“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say.
“What … is … it … Patrick?” He spaces the words out, obnoxiously.
“Lobster to start with? And for an entrée?”
“What do you want me to order? The Pringle Potato Chip appetizer?”
“Two lobsters?”
“These matchbooks are slightly larger than the lobster they serve here,” he says. “Besides, I’m not that hungry.”
“Even more of a reason.”
“I’ll fax you an apology.”
“Still, Sean.”
“Rock ’n’ roll—”
“I know, I know, rock ’n’ roll, deal with it, right?” I say, holding up a hand while sipping the champagne. I wonder if it’s not too late to ask one of the waitresses to bring a piece of cake over here with a candle in it—just to embarrass the shit out of him, to put the little bastard in his place—but instead I put the glass down and ask, “Listen, so, oh Jesus.” I breathe in, then force out, “What did you do today?”
“Played squash with Richard Lindquist.” He shrugs contemptuously. “Bought a tuxedo.”
“Nicholas Leigh and Charles Conroy want to know if you’re going to the Hamptons this summer.”
“Not if I can help it,” he says, shrugging.
A blond girl close enough to physical perfection, with big tits and a Les Misérables playbill in one hand, wearing a long rayon matte-jersey evening dress by Michael Kors from Bergdorf Goodman, Manolo Blahnik shoes and gold-plated chandelier earrings by Ricardo Siberno, stops by to say hello to Sean and though I would fuck this girl, Sean ignores her flirtatious manner and refuses to introduce me. During this encounter Sean is completely rude, yet the girl leaves smiling, raising a gloved hand. “We’ll be at Mortimer’s. Later.” He nods, staring at my water glass, then waves down a waiter and orders a Scotch, straight.
“Who was that?” I ask.
“Some babe who went to Stephens.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“Playing pool at M.K.” He shrugs.
“Is she a du Pont?” I ask.
“Why? Do you want her number?”
“No, I just wanted to know if she’s a du Pont.”
“She might be. I don’t know.” He lights another cigarette, a Parliament, with what looks like an eighteen-karat gold cigarette lighter from Tiffany’s. “She might be a friend of one of the du Ponts.”
I keep thinking of reasons why I’m sitting here, right now, tonight, with Sean, at Dorsia, but none come to mind. Just this infinitely recurring zero floats into view. After dinner—the food is small but very good; Sean touches nothing—I tell him that I have to meet Andrea Rothmere at Nell’s and if he wants espresso or dessert, he should order it now since I have to be downtown by midnight.
“Why rush?” he asks. “Nell’s isn’t that hip anymore.”
“Well.” I falter, quickly regain composure. “We’re just going to meet there. We’re really going to”—my mind races, lands on something—“Chernoble.” I take another sip of champagne from the tumbler.
“Big yawn. Really big yawn,” he says, scanning the room.
“Or Contraclub East. I can’t remember.”
“Out. Stone Age. Prehistory.” He laughs cynically.
Tense pause. “How would you know?”
“Rock ’n’ roll.” He shrugs. “Deal with it.”
“Well, Sean, where do you go?”
Immediate answer. “Petty’s.”
“Oh yes,” I murmur, having forgotten that it was already open.
He whistles something, smokes a cigarette.
“We’re going to a party Donald Trump’s having,” I lie.
“Big fun. Very big fun.”
“Donald’s a nice guy. You should meet him,” I say. “I’ll … introduce you to him.”
“Really?” Sean asks, maybe hopefully, maybe not.
“Yeah, sure.” Oh, right.
Now, by the time I get the check … let’s see … pay it, take a cab back to my place, it will be almost midnight, which doesn’t give me enough time to return yesterday’s videotapes, so if I don’t stop by my place I can just go in and rent another videotape, though on my membership doesn’t it say that you can only take out three at a time? So this means last night I took out two (Body Double and Blond, Hot, Dead) so I could rent one more, but I’ve forgotten I’m also part of the Gold Circle Membership Plan, which means that if I’ve spent one thousand dollars (at least) in the last six months then I’m allowed to rent as many videos on any given night as I want, but if I still have two out now that might mean I can’t take any more out, Gold Circle Member or not, if the other ones haven’t been returned, but—
“Damien. You’re Damien,” I think I hear Sean mutter.
