Tunnel
All of the men outside Tunnel tonight are for some reason wearing tuxedos, except for a middle-aged homeless bum who sits by a Dumpster, only a few feet away from the ropes, holding out to anyone who pays attention a Styrofoam coffee cup, begging for change, and as Price leads us around the crowd up to the ropes, motioning to one of the doormen, Van Patten waves a crisp one-dollar bill in front of the homeless bum’s face, which momentarily lights up, then Van Patten pockets it as we’re whisked into the club, handed a dozen drink tickets and two VIP Basement passes. Once inside we’re vaguely hassled by two more doormen—long wool coats, ponytails, probably German—who demand to know why we’re not wearing tuxedos. Price handles this all suavely, somehow, either by tipping the dorks or by persuading them with his clout (probably the former). I stay uninvolved and with my back to him try to listen as McDermott complains to Van Patten about how crazy I am for putting down the pizzas made at Pastels, but it’s hard to hear anything with Belinda Carlisle’s version of “I Feel Free” blasting over the sound system. I have a knife with a serrated blade in the pocket of my Valentino jacket and I’m tempted to gut McDermott with it right here in the entranceway, maybe slice his face open, sever his spine; but Price finally waves us in and the temptation to kill McDermott is replaced by this strange anticipation to have a good time, drink some champagne, flirt with a hardbody, find some blow, maybe even dance to some oldies or that new Janet Jackson song I like.
It gets quieter as we move into the front hallway, heading toward the actual entrance, and we pass by three hardbodies. One is wearing a black side-buttoned notched-collar wool jacket, wool-crepe trousers and a fitted cashmere turtleneck, all by Oscar de la Renta; another is wearing a double-breasted coat of wool, mohair and nylon tweed, matching jeans-style pants and a man’s cotton dress shirt, all by Stephen Sprouse; the best-looking one is wearing a checked wool jacket and high-waisted wool skirt, both from Barney’s, and a silk blouse by Andra Gabrielle. They’re definitely paying attention to the four of us and we repay the compliment, turning our heads—except for Price, who ignores them and says something rude.
“Jesus Christ, Price, lighten up,” McDermott whines. “What’s your problem? Those girls were very hot.”
“Yeah, if you speak Farsi,” Price says, handing McDermott a couple of drink tickets as if to placate him.
“What?” Van Patten says. “They didn’t look Spanish to me.”
“You know, Price, you’re going to have to change your attitude if you want to get laid,” McDermott says.
“You’re telling me about getting laid?” Price asks Craig. “You, who scored with a hand-job the other night?”
“Your outlook sucks, Price,” Craig says.
“Listen, you think I act like I do around you guys when I want some p-ssy?” Price challenges.
“Yeah, I do,” McDermott and Van Patten say at the same time.
“You know,” I say, “it’s possible to act differently from how one actually feels to get sex, guys. I hope I’m not causing you to relose your innocence, McDermott.” I start walking faster, trying to keep up with Tim.
“No, but that doesn’t explain why Tim acts like such a major a*shole,” McDermott says, trying to catch up with me.
“Like these girls care,” Price snorts. “When I tell them what my annual income is, believe me, my behavior couldn’t matter less.”
“And how do you drop this little tidbit of info?” Van Patten asks. “Do you say, Here’s a Corona and by the way I pull in a hundred eighty thou a year and what’s your sign?”
“One ninety,” Price corrects him, and then, “Yeah, I do. Subtlety is not what these girls are after.”
“And what are these girls after, O knowledgeable one?” McDermott asks, bowing slightly as he walks.
Van Patten laughs and still in motion they give each other high-five.
“Hey,” I laugh, “you wouldn’t ask if you knew.”
“They want a hardbody who can take them to Le Cirque twice a week, get them into Nell’s on a regular basis. Or maybe a close personal acquaintance of Donald Trump,” Price says flatly.
We hand our tickets to an okay-looking girl wearing a wool-melton duffel coat and a silk scarf from Hermes. As she lets us in, Price winks at her and McDermott is saying, “I worry about disease just walking into this place. These are some skanky chicks. I can just feel it.”
