American psycho_ a novel

Christmas Party


I’m having drinks with Charles Murphy at Rusty’s to fortify myself before making an appearance at Evelyn’s Christmas party. I’m wearing a four-button double-breasted wool and silk suit, a cotton shirt with a button-down collar by Valentino Couture, a patterned silk tie by Armani and cap-toed leather slip-ons by Allen-Edmonds. Murphy is wearing a six-button double-breasted wool gabardine suit by Courrèges, a striped cotton shirt with a tab collar and a foulard-patterned silk-crepe tie, both by Hugo Boss. He’s on a tirade about the Japanese—“They’ve bought the Empire State Building and Nell’s. Nell’s, can you believe it, Bateman?” he exclaims over his second Absolut on the rocks—and it moves something in me, it sets something off, and after leaving Rusty’s, while wandering around the Upper West Side, I find myself crouched in the doorway of what used to be Carly Simon’s, a very hot J. Akail restaurant that closed last fall, and leaping out at a passing Japanese delivery boy, I knock him off his bicycle and drag him into the doorway, his legs tangled somehow in the Schwinn he was riding which works to my advantage since when I slit his throat—easily, effortlessly—the spasmodic kicking that usually accompanies this routine is blocked by the bike, which he still manages to lift five, six times while he’s choking on his own hot blood. I open the cartons of Japanese food and dump their contents over him, but to my surprise instead of sushi and teriyaki and hand rolls and soba noodles, chicken with cashew nuts falls all over his gasping bloodied face and beef chow mein and shrimp fried rice and moo shu pork splatter onto his heaving chest, and this irritating setback—accidentally killing the wrong type of Asian—moves me to check where this order was going—Sally Rubinstein—and with my Mont Blanc pen to write I’m gonna get you too … bitch on the back of it, then place the order over the dead kid’s face and shrug apologetically, mumbling “Uh, sorry” and recall that The Patty Winters Show this morning was about Teenage Girls Who Trade Sex for Crack. I spent two hours at the gym today and can now complete two hundred abdominal crunches in less than three minutes. Near Evelyn’s brownstone I hand a freezing bum one of the fortune cookies I took from the delivery boy and he stuffs it, fortune and all, into his mouth, nodding thanks. “F*cking slob,” I mutter loud enough for him to hear. As I turn the corner and head for Evelyn’s, I notice the police lines are still up around the brownstone where her neighbor Victoria Bell was decapitated. Four limousines are parked in front, one still running.
I’m late. The living room and dining room are already crowded with people I don’t really want to talk to. Tall, full blue spruces covered with white twinkling lights stand on either side of the fireplace. Old Christmas songs from the sixties sung by the Ronettes are on the CD player. A bartender in a tuxedo pours champagne and eggnog, mixes Manhattans and martinis, opens bottles of Calera Jensen pinot noir and a Chappellet chardonnay. Twenty-year-old ports line a makeshift bar between vases of poinsettias. A long folding table has been covered with a red tablecloth and is jammed with pans and plates and bowls of roasted hazelnuts and lobster and oyster bisques and celery root soup with apples and Beluga caviar on toast points and creamed onions and roast goose with chestnut stuffing and caviar in puff pastry and vegetable tarts with tapenade, roast duck and roast rack of veal with shallots and gnocchi gratin and vegetable strudel and Waldorf salad and scallops and bruschetta with mascarpone and white truffles and green chili souffle and roast partridge with sage, potatoes and onion and cranberry sauce, mincemeat pies and chocolate truffles and lemon soufflé tarts and pecan tarte Tatin. Candles have been lit everywhere, all of them in sterling silver Tiffany candleholders. And though I cannot be positive that I’m not hallucinating, there seem to be midgets dressed in green and red elf suits and felt hats walking around with trays of appetizers. I pretend not to have noticed and head straight for the bar where I gulp down a glass of not-bad champagne then move over to Donald Petersen, and as with most of the men here, someone has tied paper antlers to his head. On the other side of the room Maria and Darwin Hutton’s five-year-old daughter, Cassandra, is wearing a seven-hundred-dollar velvet dress and petticoat by Nancy Halser. After finishing a second glass of champagne I move to martinis—Absolut doubles—and after I’ve calmed down sufficiently I take a closer look around the room, but the midgets are still there.
“Too much red,” I mutter to myself, trancing out. “It’s makin’ me nervous.”
“Hey McCloy,” Petersen says. “What do you say?”
I snap out of it and automatically ask, “Is this the British cast recording of Les Misérables or not?”
“Hey, have a holly jolly Christmas.” He points a finger at me, drunk.
“So what is this music?” I ask, thoroughly annoyed. “And by the way, sir, deck the halls with boughs of holly.”
“Bill Septor,” he says, shrugging. “I think Septor or Skeptor.”
