《Glamorama》


 Page 1

    Chapter One


    "Specks-specks all over the third panel, see?-no, that one-the second one up from the floor and I wanted to point this out to someone yesterday but a photo shoot intervened and Yaki Nakamari or whatever the hell the designer''s name is-a master craftsman not-mistook me for someone else so I couldn''t register the complaint, but, gentlemen-and ladies-there they are: specks, annoying, tiny specks, and they don''t look accidental but like they were somehow done by a machine-so I don''t want a lot of description, just the story, streamlined, no frills, the lowdown: who, what, where, when and don''t leave out why, though I''m getting the distinct impression by the looks on your sorry faces that why won''t get answered-now, come on, goddamnit, what''s the story?"


    Nobody around here has to wait long for someone to say something.


    "Baby, George Nakashima designed this bar area," JD quietly corrects me. "Not, um, Yaki Nakamashi, I mean Yuki Nakamorti, I mean-oh shit, Peyton, get me out of this."


    "Yoki Nakamuri was approved for this floor," Peyton says.


    "Oh yeah?" I ask. "Approved by who?"


    "Approved by, well, moi," Peyton says.


    A pause. Glares targeted at Peyton and JD.


    "Who the f**k is Moi?" I ask. "I have no f**king idea who this Moi is, baby."


    "Victor, please," Peyton says. "I''m sure Damien went over this with you."


    "Damien did, JD. Damien did, Peyton. But just tell me who Moi is, baby," I exclaim. "Because I''m, like, shvitzing."


    "Moi is Peyton, Victor," JD says quietly.


    "I''m Moi," Peyton says, nodding. "Moi is, um, French."


    "Are you sure these specks aren''t supposed to be here?" JD tentatively touches the panel. "I mean, maybe it''s supposed to be, oh, I don''t know, in or something?"


    "Wait." I raise a hand. "You''re saying these specks are in?"


    "Victor-we''ve got a long list of things to check, baby." JD holds up the long list of things to check. "The specks will be taken care of. Someone will escort the specks out of here. There''s a magician waiting downstairs."


    "By tomorrow night?" I roar. "By to-mor-row night, JD?"


    "It can be handled by tomorrow, no?" JD looks at Peyton, who nods.


    "Around here, `tomorrow night'' means anywhere from five days to a month. Jesus, does anybody notice I''m seething?"


    "None of us have been exactly sedentary, Victor."


    "I think the situation is simple enough: those"-I point-"are specks. Do you need someone to decipher that sentence for you, JD, or are you, y''know, okay with it?"


    The "reporter" from Details stands with us. Assignment: follow me around for a week. Headline: THE MAKING OF A CLUB. Girl: push-up bra, scads of eyeliner, a Soviet sailor''s cap, plastic flower jewelry, rolled-up copy of W tucked under a pale, worked-out arm. Uma Thurman if Uma Thurman was five feet two and asleep. Behind her, some guy wearing a Velcro vest over a rugby shirt and a leather windjammer follows us, camcording the scene.


    "Hey baby." I inhale on a Marlboro someone''s handed me. "What do you think about the specks?"


    Girl reporter lowers her sunglasses. "I''m really not sure." She thinks about what position she should take.


    "East Coast girls are hip," I shrug. "I really dig those styles they wear."


    "I don''t think I''m really part of the story," she says.


    "You think any of these bozos are?" I snort. "Spare me."


    From the top floor, Beau leans over the railing and calls down, "Victor-Chloe''s on line ten."


    Girl reporter immediately lifts the W, revealing a notepad, on which she doodles something, predictably animated for a moment.


    I call up, staring intently at the specks: "Tell her I''m busy. I''m in a meeting. It''s an emergency. Tell her I''m in a meeting and it''s an emergency. I''ll call her back after I put the fire out."


    "Victor," Beau calls down. "This is the sixth time she''s called today. This is the third time she''s called in the last hour."


    "Tell her I''ll see her at Doppelganger''s at ten." I kneel down, along with Peyton and JD, and run my hand along the panel, pointing out where the specks begin and end and then start up again. "Specks, man, look at these f**kers. They glow. They''re glowing, JD," I whisper. "Jesus, they''re everywhere." Suddenly I notice an entire new patch and yelp, gaping, "And I think they''re spreading. I don''t think that patch was here before? I swallow, then croak in a rush, "My mouth is incredibly dry because of this-could someone get me an Arizona diet iced tea in a bottle, not a can?"

 Page 2

    "Didn''t Damien discuss the design with you, Victor?" JD asks. "Didn''t you know the existence of these specks?"


    "I don''t know anything, JD. Nothing, nada. Remember that. I... know... nothing. Never assume I know anything. Nada. Nothing. I know nothing, not a thing. Never-"


    "I get it, I get it," JD says wearily, standing up.


    "I really can''t see anything, baby," Peyton says, still on the floor.


    JD sighs. "Even Peyton can''t see them, Victor."


    "Ask the vampire to take off his f**king sunglasses," I snarl. "Spare me, man."


    "I will not tolerate being called a vampire, Victor." Peyton pouts.


    "What? You tolerate being sodomized but not being called Dracula in jest? Am I on the same planet? Let''s move on." I wave my arm, gesturing at something invisible.


    As the entire group follows me downstairs toward the third floor, the chef-Bongo from Venezuela via Vunderbahr, Moonclub, Paddy-O and MasaMasa-lights a cigarette and lowers his sunglasses while trying to keep up with me. "Victor, we must talk." He coughs, waves smoke away. "Please, my feet are killing me."


    The group stops. "Uno momento, Bongo," I say, noticing the worried glances he''s throwing Kenny Kenny, who''s connected in some weird way to Glorious Foods and has yet to be informed he has nothing to do with catering tomorrow night''s dinner. Peyton, JD, Bongo, Kenny Kenny, camcorder guy and Details girl wait for me to do something, and since I''m at a loss I peer over the third-floor railing. "Come on, guys. Shit, I mean I''ve got three more floors and five more bars to check. Please, give me some space. This is all very hard. Those specks almost made me literally sick."


    "Victor, no one would deny the existence of the specks," Peyton says carefully. "But you have to place the specks within a, um, certain, well, context."


    On one of the monitors lining the walls on the third floor, MTV, a commercial, Helena Christensen, "Rock the Vote."


    "Beau!" I yell up. "Beau?


    Beau leans over the top railing. "Chloe says she''ll be at Metro CC at eleven-thirty."


