Another Night
McDermott and I are supposed to have dinner tonight at 1500 and he calls me around six-thirty, forty minutes before our actual reservation (he couldn’t get us in at any other time, except for six-ten or nine, which is when the restaurant closes—it serves Californian cuisine and its seating times are an affectation carried over from that state), and though I’m in the middle of flossing my teeth, all of my cordless phones lie by the sink in the bathroom and I’m able to pick the right one up on the second ring. So far I’m wearing black Armani trousers, a white Armani shirt, a red and black Armani tie. McDermott lets me know that Hamlin wants to come with us. I’m hungry. There’s a pause.
“So?” I ask, straightening my tie. “Okay.”
“So?” McDermott sighs. “Hamlin doesn’t want to go to 1500.”
“Why not?” I turn off the tap in the sink.
“He was there last night.”
“So … what are you, McDermott, trying to tell me?”
“That we’re going someplace else,” he says.
“Where?” I ask cautiously.
“Alex Goes to Camp is where Hamlin suggested,” he says.
“Hold on. I’m Plaxing.” After swishing the antiplaque formula around in my mouth and inspecting my hairline in the mirror, I spit out the Plax. “Veto. Bypass. I went there last week.”
“I know. So did I,” McDermott says. “Besides, it’s cheap. So where do we go instead?”
“Didn’t Hamlin have a f*cking backup?” I growl, irritated.
“Er, no.”
“Call him back and get one,” I say, walking out of the bathroom. “I seem to have misplaced my Zagat.”
“Do you want to hold or should I call you back?” he asks.
“Call me back, bozo.” We hang up.
Minutes pass. The phone rings. I don’t bother screening it. It’s McDermott again.
“Well?” I ask.
“Hamlin doesn’t have a backup and he wants to invite Luis Carruthers and what I want to know is, does this mean Courtney’s coming?” McDermott asks.
“Luis cannot come,” I say.
“Why not?”
“He just can’t.” I ask, “Why does he want Luis to come?”
There’s a pause. “Hold on,” McDermott says. “He’s on the other line. I’ll ask him.”
“Who?” A flash of panic. “Luis?”
“Hamlin.”
While holding I move into the kitchen, over to the refrigerator, and take out a bottle of Perrier. I’m looking for a glass when I hear a click.
“Listen,” I say when McDermott gets back on the line. “I don’t want to see Luis or Courtney so, you know, dissuade them or something. Use your charm. Be charming.”
“Hamlin has to have dinner with a client from Texas and—”
I cut him off. “Wait, this has nothing to do with Luis. Let Hamlin take the fag out himself.”
“Hamlin wants Carruthers to come because Hamlin is supposed to be dealing with the Panasonic case, but Carruthers knows a lot more about it and that’s why he wants Carruthers to come,” McDermott explains.
I pause while taking this in. “If Luis comes I’ll kill him. I swear to god I’ll kill him. I’ll f*cking kill him.”
“Jeez, Bateman,” McDermott murmurs, concerned. “You’re a real humanitarian. A sage.”
“No. Just …” I start, confused, irritated. “Just … sensible.”
“I just want to know if Luis comes does this mean that Courtney will come too?” he wonders again.
“Tell Hamlin to invite—oh shit, I don’t know.” I stop. “Tell Hamlin to have dinner with the Texas guy alone.” I stop again, realizing something. “Wait a minute. Does this mean Hamlin will … take us out? I mean pay for it, since it’s a business dinner?”
“You know, sometimes I think you’re very smart, Bateman,” McDermott says. “Other times …”
“Oh shit, what the hell am I saying?” I ask myself out loud, annoyed. “You and I can have a goddamn business dinner together. Jesus. I’m not going. That’s it. I’m not going.”
“Not even if Luis doesn’t come?” he asks.
“No. Nope.”
“Why not?” he whines. “We have reservations at 1500.”
“I … have to … watch The Cosby Show.”
“Oh tape it for Christ sakes, you ass.”
“Wait.” I’ve realized something else. “Do you think Hamlin will”—I pause awkwardly—“have some drugs, perhaps … for the Texan?”
“What does Bateman think?” McDermott asks, the jaded a*shole.
“Hmmm. I’m thinking about it. I’m thinking about this.”