“Why doesn’t she put on some Talking Heads for Christ sakes,” I complain bitterly.
Courtney is standing on the other side of the room, holding a champagne glass and ignoring me completely.
“Or Les Miz,” he suggests.
“American or British cast recording?” My eyes narrowing, I’m testing him.
“Er, British,” he says as a dwarf hands us each a plate of Waldorf salad.
“Definitely,” I murmur, staring at the dwarf as he waddles away.
Suddenly Evelyn rushes up to us wearing a sable jacket and velvet pants by Ralph Lauren and in one hand she’s holding a piece of mistletoe, which she places above my head, and in the other a candy cane.
“Mistletoe alert!” she shrieks, kissing me dryly on the cheek. “Merry Xmas, Patrick. Merry Xmas, Jimmy.”
“Merry … Xmas,” I say, unable to push her away since I’ve got a martini in one hand and a Waldorf salad in the other.
“You’re late, honey,” she says.
“I’m not late,” I say, barely protesting.
“Oh yes you are,” she says in singsong.
“I’ve been here the entire time,” I say, dismissing her. “You just didn’t see me.”
“Oh, stop scowling. You’re such a Grinch.” She turns to Petersen. “Did you know Patrick’s the Grinch?”
“Bah humbug,” I sigh, staring over at Courtney.
“Hell, we all know McCloy’s the Grinch,” Petersen bellows drunkenly. “How ya doin’, Mr. Grinch?”
“And what does Mr. Grinch want for Christmas?” Evelyn asks in a baby’s voice. “Has Mr. Grinchie been a good boy this year?”
I sigh. “The Grinch wants a Burberry raincoat, a Ralph Lauren cashmere sweater, a new Rolex, a car stereo—”
Evelyn stops sucking on the candy cane to interrupt. “But you don’t have a car, honey.”
“I want one anyway.” I sigh again. “The Grinch wants a car stereo anyway.”
“How’s the Waldorf salad?” Evelyn asks worriedly. “Do you think it tastes all right?”
“Delicious,” I murmur, craning my neck, spotting someone, suddenly impressed. “Hey, you didn’t tell me Laurence Tisch was invited to this party.”
She turns around. “What are you talking about?”
“Why,” I ask, “is Laurence Tisch passing around a tray of canapes?”
“Oh god, Patrick, that’s not Laurence Tisch,” she says. “That’s one of the Christmas elves.”
“One of the what? You mean the midgets.”
“They’re elves,” she stresses. “Santa’s helpers. God, what a sourpuss. Look at them. They’re adorable. That one over there is Rudolph, the one passing out candy canes is Blitzen. The other one is Donner—”
“Wait a minute, Evelyn, wait,” I say, closing my eyes, holding up the hand with the Waldorf salad in it. I’m sweating, déjà vu, but why? Have I met these elves somewhere? Forget about it. “I … those are the names of reindeer. Not elves. Blitzen was a reindeer.”
“The only Jewish one,” Petersen reminds us.
“Oh …” Evelyn seems bewildered by this information and she looks over at Petersen to confirm this. “Is this true?”
He shrugs, thinks about it and looks confused. “Hey, baby—reindeer, elves, Grinches, brokers … Hell, what’s the difference long as the Cristal flows, hey?” He chuckles, nudging me in the ribs. “Ain’t that right, Mr. Grinch?”
“Don’t you think it’s Christmasy?” she asks hopefully.
“Oh yes, Evelyn,” I tell her. “It’s very Christmasy and I’m truthful, not lying.”
“But Mr. Sourpuss was late,” she pouts, shaking that damn piece of mistletoe at me accusingly. “And not a word about the Waldorf salad.”
“You know, Evelyn, there were a lot of other Xmas parties in this metropolis that I could have attended tonight yet I chose yours. Why? you might ask. Why? I asked myself. I didn’t come up with a feasible answer, yet I’m here, so be, you know, grateful, babe,” I say.
“Oh, so this is my Christmas present?” she asks, sarcastic. “How sweet, Patrick, how thoughtful.”
“No, this is.” I give her a noodle I just noticed was stuck on my shirt cuff. “Here.”
“Oh Patrick, I’m going to cry,” she says, dangling the noodle up to candlelight. “It’s gorgeous. Can I put it on now?”
“No. Feed it to one of the elves. That one over there looks pretty hungry. Excuse me but I need another drink.”
I hand Evelyn the plate of Waldorf salad and tweak one of Petersen’s antlers and head toward the bar humming “Silent Night,” vaguely depressed by what most of the women are wearing—pullover cashmere sweaters, blazers, long wool skirts, corduroy dresses, turtlenecks. Cold weather. No hardbodies.