    "Wait, Beau-Ingrid Chavez? Has Ingrid Chavez RSVP''d?" I yell up.


    "I''m checking-wait, for the dinner?"


    "Yes, and I''m gritting my teeth, Beau. Check the Cs for dinner."


    "Oh my god I have got to speak to you, Victor," Bongo says in an accent so thick I''m unsure of its origin, grabbing my arm. "You must let me have my time with you."


    "Bongo, why don''t you just get get the the hell out of here," Kenny Kenny says, his face twisted. "Here, Victor, try a crouton."


    I snatch one out of his hands. "Mmm, rosemary. Delish, dude."


    "It is sage, Victor. Sage."


    "You you sh-sh-should go to hell," Bongo sputters. "And take that sickening crouton with you."


    "Will both of you mos take a Xanax and shut the f**k up? Go bake some pastries or something. Beau-goddamnit! Speak to me!"


    "Naomi Campbell, Helena Christensen, Cindy Crawford, Sheryl Crow, David Charvet, Courteney Cox, Harry Connick, Jr., Francisco Clemente, Nick Constantine, Zoe Cassavetes, Nicolas Cage, Thomas Calabro, Cristi Conway, Bob Collacello, Whitfield Crane, John Cusack, Dean Cain, Jim Courier, Roger Clemens, Russell Crowe, Tia Carrere and Helena Bonham Carter-but I''m not sure if she should be under B or C."


    "Ingrid Chavez! Ingrid Chavez!" I shout up. "Has Ingrid Chavez f**king RSVP''d or not?"


    "Victor, celebs and their overly attentive PR reps are complaining that your answering machine isn''t working," Beau calls down. "They say it''s playing thirty seconds of `Love Shack'' and then only five seconds to leave a message."


    "It''s a simple question. Yes or No is the answer. What else could these people possibly have to say to me? It''s not a difficult question: Are you coming to the dinner and the club opening or are you not? Is that hard to grasp? And you look just like Uma Thurman, baby."


    "Victor, Cindy is not `these people,'' Veronica Webb is not `these people,'' Elaine Irwin is not `these people''-"


    "Beau! How are the As shaping up? Kenny Kenny, don''t pinch Bongo like that."


    "All nine of them?" Beau calls down. "Carol Alt, Pedro Almodovar, Dana Ashbrook, Kevyn Aucoin, Patricia, Rosanna, David and Alexis Arquette and Andre Agassi, but no Giorgio Armani or Pamela Anderson."


    "Shit." I light another cigarette, then look over at the Details girl. "Um, I mean that in a good way."

 Page 3

    "So it''s like... a good shit?" she asks.


    "Uh-huh. Hey Beau!" I call up. "Make sure all the monitors are either on that virtual-reality videotape or for god''s sake MTV or something. I passed a screen that had VH1 on it, and some fat hick in a ten-gallon hat was weeping-"


    "Will you meet Chloe at Flowers-sorry, Metro CC?" Beau yells down. "Because I''m not gonna lie anymore."


    "Oh, you''ll lie," I scream up. "That''s all you ever do." Then, after glancing casually at the Details girl: "Ask Chloe if she''s bringing Beatrice and Julie."


    Silence from upstairs makes me cringe, then Beau asks, thoroughly annoyed, "Do you mean Beatrice Arthur and Julie Hagerty?"


    "No," I shout, gritting my teeth. "Julie Delpy and Beatrice Dalle. Spare me. Just do it, Beau."


    "Beatrice Dalle''s shooting that Ridley Scott-"


    "The speck thing has really gotten to me. You know why?" I ask the Details girl.


    "Because there were... a lot?"


    "Nope. Because I''m a perfectionist, baby. And you can write that down. In fact I''ll wait a minute while you do so." Suddenly I rush back to the panel beneath the bar, everyone rushing back with me up the stairs, and I''m wailing, "Specks! Holy Christ! Help me, somebody, please? I mean everyone''s acting like there''s a question as to whether these specks are an illusion or a reality. I think they''re pretty goddamn real."


    "Reality is an illusion, baby," JD says soothingly. "Reality is an illusion, Victor."


    No one says anything until I''m handed an ashtray, in which I stub out the cigarette I just lit.


    "That''s, uh, pretty heavy," I say, looking at the girl reporter. "That''s pretty heavy, huh?"


    She shrugs, rotates her shoulders, doodles again.


    "My reaction exactly," I mutter.


    "Oh, before I forget," JD says. "Jann Wenner can''t make it, but he wants to send a"-JD glances at his notepad-"check anyway."


    "A check? A check for what?"


    "Just a"-JD glances at his pad again-"a, um, check?"


    "Oh god. Beau! Beau!" I call up.


    "I think people are wondering why we don''t have a whatchamacallit,"


    Peyton says. Then, after much finger snapping, "Oh yeah, a cause!"


    "A cause?" I moan. "Oh god, I can only imagine what kind of cause you''d want. Scholarship fund for Keanu. Find Marky Mark a g*y brain. Send Linda Evangelista to the rain forest so we can pounce on Kyle MacLachlan. No thank you."


    "Victor, shouldn''t we have a cause?" JD says. "What about global warming or the Amazon? Something. Anything."


    "Passe. Passe. Passe." I stop. "Wait-Beau! Is Suzanne DePasse coming?"


    "What about AIDS?"


    "Passe. Passe."


    "Breast cancer?"


    "Oh groovy, far out," I gasp before slapping him lightly on the face. "Get serious. For who? David Barton? He''s the only one with tits anymore."


    "You know what I''m trying to say, Victor," JD says. "Something like Don''t Bungle the Jungle or-"


    "Hey, don''t bungle my jungle, you little mo." I consider this. "A cause, hmm? Because we can"-I mindlessly light another cigarette-"make more money?"


    "And let people have some fun," JD reminds me, scratching at a tattoo of a little muscle man on his bicep.


    "Yeah, and let people have some fun." I take a drag. "I''m considering this, you know, even though the opening is in, oh, less than twenty-four hours."


    "You know what, Victor?" Peyton asks slyly. I''m getting the, ah, perverse temptation, baby, to, ah-now don''t get scared, promise?"


    "Only if you don''t tell me who you''ve slept with in the last week."


    Wide-eyed, Peyton claps his hands together and gushes, "Keep the specks." Then, after seeing my face contort, more timidly offers, "Save... the specks?"


