American Psycho (23 page)

“Luis is a
weasel
,” I shout. “He suspects
nothing.
”

“The Edge is wearing Armani,” she shouts, pointing at the bassist.

“That’s
not
Armani,” I shout back. “It’s Em
por
io.”

“No,” she shouts. “Ar
mani.
”

“The grays are too muted and so are the taupes and navies. Definite winged lapels, subtle plaids, polka dots and stripes are Armani.
Not
Emporio,” I shout, extremely irritated that she doesn’t know this, can’t differentiate, both my hands covering both ears. “There’s a difference. Which one’s The Ledge?”

“The drummer might be The Ledge,” she shouts. “I think. I’m not sure. I need a cigarette. Where were you the other night? If you tell me with Evelyn I’m going to hit you.”

“The drummer is not wearing anything by Armani,” I scream. “Or Emporio for that matter. Nowhere.”

“I don’t know which one the drummer is,” she shouts.

“Ask Ashley,” I suggest, screaming.

“Ashley?” she screams, reaching over across Paul and tapping Ashley’s leg. “Which one’s The Ledge?” Ashley shouts something at her that I can’t hear and then Courtney turns back to me, shrugging. “She said she can’t believe she’s in New Jersey.”

Carruthers motions for Courtney to change seats with him. She waves the little twit away and grips my thigh, which I flex rock-hard, and her hand lingers admiringly. But Luis persists and she gets up, and screams at me, “I think we need drugs tonight!” I nod. The lead singer, Bono, is screeching out what sounds like “Where the Beat Sounds the Same.” Evelyn and Ashley leave to buy cigarettes, use the ladies’ room, find refreshments. Luis sits next to me.

“The girls are bored,” Luis screams at me.

“Courtney wants us to find her some cocaine tonight,” I shout.

“Oh,
great.
” Luis looks sulky.

“Do we have reservations anywhere?”

“
Brussels
,” he shouts, checking his Rolex. “But it’s
doubt
ful if we’ll make it.”

“If we
don’t
make it,” I warn him, “I’m not going
any
where else. You can drop me at my apartment.”

“We’ll
make
it,” he shouts.

“If we
don’t
, what about Japanese?” I suggest, relenting. “There’s a really top sushi bar on the Upper West Side. Blades. Chef used to be at Isoito. It got a
great
rating in Zagat.”

“Bateman, I
hate
the Japanese,” Carruthers screams at me, one hand placed over an ear. “Little slanty-eyed bastards.”

“What,” I scream, “in the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh I know, I know,” he screams, eyes bulging. “They save more than we do and they don’t innovate much, but they sure in the fuck know how to take,
steal
, our innovations, improve on them, then ram them down our fucking throats!”

I stare at him, disbelieving for a moment, then look at the stage, at the guitarist running around in circles, Bono’s arms outstretched as he runs back and forth across the length of its edge, and then back at Luis whose face is still crimson with fury and he’s still staring at me, wide-eyed, spittle on his lips, not saying anything.

“What in the
hell
does that have to do with
Blades
?” I ask finally, genuinely confused. “Wipe your mouth.”

“That’s why I
hate
Japanese food,” he screams back. “Sashimi. California roll. Oh
Jesus.
” He makes a gagging motion, with one finger going down his throat.

“Carruthers …” I stop, still looking at him, studying his face closely, slightly freaked out, unable to remember what I wanted to say.

“
What
, Bateman?” Carruthers asks, leaning in.

“Listen, I can’t believe this shit,” I scream. “I can’t believe you didn’t make the reservations for
later.
We’re going to have to
wait.
”

“What?” he screams, cupping his ear, as if it makes a difference.

“We are going to have to
wait
!” I scream louder.

“This is not a problem,” he shouts.

The lead singer reaches out to us from the stage, his hand outstretched, and I wave him away. “It’s okay? It’s
okay
? No, Luis. You’re
wrong.
It’s not
okay.
” I look over at Paul Owen, who seems equally bored, his hands clamped over both ears, but still managing to confer with Courtney about something.

“We won’t have to wait,” Luis screams. “I promise.”

“Promise
nothing
, you geek,” I scream, then, “Is Paul Owen still handling the Fisher account?”

“I don’t want you to be mad at me, Patrick,” Luis screams desperately. “It’ll be
all
right.”

“Oh Jesus, forget it,” I scream. “Now listen to me: is Paul Owen still handling the Fisher account?”

Carruthers looks over at him and then back at me. “Yeah, I guess. I heard Ashley has chlamydia.”

“I’m going to talk to him,” I shout, getting up, taking the empty seat next to Owen.