“I told you, dude,” Van Patten says and then patiently restates his facts. “We can’t get that. It’s like zero zero zero point oh one percentage—”
Luckily, the long version of “New Sensation” by INXS drowns out his voice. The music is so loud that conversation is possible only by screaming. The club is fairly packed; the only real light coming in flashes off the dance floor. Everyone is wearing a tuxedo. Everyone is drinking champagne. Since we only have two VIP Basement passes Price shoves them at McDermott and Van Patten and they eagerly wave the cards at the guy guarding the top of the stairs. The guy who lets them pass is wearing a double-breasted wool tuxedo, a cotton wing-collar shirt by Cerruti 1881 and a black and white checkered silk bow tie from Martin Dingman Neckwear.
“Hey,” I shout to Price. “Why didn’t we use those?”
“Because,” he screams over the music, grabbing me by the collar, “we need some Bolivian Marching Powder.…”
I follow him as he rushes through the narrow corridor that runs parallel to the dance floor, then into the bar and finally into the Chandelier Room, which is jammed with guys from Drexel, from Lehman’s, from Kidder Peabody, from First Boston, from Morgan Stanley, from Rothschild, from Goldman, even from Citibank for Christ sakes, all of them wearing tuxedos, holding champagne flutes, and effortlessly, almost as if it were the same song, “New Sensation” segues into “The Devil Inside” and Price spots Ted Madison leaning against the railing in the back of the room, wearing a double-breasted wool tuxedo, a wing-collar cotton shirt from Paul Smith, a bow tie and cummerbund from Rainbow Neckwear, diamond studs from Trianon, patent-leather and grosgrain pumps by Ferragamo and an antique Hamilton watch from Saks; and past Madison, disappearing into darkness, are the twin train tracks which tonight are lit garishly in preppy greens and pinks and Price suddenly stops walking, stares past Ted, who smiles knowingly when he spots Timothy, and Price gazes longingly at the tracks as if they suggest some kind of freedom, embody an escape that Price has been searching for, but I shout out to him, “Hey, there’s Teddy,” and this breaks his gaze and he shakes his head as if to clear it, refocuses his gaze on Madison and shouts decisively, “No, that’s not Madison for Christ sakes, that’s Turnball,” and the guy who I thought was Madison is greeted by two other guys in tuxedos and he turns his back to us and suddenly, behind Price, Ebersol wraps an arm around Timothy’s neck and laughingly pretends to strangle him, then Price pushes the arm away, shakes Ebersol’s hand and says, “Hey Madison.”
Madison, who I thought was Ebersol, is wearing a splendid double-breasted white linen jacket by Hackett of London from Bergdorf Goodman. He has a cigar that hasn’t been lit in one hand and a champagne glass, half full, in the other.
“Mr. Price,” shouts Madison. “Very good to see you, sir.”
“Madison,” Price cries back. “We need your services.”
“Looking for trouble?” Madison smiles.
“Something more immediate,” Price shouts back.
“Of course,” Madison shouts and then, coolly for some reason, nods at me, shouting, I think, “Bateman,” and then, “Nice tan.”
A guy standing behind Madison who looks a lot like Ted Dreyer is wearing a double-breasted shawl-collared tuxedo, a cotton shirt and a silk tartan bow tie, all of it, I’m fairly sure, from Polo by Ralph Lauren. Madison stands around, nodding to various people who pass by in the crush.
Finally Price loses his cool. “Listen. We need drugs,” I think I hear him shout.
“Patience, Price, patience,” Madison shouts. “I’ll talk to Ricardo.”
But he still stands there, nodding to people who push past us.
“Like what about now?” Price screams.
“Why aren’t you wearing a tux?” Madison shouts.
“How much do we want?” Price asks me, looking desperate.
“A gram is fine,” I shout. “I have to be at the office early tomorrow.”
“Do you have cash?”
I can’t lie, nod, hand him forty.
“A gram,” Price shouts to Ted.
“Hey,” Madison says, introducing his friend, “this is You.”
“A gram.” Price presses cash into Madison’s hand. “You? What?”
This guy and Madison both smile and Ted shakes his head and shouts a name I can’t hear.
“No,” Madison shouts, “Hugh.” I think.
“Yeah. Great to meet you, Hugh.” Price holds up his wrist and taps the gold Rolex with his index finger.
“I’ll be right back,” Madison shouts. “Keep my friend company. Use your drink tickets.” He disappears. You, Hugh, Who, fades into the crowd. I follow Price over to the railings.