Paul Owen is standing near the bar holding a champagne flute, studying his antique silver pocket watch (from Hammacher Schlemmer, no doubt), and I’m about to walk over and mention something about that damned Fisher account when Humphrey Rhinebeck bumps into me trying to avoid stepping on one of the elves and he’s still wearing a cashmere chesterfield overcoat by Crombie from Lord & Taylor, a peak-lapeled double-breasted wool tuxedo, a cotton shirt by Perry Ellis, a bow tie from Hugo Boss and paper antlers in a way that suggests he’s completely unaware, and as if by rote the twerp says, “Hey Bateman, last week I brought a new herringbone tweed jacket to my tailor for alterations.”
“Well, uh, congratulations seem in order,” I say, shaking his hand. “That’s … nifty.”
“Thanks.” He blushes, looking down. “Anyway, he noticed that the retailer had removed the original label and replaced it with one of his own. Now what I want to know is, is this legal?”
“It’s confusing, I know,” I say, still moving through the crowd. “Once a line of clothing has been purchased from its manufacturer, it’s perfectly legal for the retailer to replace the original label with his own. However, it’s not legal to replace it with another retailer’s label.”
“But wait, why is that?” he asks, trying to sip from his martini glass while attempting to follow me.
“Because details regarding fiber content and country of origin or the manufacturer’s registration number must remain intact. Label tampering is very hard to detect and rarely reported,” I shout over my shoulder. Courtney is kissing Paul Owen on the cheek, their hands already firmly clasped. I stiffen up and stop walking. Rhinebeck bumps into me. But she moves on, waving to someone across the room.
“So what’s the best solution?” Rhinebeck calls out behind me.
“Shop for familiar labels from retailers you know and take those f*cking antlers off your head, Rhinebeck. You look like a retard. Excuse me.” I walk off but not before Humphrey reaches up and feels the headpiece. “Oh my god.”
“Owen!” I exclaim, merrily holding out a hand, the other hand grabbing a martini off a passing elf tray.
“Marcus! Merry Christmas,” Owen says, shaking my hand. “How’ve you been? Workaholic, I suppose.”
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” I say, then wink. “Workaholic, huh?”
“Well, we just got back from the Knickerbocker Club,” he says and then greets someone who bumps into him—“Hey Kinsley”—then back to me. “We’re going to Nell’s. Limo’s out front.”
“We should have lunch,” I say, trying to figure out a way to bring up the Fisher account without being tacky about it.
“Yes, that would be great,” he says. “Maybe you could bring …”
“Cecelia?” I guess.
“Yes. Cecelia,” he says.
“Oh, Cecelia would … adore it,” I say.
“Well, let’s do it.” He smiles.
“Yes. We could go to … Le Bernardin,” I say, then after pausing, “for some … seafood perhaps? Hmmm?”
“Le Bernardin is in Zagat’s top ten this year.” He nods. “You know that?”
“We could have some …” I pause again, staring at him, then more deliberately, “fish there. No?”
“Sea urchins,” Owen says, scanning the room. “Meredith loves the sea urchins there.”
“Oh does she?” I ask, nodding.
“Meredith,” he calls out, motioning for someone behind me. “Come here.”
“She’s here?” I ask.
“She’s talking to Cecilia over there,” he says. “Meredith,” he calls out, waving. I turn around. Meredith and Evelyn make their way over to us.
I whirl around back to Owen.
Meredith walks over with Evelyn. Meredith is wearing a beaded wool gabardine dress and bolero by Geoffrey Beene from Barney’s, diamond and gold earrings by James Savitt ($13,000), gloves by Geoffrey Beene for Portolano Products, and she says, “Yes boys? What are you two talking about? Making up Christmas lists?”
“The sea urchins at Le Bernardin, darling,” Owen says.
“My favorite topic.” Meredith drapes an arm over my shoulder, while she confides to me as an aside, “They’re fabulous.”
“Delectable.” I cough nervously.
“What does everyone think of the Waldorf salad?” Evelyn asks. “Did you like it?”
“Cecelia, darling, I haven’t tried it yet,” Owen says, recognizing someone across the room. “But I’d like to know why Laurence Tisch is serving the eggnog.”
“That’s not Laurence Tisch,” Evelyn whines, genuinely upset. “That’s a Christmas elf. Patrick, what did you tell him?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Cecelia!”
“Besides, Patrick, you’re the Grinch.”
At the mentions of my name I immediately start blabbering, hoping that Owen didn’t notice. “Well, Cecelia, I told him I thought it was a, you know, a mixture of the two, like a …” I stop, briefly look at them before lamely spitting out, “a Christmas Tisch.” Then, nervously, I lift a sprig of parsley off a slice of pheasant paté that a passing elf is carrying, and hold it over Evelyn’s head before she can say anything. “Mistletoe alert!” I shout, and people around us are suddenly ducking, and then I kiss her on the lips while looking at Owen and Meredith, both of them staring at me strangely, and out of the corner of my eye I catch Courtney, who is talking to Rhinebeck, gazing at me hatefully, outraged.