After a pause McDermott says “Tick-tock, tick-tock” in singsong. “We’re getting nowhere. Of course Hamlin is going to be carrying.”
“Get Hamlin, have him … get him on three-way,” I sputter, checking my Rolex. “Hurry. Maybe we can talk him into 1500.”
“Okay,” McDermott says. “Hold on.”
There are four clicking noises and then I hear Hamlin saying, “Bateman, is it okay to wear argyle socks with a business suit?” He’s attempting a joke but it fails to amuse me.
Sighing inwardly, my eyes closed, I answer, impatient, “Not really, Hamlin. They’re too sporty. They interfere with a business image. You can wear them with casual suits. Tweeds, whatever. Now Hamlin?”
“Bateman?” And then he says, “Thank you.”
“Luis cannot come,” I tell him. “And you’re welcome.”
“No prob,” he says. “The Texan’s not coming anyway.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Hay letsyall go to See Bee Jee Bees I har that’s pretty new wave. Lifestyle difference,” Hamlin explains. “The Texan is not accepted until Monday. I quickly, and quite nimbly I might add, rearranged my hectic schedule. A sick father. A forest fire. An excuse.”
“How does that take care of Luis?” I ask suspiciously.
“Luis is having dinner with the Texan tonight, which saves me a whole lotta trouble, pardner. I’m seeing him at Smith and Wollensky on Monday,” Hamlin says, pleased with himself. “So everything is A-okay.”
“Wait,” McDermott asks tentatively, “does this mean that Courtney isn’t coming?”
“We have missed or are going to miss our reservations at 1500,” I point out. “Besides, Hamlin, you went there last night, huh?”
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s got passable carpaccio. Decent wren. Okay sorbets. But let’s go somewhere else and, uh, then go on the search for the, uh, perfect body. Gentlemen?”
“Sounds good,” I say, amused that Hamlin, for once, has the right idea. “But what is Cindy going to say about this?”
“Cindy has to go to a charity thing at the Plaza, something—”
“That’s the Trump Plaza,” I note absently, while finally opening the Perrier bottle.
“Yeah, the Trump Plaza,” he says. “Something about trees near the library. Money for trees or a bush of some kind,” he says, unsure. “Plants? Beats me.”
“So where to?” McDermott asks.
“Who cancels 1500?” I ask.
“You do,” McDermott says.
“Oh McDermott,” I moan, “just do it.”
“Wait,” Hamlin says. “Let’s decide where we’re going first.”
“Agreed.” McDermott, the parliamentarian.
“I am fanatically opposed to anywhere not on the Upper West or Upper East side of this city,” I say.
“Bellini’s?” Hamlin suggests.
“Nope. Can’t smoke cigars there,” McDermott and I say at the same time.
“Cross that one out,” Hamlin says. “Gandango?” he suggests.
“Possibility, possibility,” I murmur, mulling it over. “Trump eats there.”
“Zeus Bar?” one of them asks.
“Make a reservation,” says the other.
“Wait,” I tell them, “I’m thinking.”
“Bateman …,” Hamlin warns.
“I’m toying with the idea,” I say.
“Bateman …”
“Wait. Let me toy for a minute.”
“I’m really too irritated to be dealing with this right now,” McDermott says.
“Why don’t we just forget this shit and bash some Japs,” Hamlin suggests. “Then find the perfect body.”
“Not a bad idea, actually.” I shrug. “Decent combo.”
“What do you want to do, Bateman?” McDermott asks.
Thinking about it, thousands of miles away, I answer, “I want to …”
“Yes …?” they both ask expectantly.
“I want to … pulverize a woman’s face with a large, heavy brick.”
“Besides that,” Hamlin moans impatiently.
“Okay, fine,” I say, snapping out of it. “Zeus Bar.”
“You sure? Right? Zeus Bar?” Hamlin concludes, he hopes.
“Guys. I am finding myself increasingly incapable of dealing with this at all,” McDermott says. “Zeus Bar. That’s final.”
“Hold on,” Hamlin says. “I’ll call and make a reservation.” He clicks off, leaving McDermott and myself on hold. It’s silent for a long time before either one of us says anything.