I want to light my cigar but don’t have any matches; yet just holding it, catching some of its aroma along with the knowledge that drugs are incoming, comforts me and I take two of the drink tickets from Price and try to get him a Finlandia on the rocks which they don’t have, the hardbody behind the bar informs me bitchily, but she’s got a rad body and is so hot-looking that I will leave her a big tip because of this. I settle on an Absolut for Price and order a J&B on the rocks for myself. As a joke I almost bring Tim a Bellini but he seems far too edgy tonight to appreciate this so I wade back through the crowd to where he stands and hand him the Absolut and he takes it thanklessly and finishes it with one gulp, looks at the glass and grimaces, giving me an accusatory look. I shrug helplessly. He resumes staring at the train tracks as if possessed. There are very few chicks in Tunnel tonight.
“Hey, I’m going out with Courtney tomorrow night.”
“Her?” he shouts back, staring at the tracks. “Great.” Even with the noise I catch the sarcasm.
“Well, why not? Carruthers is out of town.”
“Might as well hire someone from an escort service,” he shouts bitterly, almost without thinking.
“Why?” I shout.
“Because she’s gonna cost you a lot more to get laid.”
“No way,” I scream.
“Listen, I put up with it too,” Price shouts, lightly shaking his glass. Ice cubes clank loudly, surprising me. “Meredith’s the same way. She expects to be paid. They all do.”
“Price?” I take a large gulp of Scotch. “You’re priceless.…”
He points behind him. “Where do those tracks go?” Laser lights start flashing.
“I don’t know,” I say after a long time, I don’t even know how long.
I get bored watching Price, who is neither moving nor speaking. The only reason he occasionally turns away from the train tracks is to look for Madison or Ricardo. No women anywhere, just an army of professionals from Wall Street in tuxedos. The one female spotted is dancing alone in a corner to some song I think is called “Love Triangle.” She’s wearing what looks like a sequined tank top by Ronaldus Shamask and I concentrate on that but I’m in an edgy pre-coke state and I start chewing nervously on a drink ticket and some Wall Street guy who looks like Boris Cunningham blocks my view of the girl. I’m about to head off to the bar when Madison comes back—it’s been twenty minutes—and he sniffs loudly, a big plastered jittery grin on his face as he shakes hands with a sweaty stern-looking Price who moves away so quickly that when Ted tries to slap him in a friendly sort of way on his back he just hits air.
I follow Price back past the bar and the dance floor, past the basement, and upstairs, past the long line for the women’s room which is strange since there seem to be no women at the club tonight, and then we’re in the men’s room, which is empty, and Price and I slip into one of the stalls together and he bolts the door.
“I’m shaking,” Price says, handing me the small envelope. “You open it.”
I take it from him, carefully unfolding the edges of the tiny white package, exposing the supposed gram—it looks like less—to the dim fluorescent light of the men’s room.
“Jeez,” Price whispers in a surprisingly gentle way. “That’s not a helluva lot, is it?” He leans forward to inspect it.
“Maybe it’s just the light,” I mention.
“What the f*ck is Ricardo’s problem?” Price asks, gaping at the coke.
“Shhh,” I whisper, taking out my platinum American Express card. “Let’s just do it.”
“Is he f*cking selling it by the milligram?” Price asks. He sticks his own platinum American Express card into the powder, bringing it up to his nose to inhale it. He stands there silently for a moment, and then gasps “Oh my god” in a low, throaty voice.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s a f*cking milligram of … Sweet’n Low,” he chokes.
I do some of it and come to the same conclusion. “It’s definitely weak but I have a feeling if we do enough of it we’ll be okay—” But Price is furious, red-faced and sweating; he screams at me as if this was my fault, as if buying the gram from Madison was my idea.
“I want to get high off this, Bateman,” Price says slowly, his voice rising. “Not sprinkle it on my f*cking All-Bran!”
“You can always put it in your café au lait,” this prissy voice in the next stall cries out.
Price stares at me, eyes widening in disbelief, then flies into a rage and whirls around, pounding his fist against the side of the stall.
“Calm down,” I tell him. “Let’s do it anyway.”
Price turns back to me and, after running a hand over his stiff, slicked-back hair, seems to relent. “I guess you’re right,” and then he raises his voice, “that is, if the faggot in the next stall thinks it’s okay.”
We wait for a sign and then the voice in the next stall finally lisps, “It’s okay with me.…”
“F*ck yourself!” Price roars.