    "Save the specks?" JD gasps.


    "Yes, save the specks," Peyton says. "Damien wants techno, and those little fellas can definitely be construed as techno."


    "We all want techno, but we want techno without specks," JD moans.


    The camcorder guy zooms in on the specks, and it''s very quiet until he says, yawning, "Far out."


    "People people people." I lift my hands up. "Is it possible to open this club without humiliating ourselves in the process?" I start to walk away. "Because I''m beginning to think it''s not possible. Comprende?"

 Page 4

    "Victor, oh my god, please," Bongo says as I walk away.


    "Victor, wait up." Kenny Kenny follows, holding out a bag of croutons.


    "It''s just that this is all so... so... ''89?" I blurt out.


    "A fine year, Victor," Peyton says, trying to keep up with me. "A triumphant year!"


    I stop, pause, then turn slowly to face him. Peyton stands there looking hopefully up at me, quivering.


    "Uh, Peyton, you''re really whacked out, aren''t you?" I ask quietly.


    Shamefully, Peyton nods as if coaxed. He looks away.


    "You''ve had a pretty tough life, right?" I ask gently.


    "Victor, please." JD steps in. "Peyton was joking about the specks. We''re not saving the specks. I''m with you. They''re just not worth it. They die."


    While lighting a gargantuan joint, camcorder guy shoots out the huge expanse of French windows, the lens staring at a view of a leafless Union Square Park, at a truck with a massive Snapple logo driving by, limousines parked at a curb. We are moving down another set of stairs, heading toward the bottom.


    "Will someone please just give me one spontaneous act of goodness? Remove the specks. Bongo, go back to the kitchen. Kenny Kenny, you get a consolation prize. Peyton, make sure Kenny Kenny gets a couple of colanders and a nice flat spatula." I wave them off, glaring. We leave Kenny Kenny behind, on the verge of tears, rubbing a shaky hand over the tattoo of Casper the Friendly Ghost on his bicep. "Ciao."


    "Come on, Victor. The average life span of a club is what-four weeks? By the time we close, no one''s gonna notice them."


    "If that''s your attitude, JD, there''s the door."


    "Oh Victor, let''s be realistic-or at least fake it. This isn''t 1987 anymore."


    "I''m not in a realistic mood, JD, so spare me."


    Passing a pool table, I grab the 8 ball and slam-roll it into the corner pocket. The group is moving farther down into the club. We''re now at the first floor and it''s getting darker and Peyton introduces me to a huge black guy with wraparound sunglasses standing by the front entrance eating takeout sushi.


    "Victor, this is Abdullah, but we shall call him Rocko, and he''s handling all the security and he was in that TLC video directed by Matthew Ralston. That toro looks good."


    "My middle name is Grand Master B."


    "His middle name is Grand Master B," JD says.


    "We shook hands last week in South Beach," Abdullah tells me.


    "That''s nice, Abdullah, but I wasn''t in South Beach last week even though I''m semi-famous there." I glance over at the Details girl. "You can write that down."


    "Yeah man, you were in the lobby of the Flying Dolphin, getting your photo taken," Rocko tells me. "You were surrounded by clams."


    But I''m not looking at Rocko. Instead my eyes have focused on the three metal detectors that line the foyer, a giant white chandelier hanging above them, dimly twinkling.


    "You did, um, know about these, right?" JD asks. A meek pause. "Damien... wants them."


    "Damien wants what?"


    "Um." Peyton gestures with his arms as if the metal detectors were prizes. "These."


    "Well, why don''t we just throw in a baggage check-in, a couple of stewardesses and a DC-10? I mean, what in the hell are these?"


    "This is security, man," Abdullah says.


    "Security? Why don''t you just spend the night frisking the celebrities as well?" I ask. "What? You think this is a party for felons?"


    "Mickey Rourke and Johnny Depp both RSVP''d yes for dinner," Peyton whispers in my ear.


    "If you''d like us to frisk the guests-" Rocko starts.


    "What? I''m gonna have Donna Karan frisked? I''m gonna have Marky Mark frisked? I''m gonna have f**king Diane Von Furstenberg frisked?" I shout. "I don''t think so."


    "No, baby," Peyton says. "You''re going to have the metal detectors so Diane Von Furstenberg and Marky Mark aren''t frisked."


    "Chuck Pfeiffer has a metal plate in his goddamned head! Princess Cuddles has a steel rod in her leg?" I shout.


    JD tells the girl reporter, "Skiing accident in Gstaad, and don''t ask me how to spell that."


    "What''s gonna happen when Princess Cuddles walks in through one of these things and alarms go off and buzzers and lights and  -  Jesus, she''ll have a f**king heart attack. Does anybody really want to see Princess Cuddles have a coronary?"


    "On the guest list we''ll mark down that Chuck Pfeiffer has a metal plate in his head and that Princess Cuddles has a steel cod in her leg," Peyton says, mindlessly writing it down on a notepad.

 Page 5

    "Listen, Abdullah. I just want to make sure that no one is gonna get in who we don''t want in. I don''t want anyone passing out invites to other clubs. I don''t want some little waif mo handing Barry Diller an invite to Spermbar during dinner-got it? I don''t want anyone passing out invites to other clubs."


    "What other clubs?" Peyton and JD wail. "There aren''t any other clubs!"


    "Oh spare me," I wail back, moving across the first floor. "Jesus-you think Christian Laetner is gonna fit under one of those things?" It gets darker as we move into the back of the first floor, toward the staircase that leads to one of the dance floors located in the basement.


    From the top floor, Beau calls down, "Alison Poole on line fourteen. She wants to speak to you now, Victor."


    Everyone looks away as the Details girl writes something down on her little notepad. Camcorder guy whispers something and she nods, still writing. Somewhere old C + C Music Factory is playing.


    "Tell her I''m out. Tell her I''m on line seven."


    "She says it''s very important," Beau drones on in monotone.


    I pause to look at the rest of the group, everyone looking anywhere but at me. Peyton whispers something to JD, who nods curtly. "Hey, watch that!" I snap. I follow Camcorder''s lens to a row of sconces he''s filming and wait for Beau, who finally leans over the top-floor railing and says, "A miracle: she relented. She''ll see you at six."


    "Okay, folks." I suddenly turn around to face the group. "I''m calling a sidebar. Bongo, you are excused. Do not discuss your testimony with anyone. Go. JD, come over here. I need to whisper something to you. The rest of you may stand by that bar and look for specks. Camcorder man-turn that away from us. We''re taking five."


