Electroboy (12 page)

Back downstairs, I ask him about his adolescence, about his years studying art in California, about his influences, about his East Village art years, and finally about creating his “factory.” He breezes through his responses as if he’s answered these questions a hundred times just this week. He tells me it’s his turn now—he has more interest in asking me questions than he does in answering any of mine. I’ve been warned that he could make a big joke of the interview, but he seems to be taking our meeting seriously so far—maybe it’s my khakis and loafers. He is curious about my business, the type of clients I represent and the media people I know, and what I think I could do for him to build his image. My initial reaction is to keep the interview professional—my purpose in meeting him today is to write an interview and find out something nobody knows about him and submit it to
7 Days
—not to
sign him as a client. But it is clear he wants to be a client, or is at least interviewing me as a potential PR agent. So I switch gears and start talking to him as a prospective client. I tell him about the importance of doing national television and keeping his name in the gossip columns, about creating scandal and intrigue. He’s giddy with excitement and has lots of questions. By the end of the hour, he’s sold on me. We discuss working together, but he’s not willing to pay a monthly retainer. He wants to work with me in exchange for artwork. “When can we start?” he asks. But I’m not so sure I really want this artwork because I’m not sure I would even store it in my closet. But he convinces me of its tremendous resale value, and I have these pathetic images of myself carting this stuff off in the back of a cab to Christie’s. But I also know full well that in a month or so I’ll be able to manipulate him into paying a hefty retainer anyway because he’ll be impressed with what I’ll be able to do. Mark wants more from me than an interview, and I want more from him—it’s an ideal relationship. We leave with a perfect understanding, and I never write the article, abandoning the notion of becoming the gossip reporter at
7 Days
.

It is clear to me from my first conversation with Mark that none of the loose ends of his business—publicity, marketing, and sales—have been tied together. I want to get going on this before anybody else realizes the opportunity is wide open. Within days of our first meeting and without any type of written agreement, Mark and I start working. Soon we agree on a $1,000-a-month fee and an unspecified amount of artwork. I quickly rewrite all of his press material, making it more mainstream and less underground, and promoting him as the ultimate con artist. After a few days, I book him on the
Morton Downey, Jr. Show
, in a never-broadcast segment where he and Downey stage a fight that turns real. Downey ends up in a neck brace and with a thumb fracture. This creates a huge amount of spillover press for Mark, and he finally seems to understand how the media game really works. The incident
is reported everywhere, sealing his reputation as a bad boy. Although my other clients demand more of my time, in the first two months I get Kostabi regular mentions in the gossip columns of the
New York Post
, the
Daily News
, and
New York
magazine. When I have extra time, I make a phone call to someone in the media on his behalf, although we do speak on a daily basis and I am looking to book him on national television shows. Kostabi is impressed, confident that I can pull off just about anything. I feel the same.

I’m sure that I can generate some major publicity for the opening of the new Kostabi World, an enormous three-story warehouse facility on West 37th Street near the Jacob Javits Convention Center, But I also want to get involved in selling Mark’s work in the international market. Kostabi already has one Japanese dealer and a few foreign dealers, but for the most part the foreign potential seems untapped, and I realize that there is significant money to be made. I feel like all I need is a few good suits and a new briefcase, and I can talk my way through selling these paintings and prints to anyone, based on the press we’re creating. Day one for me on the road feels like I’ve been doing this for years—I’m confident, organized, relaxed, and energized to make sales at a 10% commission. I look like I’m making the buyer a good deal; I don’t get turned down. I’m still busy hustling other clients and a new one, a condom company called Rubber Ducky. (I mail thousands of condoms to media people across the country hailing this condom as the hottest new contraceptive available on the market, and there’s nothing even special about it except for the graphic of the Rubber Ducky on the package.) I even have my hand in pornography, working for
Oui
, the men’s adult magazine, to promote its editorial content (political, media, sex, health, and exercise) in other print media. It’s not a successful project. At the other end of the spectrum I launch a fragrance and bath-product line for children, called William & Clarissa, at F.A.O. Schwarz. For two years I use my apartment as an assembly plant, devoting ten to twelve hours a day during holiday season to the project, managing promotions and sales. The number of clients I am promoting is out of hand, and they range all over the map. My apartment looks like a warehouse
of condoms, bubble bath, and diet books stacked from floor to ceiling. I think seriously about scaling back on my clients so that I can focus on Kostabi, but the rush I get from all these simultaneous projects is too good to give up.