“Oh Patrick—” Evelyn starts.
“Cecelia! Come here at once.” I pull her arm, then tell Owen and Meredith, “Excuse us. We have to talk to that elf and get this all straightened out.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says to the two of them, shrugging helplessly as I drag her away. “Patrick, what is going on?”
I maneuver her into the kitchen.
“Patrick?” she asks. “What are we doing in the kitchen?”
“Listen,” I tell her, grabbing her shoulders, facing her. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Oh Patrick,” she sighs. “I can’t just leave. Aren’t you having a good time?”
“Why can’t you leave?” I ask. “Is it so unreasonable? You’ve been here long enough.”
“Patrick, this is my Christmas party,” she says. “Besides, the elves are going to sing ‘O Tannenbaum’ any minute now.”
“Come on, Evelyn. Let’s just get out of here.” I’m on the verge of hysteria, panicked that Paul Owen or, worse, Marcus Halberstam is going to walk into the kitchen. “I want to take you away from all this.”
“From all what?” she asks, then her eyes narrow. “You didn’t like the Waldorf salad, did you?”
“I want to take you away from this,” I say, motioning around the kitchen, spastic. “From sushi and elves and … stuff.”
An elf walks into the kitchen, setting down a tray of dirty plates, and past him, over him, I can see Paul Owen leaning into Meredith, who’s shouting something into his ear over the din of Christmas music, and he scans the room looking for someone, nodding, then Courtney walks into view and I grab Evelyn, bringing her even closer to me.
“Sushi? Elves? Patrick you’re confusing me,” Evelyn says. “And I don’t appreciate it.”
“Let’s go.” I’m squeezing her roughly, pulling her toward the back door. “Let’s be daring for once. For just once in your life, Evelyn, be daring.”
She stops, refusing to be pulled along, and then she starts smiling, considering my offer but only slightly won over.
“Come on …” I start whining. “Let this be my Christmas present.”
“Oh no, I was already at Brooks Brothers and—” she starts.
“Stop it. Come on, I want this,” I say and then in a last, desperate attempt I smile flirtatiously, kissing her lightly on the lips, and add, “Mrs. Bateman?”
“Oh Patrick,” she sighs, melting. “But what about cleanup?”
“The midgets’ll do it,” I assure her.
“But someone has to oversee it, honey.”
“So choose an elf. Make that one over there the elf overseer,” I say. “But let’s go, now.” I start pulling her toward the back door of the brownstone, her shoes squeaking as they slide across the Muscoli marble tile.
And then we’re out the door, rushing down the alley adjacent to the brownstone, and I stop and peer around the corner to see if anyone we know is leaving or entering the party. We make a run for a limousine I think is Owen’s, but I don’t want to make Evelyn suspicious so I simply walk up to the closest one, open the door and push her in.
“Patrick,” she squeals, pleased. “This is so naughty. And a limo—” I close the door on her and walk around the car and knock on the driver’s window. The driver unrolls it.
“Hi,” I say, holding out a hand. “Pat Bateman.”
The driver just stares, an unlit cigar clenched in his mouth, first at my outstretched hand, then at my face, then at the top of my head.
“Pat Bateman,” I repeat. “What, ah, what is it?”
He keeps looking at me. Tentatively I touch my hair to see if it’s messed up or out of place and to my shock and surprise I feel two pairs of paper antlers. There are four antlers on my f*cking head. I mutter, “Oh Jesus, whoa!” and tear them off, staring at them crumpled in my hands, horrified. I throw them on the ground, then turn back to the driver.
“So. Pat Bateman,” I say, smoothing my hair back into place.
“Uh, yeah? Sid.” He shrugs.
“Listen, Sid. Mr. Owen says we can take this car, so …” I stop, my breath steaming in the frozen air.
“Who’s Mr. Owen?” Sid asks.
“Paul Owen. You know,” I say. “Your customer.”
“No. This is Mr. Barker’s limo,” he says. “Nice antlers though.”
“Shit,” I say, running around the limo to get Evelyn out of there before something bad happens, but it’s too late. The second I open the door, Evelyn sticks her head out and squeals, “Patrick, darling, I love it. Champagne”—she holds up a bottle of Cristal in one hand and a gold box in the other—“and truffles too.”
I grab her arm and yank her out, mumbling by way of an explanation, under my breath, “Wrong limo, take the truffles,” and we head over to the next limousine. I open the door and guide Evelyn in, then move around to the front and knock on the driver’s window. He unrolls it. He looks exactly like the other driver.