But when I sit down something strange on the stage catches my eye. Bono has now moved across the stage, following me to my seat, and he’s staring into my eyes, kneeling at the edge of the stage, wearing black jeans (maybe Gitano), sandals, a leather vest with no shirt beneath it. His body is white, covered with sweat, and it’s not worked out enough, there’s no muscle tone and what definition there might be is covered beneath a paltry amount of chest hair. He has a cowboy hat on and his hair is pulled back into a ponytail and he’s moaning some dirge—I catch the lyric “A hero is an insect in this world”—and he has a faint, barely noticeable but nonetheless intense smirk on his face and it grows, spreading across it confidently, and while his eyes blaze, the backdrop of the stage turns red and suddenly I get this tremendous surge of feeling, this rush of knowledge, and I can see into Bono’s heart and my own beats faster because of this and I realize that I’m receiving a message of some kind from the singer. It hits me that we have something in common, that we share a bond, and it’s not impossible to believe that an invisible cord attached to Bono has now encircled me and now the audience disappears and the music slows down, gets softer, and it’s just Bono onstage—the stadium’s deserted, the band fades away—and the message,
his
message, once vague, now gets more powerful and he’s nodding at me and I’m nodding back, everything getting clearer, my body alive and burning, on fire, and from nowhere a flash of white and blinding light envelopes me and I hear it, can actually
feel
, can even make out the letters of the message hovering above Bono’s head in orange wavy letters: “I … am … the … devil … and I am … just … like …
you
…”

And then everyone, the audience, the band, reappears and the music slowly swells up and Bono, sensing that I’ve received the message—I actually
know
that he
feels
me reacting to it—is satisfied and turns away and I’m left tingling, my face flushed, an aching erection pulsing against my thigh, my hands clenched in fists of tension. But suddenly everything stops, as if a switch has been turned off, the backdrop flashes back to white. Bono—the devil—is on the other side of the stage now and everything, the feeling in my heart, the sensation combing my brain, vanishes and now more than ever I need to know about the Fisher account that Owen is handling and this information seems vital, more pertinent than the bond of similarity I have with Bono, who is now dissolving and remote. I turn to Paul Owen.

“Hey,” I shout. “How’s it going?”

“Those guys over there …” He motions toward a group of stagehands standing by the edge of the far side of the front row, peering into the crowd, conferring with one another. “They were pointing over here at Evelyn and Courtney and Ashley.”

“Who are they?” I shout. “Are they from Oppenheimer?”

“No,” Owen shouts back. “I think they’re roadies who look for chicks to go backstage and have sex with the band.”

“Oh,” I scream. “I thought maybe they worked at Barney’s.”

“No,” he shouts. “They’re called
trim
coordinators.”

“How do you know
that
?”

“I have a cousin who manages All We Need of Hell,” he shouts.

“It’s irritating that you know this,” I say.

“What?” he shouts.

“Are you still handling the Fisher account?” I shout back.

“Yeah,” he screams. “Lucked out, huh, Marcus?”

“You sure did,” I scream. “How did you get it?”

“Well, I had the Ransom account and things just fell into place.” He shrugs helplessly, the smooth bastard. “You know?”

“Wow,” I shout.

“Yeah,” he shouts back, then turns around in his seat and shouts at two dumb-looking fat girls from New Jersey passing an oversize joint between them, one of the cows wrapped in what I’m guessing is the Irish flag. “Will you please put your
skunk-weed
away—it
reeks.
”

“I want it,” I shout, staring at his perfect, even part; even his scalp is tan.

“You want
what
?” he shouts back. “Marijuana?”

“No. Nothing,” I scream, my throat raw, and I slump back into my seat, stare emptily at the stage, biting my thumbnail, ruining yesterday’s manicure.

We leave after Evelyn and Ashley return and later, in the limousine racing back toward Manhattan to make the reservation at Brussels, another bottle of Cristal opened, Reagan still on the television set, Evelyn and Ashley tell us that two bouncers accosted them near the ladies’ room and demanded they come backstage. I explain who they were and what purpose they serve.

“My
god
,” Evelyn gasps. “Are you telling me I’ve been …
trim
-coordinated?”

“I bet Bono has a small dick,” Owen says, staring out the tinted window. “Irish, you know.”

“Do you think they had an automated teller back there?” Luis asks.

“Ashley,” Evelyn shouts. “Did you hear that? We’ve been
trim
-coordinated!”

“How does my hair look?” I ask.