“F*ck yourself,” the voice mimics.
“No, f*ck yourself,” Price screams back, trying to scramble over the aluminum divider, but I pull him down with one hand and in the next stall the toilet flushes and the unidentified person, obviously unnerved, scampers out of the men’s room. Price leans against the door of our stall and stares at me in this hopeless way. He rubs a trembling hand over his still-crimson face and shuts his eyes tightly, lips white, slight residue of cocaine under one nostril—and then quietly he says, without opening his eyes, “Okay. Let’s do it.”
“That’s the spirit,” I say. We take turns digging our respective cards into the envelope until what we can’t get with the cards we press our fingers into and snort or lick off the tips then rub into our gums. I’m not anywhere near high but another J&B might give the body a false enough impression to kick in some kind of rush no matter how weak.
Stepping out of the stall we wash our hands, inspecting our reflections in the mirror, and, once satisfied, head back to the Chandelier Room. I’m beginning to wish I’d checked my overcoat (Armani) but no matter what Price says I feel kind of high and minutes later as I wait at the bar trying to get this hardbody’s attention it starts not to matter. I finally have to lay a twenty on the counter to get her attention, even though I have plenty of drink tickets left. It works. Taking advantage of the drink tickets, I order two double Stolis on the rocks. She pours the drinks in front of me.
I’m feeling good and I shout out to her, “Hey, don’t you go to NYU?”
She shakes her head, unsmiling.
“Hunter?” I shout.
She shakes her head again. Not Hunter.
“Columbia?” I shout—though that’s a joke.
She continues to concentrate on the bottle of Stoli. I decide not to continue the conversation and just slap the drink tickets on the bar as she places the two glasses in front of me. But she shakes her head and shouts, “It’s after eleven. Those aren’t good anymore. It’s a cash bar. That’ll be twenty-five dollars,” and without complaining, playing it totally cool, I pull out my gazelleskin wallet and hand her a fifty which she eyes, I swear, contemptuously and, sighing, turns to the cash register and finds my change and I say, staring at her, quite clearly but muffled by “Pump Up the Volume” and the crowd, “You are a f*cking ugly bitch I want to stab to death and play around with your blood,” but I’m smiling. I leave the cunt no tip and find Price who is standing again, morosely, by the railings, his hands gripping the steel bars. Paul Owen, who is handling the Fisher account, is wearing a six-button double-breasted wool tuxedo and he stands next to Price screaming something like “Ran five hundred iterations of discounted cash flow minus on an ICM PC took company cab to Smith and Wollensky.”
I hand the drink to Price, while nodding to Paul. Price says nothing, not even thanks. He just holds the drink and mournfully stares at the tracks and then he squints and bends his head down to the glass and when the strobe lights start flashing, he stands up straight and murmurs something to himself.
“Aren’t you high?” I ask him.
“How are you?” Owen shouts.
“Very happy,” I say.
The music is one long, unending song that overlaps with other, separate songs connected only by a dull thumping beat and it obliterates all conversation which, while I’m talking to a weasel like Owen, is perfectly okay with me. There seem to be more girls in the Chandelier Room now and I try to make eye contact with one of them—model type with big tits. Price nudges me and I lean in to ask if we should perhaps get another gram.
“Why aren’t you wearing a tuxedo?” Owen asks, behind me.
“I’m leaving,” Price shouts. “I’m getting out.”
“Leaving what?” I shout back, confused.
“This,” he shouts, referring to, I’m not sure but I think, his double Stoli.
“Don’t,” I tell him. “I’ll drink it.”
“Listen to me, Patrick,” he screams. “I’m leaving.”
“Where to?” I really am confused. “You want me to find Ricardo?”
“I’m leaving,” he screams. “I … am … leaving!”
I start laughing, not knowing what he means. “Well, where are you going to go?”
“Away!” he shouts.
“Don’t tell me,” I shout back at him. “Merchant banking?”
“No, Bateman. I’m serious you dumb son-of-a-bitch. Leaving. Disappearing.”
“Where to?” I’m still laughing, still confused, still shouting. “Morgan Stanley? Rehab? What?”
He looks away from me, doesn’t answer, just keeps staring past the railings, trying to find the point where the tracks come to an end, find what lies behind the blackness. He’s becoming a drag but Owen seems worse and I’ve already accidentally made eye contact with the weasel.