    I pull JD over to me and immediately he starts babbling.


    "Victor, if this is about Mica not being around and us being unable to get ahold of her, please for the love of god don''t bring it up now, because we can find another DJ-"


    "Shut up. It''s not about Mica." I pause. "But wait, where is Mica?"


    "Oh god, I don''t know. She DJ''d at Jackie 60 on Tuesday, then did Edward Furlong''s birthday party, and now poof."


    "What does that mean? What does poof mean?"


    "She''s disappeared. No one can find her."


    "Well, shit, JD. What are we-no, no-you are gonna fix this," I tell him. "I have something else I want to talk about."


    "If Kenny Kenny''s going to sue us?"


    "No."


    "The seating chart for dinner?"


    "No."


    "The awfully cute magician downstairs?"


    "Jesus, no." I lower my voice. "This is a more, um, personal problem. I need your advice."


    "Oh, don''t drag me into anything sick, Victor," JD pleads. "I just can''t take being dragged into anything too sick."


    "Listen..." I glance over at the Details girl et al., slouching against the bar. "Have you heard anything about a... photograph?"


    "A photograph of who?" he exclaims.


    "Shhh, shut up. Jesus." I look around. "Okay, even though you think Erasure is a good band, I think I can still trust you."


    "They are, Victor, and-"


    "Someone''s got a, let''s just say, incriminating photo of me and a certain young"- I cough-"young lady, and I need you to find out if it''s, um, going to be printed sometime in the near future and maybe even tomorrow in one of the city''s least respectable but still most widely read dailies or if by some miracle it will not and that''s about it."


    "I suppose you could be more vague, Victor, but I''m used to it," JD says. "Just give me twenty seconds to decode this and I''ll get back to you."


    "I don''t have twenty seconds."


    "The young lady I''m supposing-no, I''m hoping-is Chloe Byrnes, your girlfriend?"


    "On second thought, take thirty seconds."


    "Is this a That''s Me in the Corner / That''s Me in the Spotlight moment?"


    "Okay, okay, let me clarify: a compromising photo of a certain happening guy with a girl who... and it''s not like that bad or anything. Let''s just say this girl attacked him at a premiere last week in Central Park and someone unbeknownst to them got a, um, photo of this and it would look... strange since I am the subject of this photograph... I have a feeling that if I make the inquiry it will be-ahem-misunderstood... Need I go on?"


    Suddenly Beau screams down: "Chloe will see you at nine-thirty at Doppelganger''s!"

 Page 6

    "What happened to Flowers? I mean eleven-thirty at Metro CC?" I yell back up. "What happened to ten o''clock at Cafe Tabac?"


    A longish pause. "She now says nine-thirty at Bowery Bar. That''s the end of it, Victor." Then silence.


    "What horrible thing do you want me to do?" JD pauses. "Victor, would this photo-if published-screw up this guy''s relationship with a certain young model named Chloe Byrnes and a certain volatile club owner of... oh, let''s just say, hypothetically, this club, whose name is Damien Nutchs Ross?"


    "But that isn''t the problem." I pull JD closer and, surprised, he winks and bats his eyes and I have to tell him, "Don''t get any ideas." I sigh, breathe in. "The problem is that a photo exists. A certain cretinous gossip columnist is going to run this photo, and if we think Princess Cuddles having a heart attack is bad... that''s nothing." I keep looking over my shoulder, finally telling everyone, "We have to go downstairs to check the magician. Excuse us."


    "But what about Matthew Broderick?" Peyton asks. "What about the salads?"


    "He can have two!" I shout as I whisk JD down the long steep ramp of stairs heading into the basement, the light getting dimmer, both of us moving carefully.


    JD keeps babbling. "You know I''m here for you, Victor. You know I put the stud back in star-studded. You know I''ve helped pack this party to the rafters with desirable celebs. You know I''ll do anything, but I can''t help you on this because of-"


    "JD. Tomorrow in no particular order I''ve got a photo shoot, a runway show, an MTV interview with `House of Style,'' lunch with my father, band practice. I even have to pick up my f**king tux. I''m booked. Plus this dump is opening. I-have-no-time."


    "Victor, as usual I''ll see what I can do." JD maneuvers down the stairs hesitantly. "Now about the magician-"


    "Fuck it. Why don''t we just hire some clowns on stilts and bus in an elephant or two?"


    "He does card tricks. He just did Brad Pitt''s birthday at Jones in L.A."


    "He did?" I ask, suspicious. "Who was there?"


    "Ed Limato. Mike Ovitz. Julia Ormond. Madonna. Models. A lot of lawyers and `fun'' people."


    It gets even colder as we near the bottom of the staircase.


    "I mean," JD continues, "I think comparatively it''s pretty in."


    "But in is out," I explain, squinting to see where we''re heading. It''s so cold our breath steams, and when I touch the banister it feels like ice.


    "What are you saying, Victor?"


    "Out is in. Got it?"


    "In is... not in anymore?" JD asks. "Is that it?"


    I glance at him as we descend the next flight of stairs. "No, in is out. Out is in. Simple, non?"


    JD blinks twice, shivering, both of us moving farther down into the darkness.


    "See, out is in, JD."


    "Victor, I''m really nervous as it is," he says. "Don''t start with me today."


    "You don''t even have to think about it. Out is in. In is out."


    "Wait, okay. In is out? Do I have that down so far?"


    At the bottom, it is so cold that I''ve noticed candles don''t even stay lit, they keep going out as we pass, and the TV monitors show only static. At the foot of the stairs by the bar, a magician who looks like a young German version of Antonio Banderas with a buzz cut idly shuffles a deck of cards, slump-shouldered, smoking a small joint, drinking a Diet Coke, wearing ripped jeans and a pocket T, the back-to-basics look, exaggeratedly sloppy, the rows of empty champagne glasses behind him reflecting what little light exists down here.


    "Right. Out is in."


    "But then what exactly is in?" JD asks, his breath steaming.


    "Out is, JD."


    "So... in is not in?"


    "That''s the whole p-p-point." It''s so cold my biceps are covered with goose bumps.


    "But then what''s out? It''s always in? What about specifics?"


    "If you need this defined for you, maybe you''re in the wrong world," I murmur.


    The magician gives us the peace sign in a vague way.