“More Cristal?” Courtney asks Luis.

and it’s midafternoon and I find myself standing at a phone booth on a corner somewhere downtown, I don’t know where, but I’m sweaty and a pounding migraine thumps dully in my head and I’m experiencing a major-league anxiety attack, searching my pockets for Valium, Xanax, a leftover Halcion, anything, and all I find are three faded Nuprin in a Gucci pillbox, so I pop all three into my mouth and swallow them down with a Diet Pepsi and I couldn’t tell you where it came from if my life depended on it. I’ve forgotten who I had lunch with
earlier and, even more important,
where.
Was it Robert Ailes at Beats? Or was it Todd Hendricks at Ursula’s, the new Philip Duncan Holmes bistro in Tribeca? Or was it Ricky Worrall and were we at December’s? Or would it have been Kevin Weber at Contra in NoHo? Did I order the partridge sandwich on brioche with green tomatoes, or a big plate of endive with clam sauce? “Oh god,
I can’t remember
,” I moan, my clothes—a linen and silk sport coat, a cotton shirt, pleated linen khaki trousers, all by Matsuda, a silk tie with a Matsuda insignia, with a belt from Coach Leatherware—drenched with sweat, and I take off the jacket and wipe my face with it. The phone keeps ringing but I don’t know who I’ve called and I just stand on the corner, Ray-Bans balanced on my forehead at what feels like an odd, crooked angle, and then I hear a faint familiar sound coming through the wires—Jean’s soft voice competing with the endless gridlock stuck on Broadway.
The Patty Winters Show
this morning was Aspirin: Can It Save Your Life? “Jean?” I cry out. “Hello?
Jean
?” “Patrick? Is that you?” she calls back. “
Hello
?” “
Jean
, I need
help
,” I shout. “Patrick?” “What?” “Jesse Forrest called,” Jean says. “He has a reservation at Melrose tonight at eight, and Ted Madison and Jamie Conway want to meet you for drinks at Harry’s. Patrick?” Jean asks. “Where are you?” “Jean?” I sigh, wiping my nose. “I’m not—” “Oh, and Todd Lauder called,” Jean says, “no, I mean Chris—oh no, it was Todd Lauder. Yeah, Todd Lauder.” “Oh god,” I moan, loosening my tie, the August sun beating down on me, “what do you say, you dumb bitch?” “Not
Bice
, Patrick. The reservation is at
Melrose.
Not Bice.” “What am I
doing
?” I cry out. “Where are you?” and then, “Patrick? What’s wrong?” “I’m not going to make it, Jean,” I say, then choke out, “to the office this afternoon.” “Why?” She sounds depressed or maybe it’s just simple confusion. “Just … say … no …,” I scream. “What is it, Patrick? Are you all right?” she asks. “Stop sounding so fucking … sad.
Jesus
,” I shout. “Patrick. I’m sorry. I mean I meant to say Just say no, but—” I hang up on her and lunge away from the phone booth and the Walkman around my neck suddenly feels like a boulder strapped around my throat (and the sounds blaring from it—early Dizzy Gillespie—deeply irritate) and I have to throw the Walkman, a cheap one, into the nearest trash can I
stumble into and then I hang on to the rim of the can, breathing heavily, the cheap Matsuda jacket tied around my waist, staring at the still-functioning Walkman, the sun melting the mousse on my head and it mingles with the sweat pouring down my face and I can taste it when I lick my lips and it starts tasting good and I’m suddenly ravenous and I run my hand through my hair and lick greedily at the palm while moving up Broadway, ignoring the old ladies passing out fliers, past jeans stores, music blasting from inside, pouring out onto the streets, people’s movements matching the beat of the song, a Madonna single, Madonna crying out, “
life is a mystery, everyone must stand alone
…,” bike messengers whiz by and I’m standing on a corner scowling at them, but people pass, oblivious, no one pays attention, they don’t even pretend to
not
pay attention, and this fact sobers me up long enough that I walk toward a nearby Conran’s to buy a teapot, but just when I assume my normalcy has returned and I’m all straightened out, my stomach tightens and the cramps are so intense that I hobble into the nearest doorway and clutch my waist, doubling over with pain, and as suddenly as it appears it fades long enough for me to stand up straight and rush into the next hardware store I come across, and once inside I buy a set of butcher knives, an ax, a bottle of hydrochloric acid, and then, at the pet store down the block, a Habitrail and two white rats that I plan to torture with the knives and acid, but somewhere, later in the afternoon, I leave the package with the rats in it at the Pottery Barn while shopping for candles or did I finally buy the teapot? Now I’m lunging up Lafayette, sweating and moaning and pushing people out of my way, foam pouring out of my mouth, stomach contracting with horrendous abdominal cramps—they might be caused by the steroids but that’s doubtful—and I calm myself down enough to walk into a Gristede’s, rush up and down the aisles and shoplift a canned ham that I calmly walk out of the store with, hidden under the Matsuda jacket, and down the block, where I try to hide in the lobby of the American Felt Building, breaking the tin open with my keys, ignoring the doorman, who at first seems to recognize me, then, after I start stuffing handfuls of the ham into my mouth, scooping the lukewarm pink meat out of the can, getting it stuck beneath my nails, threatens