I am obsessed with working ridiculously long hours, earning plenty of money, and spending it as quickly as I make it—on anything I can get my hands on: frequent weekend trips to Los Angeles and San Francisco to visit friends; shopping sprees at Barneys and Bergdorf Goodman; dinner dates at Petrossian and Le Bernardin. I believe that the more risk I take on in a business deal, the better the payoff will be. All of this gives me an amazing sense of power and control—and tremendous elation. When I get my salary or hefty commissions, I sometimes cash the large checks so I can have the money in my hands. I love paying the bills and the tabs—especially in cash, for the attention it gets me from salespeople, waiters, and even dinner partners. I’m crazy when it comes to the sight and touch of money. When I go to the bank, I withdraw $5,000 from my account in $20 and $50 bills; the look and feel of so much money give me a jolt and a great sense of security. I try not to worry about what the teller is thinking when she’s counting out the cash. I like the power of being able to buy anything I see that I want and just shelling out the cash as if it’s no big deal. Losing control during a shopping spree is probably the ultimate high for me now; it causes a strange sense of panic, a near blackout state. My heart races—I’m nervous, I’m frightened, I’m pressured, I’m stressed. My body becomes numb and tingly, and everything around me is spinning and I feel like I’m going to pass out, but there’s a force inside driving me forward.

One Saturday I feel like spending money at Barneys. I find a good-looking and slightly hip young salesman, who looks like he probably came to New York from Indiana to model after college, to show me some casual jackets. We pick out about six or seven, and I’m trying on one after another, looking in the mirror, asking
him for his opinion. “It’s a great-looking jacket,” he says. “And I’ve got the perfect turtleneck for it,” he adds. I make a mental note: turtleneck with black-and-white checked jacket. I switch to the next one, a simple navy blue blazer. “Oh, this is a good one,” I say. “I’ve got to have this one.” The next one, gray, looks fantastic, too. He smiles at me and laughs. “Should we keep going?” he asks. I try on the others, a black one, a dark brown one, and a maroon one, and now I’m totally confused and tell him that I have to think about it for a while. I guess people do this to him all day, because he doesn’t seem too upset. I go look at shoes and find a pair of black boots that is exactly what I’ve been meaning to buy. They’re ankle-length and have a simple buckle on the side. The salesman tells me that he has another pair with a slightly different heel, and he brings both out. I tell him I’ll take both. $650. Simple. My mind is focused on the jacket dilemma. I go back and I don’t see Indiana man. I need to find him. I don’t know his name. Finally, he appears from behind one of those mystery curtains that leads to nowhere, recognizes me, and smiles. “You’re back. Have you made up your mind?” he asks. “Yes,” I tell him. “I’m going to take the black-and-white checked one, the navy blue one, the gray one, and the black one.” He looks surprised. I feel like I’ve redeemed myself. “Do you want to look at some pants and shirts?” he asks. “Sure,” I tell him. “And the turtleneck for the black-and-white checked jacket you mentioned.” He shows me around, we pick out some pants and shirts, and I go into the dressing room to try everything on. I’m sweating and my head starts pounding. The tailor comes and hems the pants and fixes the sleeves and it’s a done deal. $6,200. Indiana guy shakes my hand and tells me the clothes will be delivered by the end of the week. “Thanks for your help,” I say. I don’t go more than one hundred yards when I see a black cashmere V-neck sweater that I love instantly. There’s no reason for me to ask a salesman for assistance because there are no questions to be asked. Do you have the $500 or don’t you? I’m feeling kind of torn and thinking about returning the boots because they were $650, but I’ve just spent over $6,000. The sweater is incredible, too. I can pay cash for it, and not feel as guilty. A saleswoman approaches
me. “Do you need any help?” she asks. “No, I was just looking at this sweater,” I tell her. “I can show you others, if you’d like?” she asks. Others? There are others to consider? My mind is racing. She shows me an entire counter filled with cashmere sweaters in all different styles. I take off my coat and start trying on sweaters and looking in the mirror. I’m sweating like crazy. The black cashmere V-neck sweater in the case is $800. I touch it and it feels luxurious. I’ll take it. “You’ll have these sweaters for years,” she tells me. So I also buy a navy blue cashmere crewneck for $500. I’m getting the urge to buy another, but at this point I’m so hot, I just want to get some air. “How would you like to pay for this?” she asks me. “Cash,” I tell her. I pull a wad of bills out of my wallet and pay her for the purchase. She seems surprised. I’ve spent more than $8,000 in three hours, and I’m only making $20,000 a month, so I’m feeling pretty guilty at the moment. On my way out of the store, I realize the only thing I’ve forgotten is some Kiehl’s tea tree oil shampoo, so I run over to the counter and pick up the shampoo and a few other things: conditioner, scrub, soap, and toner. The saleswoman rings it up, and then I ask her if I can add something to it. She sighs deeply. I throw in a tube of shaving cream. I pay for the items, she wraps them up and puts them in a bag, and I find my way out the front door onto the street and into a cab, where I collapse. My three-hour high at Barneys is similar to what it feels like to prolong an orgasm for hours and hours. There’s a brief moment of guilt overshadowed by euphoria, and part of me wants to return it all (and sometimes I do several days later), but usually I move on to the next store after a few deep breaths and do the same thing all over again. It’s kind of like marathon masturbating.