“What did you say?” I ask, looking up. “I didn’t hear you.”
“Nice tan,” he sighs. “I said nice tan.”
“Oh,” I say, still confused about the video thing. I look down—at what, my lap? “Uh, thanks.”
“Rock ’n’ roll.” He stamps his cigarette out. Fumes rise from the crystal ashtray, then die.
Sean knows I know he can probably get us into Petty’s, which is the new Norman Prager club on Fifty-ninth, but I’m not going to ask him and he’s not going to offer. I place my platinum American Express card over the check. Sean’s eyes are glued to a hardbody by the bar in a Thierry Mugler wool jersey dress and a Claude Montana scarf, sipping from a champagne tumbler. When our waitress comes by to pick up the check and the card, I shake my head no. Sean’s eyes finally fall on it, for a second, maybe more, and I wave the waitress back over and allow her to take it.
Lunch with Bethany
Today I’m meeting Bethany for lunch at Vanities, the new Evan Kiley bistro in Tribeca, and though I worked out for nearly two hours this morning and even lifted weights in my office before noon, I’m still extremely nervous. The cause is hard to locate but I’ve narrowed it down to one of two reasons. It’s either that I’m afraid of rejection (though I can’t understand why: she called me, she wants to see me, she wants to have lunch with me, she wants to fuck me again) or, on the other hand, it could have something to do with this new Italian mousse I’m wearing, which, though it makes my hair look fuller and smells good, feels very sticky and uncomfortable, and it’s something I could easily blame my nervousness on. So we wouldn’t run out of things to talk about over lunch, I tried to read a trendy new short-story collection called Wok that I bought at Barnes & Noble last night and whose young author was recently profiled in the Fast Track section of New York magazine, but every story started off with the line “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie” and I had to put this slim volume back into my bookshelf and drink a J&B on the rocks, followed by two Xanax, to recover from the effort. To make up for this, before I fell asleep I wrote Bethany a poem and it took a long time, which surprised me, since I used to write her poems, long dark ones, quite often when we were both at Harvard, before we broke up. God, I’m thinking to myself as I walk into Vanities, only fifteen minutes late, I hope she hasn’t ended up with Robert Hall, that dumb asshole. I pass by a mirror hung over the bar as I’m led to our table and check out my reflection—the mousse looks good. The topic on The Patty Winters Show this morning was Has Patrick Swayze Become Cynical or Not?
I have to stop moving as I near the table, following the maître d’ (this is all happening in slow motion). She isn’t facing me and I can only catch the back of her neck, her brown hair pinned up into a bun, and when she turns to gaze out the window I see only part of her profile, briefly; she looks just like a model. Bethany’s wearing a silk gazar blouse and a silk satin skirt with crinoline. A Paloma Picasso hunter green suede and wrought-iron handbag sits in front of her on the table, next to a bottle of San Pellegrino water. She checks her watch. The couple next to our table is smoking and after I lean in behind Bethany, surprising her, kissing her cheek, I coolly ask the maître d’ to reseat us in the nonsmo
king section. I’m suave but loud enough for the nicotine addicts to hear me and hopefully feel a slight twinge of embarrassment about their filthy habit.
“Well?” I ask, standing there, arms crossed, tapping my foot impatiently.
“I’m afraid there is no nonsmoking section, sir,” the maître d’ informs me.
I stop tapping my foot and slowly scan the restaurant, the bistro, wondering how my hair really looks, and suddenly I wish I had switched mousses because since I last saw my hair, seconds ago, it feels different, as if its shape was somehow altered on the walk from bar to table. A pang of nausea that I’m unable to stifle washes warmly over me, but since I’m really dreaming all this I’m able to ask, “So you say there’s no nonsmoking section? Is this correct?”
“Yes sir.” The maître d’, younger than myself, faggy, innocent, an actor no doubt, adds, “I’m sorry.”