    "You did Brad Pitt''s party?" I ask.


    The magician makes a deck of cards, the stool he''s sitting on, one of my slippers and a large bottle of Absolut Currant disappear, then says "Abracadabra."


    "You did Brad Pitt''s party?" I sigh.


    JD nudges me and points up. I notice the massive red swastika painted onto the domed ceiling above us.

 Page 7

    "I suppose we should probably get rid of that."


    32


    Zigzagging toward Chemical Bank by the new Gap it''s a Wednesday but outside feels Mondayish and the city looks vaguely unreal, there''s a sky like from October 1973 or something hanging over it and right now at 5:30 this is Manhattan as Loud Place: jackhammers, horns, sirens, breaking glass, recycling trucks, whistles, booming bass from the new Ice Cube, unwanted sound trailing behind me as I wheel my Vespa into the bank, joining the line at the automated teller, most of it made up of Orientals glaring at me as they move aside, a couple of them leaning forward, whispering to each other.


    "What''s the story with the moped?" some jerk asks.


    "Hey, what''s the story with those pants? Listen, the bike doesn''t have a card, it''s not taking out any cash, so chill out. Jesus."


    Only one out often cash machines seems to have any cash in it, so while waiting I have to look up at my reflection in the panel of steel mirrors lining the columns above the automated tellers: high cheekbones, ivory skin, jet-black hair, semi-Asian eyes, a perfect nose, huge lips, defined jawline, ripped knees in jeans, T-shirt under a long-collar shirt, red vest, velvet jacket, and I''m slouching, Rollerblades slung over my shoulder, suddenly remembering I forgot where I''m supposed to meet Chloe tonight, and that''s when the beeper goes off. It''s Beau. I snap open the Panasonic EBH 70 and call him back at the club.


    "I hope Bongo''s not having a fit."


    "It''s the RSVPs, Victor. Damien''s having a fit. He just called, furious-"


    "Did you tell him where I was?"


    "How could I do that when I don''t even know where you are?" Pause. "Where are you? Damien was in a helicopter. Actually stepping out of a helicopter."


    "I don''t even know where I am, Beau. How''s that for an answer?" The line moves up slowly. "Is he in the city?"


    "No. I said he was in a helicopter. I said that he-was-in-a-heli-cop-ter."


    "But where was the heli-cop-ter?"


    "Damien thinks things are getting totally f**ked up. We have about forty for dinner who have not RSVP''d, so our seating list might be interpreted as meaningless."


    "Beau, that depends on how you define meaningless."


    A long pause. "Don''t tell me it means a bunch of different things, Victor. For example, here''s how the O situation is shaping up: Tatum O''Neal, Chris O''Donnell, Sinead O''Connor and Conan O''Brien all yes but nothing from Todd Oldham, who I hear is being stalked and really freaking out, or Carrie Otis or Oribe-"


    "Relax," I whisper. "That''s because they''re all doing the shows. I''ll talk to Todd tomorrow-I''ll see him at the show-but I mean what is going on, Beau? Conan O''Brien is coming but Todd Oldham and Carrie Otis might not? That just isn''t an acceptable scenario, baby, but I''m in an automated teller right now with my Vespa and I can''t really speak-hey, what are you looking at?-but I don''t want Chris O''Donnell anywhere at my table for dinner. Chloe thinks he''s too f**king cute and I just don''t need that kind of awful shit tomorrow night."


    "Uh-huh. Right, no Chris O''Donnell, okay, got that. Now, Victor, first thing tomorrow we''ve got to go over the big ones, the Ms and the Ss-"


    "We can pull it together. Don''t weep, Beau. You sound sad. It is now my turn to get some cash. I must go and-"


    "Wait! Rande Gerber''s in town-"


    "Put him under G but not for the dinner unless he''s coming with Cindy Crawford then he is invited to the dinner and you then know which consonant, baby."


    "Victor, you try dealing with Cindy''s publicist. You try getting an honest answer out of Antonio Sabato, Jr.''s publicist-"


    I click off, finally push in my card, punch in the code (COOLGUY) and wait, thinking about the seating arrangements at tables 1 and 3, and then green words on a black screen tell me that there is no cash left in this account (a balance of minus $143) and so therefore it won''t give me any money and I blew my last cash on a glass-door refrigerator because Elle Decor did a piece on my place that never ran so I slam my fist against the machine, moan "Spare me" and since it''s totally useless to try this again I rustle through my pockets for a Xanax until someone pushes me away and I roll the moped back outside, bummed.


    Cruising up Madison, stopping at a light in front of Barneys, and Bill Cunningham snaps my picture, yelling out, "Is that a Vespa?" and I give him thumbs-up and he''s standing next to Holly, a curvy blonde who looks like Patsy Kensit, and when we smoked heroin together last week she told me she might be a lesbian, which in some circles is pretty good news, and she waves me over wearing velvet hot pants, red-and-white-striped platform boots, a silver peace symbol and she''s ultrathin, on the cover of Mademoiselle this month, and after a day of doing shows at Bryant Park she''s looking kind of frantic but in a cool way.

 Page 8

    "Hey Victor!" She keeps motioning even when I''ve pulled the Vespa up to the curb.


    "Hey Holly."


    "It''s Anjanette, Victor."


    "Hey Anjanette, what''s up pu**ycat? You''re looking very Uma-ish. Love the outfit."


    "It''s retro-gone-wacko. I did six shows today. I''m exhausted, she says, signing an autograph. "I saw you at the Calvin Klein show giving Chloe moral support. Which was so cool of you."


    "Baby, I wasn''t at the Calvin Klein show but you''re still looking very Uma-ish."


    "Victor, I''m positive you were at the Calvin Klein show. I saw you in the second row next to Stephen Dorff and David Salle and Roy Liebenthal. I saw you pose for a photo on 42nd Street, then get into a black scary car."


    Pause, while I consider this scenario, then: "The second f**king row? No way, baby. You haven''t started your ignition yet. Will I see yon tomorrow night, baby?"


    "I''m coming with Jason Priestley."


    "Why aren''t you coming with me? Am I the only one who thinks Jason Priestley looks like a little caterpillar?"


    "Victor, that''s not nice," she pouts. "What would Chloe think?"


    "She thinks Jason Priestley looks like a little caterpillar too," I murmur, lost in thought. "The f**king second row?"


    "That''s not what I meant," Anjanette says. "What would Chloe think of-"


    "Spare me, baby, but you''re supergreat." I start the Vespa up again. "Take your passion and make it happen."