“Hi. Pat Bateman,” I say, holding out my hand.
“Yeah? Hi. Donald Trump. My wife Ivana’s in the back,” he says sarcastically, taking it.
“Hey, watch it,” I warn. “Listen, Mr. Owen says we can take his car. I’m … oh damn. I mean I’m Marcus.”
“You just said your name was Pat.”
“No. I was wrong,” I say sternly, staring directly at him. “I was wrong about my name being Pat. My name is Marcus. Marcus Halberstam.”
“Now you’re sure of this, right?” he asks.
“Listen, Mr. Owen said I can take his car for the night, so …” I stop. “You know, let’s just get on with it.”
“I think I should talk to Mr. Owen first,” the driver says, amused, toying with me.
“No, wait!” I say, then calming down, “Listen, I’m … it’s fine, really.” I start chuckling to myself. “Mr. Owen is in a very, very bad mood.”
“I’m not supposed to do this,” the driver says without looking up at me. “It’s totally illegal. No way. Give it up.”
“Oh come on, man,” I say.
“It’s totally against company regulations,” he says.
“F*ck company regulations,” I bark out at him.
“F*ck company regulations?” he asks, nodding, smiling.
“Mr. Owen says it’s okay,” I say. “Maybe you’re not listening.”
“Nope. No can do.” He shakes his head.
I pause, stand up straight, run a hand over my face, breathe in and then lean back down. “Listen to me …” I breathe in again. “They’ve got midgets in there.” I point with a thumb back at the brownstone. “Midgets who are about to sing ‘O Tannenbaum’ …” I look at him imploringly, begging for sympathy, at the same time looking appropriately frightened. “Do you know how scary that is? Elves”—I gulp—“harmonizing?” I pause, then quickly ask, “Think about it.”
“Listen, mister—”
“Marcus,” I remind him.
“Marcus. Whatever. I’m not gonna break the rules. I can’t do anything about it. It’s company rules. I’m not gonna break ’em.”
We both lapse into silence. I sigh, look around, considering dragging Evelyn to the third limo, or maybe back to Barker’s limo—he’s a real a*shole—but no, goddamnit, I want Owen’s. Meanwhile the driver sighs to himself, “If the midgets want to sing, let them sing.”
“Shit,” I curse, taking out my gazelleskin wallet. “Here’s a hundred.” I hand him two fifties.
“Two hundred,” he says.
“This city sucks,” I mutter, handing the money over.
“Where do you want to go?” he asks, taking the bills with a sigh, as he starts the limousine.
“Club Chernoble,” I say, rushing to the back and opening the door.
“Yes sir,” he shouts.
I hop in, shutting the door just as the driver peels away from Evelyn’s brownstone toward Riverside Drive. Evelyn’s sitting next to me while I’m catching my breath, wiping cold sweat off my brow with an Armani handkerchief. When I look over at her, she’s on the verge of tears, her lips trembling, silent for once.
“You’re startling me. What happened?” I am alarmed. “What … what did I do? The Waldorf salad was good. What else?”
“Oh Patrick,” she sighs. “It’s … lovely. I don’t know what to say.”
“Well …” I pause carefully. “I don’t … either.”
“This,” she says, presenting me with a diamond necklace from Tiffany’s, Meredith’s present from Owen. “Well, help me put it on, darling. You’re not the Grinch, honey.”
“Uh, Evelyn,” I say, then curse under my breath as she turns her back toward me so I can clasp it around her neck. The limousine lurches forward and she falls against me, laughing, then kisses my cheek. “It’s lovely, oh I love it.… Oops, must have truffle breath. Sorry, honey. Find me some champagne and pour me a glass.”
“But …” I stare helplessly at the glittering necklace. “That’s not it.”
“What?” Evelyn asks, looking around the limo. “Are there glasses in here? What’s not it, honey?”
“That’s not it.” I’m speaking in monotone.
“Oh, honey.” She smiles. “You have something else for me?”
“No, I mean—”
“Come on, you devil,” she says, playfully grabbing at my coat pocket. “Come on, what is it?”
“What is what?” I ask calmly, annoyed.
“You’ve got something else. Let me guess. A ring to match?” she guesses. “A matching bracelet? A brooch? So that’s it!” She claps her hands. “It’s a matching brooch.”
While I’m trying to push her away from me, holding one of her arms back, the other snakes behind me and grabs something out of my pocket—another fortune cookie I lifted from the dead Chinese boy. She stares at it, puzzled for a moment, and says, “Patrick, you’re so … romantic,” and then, studying the fortune cookie and with less enthusiasm, “so … original.”
I’m also staring at the fortune cookie. It’s got a lot of blood on it and I shrug and say, as jovially as I can, “Oh, you know me.”