“You know,” I finally say. “It will probably be impossible to get a reservation there.”
“Maybe we should go to M.K. The Texan would probably like to go to M.K.,” Craig says.
“But, McDermott, the Texan isn’t coming,” I point out.
“I can’t go to M.K. anyway,” he says, not listening, and he doesn’t mention why.
“I don’t want to know about it.”
We wait two more minutes for Hamlin.
“What in the hell is he doing?” I ask, then my call waiting clicks in.
McDermott hears it too. “Do you want to take that?”
“I’m thinking.” It clicks again. I moan and tell McDermott to hold on. It’s Jeanette. She sounds tired and sad. I don’t want to get back on the other line so I ask her what she did last night.
“After you were supposed to meet me?” she asks.
I pause, unsure. “Uh, yeah.”
“We ended up at Palladium which was completely empty. They were letting in people for free.” She signs. “We saw maybe four or five people.”
“That you knew?” I ask hopefully.
“In … the … club,” she says, spacing each word out bitterly.
“I’m sorry,” I finally say. “I had to … return some videotapes.…” And then, reacting to her silence, “You know, I would’ve met you—”
“I don’t want to hear about it,” she sighs, cutting me off. “What are you doing tonight?”
I pause, wondering how to answer, before admitting, “Zeus Bar at nine. McDermott. Hamlin.” And then, less hopefully, “Would you like to meet us?”
“I don’t know,” she sighs. Without a trace of softness she asks, “Do you want me to?”
“Must you insist on being so pathetic?” I ask back.
She hangs up on me. I get back on the other line.
“Bateman, Bateman, Bateman, Bateman,” Hamlin is droning.
“I’m here. Shut the f*ck up.”
“Are we still procrastinating?” McDermott asks. “Don’t procrastinate.”
“I’ve decided I’d rather play golf,” I say. “I haven’t been golfing in a long time.”
“F*ck golf, Bateman,” Hamlin says. “We have a nine o’clock reservation at Kaktus—”
“And a reservation to cancel at 1500 in, um, let’s see … twenty minutes ago, Bateman,” McDermott says.
“Oh shit, Craig. Cancel them now,” I say tiredly.
“God, I hate golf,” Hamlin says, shuddering.
“You cancel them,” McDermott says, laughing.
“What name are they under?” I ask, not laughing, my voice rising.
After a pause, McDermott says “Carruthers” softly.
Hamlin and I burst out laughing.
“Really?” I ask.
“We couldn’t get into Zeus Bar,” Hamlin says. “So it’s Kaktus.”
“Hip,” I say dejectedly. “I guess.”
“Cheer up.” Hamlin chortles.
My call waiting buzzes again and before I can even decide whether to take it or not, Hamlin makes up my mind for me. “Now if you guys don’t want to go to Kaktus—”
“Wait, my call waiting,” I say. “Hold on.”
Jeanette is in tears. “What aren’t you capable of?” she asks, sobbing. “Just tell me what you are not capable of.”
“Baby. Jeanette,” I say soothingly. “Listen, please. We’ll be at Zeus Bar at ten. Okay?”
“Patrick, please,” she begs. “I’m okay. I just want to talk—”
“I’ll see you at nine or ten, whenever,” I say. “I’ve gotta go. Hamlin and McDermott are on the other line.”
“Okay.” She sniffs, composing herself, clearing her throat. “I’ll see you there. I’m really sor—”
I click back onto the other line. McDermott is the only one left.
“Where’s Hamlin?”
“He got off,” McDermott says. “Hell see us at nine.”
“Great,” I murmur. “I feel settled.”
“Who was that?”
“Jeanette,” I say.
I hear a faint click, then another one.
“Was that yours or mine?” McDermott asks.
“Yours,” I say. “I think.”
“Hold on.”
I wait, impatiently pacing the length of the kitchen. McDermott clicks back on.
“It’s Van Patten,” he says. “I’m putting him on three-way.”
Four more clicks.
“Hey Bateman,” Van Patten cries out. “Buddy.”
“Mr. Manhattan,” I say. “I’m acknowledging you.”
“Hey, what’s the correct way to wear a cummerbund?” he asks.
“I already answered that twice today,” I warn.