    "I''ve heard you''ve been naughty anyway, so I''m not surprised," she says, tiredly wagging her finger at me, which Scooter, the bodyguard who looks like Marcellus from Pulp Fiction, interprets as "move closer."


    "What do you mean by that, pu**ycat?" I ask. "What have you heard?"


    Scooter whispers something, pointing at his watch, while Anjanette lights a cigarette. "There''s always a car waiting. There''s always a Steven Meisel photo shoot. Jesus, how do we do it, Victor? How do we survive this mess?" A gleaming black sedan rolls forward and Scooter opens the door.


    "See you, baby." I hand her a French tulip I just happen to be holding and start pulling away from the curb.


    "Oh Victor," she calls out, handing Scooter the French tulip. "I got the job! I got the contract."


    "Great, baby. I gotta run. What job, you crazy chick?"


    "Guess?."


    "Matsuda? Gap?" I grin, limousines honking behind me. "Baby, listen, see you tomorrow night."


    "No. Guess?."


    "Baby, I already did. You''re mind-tripping me."


    "Guess?, Victor," she''s shouting as I pull away.


    "Baby, you''re great," I shout back. "Call me. Leave a message. But only at the club. Peace."


    "Guess?, Victor!" she calls out.


    "Baby, you''re a face to watch," I say, already putting a Walkman on, already on 61st. "A star of tomorrow," I call out, waving. "Let''s have drinks at Monkey Bar after the shows are over on Sunday!" I''m speaking to myself now and moving toward Alison''s place. Passing a newsstand by the new Gap, I notice I''m still on the cover of the current issue of YouthQuake, looking pretty cool-the headline 27 AND HIP in bold purple letters above my smiling, expressionless face, and I''ve just got to buy another copy, but since I don''t have any cash there''s no way.


    31


    From 72nd and Madison I called Alison''s doorman, who has verified that outside her place on 80th and Park Damien''s goons are not waiting in a black Jeep, so when I get there I can pull up to the entrance and roll my Vespa into the lobby, where Juan-who''s a pretty decent-looking guy, about twenty-four-is hanging out in uniform. As I give him the peace sign, wheeling the moped into the elevator, Juan comes out from behind the front desk.


    "Hey Victor, did you talk to Joel Wilkenfeld yet?" Juan''s asking, following me. "I mean, last week you said you would and-"


    "Hey baby, it''s cool, Juan, it''s cool," I say, inserting the key, unlocking the elevator, pressing the button for the top floor.


    Juan presses another button, to keep the door open. "But man, you said he''d see me and also set up a meeting with-"


    "I''m setting it up, buddy, it''s cool," I stress, pressing again for the top floor. "You''re the next Markus Schenkenberg. You''re the white Tyson." I reach over and push his hand away.


    "Hey man, I''m Hispanic-" He keeps pressing the Door Open button.

 Page 9

    "You''re the next Hispanic Markus Schenkenberg. You''re the, um, Hispanic Tyson." I reach over and push his hand away again. "You''re a star, man. Any day of the week."


    "I just don''t want this to be like an afterthought-"


    "Hey man, spare me." I grin. "`Afterthought'' isn''t in this guy''s vocabulary," I say, pointing at myself.


    "Okay, man," Juan says, letting go of the Door Open button and offering a shaky thumbs-up. "I, like, trust you."


    The elevator zips up to the top floor, where it opens into Alison''s penthouse. I peer down the front hallway, don''t see or hear the dogs, then quietly wheel the Vespa inside and lean it against a wall in the foyer next to a Vivienne Tam sofa bed.


    I tiptoe silently toward the kitchen but stop when I hear the hoarse breathing of the two chows, who have been intently watching me from the other end of the hallway, quietly growling, audible only now. I turn around and offer them a weak smile.


    I can barely say "Oh shit" before they both break out into major scampering and rush at their target: me.


    The two chows-one chocolate, one cinnamon-leap up, baring their teeth, nipping at my knees, pawing at my calves, barking furiously.


    "Alison! Alison!" I call out, trying desperately to bat them away.


    Hearing her name, they both stop barking. Then they glance down the hallway to see if she''s coming. After a pause, when they hear no sign of her-we''re frozen in position, red chow standing on back legs, its paws in my groin, black chow down on its front paws with Gucci boot in mouth-they immediately go to work on me again, growling and basically freaking out like they always do.


    "Alison!" I scream. "Jesus Christ!"


    Gauging the distance from where I''m at to the kitchen door, I decide to make a run for it, and when I bolt, the chows scamper after me, yelping, biting at my ankles.


    I finally make it into the kitchen and slam the door, hear both of them skidding across the marble floor into the door with two large thumps, hear them fall over, then scamper up and attack the door. Shaken, I open a Snapple, down half of it, then light a cigarette, check for bites. I hear Alison clapping her hands, and then she walks into the kitchen, naked beneath an open Aerosmith tour robe, a cell phone cradled in her neck, an unlit joint in her mouth. "Mr. Chow, Mrs. Chow, down, down, goddamnit, down."


    She hurls the dogs into the pantry, pulls a handful of colored biscuits from the robe and throws them at the dogs before slamming the pantry door shut, the sounds of the dogs fighting over the biscuits cut mercifully short.


    "Okay, uh-huh, right, Malcolm McLaren... Yeah, no, Frederic Fekkai. Yeah. Everybody''s hung over, babe." She scrunches up her face. "Andrew Shue and Leonardo DiCaprio?... What?... Oh baby, no-o-o way." Alison winks at me. "You''re not at a window table at Mortimer''s right now. Wake up! Oh boy... Ciao, ciao." She clicks off the cellular and carefully places the joint on the counter and says, "That was a three-way with Dr. Dre, Yasmine Bleeth and Jared Leto."


    "Alison, those two little shits tried to kill me," I point out as she jumps up and wraps her legs around my waist.


    "Mr. and Mrs. Chow aren''t little shits, baby." She clamps her mouth onto mine as I stumble with her toward the bedroom. Once there she falls to her knees, rips open my jeans and proceeds to expertly give me head, deep-throating in an unfortunately practiced way, grabbing my ass so hard I have to pry one of her hands loose. I take a last drag off the cigarette that I''m still holding, look around for a place to stub it out, find a half-empty Snapple bottle, drop in what''s left of the Marlboro, hear it hiss.