“But what’s on it?” She holds it up close to her face, peering at it. “What’s this … red stuff?”
“That’s …” I peer also, pretending to be intrigued by the stains, then I grimace. “That’s sweet ’n’ sour sauce.”
She cracks it open excitedly, then studies the fortune, confused.
“What does it say?” I sigh, fooling around with the radio then scanning the limo for Owen’s briefcase, wondering where the champagne could possibly be, the open box from Tiffany’s, empty, empty on the floor, suddenly, overwhelmingly, depressing me.
“It says …” She pauses then squints at it closely, rereading it. “It says, The fresh grilled foie gras at Le Cirque is excellent but the lobster salad is only so-so.”
“That’s nice,” I murmur, looking for champagne glasses, tapes, anything.
“It really says this, Patrick.” She hands me the fortune, a slight smile creeping up on her face that I can make out even in the darkness of the limo. “What could it possibly mean?” she asks slyly.
I take it from her, read it, then look at Evelyn, then back at the fortune, then out the tinted window, at snow flurries swirling around lampposts, around people waiting for buses, beggars staggering directionless down city streets, and I say out loud to myself, “My luck could be worse. It really could.”
“Oh honey,” she says, throwing her arms around me, hugging my head. “Lunch at Le Cirque? You’re the best. You’re not the Grinch. I take it back. Thursday? Is Thursday good for you? Oh no. I can’t do it Thursday. Herbal wrap. But how’s Friday? And do we really want to go to La Cirque? How about—”
I push her off me and knock on the divider, rapping my knuckles against it loudly until the driver lowers it. “Sid, I mean Earle, whoever, this isn’t the way to Chernoble.”
“Yes it is, Mr. Bateman—”
“Hey!”
“I mean Mr. Halberstam. Avenue C, right?” He coughs politely.
“I suppose,” I say, staring out the window. “I don’t recognize anything.”
“Avenue C?” Evelyn looks up from marveling at the necklace Paul Owen bought Meredith. “What’s Avenue C? C as in … Cartier, I take it?”
“It’s hip,” I assure her. “It’s totally hip.”
“Have you been there?” she asks.
“Millions of times,” I mutter.
“Chernoble? No, not Chernoble,” she whines. “Honey, it’s Christmas.”
“What in the hell does that mean?” I ask.
“Limo driver, oh limo driver …” Evelyn leans forward, balancing herself on my knees. “Limo driver, we’re going to the Rainbow Room. Driver, to the Rainbow Room, please.”
I push her back and lean forward. “Ignore her. Chernoble. ASAP.” I press the button and the divider goes back up.
“Oh Patrick. It’s Christmas,” she whines.
“You keep saying that as if it means something,” I say, staring right at her.
“But it’s Christmas,” she whines again.
“I can’t stand the Rainbow Room,” I say, adamant.
“Oh why not, Patrick?” she whines. “They have the best Waldorf salad in town at the Rainbow Room. Did you like mine? Did you like my Waldorf salad, honey?”
“Oh my god,” I whisper, covering my face with both hands.
“Honestly. Did you?” she asks. “The only thing I really worried about was that and the chestnut stuffing.…” She pauses. “Well, because the chestnut stuffing was … well, gross, you know—”
“I don’t want to go to the Rainbow Room,” I interrupt, my hands still covering my face, “because I can’t score drugs there.”
“Oh …” She looks me over, disapprovingly. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Drugs, Patrick? What kind of, ahem, drugs are we talking about?”
“Drugs, Evelyn. Cocaine. Drugs. I want to do some cocaine tonight. Do you understand?” I sit up and glare at her.
“Patrick,” she says, shaking her head, as if she’s lost faith in me.
“I can see you’re confused,” I point out.
“I just don’t want any part of it,” she says.
“You don’t have to do any of it,” I tell her. “Maybe you’re not even invited to do any of it.”
“I just don’t understand why you have to ruin this time of year for me,” she says.
“Think of it as … frost. As Christmas frost. As expensive Christmas frost,” I say.
“Well …,” she says, lighting up. “It’s kind of exciting to slum, isn’t it?”
“Thirty bucks at the door apiece is not exactly slumming, Evelyn.” Then I ask, suspiciously, “Why wasn’t Donald Trump invited to your party?”
“Not Donald Trump again,” Evelyn moans. “Oh god. Is that why you were acting like such a buffoon? This obsession has got to end!” she practically shouts. “That’s why you were acting like such an ass!”
“It was the Waldorf salad, Evelyn,” I say, teeth clenched. “It was the Waldorf salad that was making me act like an ass!”
“Oh my god. You mean it, too!” She throws her head back in despair. “I knew it, I knew it.”
“But you didn’t even make it!” I scream. “It was catered!”
“Oh god,” she wails. “I can’t believe it.”