Allison and I escape the city most weekends, flying to Martha’s Vineyard and staying at bed-and-breakfasts. We spend our days at our favorite beach, a nude beach at Gay Head, and in the evenings we go out for dinner and a movie. It sounds like a relaxing way to spend the weekends, but I’m finding that I’m not that good at having
fun on these trips. The peace irks me; I need more stimulation. I’m much better in the city, running from museums to stores to bars to restaurants, than on the beach, lying around tanning my butt. I notice for the first time ever that I can’t sit still for more than ten minutes. Sometimes we go with Allison’s friends, which for me the first time was somewhat awkward but for her seemed perfectly natural. She appears to be perfectly comfortable walking around naked, aware of both men and women looking at her as she walks on the beach or just lies in the sand. I’m just totally aroused by the entire situation. But otherwise, I can’t understand why people flock to the beach to do absolutely nothing but look at the clouds and sky and the water and lie in the sun. I get hot. My organs get edgy. I can feel them moving around inside. I remind myself not to go to the beach ever again. My agitation causes a great deal of uneasiness between Allison and me; she can’t understand why I just can’t naturally unwind the same way that she does, and it drives her crazy. She feels like I’m purposely trying to ruin her vacation. She thinks that I’m too involved in my career and that I can’t keep my mind off it. Actually, I’m more focused on her being exposed and watching her interact with other people. There’s a group of young college guys, sitting about twenty-five yards away, looking in our direction. One of them comes over to us, his cock swinging out in front of him, and asks Allison if she has an extra cigarette. I’m amazed that she handles this request without any embarrassment and am kind of turned on. Later they watch her wade into the ocean. I am in awe of her body: her firm, round breasts, her small waist, her tight ass. She seems to get embarrassed when I stare at her. Our relationship feels like a bad marriage again, and we barely speak to each other. I’m holding on to the relationship and trying to make it work out because I feel terribly responsible for its success and for taking care of her. And I
am
much too involved in my work and in building a career. But my brain is moving too quickly for me to be lying naked in a pile of sand and soaking up cancer-causing ultraviolet rays that will prematurely age me and be the cause of my death in thirty years.

Kostabi World begins to come together, and it’s exciting to see Mark’s ego and ambition (and therefore mine) take such physical shape. The first floor of the building is used as an exhibition space; the second floor houses my office, an outer office, and the “think tank” and serves as a storage space for paintings; and the third floor is the actual painting studio, where close to twenty paintings are churned out each week. I am constantly taking private clients and dealers from one floor to the next, showing them lithographs and paintings and giving them a sense of how a Kostabi is produced. Mark’s office on the second floor is removed from most of the activity—it’s in the rear of the building—so he’s kind of out of the loop. Most of the time we’re not even aware he’s there.