    "Slow down, Alison, you''re moving too fast," I''m mumbling.


    She pulls my dick out of her mouth and, looking up at me, says in a low, "sexy" voice, "Urgency is my specialty, baby."


    She suddenly gets up, drops the robe and lies back on the bed, spreading her legs, pushing me down onto a floor littered with random issues of WWDs, my right knee crumpling a back-page photo of Alison and Damien and Chloe and me at Naomi Campbell''s birthday party, sitting in a cramped booth at Doppelganger''s, and then I''m nibbling at a small tattoo on the inside of a muscular thigh and the moment my tongue touches her she starts coming-once, twice, three times. Knowing where this will not end up, I jerk off a little until I''m almost coming and then I think, Oh screw it, I don''t really have time for this, so I just fake it, moaning loudly, my head between her legs, movement from my right arm giving the impression from where she lies that I''m actually doing something. The music in the background is mid-period Duran Duran. Our rendezvous spots have included the atrium at Remi, room 101 at the Paramount, the Cooper-Hewitt Museum.

 Page 10

    I climb onto the bed and lie there, pretending to pant. "Baby, where did you learn to give head like that? Sotheby''s? Oh man." I reach over for a cigarette.


    "So wait. That''s it?" She lights a joint, sucks in on it so deeply that half of it turns to ash. "What about you?"


    "I''m happy." I yawn. "Just as long as you don''t bring out that, um, leather harness and Sparky the giant butt plug."


    I get off the bed and pull my jeans and Calvins up and move over to the window, where I lift a venetian blind. Down on Park, between 79th and 80th, is a black Jeep with two of Damien''s goons sitting in it, reading the new issue of what looks like Interview with Drew Barrymore on the cover, and one looks like a black Woody Harrelson and the other like a white Damon Wayans.


    Alison knows what I''m seeing and from the bed says, "Don''t worry, I have to meet Grant Hill for a drink at Mad.61. They''ll follow and then you can escape."


    I flop onto the bed, flip on Nintendo, reach for the controls and start to play Super Mario Bros.


    "Damien says that Julia Roberts is coming and so is Sandra Bullock," Alison says vacantly. "Laura Leighton and Halle Berry and Dalton James." She takes another hit off the joint and hands it to me. "I saw Elle Macpherson at the Anna Sui show and she says she''ll be there for the dinner." She''s flipping through a copy of Detour with Robert Downey, Jr., on the cover, legs spread, major crotch shot. "Oh, and so is Scott Wolf."


    "Shhh, I''m playing," I tell her. "Yoshi''s eaten four gold coins and he''s trying to find the fifth. I need to concentrate."


    "Oh my god, who gives a shit," Alison sighs. "We''re dealing with a fat midget who rides a dinosaur and saves his girlfriend from a pissed-off gorilla? Victor, get serious."


    "It''s not his girlfriend. It''s Princess Toadstool. And it''s not a gorilla," I stress. "It''s Lemmy Koopa of the evil Koopa clan. And baby, as usual, you''re missing the point."


    "Please enlighten me."


    "The whole point of Super Mario Bros. is that it mirrors life."


    "I''m following." She checks her nails. "God knows why."


    "Kill or be killed."


    "Uh-huh."


    "Time is running out."


    "Gotcha."


    "And in the end, baby, you... are... alone."


    "Right." She stands up. "Well, Victor, that really captures the spirit of our relationship, honey." She disappears into a closet bigger than the bedroom. "If you had to be interviewed by Worth magazine on the topic of Damien''s Nintendo stock, you''d want to kill Yoshi too."


    "I guess this is all just beyond the realm of your experience," I murmur. "Huh?"


    "What are you doing tonight for dinner?" she calls out from the closet.


    "Why? Where''s Damien?"


    "In Atlantic City. So the two of us can go out since I''m sure Chloe is tres exhausted from all dat wittle modeling she had to do today."


    "I can''t," I call back. "I''ve got to get to bed early. I''m skipping dinner. I''ve got to go over-oh shit-seating arrangements."


    "Oh, but baby, I want to go to Nobu tonight," she whines from the closet. "I want a baby shrimp tempura roll."


    "You are a baby shrimp tempura roll," I whine back.


    The phone rings, the machine picks up, just new Portishead, then a beep.


    "Hi, Alison, it''s Chloe calling back." I roll my eyes. "Amber and Shalom and I have to do something for Fashion TV at the Royalton and then I''m having dinner with Victor at Bowery Bar at nine-thirty. I''m so so tired... did shows all day. Okay, I guess you''re not there. Talk to you soon-oh yeah, you have a pass backstage for Todd''s show tomorrow. Bye-bye." The machine clicks off.


    Silence from the closet, then, low and laced with fury, "Seating arrangements? You-have-to-go-to-bed-early?"


    "You can''t keep me in your penthouse," I say. "I''m going back to my plow."


    "You''re having dinner with her?" she screams.


    "Honey, I had no idea."


    Alison walks out of the closet holding a Todd Oldham wraparound dress in front of her and waits for my reaction, showing it off: not-so-basic black-slash-beige, strapless, Navajo-inspired and neon quilted.


    "That''s a Todd Oldham, baby," I finally say.


    "I''m wearing it tomorrow night." Pause. "It''s an original," she whispers seductively, eyes glittering. "I''m gonna make your little girlfriend look like shit!"

 Page 11

    Alison reaches over and slaps the controls out of my hand and turns on a Green Day video and dances over to the Vivienne Tam-designed mirror, studying herself holding the dress in it, and then completes a halfhearted swirl, looking very happy but also very stressed.


    I check my nails. It''s so cold in this apartment that frost accumulates on the windows. "Is it just me or am I getting chilly in here?"


    Alison holds the dress up one more time, squeals maniacally and rushes back into the closet. "What did you say, baby?"


    "Did you know vitamins strengthen your nails?"


    "Who told you that, baby?" she calls out.


    "Chloe did," I mutter, biting at a hangnail.


    "That poor baby. Oh my god, she''s so stupid."


    "She just got back from the MTV awards. She had a nervous breakdown before it, y''know, so be reasonable."


    "Ma-jor," Alison calls out. "Her smack days are behind her, I take it."


    "Just be patient. She''s very unstable," I say. "And yes, her smack days are behind her."


    "No help from you, I''m sure."


    "Hey, she got a huge amount of help from me," I say, sitting up, paying more attention now. "If it wasn''t for me she might be dead, Alison."