“Well, this is … very interesting. I can accept this.” I reach into my back pocket for my gazelleskin wallet and press a twenty into the maître d’s uncertain fist. He looks at the bill, confused, then murmurs “Thank you” and walks away as if in a daze.
“No. Thank you,” I call out and take my seat across from Bethany, nodding courteously to the couple next to us, and though I try to ignore her for as long as etiquette allows, I can’t. Bethany looks absolutely stunning, just like a model. Everything’s murky. I’m on edge. Feverish, romantic notions—
“Didn’t you smoke at Harvard?” is the first thing she says.
“Cigars,” I say. “Only cigars.”
“Oh,” she says.
“But I quit that,” I lie, breathing in hard, squeezing my hands together.
“That’s good.” She nods.
“Listen, did you have any trouble getting reservations?” I ask, and I am fucking shaking. I put my hands on the table like a fool, hoping that under her watchful gaze they will stop trembling.
“You don’t need reservations here, Patrick,” she says soothingly, reaching out a hand, covering one of mine with hers. “Calm down. You look like a wild man.”
“I’m clam, I mean calm,” I say, breathing in hard, trying to smile, and then, involuntarily, unable to stop myself, ask, “How’s my hair?”
“Your hair is fine,” she says. “Shhh. It’s okay.”
“All right. I am all right.” I try to smile again but I’m sure it looks just like a grimace.
After a short pause she comments, “That’s a nice suit. Henry Stuart?”
“No,” I say, insulted, touching its lapel. “Garrick Anderson.”
“It’s very nice,” she says and then, genuinely concerned, “Are you okay, Patrick? You just … twitched.”
“Listen. I’m frazzled. I just got back from Washington. I took the Trump shuttle this morning,” I tell her, unable to make eye contact, all in a rush. “It was delightful. The service—really fabulous. I need a drink.”
She smiles, amused, studying me in a shrewd way. “Was it?” she asks, not totally, I sense, without smugness.
“Yes.” I can’t really look at her and it takes immense effort to unfold the napkin, lay it across my lap, reposition it correctly, busy myself with the wineglass, praying for a waiter, the ensuing silence causing the loudest possible sound. “So did you watch The Patty Winters Show this morning?”
“No, I was out jogging,” she says, leaning in. “It was about Michael J. Fox, right?”
“No,” I correct her. “It was about Patrick Swayze.”
“Oh really?” she asks, then, “It’s hard to keep track. You’re sure?”
“Yes. Patrick Swayze. I’m positive.”
“How was it?”
“Well, it was very interesting,” I tell her, breathing in air. “It was almost like a debate, about whether he’s gotten cynical or not.”
“Do you think he has?” she asks, still smiling.
“Well, no, I’m not sure,” I start nervously. “It’s an interesting question. It wasn’t explored fully enough. I mean after Dirty Dancing I wouldn’t think so, but with Tiger Warsaw I don’t know. I might be crazy, but I thought I detected some bitterness. I’m not sure.”
She stares at me, her expression unchanged.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” I say, reaching into my pocket. “I wrote you a poem.” I hand her the slip of paper. “Here.” I feel sick and broken, tortured, really on the brink.
“Oh Patrick.” She smiles. “How sweet.”
“Well, you know,” I say, looking down shyly.
Bethany takes the slip of paper and unfolds it.
“Read it,” I urge enthusiastically.
She looks it over quizzically, puzzled, squinting, then she turns the page over to see if there’s anything on the back. Something in her understands it’s short and she looks back at the words written, scrawled in red, on the front of the page.
“It’s like haiku, you know?” I say. “Read it. Go on.”
She clears her throat and hesitantly begins reading, slowly, stopping often. “‘The poor nigger on the wall. Look at him.’” She pauses and squints again at the paper, then hesitantly resumes. “‘Look at the poor nigger. Look at the poor nigger … on … the … wall.’” She stops again, faltering, looks at me, confused, then back at the paper.
“Go on,” I say, looking around for a waiter. “Finish it.”
She clears her throat and staring steadily at the paper tries to read the rest of it in a voice below a whisper. “‘Fuck him … Fuck the nigger on the wall …’” She falters again, then reads the last sentence, sighing. “‘Black man … is … de … debil?’”