The two of them start talking about whether or not Van Patten can get to Kaktus by nine and I’ve stopped concentrating on the voices coming through the cordless phone and started watching instead, with growing interest, the rat I’ve bought—I still have the mutant one that emerged from the toilet—in its new glass cage, heave what’s left of its acid-ridden body halfway across the elaborate Habitrail system that sits on the kitchen table, where it attempts to drink from the water holder that I filled with poisoned Evian this morning. The scene seems too pitiful to me or not pitiful enough. I can’t decide. A call-waiting noise takes me out of my mindless delirium and I tell Van Patten and McDermott to please hold.
I click off, then pause before saying, “You have reached the home of Patrick Bateman. Please leave a message after—”
“Oh for god’s sake, Patrick, grow up,” Evelyn moans. “Just stop it. Why do you insist on doing that? Do you really think you’re going to get away with it?”
“With what?” I ask innocently. “Protecting myself?”
“With torturing me,” she pouts.
“Honey,” I say.
“Yes?” she sniffs.
“You don’t know what torture is. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell her. “You really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says. “It’s over. Now, what are you doing for dinner tonight?” Her voice softens. “I was thinking maybe dinner at TDK at, oh, say ninish?”
“I’m eating at the Harvard Club by myself tonight,” I say.
“Oh don’t be silly,” Evelyn says. “I know you’re having dinner at Kaktus with Hamlin and McDermott.”
“How do you know that?” I ask, not caring if I’ve been caught in a lie. “Anyway, it’s Zeus Bar, not Kaktus.”
“Because I just talked to Cindy,” she says.
“I thought Cindy was going to this plant or tree—this bush benefit,” I say.
“Oh no, no, no,” Evelyn says. “That’s next week. Do you want to go?”
“Hold on,” I say.
I get back on the line with Craig and Van Patten.
“Bateman?” Van Patten asks. “What the f*ck are you doing?”
“How the hell does Cindy know we’re having dinner at Kaktus?” I demand.
“Hamlin told her?” McDermott guesses. “I don’t know. Why?”
“Because now Evelyn knows,” I say.
“When the f*ck is Wolfgang Puck going to open a restaurant in this goddamn city?” Van Patten asks us.
“Is Van Patten on his third six-pack of Foster’s or is he still, like, working on his first?” I ask McDermott.
“The question you’re asking, Patrick,” McDermott begins, “is, should we exclude the women or not? Right?”
“Something is turning into nothing very quickly,” I warn. “That’s all I’m saying.”
“Should you invite Evelyn?” McDermott asks. “Is this what you want to know?”
“No, we should not,” I stress.
“Well, hey, I wanted to bring Elizabeth,” Van Patten says timidly (mock-timidly?).
“No,” I say. “No women.”
“What’s wrong with Elizabeth?” Van Patten asks.
“Yeah?” McDermott follows.
“She’s an idiot. No, she’s intelligent. I can’t tell. Don’t invite her,” I say.
After a pause I hear Van Patten say, “I sense weirdness starting.”
“Well, if not Elizabeth, what about Sylvia Josephs?” McDermott suggests.
“Nah, too old to f*ck,” Van Patten says.
“Oh Christ,” McDermott says. “She’s twenty-three.”
“Twenty-eight,” I correct.
“Really?” a concerned McDermott asks, after pausing.
“Yes,” I say. “Really.”
McDermott’s left saying “Oh.”
“Shit, I just forgot,” I say, slapping my hand to my forehead. “I invited Jeanette.”
“Now that is one babe I would not mind, ahem, inviting,” Van Patten says lewdly.
“Why does a nice young babe like Jeanette put up with you?” McDermott asks. “Why does she put up with you, Bateman?”
“I keep her in cashmere. A great deal of cashmere,” I murmur, and then, “I’ve got to call her and tell her not to come.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” McDermott asks me.
“What?” I’m lost in thought.
“Is, like, Evelyn still on the other line?”
“Oh shit,” I exclaim. “Hold on.”
“Why am I even bothering with this?” I hear McDermott ask himself, sighing.
“Bring Evelyn,” Van Patten cries out. “She’s a babe too! Tell her to meet us at Zeus Bar at nine-thirty!”
