and in the time since I’ve started licking and sucking on her p-ssy she’s already come twice and her cunt is tight and hot and wet and I keep it spread open, fingering it with one hand, keeping myself hard with the other. I lift her ass up, wanting to push my tongue into her, but she doesn’t want me to and so I raise up my head and reach over to the Portian antique nightstand for the condom that sits in the ashtray from Palio next to the halogen Tensor lamp and the D’Oro pottery urn and I tear the package open with two shiny slick fingers and my teeth, then slip it, easily, onto my cock.
“I want you to f*ck me,” Courtney moans, pulling her legs back, spreading her vagina even wider, fingering herself, making me suck her fingers, the nails on her hand long and red, and the juice from her cunt, glistening in the light coming from the streetlamps through the Stuart Hall Venetian blinds, tastes pink and sweet and she rubs it over my mouth and lips and tongue before it cools.
“Yeah,” I say, moving on top of her, sliding my dick gracefully into her cunt, kissing her on the mouth hard, pushing into her with long fast strokes, my cock, my hips crazed, moving on their own desirous momentum, already my orgasm builds from the base of my balls, my a*shole, coming up through my cock so stiff that it aches—but then in mid-kiss I lift my head up, leaving her tongue hanging out of her mouth starting to lick her own red swollen lips, and while still humping but lightly now I realize there … is … a … problem of sorts but I cannot think of what it is right now … but then it hits me while I’m staring at the half-empty bottle of Evian water on the nightstand and I gasp “Oh shit” and pull out.
“What?” Courtney moans. “Did you forget something?”
Without answering I get up from the futon and stumble into her bathroom trying to pull off the condom but it gets stuck halfway and while easing it off I accidentally trip over the Genold scale while also trying to flip on the light switch and in the process stubbing my big toe, then, cursing, I manage to open the medicine cabinet.
“Patrick what are you doing?” she calls from the bedroom.
“I’m looking for the water-soluble spermicidal lubricant,” I call back. “What do you think I’m doing? Looking for an Advil?”
“Oh my god,” she cries out. “You didn’t have any on?”
“Courtney,” I call back, noticing a small razor nick above my lip. “Where is it?”
“I cannot hear you, Patrick,” she calls out.
“Luis has terrible taste in cologne,” I mutter, picking up a bottle of Paco Rabanne, sniffing it.
“What are you saying?” she cries out.
“The water-soluble spermicidal lubricant,” I shout back, staring into the mirror, searching her counter for a Clinique Touch-Stick to put over the razor nick.
“What do you mean—where is it?” she calls out. “Didn’t you have it with you?”
“Where is the goddamn water-soluble spermicidal lubricant?” I scream. “Water! Soluble! Spermicidal! Lubricant!” I’m shouting this while using some of her Clinique cover-up over the blemish, then combing my hair back.
“Top shelf,” she says, “I think.”
While looking through the medicine cabinet I glance over at her tub, noticing how plain it is, which moves me to say, “You know, Courtney, you should really get your act together and get your tub marbleized or maybe add some Jacuzzi jets.” I call out, “Can you hear me? Courtney?”
After a long while she says, “Yes … Patrick. I hear you.”
I finally find the tube behind a huge bottle—a jar—of Xanax on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet and before my dick totally softens place a small dab of it inside the tip of the condom, slather it on the latex sheath and then walk back into the bedroom, jumping onto the futon, causing her to snap, “Patrick, this is not a f*cking trampoline.” Ignoring her I kneel over her body, sliding my cock up into Courtney and immediately she’s pushing her hips up to meet my thrusts, then she licks her thumb and starts rubbing her *. I watch as my cock moves in then out then into her vagina with long fast strokes.
“Wait,” she gasps.
“What?” I moan, puzzled but almost there.
“Luis is a despicable twit,” she gasps, trying to push me out of her.
“Yes,” I say, leaning on top of her, tonguing her ear. “Luis is a despicable twit. I hate him too,” and now, spurred on by her disgust for her wimp boyfriend, I start moving faster, my climax approaching.