The couple at the next table have slowly turned to gaze over at us. The man looks aghast, the woman has an equally horrified expression on her face. I stare her down, glaring, until she looks back at her fucking salad.
“Well, Patrick,” Bethany says, clearing her throat, trying to smile, handing the paper back to me.
“Yes?” I ask. “Well?”
“I can see that”—she stops, thinking—“that your sense of … social injustice is”—she clears her throat again and looks down—“still intact.”
I take the paper back from her and slip it in my pocket and smile, still trying to keep a straight face, holding my body upright so she won’t suspect me of cringing. Our waiter comes over to the table and I ask him what kinds of beer they serve.
“Heineken, Budweiser, Amstel Light,” he recites.
“Yes?” I ask, staring at Bethany, gesturing for him to continue.
“That’s, um, all, sir,” he says.
“No Corona? No Kirin? No Grolsch? No Morretti?” I ask, confused, irate.
“I’m sorry, sir, but no,” he says cautiously. “Only Heineken, Budweiser, Amstel Light.”
“That’s crazy,” I sigh. “I’ll have a J&B on the rocks. No, an Absolut martini. No, a J&B straight up.”
“And I’ll have another San Pellegrino,” Bethany says.
“I’ll have the same thing,” I quickly add, my leg jerking up then down uncontrollably beneath the table.
“Okay. Would you like to hear the specials?” he asks.
“By all means,” I spit out, then, calming down, smile reassuringly at Bethany.
“You’re sure?” He laughs.
“Please,” I say, unamused, studying the menu.
“For appetizers I have the sun-dried tomatoes and golden caviar with poblano chilies and I also have a fresh endive soup—”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I say, holding up a hand, stopping him. “Hold on a minute.”
“Yes sir?” the waiter asks, confused.
“You have? You mean the restaurant has,” I correct him. “You don’t have any sun-dried tomatoes. The restaurant does. You don’t have the poblano chilies. The restaurant does. Just, you know, clarify.”
The waiter, stunned, looks at Bethany, who handles the situation deftly by asking him, “So how is the endive soup served?”
“Er … cold,” the waiter says, not fully recovered f
rom my outburst, sensing he’s dealing with someone very, very on edge. He stops again, uncertain.
“Go on,” I urge. “Please go on.”
“It’s served cold,” he starts again. “And for entrées we have monkfish with mango slices and red snapper sandwich on brioche with maple syrup and”—he checks his pad again—“cotton.”
“Mmmm, sounds delicious. Cotton, mmmm,” I say, rubbing my hands together eagerly. “Bethany?”
“I’ll have the ceviche with leeks and sorrel,” Bethany says. “And the endive with … walnut dressing.”
“Sir?” the waiter asks tentatively.
“I’ll have …” I stop, scan the menu quickly. “I’ll have the squid with pine nuts and can I have a slice of goat cheese, of chèvre”—I glance over at Bethany to see if she flinches at my mispronunciation—“with that and some … oh, some salsa on the side.”
The waiter nods, leaves, we’re left alone.
“Well.” She smiles, then notices the table slightly shaking. “What’s … wrong with your leg?”
“My leg? Oh.” I look down at it, then back at her. “It’s … the music. I like the music a lot. The music that’s playing.”
“What is it?” she asks, tilting her head, trying to catch a refrain of the New Age Muzak coming from the speakers hooked to the ceiling over the bar.
“It’s … I think it’s Belinda Carlisle,” I guess. “I’m not sure.”
“But …” she starts, then stops. “Oh, forget it.”
“But what?”
“But I don’t hear any singing.” She smiles, looks down demurely.
I hold my leg still and pretend to listen. “But it’s one of her songs,” I say, then lamely add, “I think it’s called ‘Heaven Is a Place on Earth.’ You know it.”
“Listen,” she says, “have you gone to any concerts lately?”
“No,” I say, wishing she hadn’t brought this, of all topics, up. “I don’t like live music.”
“Live music?” she asks, intrigued, sipping San Pellegrino water.