“Okay, okay,” I shout before clicking back to the other line.
“I do not appreciate this, Patrick,” Evelyn is saying.
“How about meeting us at Zeus Bar at nine-thirty?” I suggest.
“Can I bring Stash and Vanden?” she asks coyly.
“Is she the one with a tattoo?” I ask back, coyly.
“No,” she sighs. “No tattoo.”
“Bypass, bypass.”
“Oh Patrick,” she whines.
“Look, you were lucky you were even invited, so just …” My voice trails off.
Silence, during which I don’t feel bad.
“Come on, just meet us there,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh all right,” she says, resigned. “Nine-thirty?”
I click back onto the other line, interrupting Van Patten and McDermott’s conversation about whether it’s proper or not to wear a blue suit as one would a navy blazer.
“Hello?” I interrupt. “Shut up. Does everyone have my undivided attention?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Van Patten sighs, bored.
“I am calling Cindy up to get Evelyn out of coming to dinner with us,” I announce.
“Why in the hell did you invite Evelyn in the first place?” one of them asks.
“We were joking, you idiot,” the other adds.
“Er, good question,” I say, stammering. “Uh, h-hold on.”
I dial Cindy’s number after finding it in my Rolodex. She answers after screening the call.
“Hello, Patrick,” she says.
“Cindy,” I say. “I need a favor.”
“Hamlin’s not coming to dinner with you guys,” she says. “He tried calling back but your lines were all busy. Don’t you guys have call waiting?”
“Of course we have call waiting,” I say. “What do you think we are, barbarians?”
“Hamlin’s not coming,” she says again, flatly.
“What’s he doing instead?” I ask. “Oiling his Top-Siders?”
“He’s going out with me, Mr. Bateman.”
“But what about your, uh, bush benefit?” I ask.
“Hamlin got it mixed up,” she says.
“Pumpkin,” I start.
“Yes?” she asks.
“Pumpkin, you’re dating an a*shole,” I say sweetly.
“Thanks, Patrick. That’s nice.”
“Pumpkin,” I warn, “you’re dating the biggest dickweed in New York.”
“You’re telling me like I don’t know this.” She yawns.
“Pumpkin, you’re dating a tumbling, tumbling dickweed.”
“Do you know that Hamlin owns six television sets and seven VCRs?”
“Does he ever use that rowing machine I got him?” I actually wonder.
“Unused,” she says. “Totally unused.”
“Pumpkin, he’s a dickweed.”
“Will you stop calling me pumpkin,” she asks, annoyed.
“Listen, Cindy, if you had a choice to read WWD or …” I stop, unsure of what I was going to say. “Listen, is there anything going on tonight?” I ask. “Something not too … boisterous?”
“What do you want, Patrick?” she sighs.
“I just want peace, love, friendship, understanding,” I say dispassionately.
“What-do-you-want?” she repeats.
“Why don’t the two of you come with us?”
“We have other plans.”
“Hamlin made the goddamn reservations,” I cry, outraged.
“Well, you guys use them.”
“Why don’t you come?” I ask lasciviously. “Dump dickweed off at Juanita’s or something.”
“I think I’m passing on dinner,” she says. “Apologize to ‘the guys’ for me.”
“But we’re going to Kaktus, uh, I mean Zeus Bar,” I say, then, confused, add, “No, Kaktus.”
“Are you guys really going there?” she asks.
“Why?”
“Conventional wisdom has it that it is no longer the ‘in’ place to dine,” she says.
“But Hamlin made the f*cking reservation!” I cry out.
“Did he make reservations there?” she asks, bemused.
“Centuries ago!” I shout.
“Listen,” she says, “I’m getting dressed.”
“I’m not at all happy about this,” I say.
“Don’t worry,” she says, and then hangs up.
I get back on the other line.
“Bateman, I know this sounds like an impossibility,” McDermott says. “But the void is actually widening.”
“I am not into Mexican,” Van Patten states.
“But wait, we’re not having Mexican, are we?” I say. “Am I confused? Aren’t we going to Zeus Bar?”
“No, moron,” McDermott spits. “We couldn’t get into Zeus Bar. Kaktus. Kaktus at nine.”
“But I don’t want Mexican,” Van Patten says.