“No, you idiot,” she groans. “I said Is it a receptacle tip? Not ‘Is Luis a despicable twit.’ Is it a receptacle tip? Get off me.”
“Is what a what? I moan.
“Pull out,” she groans, struggling.
“I’m ignoring you,” I say, moving my mouth down on her small perfect nipples, both of them stiff, sitting on hard, big tits.
“Pull out, goddamnit!” she screams.
“What do you want, Courtney?” I grunt, slowing my thrusts down until I finally straighten up and then I’m just kneeling over her, my cock still half inside. She hunches back against the headboard and my dick slides out.
“It’s a plain end.” I point. “I think.”
“Turn the light on,” she says, trying to sit up.
“Oh Jesus,” I say. “I’m going home.”
“Patrick,” she warns. “Turn on the light.”
I reach over and flip on the halogen Tensor.
“It’s a plain end, see?” I say. “So?”
“Take it off,” she says curtly.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because you have to leave half an inch at the tip,” she says, covering her breasts with the Hermès comforter, her voice rising, her patience shot, “to catch the force of the ejaculate!”
“I’m getting out of here,” I threaten, but don’t move. “Where’s your lithium?”
She throws a pillow over her head and mumbles something, retreating into a fetal position. I think she’s starting to cry.
“Where is your lithium, Courtney?” I calmly ask again. “You must take some.”
Something indecipherable is mumbled again and she shakes her head—no, no, no—beneath the pillow.
“What? What did you say?” I ask with forced politeness, jerking myself feebly back to an erection. “Where?” Sobs beneath the pillow, barely audible.
“You are crying now and though it sounds clearer to me I still cannot hear a word you’re saying.” I try to grab the pillow off her head. “Now speak up!”
Again she mumbles, again it doesn’t make any sense.
“Courtney,” I warn, getting furious, “if you just said what I think you said: that your lithium is in a carton in the freezer next to the Frusen Gl?djé and is a sorbet”—I’m screaming this—“if this is really what you said then I will kill you. Is it a sorbet? Is your lithium really a sorbet?” I scream, finally pulling the pillow from her head and slapping her hard once, across the face.
“Do you think you’re turning me on by having unsafe sex?” she screams back.
“Oh Christ, this really isn’t worth it,” I mutter, pulling the condom down so there is half an inch to spare—a little less actually. “And see, Courtney, it’s there for what? Huh? Tell us.” I slap her again, this time lightly. “Why is it pulled down half an inch? So it can catch the force of the ejaculate!”
“Well, it’s not a turn-on for me.” She’s hysterical, racked with tears, choking. “I have a promotion coming to me. I’m going to Barbados in August and I don’t want a case of Kaposi’s sarcoma to f*ck it up!” She chokes, coughing. “Oh god I want to wear a bikini,” she wails. “A Norma Kamali I just bought at Bergdorf’s.”
I grab her head and force her to look at the placement of the condom. “See? Happy? You dumb bitch? Are you happy, you dumb bitch?”
Without looking at my dick she sobs, “Oh god just get it over with,” and falls back down on the bed.
Roughly I push my cock back into her and bring myself to an orgasm so weak as to be almost nonexistent and my groan of a massive but somewhat expected disappointment is mistaken by Courtney for pleasure and momentarily spurs her on as she lies sobbing beneath me on the bed, sniffling, to reach down and touch herself but I start getting soft almost instantly—actually during the moment I came—but if I don’t withdraw from her while still erect she’ll freak out so I hold on to the base of the condom as I literally wilt out of her. After lying there on separate sides of the bed for what might be twenty minutes with Courtney whimpering about Luis and antique cutting boards and the sterling silver cheese grater and muffin tin she left at Harry’s, she then tries to give me head. “I want to f*ck you again,” I tell her, “but I don’t want to wear a condom because I don’t feel anything,” and she says calmly, taking her mouth off my limp shrunken dick, glaring at me, “If you don’t use one you’re not going to feel anything anyway.”