The limousine pulls up in front of Club Chernoble, where a crowd ten deep waits standing outside the ropes in the snow. Evelyn and I get out, and using Evelyn, much to her chagrin, as a blocker, I push my way through the crowd and luckily spot someone who looks exactly like Jonathan Leatherdale, about to be let in, and really shoving Evelyn, who’s still holding on to her Christmas present, I call out to him, “Jonathan, hey Leatherdale,” and suddenly, predictably, the whole crowd starts shouting, “Jonathan, hey Jonathan.” He spots me as he turns around and calls out, “Hey Baxter!” and winks, giving me the thumbs-up sign, but it’s not to me, it’s to someone else. Evelyn and I pretend we’re with his party anyway. The doorman closes the ropes on us, asks, “You two come in that limo?” He looks over at the curb and motions with his head.
“Yes.” Evelyn and I both nod eagerly.
“You’re in,” he says, lifting the ropes.
We walk in and I lay out sixty dollars; not a single drink ticket. The club is predictably dark except for the flashing strobe lights, and even with them, all I can really see is dry ice pumping out of a fog machine and one hardbody dancing to INXS’s “New Sensation,” which blasts out of speakers at a pitch that vibrates the body. I tell Evelyn to go to the bar and get us two glasses of champagne. “Oh of course,” she shouts back, heading tentatively toward one thin white strip of neon, the only light illuminating what might be a place where alcohol is served. In the meantime I score a gram from someone who looks like Mike Donaldson, and after debating for ten minutes while checking out this hardbody whether I should ditch Evelyn or not, she comes up with two flutes half full of champagne, indignant, sad-faced. “It’s Korbel,” she shouts. “Let’s leave.” I shake my head negative and shout back, “Let’s go to the rest rooms.” She follows.
The one bathroom at Chernoble is unisex. Two other couples are already there, one of them in the only stall. The other couple is, like us, impatiently waiting for the stall to empty. The girl is wearing a silk jersey halter top, a silk chiffon skirt and silk sling-backs, all by Ralph Lauren. Her boyfriend is wearing a suit tailored by, I think, William Fioravanti or Vincent Nicolosi or Scali—some wop. Both are holding champagne glasses: his, full; hers, empty. It’s quiet except for the sniffling and muted laughter coming from the stall, and the bathroom’s door is thick enough to block out the music except for the deep thumping drumbeat. The guy taps his foot expectantly. The girl keeps sighing and tossing her hair over her shoulder in these strangely enticing jerky head movements; then she looks over at Evelyn and me and whispers something to her boyfriend. Finally, after she whispers something to him again, he nods and they leave.
“Thank god,” I whisper, fingering the gram in my pocket; then, to Evelyn, “Why are you so quiet?”
“The Waldorf salad,” she murmurs, not looking at me. “Damnit.”
There’s a click, the door to the stall opens and a young couple—the guy wearing a double-breasted wool cavalry twill suit, cotton shirt and silk tie, all by Givenchy, the girl wearing a silk taffeta dress with ostrich hem by Geoffrey Beene, vermeil earrings by Stephen Dweck Moderne and Chanel grosgrain dance shoes—walks out, discreetly wiping each other’s noses, staring at themselves in the mirror before leaving the rest room, and just as Evelyn and I are about to walk into the stall they’ve vacated, the first couple rushes back in and attempts to overtake it.
“Excuse me,” I say, my arm outstretched, blocking the entrance. “You left. It’s, uh, our turn, you know?”
“Uh, no, I don’t think so,” the guy says mildly.
“Patrick,” Evelyn whispers behind me. “Let them … you know.”
“Wait. No. It’s our turn,” I say.
“Yeah, but we were waiting first.”
“Listen, I don’t want to start a fight—”
“But you are,” the girlfriend says, bored yet still managing a sneer.
“Oh my,” Evelyn murmurs behind me, looking over my shoulder.
“Listen, we should just do it here,” the girl, who I wouldn’t mind f*cking, spits out.
“What a bitch,” I murmur, shaking my head.
“Listen,” the guy says, relenting. “While we’re arguing about this, one of us could be in there.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Us.”
“Oh Christ,” the girl says, hands on hips, then to Evelyn and me, “I can’t believe who they’re letting in now.”
“You are a bitch,” I murmur, disbelieving. “Your attitude sucks, you know that?”
Evelyn gasps and squeezes my shoulder. “Patrick.”
The guy has already started snorting his coke, spooning the powder out of a brown vial, inhaling then laughing after each hit, leaning against the door.
“Your girlfriend’s a total bitch,” I tell the guy.
“Patrick,” Evelyn says. “Stop it.”
“She’s a bitch,” I say, pointing at her.
“Patrick, apologize,” Evelyn says.