“But you, Van Patten, made the reservation,” McDermott hollers.
“I don’t either,” I say suddenly. “Why Mexican?”
“It’s not Mexican Mexican,” McDermott says, exasperated. “It’s something called nouvelle Mexicana, tapas or some other south of the border thing. Something like that. Hold on. My call waiting.”
He clicks off, leaving Van Patten and myself on the line.
“Bateman,” Van Patten sighs, “my euphoria is quickly subsiding.”
“What are you talking about?” I’m actually trying to remember where I told Jeanette and Evelyn to meet us.
“Let’s change the reservation,” he suggests.
I think about it, then suspiciously ask, “Where to?”
“1969,” he says, tempting me. “Hmmm? 1969?”
“I would like to go there,” I admit.
“What should we do?” he asks.
I think about it. “Make a reservation. Quick.”
“Okay. For three? Five? How many?”
“Five or six, I guess.”
“Okay. Hold.”
Just as he clicks off, McDermott gets back on.
“Where’s Van Patten?” he asks.
“He … had to take a piss,” I say.
“Why don’t you want to go to Kaktus?”
“Because I’m gripped by an existential panic,” I lie.
“You think that’s a good enough reason,” McDermott says. “I do not.”
“Hello?” Van Patten says, clicking back on. “Bateman?”
“Well?” I ask. “McDermott’s here too.”
“Nope. No way, José.”
“Shit.”
“What’s going on?” McDermott asks.
“Well, guys, do we want margaritas?” Van Patten asks. “Or no margaritas?”
“I could go for a margarita,” McDermott says.
“Bateman?” Van Patten asks.
“I would like several bottles of beer, preferably un-Mexican,” I say.
“Oh shit,” McDermott says. “Call waiting. Hold on.” He clicks off.
If I am not mistaken it is now eight-thirty.
An hour later. We’re still debating. We have canceled the reservation at Kaktus and maybe someone has remade it. Confused, I actually cancel a nonexistent table at Zeus Bar. Jeanette has left her apartment and cannot be reached at home and I have no idea which restaurant she’s going to, nor do I remember which one I told Evelyn to meet us at. Van Patten, who has already had two large shots of Absolut, asks about Detective Kimball and what we talked about and all I really remember is something like how people fall between cracks.
“Did you talk to him?” I ask.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“What did he say happened to Owen?”
“Vanished. Just vanished. Poof,” he says. I can hear him opening a refrigerator. “No incident. Nothing. The authorities have nada.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m in heavy turmoil over it.”
“Well, Owen was … I don’t know,” he says. I can hear a beer being opened.
“What else did you tell him, Van Patten?” I ask.
“Oh the usual,” he sighs. “That he wore yellow and maroon ties. That he had lunch at ’21.’ That in reality he was not an arbitrageur—which was what Thimble thought he was—but a merger-maker. Only the usual.” I can almost hear him shrug.
“What else?” I ask.
“Let’s see. That he didn’t wear suspenders. A belt man. That he stopped doing cocaine, simpatico beer. You know, Bateman.”
“He was a moron,” I say. “And now he’s in London.”
“Christ,” he mutters, “general competence is on the f*cking decline.”
McDermott clicks back on. “Okay. Now where to?”
“What time is it?” Van Patten asks.
“Nine-thirty,” both of us answer.
“Wait, what happened to 1969?” I ask Van Patten.
“What’s this about 1969?” McDermott doesn’t have a clue.
“I don’t remember,” I say.
“Closed. No reservations,” Van Patten reminds me.
“Can we get back to 1500?” I ask.
“1500 is now closed,” McDermott shouts. “The kitchen is closed. The restaurant is closed. It’s over. We have to go to Kaktus.”
Silence.
“Hello? Hello? Are you guys there?” he hollers, losing it.
“Bouncy as a beach ball,” Van Patten says.
I laugh.
“If you guys think this is funny,” McDermott warns.
“Oh yeah, what? What are you going to do?” I ask.
“Guys, it’s just that I am apprehensive about failure in terms of securing a table before, like, well, midnight.”
“Are you sure about 1500?” I ask. “That seems really bizarre.”