“Tell him don’t worry, be happy,” Owen shouts.
“Are you still handling the Fisher account?” What else can I say to him?
“What?” Owen asks. “Wait. Is that Conrad?”
He points at some guy wearing a shawl-collar, single-breasted wool tuxedo, a cotton shirt with a bow tie, all by Pierre Cardin, who stands near the bar, directly beneath the chandelier, holding a glass of champagne, inspecting his nails. Owen pulls out a cigar, then asks for a light. I’m bored so I go for the bar without excusing myself to ask the hardbody I want to cut up for some matches. The Chandelier Room is packed and everyone looks familiar, everyone looks the same. Cigar smoke hangs heavy, floating in midair, and the music, INXS again, is louder than ever, but building toward what? I touch my brow by mistake and my fingers come back wet. At the bar I pick up some matches. On my way back through the crowd I bump into McDermott and Van Patten, who start begging me for more drink tickets. I hand them the rest of the tickets knowing that they are no longer valid, but we’re crushed together in the middle of the room and the drink tickets don’t offer enough incentive for them to make the trek to the bar.
“Skanky chicks,” Van Patten says. “Beware. No hardbodies.”
“Basement sucks,” McDermott shouts.
“Did you find drugs?” Van Patten shouts. “We saw Ricardo.”
“No,” I shout. “Negative. Madison couldn’t find any.”
“Service, damnit, service,” the guy behind me shouts.
“It’s useless,” I shout. “I can’t hear anything.”
“What?” Van Patten shouts. “I can’t hear anything.”
Suddenly McDermott grabs my arm. “What the f*ck is Price doing? Look.”
As in a movie, I turn around with some difficulty, standing on my toes to see Price perched on the rails, trying to balance himself, and someone has handed him a champagne glass and drunk or wired he holds both arms out and closes his eyes, as if blessing the crowd. Behind him the strobe light continues to flash off and on and off and on and the smoke machine is going like crazy, gray mist billowing up, enveloping him. He’s shouting something but I can’t hear what—the room is jammed to overcapacity, the sound level an earsplitting combination of Eddie Murphy’s “Party All the Time” and the constant din of businessmen—so I push my way forward, my eyes glued on Price, and manage to pass Madison and Hugh and Turnball and Cunningham and a few others. But the crowd is too densely packed and it’s futile to even keep trying. Only a few of the faces are fixated on Tim, still balancing on the railing, eyes half closed, shouting something. Embarrassed, I’m suddenly glad I’m stuck in the crowd, unable to reach him, to save him from almost certain humiliation, and during a perfectly timed byte of silence I can hear Price shout, “Goodbye!” and then, the crowd finally paying attention, “F*ckheads!” Gracefully he twists his body around and hops over the railing and leaps onto the tracks and starts running, the champagne flute bobbing as he holds it out to his side. He stumbles once, twice, with the strobe light flashing, in what looks like slow motion, but he regains his composure before disappearing into blackness. A security guard sits idly by the railing as Price recedes into the tunnel. He just shakes his head, I think.
“Price! Come back!” I yell but the crowd is actually applauding his performance. “Price!” I yell once more, over the clapping. But he’s gone and it’s doubtful that if he did hear me he would do anything about it. Madison is standing nearby and sticks his hand out as if to congratulate me for something. “That guy’s a riot.”
McDermott appears behind me and pulls at my shoulder. “Does Price know about a VIP room that we don’t?” He looks worried.
Outside Tunnel now, I’m high but really tired and my mouth tastes surprisingly like NutraSweet, even after drinking two more Stolis and half a J&B. Twelve-thirty and we watch limousines try to make left turns onto the West Side Highway. The three of us, Van Patten, McDermott and myself, discuss the possibilities of finding this new club called Nekenieh. I’m not really high, just sort of drunk.
“Lunch?” I ask them, yawning. “Tomorrow?”
“Can’t,” McDermott says. “Haircut at the Pierre.”
“What about breakfast?” I suggest.
“Nope,” Van Patten says. “Gio’s. Manicure.”
“That reminds me,” I say, inspecting a hand. “I need one too.”
“How about dinner?” McDermott asks me.
“I’ve got a date,” I say. “Shit.”
“What about you?” McDermott asks Van Patten.
“No can do,” Van Patten says. “I’ve got to go to Sunmakers. Then private workout.”