The guy goes into hysterics, his head thrown back, sniffing in loudly, then he doubles up and tries to catch his breath.
“Oh my god,” Evelyn says, appalled. “Why are you laughing? Defend her.”
“Why?” the guy asks, then shrugs, both nostrils ringed with white powder. “He’s right.”
“I’m leaving, Daniel,” the girl says, near tears. “I can’t handle this. I can’t handle you. I can’t handle them. I warned you at Bice.”
“Go ahead,” the guy says. “Go. Just do it. Take a hike. I don’t care.”
“Patrick, what have you started?” Evelyn asks, backing away from me. “This is unacceptable,” and then, looking up at the fluorescent bulbs, “And so is this lighting. I’m leaving.” But she stands there, waiting.
“I’m leaving, Daniel,” the girl says. “Did you hear me?”
“Go ahead. Forget it,” Daniel says, staring at his nose in the mirror, waving her away. “I said take a hike.”
“I’m using the stall,” I tell the room. “Is this okay? Does anybody mind?”
“Aren’t you going to defend your girlfriend?” Evelyn asks Daniel.
“Jesus, what do you want me to do?” He looks at her in the mirror, wiping his nose, sniffing again. “I bought her dinner. I introduced her to Richard Marx. Jesus Christ, what else does she want?”
“Beat the shit out of him?” the girl suggests, pointing at me.
“Oh honey,” I say, shaking my head, “the things I could do to you with a coat hanger.”
“Goodbye, Daniel,” she says, pausing dramatically. “I’m out of here.”
“Good,” Daniel says, holding up the vial. “More for moi.”
“And don’t try calling me,” she screams, opening the door. “My answering machine is on tonight and I’m screening all calls!”
“Patrick,” Evelyn says, still composed, prim. “I’ll be outside.”
I wait a moment, staring at her from inside the stall, then at the girl standing in the doorway. “Yeah, so?”
“Patrick,” Evelyn says, “don’t say something you’ll regret.”
“Just go,” I say. “Just leave. Take the limo.”
“Patrick—”
“Leave,” I roar. “The Grinch says leave!”
I slam the door of the stall and start shoveling the coke from the envelope into my nose with my platinum AmEx. In between my gasps I hear Evelyn leave, sobbing to the girl, “He made me walk out of my own Christmas party, can you believe it? My Christmas party?” And I hear the girl sneer “Get a life” and I start laughing raucously, banging my head against the side of the stall, and then I hear the guy do a couple more hits, then he splits, and after finishing most of the gram I peek out from over the stall to see if Evelyn’s still hanging around, pouting, chewing her lower lip sorrowfully—oh boo hoo hoo, baby—but she hasn’t come back, and then I get an image of Evelyn and Daniel’s girlfriend on a bed somewhere with the girl spreading Evelyn’s legs, Evelyn on all fours, licking her a*shole, fingering her cunt, and this makes me dizzy and I head out of the rest room into the club, horny and desperate, lusting for contact.
But it’s later now and the crowd has changed—it’s now filled with more punk rockers, blacks, fewer Wall Street guys, more bored rich girls from Avenue A lounging around, and the music has changed; instead of Belinda Carlisle singing “I Feel Free” it’s some black guy rapping, if I’m hearing this correctly, something called “Her Shit on His Dick” and I sidle up to a couple of hardbody rich girls, both of them wearing skanky Betsey Johnson-type dresses, and I’m wired beyond belief and I start off with a line like “Cool music—haven’t I seen you at Salomon Brothers?” and one of them, one of these girls, sneers and says, “Go back to Wall Street,” and the one with the nose ring says, “F*cking yuppie.”
And they say this even though my suit looks black in the darkness of the club and my tie—paisley, Armani, silk—is loosened.
“Hey,” I say, grinding my teeth. “You may think I’m a really disgusting yuppie but I’m not, really,” I tell them, swallowing rapidly, wired out of my head.
Two black guys are sitting with them at the table. Both sport faded jeans, T-shirts, and leather jackets. One has reflector sunglasses on, the other has a shaved head. Both are glaring at me. I stick out my hand at a crooked angle, trying to mimic a rapper. “Hey,” I say. “I’m fresh. The freshest, y’know … like, uh, def … the deffest.” I take a sip of champagne. “You know … def.”
To prove this I spot a black guy with dreadlocks and I walk up to him and exclaim “Rasta Man!” and hold out my hand, anticipating a high-five. But the nigger just stands there.
“I mean”—I cough—“Mon,” and then, with less enthusiasm, “We be, uh, jamming.…”
He brushes past me, shaking his head. I look back at the girls. They shake their heads—a warning to me not to come back over. I turn my gaze to a hardbody who’s dancing by herself next to a column, then I finish my champagne and walk up to her, asking for a phone number. She smiles. Exit.