“That suggestion is moot!” McDermott screams. “Why, you may ask? Because-they-are-closed! Because-they-are-closed-they-have-stopped-taking-reservations! Are-you-following-this?”
“Hey, no sweat, babe,” Van Patten says coolly. “We’ll go to Kaktus.”
“We have a reservation there in ten, no, fifteen minutes ago,” McDermott says.
“But I canceled them, I thought,” I say, taking another Xanax.
“I remade them,” McDermott says.
“You are indispensable,” I tell him in monotone.
“I can be there by ten,” McDermott says.
“By the time I stop at my automated teller, I can be there by ten-fifteen,” Van Patten says slowly, counting the minutes.
“Does anyone have any idea that Jeanette and Evelyn are meeting us at Zeus Bar, where we do not have a reservation? Has this passed through anyone’s mind?” I ask, doubting it.
“But Zeus Bar is closed and besides that we canceled a reservation we didn’t even have there,” McDermott says, trying to stay calm.
“But I think I told Jeanette and Evelyn to meet us there,” I say, bringing my fingers up to my mouth, horrified by this possibility.
After a pause McDermott asks, “Do you want to get into trouble? Are you asking for it or something?”
“My call waiting,” I say. “Oh my god. What time is it? My call waiting.”
“It’s gotta be one of the girls,” Van Patten says gleefully.
“Hold on,” I croak.
“Good luck,” I hear Van Patten say before I click off.
“Hello?” I ask meekly. “You have reached the—”
“It’s me,” Evelyn shouts, the noise in the background almost drowning her out.
“Oh hi,” I say casually. “What’s going on?”
“Patrick, what are you doing at home?”
“Where are you?” I ask good-naturedly.
“I-am-at-Kaktus,” she hisses.
“What are you doing there?” I ask.
“You said you’d meet me here, that-is-what,” she says. “I confirmed your reservations.”
“Oh god, I’m sorry,” I say. “I forgot to tell you.”
“Forgot-to-tell-me-what?”
“To tell you that we aren’t”—I gulp—“going there.” I close my eyes.
“Who-in-the-hell-is-Jeanette?” she hisses calmly.
“Well, aren’t you guys having fun?” I ask, ignoring her question.
“No-we-are-not.”
“Why not?” I ask. “We’ll be there … soon.”
“Because this whole thing feels, gee, I don’t know … inappropriate?” she screams.
“Listen, I’ll call you right back.” I’m about to pretend to take the number down.
“You won’t be able to,” Evelyn says, her voice tense and lowered.
“Why not? The phone strike’s over,” I joke, sort of.
“Because-Jeanette-is-behind-me-and-wants-to-use-it,” Evelyn says.
I pause for a very long time.
“Pat-rick?”
“Evelyn. Let it slide. I’m leaving right now. We’ll all be there shortly. I promise.”
“Oh my god—”
I click back to the other line.
“Guys, guys, someone f*cked up. I f*cked up. You f*cked up. I don’t know,” I say in a total panic.
“What’s wrong?” one of them asks.
“Jeanette and Evelyn are at Kaktus,” I say.
“Oh boy.” Van Patten cracks up.
“You know, guys, it’s not beyond my capacity to drive a lead pipe repeatedly into a girl’s vagina,” I tell Van Patten and McDermott, then add, after a silence I mistake for shock, finally on their parts an acute perception of my cruelty, “but compassionately.”
“We all know about your lead pipe, Bateman,” McDermott says. “Stop bragging.”
“Is he like trying to tell us he has a big dick?” Van Patten asks Craig.
“Gee, I’m not sure,” McDermott says. “Is that what you’re trying to tell us, Bateman?”
I pause before answering. “It’s … well, no, not exactly.” My call waiting buzzes.
“Fine, I’m officially jealous,” McDermott wisecracks. “Now where? Christ, what time is it?”
“It doesn’t really matter. My mind has already gone numb.” I’m so hungry now that I’m eating oat-bran cereal out of a box. My call waiting buzzes again.
“Maybe we can get some drugs.”
“Call Hamlin.”
“Jesus, you can’t walk into a bathroom in this city without coming out with a gram, so don’t worry.”
“Anyone hear about Bell South’s cellular deal?”
“Spuds McKenzie is on The Patty Winters Show tomorrow.”