to call the police. I’m outta there, outside, throwing up all the ham, leaning against a poster for
Les Misérables
at a bus stop and I kiss the drawing of Eponine’s lovely face, her lips, leaving brown streaks of bile smeared across her soft, unassuming face and the word
DYKE
scrawled beneath it. Loosening my suspenders, ignoring beggars, beggars ignoring me, sweat-drenched, delirious, I find myself back downtown in Tower Records and I compose myself, muttering over and over to no one, “I’ve gotta return my videotapes, I’ve gotta return my videotapes,” and I buy two copies of my favorite compact disc, Bruce Willis,
The Return of Bruno
, and then I’m stuck in the revolving door for five full spins and I trip out onto the street, bumping into Charles Murphy from Kidder Peabody or it could be Bruce Barker from Morgan Stanley,
whoever
, and he says “Hey, Kinsley” and I belch into his face, my eyes rolling back into my head, greenish bile dripping in strings from my bared fangs, and he suggests, unfazed, “See you at Fluties, okay? Severt too?” I screech and while backing away I bump into a fruit stand at a Korean deli, collapsing stacks of apples and oranges and lemons, that go rolling onto the sidewalk, over the curb and into the street where they’re splattered by cabs and cars and buses and trucks and I’m apologizing, delirious, offering a screaming Korean my platinum AmEx accidentally, then a twenty, which he immediately takes, but still he grabs me by the lapels of the stained, wrinkled jacket I’ve forced myself back into and when I look up into his slanty-eyed round face he suddenly bursts into the chorus of Lou Christie’s “Lightnin’ Strikes.” I pull away, horrified, stumbling uptown, toward home, but people, places, stores keep interrupting me, a drug dealer on Thirteenth Street who offers me crack and blindly I wave a fifty at him and he says “Oh, man” gratefully and shakes my hand, pressing five vials into my palm which I proceed to
eat whole
and the crack dealer stares at me, trying to mask his deep disturbance with an amused glare, and I grab him by the neck and croak out, my breath reeking, “
The best engine is in the BMW 750iL
,” and then I move on to a phone booth, where I babble gibberish at the operator until I finally spit out my credit card number and then I’m speaking to the front office of Xclusive, where I cancel a massage appointment that I never
made. I’m able to compose myself by simply staring at my feet, actually at the A. Testoni loafers, kicking pigeons aside, and without even noticing, I enter a shabby delicatessen on Second Avenue and I’m still confused, mixed up, sweaty, and I walk over to a short, fat Jewish woman, old and hideously dressed. “Listen,” I say. “I have a reservation. Bateman. Where’s the maître d’? I know Jackie Mason,” and she sighs, “I can seat you. Don’t need a reservation,” as she reaches for a menu. She leads me to a horrible table in back near the rest rooms and I grab the menu away from her and rush to a booth up front and I’m appalled by the cheapness of the food—“Is this a goddamn joke?”—and sensing a waitress is near I order without looking up. “A cheeseburger. I’d like a cheeseburger and I’d like it medium rare.” “I’m sorry, sir,” the waitress says. “No cheese. Kosher,” and I have no idea what the fuck she’s talking about and I say, “Fine. A
kosher
burger but
with cheese
, Monterey Jack perhaps, and—oh god,” I moan, sensing more cramps coming on. “No cheese, sir,” she says. “
Kosher
…” “Oh god, is this a
nightmare
, you fucking
Jew
?” I mutter, and then, “
Cottage cheese
? Just
bring it
?” “I’ll get the manager,” she says. “Whatever. But bring me a beverage in the meanwhile,” I hiss. “Yes?” she asks. “A … vanilla … milk shake …” “No milk shakes.
Kosher
,” she says, then, “I’ll get the manager.” “No,
wait.
” “Mister I’ll get the manager.” “What in the fuck is going on?” I ask, seething, my platinum AmEx already slapped on the greasy table. “No milk shake.
Kosher
,” she says, thick-lipped, just one of billions of people who have passed over this planet. “Then bring me a fucking … vanilla …
malted
!” I roar, spraying spit all over my open menu. She just stares. “
Extra thick
!” I add. She walks away to get the manager and when I see him approaching, a bald carbon copy of the waitress, I get up and scream, “Fuck yourself you retarded cocksucking kike,” and I run out of the delicatessen and onto the street where this