    "If it wasn''t for you, pea brain, she might not have shot up the junk in the first f**king place."


    "She didn''t `shoot'' anything," I stress. "It was a purely nasal habit." Pause, check my fingernails again. "She''s just very unstable right now."


    "What? She gets a blackhead and wants to kill herself?"


    "Hey, who wouldn''t?" I sit up a little more.


    "No Vacancy. No Vacancy. No Vac-"


    "Axl Rose and Prince both wrote songs about her, may I remind you."


    "Yeah, `Welcome to the Jungle'' and `Let''s Go Crazy.''" Alison walks out of the closet wrapped in a black towel and waves me off. "I know, I know, Chloe was born to model."


    "Do you think your jealousy''s giving me a hard-on?"


    "No, only my boyfriend does that."


    "Hey, no way do I want to get it on with Damien."


    "Jesus. As usual, you''re so literal-minded."


    "Oh god, your boyfriend''s a total crook. A blowhard."


    "My boyfriend is the only reason, my little himbo, that you are in business."


    "That''s bullshit," I shout. "I''m on the cover of YouthQuake magazine this month."


    "Exactly." Alison suddenly relents and moves over to the bed and sits down next to me, gently taking my hand. "Victor, you auditioned for all three `Real World''s, and MTV rejected you all three times." She pauses sincerely. "What does that tell you?"


    "Yeah, but I''m one f**king phone call away from Lorne Michaels."


    Alison studies my face, my hand still in hers, and smiling, she says, "Poor Victor, you should see just how handsome and dissatisfied you look right now."


    "A hip combo," I mutter sullenly.


    "It''s nice that you think so," she says vacantly.


    "Looking like some deformed schmuck and suicidal''s better?" I tell her. "Christ, Alison, get your f**king priorities straightened out."


    "My priorities straightened out?" she asks, stunned, letting go of my hand and placing her own to her chest. "My priorities straightened out?" She laughs like a teenager.


    "Don''t you understand?" I get up from the bed, lighting a cigarette, pacing. "Shit."


    "Victor, tell me what you''re so worried about."


    "You really want to know?"


    "Not really but yes." She walks over to the armoire and pulls out a coconut, which I totally take in stride.


    "My f**king DJ''s disappeared. That''s what." I inhale so hard on the Marlboro I have to put it out. "No one knows where the hell my DJ is."


    "Mica''s gone?" Alison asks. "Are you sure she''s not in rehab?"


    "I''m not sure of anything," I mutter.


    "That''s for sure, baby," she says faux-soothingly, falling onto the bed, looking for something, then her voice changes and she yells, "And you lie! Why didn''t you tell me you were in South Beach last weekend?"


    "I wasn''t in South Beach last weekend, and I wasn''t at the f**king Calvin Klein show either." Finally the time has come: "Alison, we''ve got to talk about something-"


    "Don''t say it." She drops the coconut into her lap and holds up both hands, then notices the joint on her nightstand and grabs it. "I know, I know," she intones dramatically. "There is a compromising photo of you with a girl"-she bats her eyes cartoonishly-"supposedly moi, yada yada yada, that''s going to f**k up your relationship with that dunce you date, but it will also"-and now, mock-sadly, lighting the joint-"fuck up the relationship with the dunce I date too. So"-she claps her hands-"rumor is it''s running in either the Post, the Trib or the News tomorrow. I''m working on it. I have people all over it. This is my A-number-one priority. So don''t worry"-she inhales, exhales-"that beautiful excuse for a head of yours about it." She spots what she was looking for, lost in the comforter, and grabs it: a screwdriver.

 Page 12

    "Why, Alison? Why did you have to attack me at a movie premiere?" I wail.


    "It takes two, you naughty boy."


    "Not when you''ve knocked me unconscious and are sitting on my face."


    "If I was sitting on your face no one will ever know it was you." She shrugs, gets up, grabs the coconut. "And then we''ll all be saved-la la la la."


    "That''s not when the picture was taken, baby." I follow her into the bathroom, where she punches four holes in the coconut with the screwdriver and then leans over the Vivienne Tam-designed sink and pours the milk from the shell over her head.


    "I know, I agree." She tosses the husk into a wastebasket and massages the milk into her scalp. "Damien finds out and you''ll be working in a White Castle."


    "And you''ll be paying for your own abortions, so spare me." I raise my arms helplessly. "Why do I always have to remind you that we shouldn''t be seeing each other? If this photo gets printed it''ll be time for us to wake up."


    "If this picture gets printed we''ll just say it was a weak moment." She whips her head back and wraps her hair in a towel. "Doesn''t that sound good.


    "Jesus, baby, you''ve got people out there watching your apartment."


    "I know." She beams into the mirror. "Isn''t it cute?"


    "Why do I always need to remind you that I''m basically still with, y''know, Chloe and you''re still with Damien?"


    She turns away from the mirror and leans against the sink. "If you dump me, baby, you''ll be in a lot more trouble." She heads toward the closet.


    "Why is that?" I ask, following her. "What do you mean, Alison?"


    "Oh, let''s just say rumor has it that you''re looking at a new space." She pauses, holds up a pair of shoes. "And we both know that if Damien knew that you were even contemplating your own pathetic club-slash-eatery while you''re currently being paid to run Damien''s own pathetic club-slash-eatery, therefore insulting Damien''s warped sense of loyalty, the term `you''re f**ked'' comes vaguely to mind." She drops the shoes, leaves the closet.


    "I''m not," I insist, following her. "I swear I''m not. Oh my god, who told you that?"


    "Are you denying it?"


    "N-no. I mean, I am denying it. I mean..." I stand there.


    "Oh never mind." Alison drops the robe and puts on some panties. "Three o''clock tomorrow?"


    "I''m swamped tomorrow, baby, so spare me," I stammer. "Now, who told you I''m looking at a new space?"


    "Okay-three o''clock on Monday."


    "Why three o''clock? Why Monday?"


    "Damien''s having his unit cleaned." She tosses on a blouse.


    "His unit?"


    "His"-she whispers-"extensions."


    "Damien has-extensions?" I ask. "He''s the grossest guy, baby. He is so evil."


    She strides over to the armoire, sifts through a giant box of earrings. "Oh baby, I saw Tina Brown at 44 today at lunch and she''s coming tomorrow sans Harry and so is Nick Scotti, who-I know, I know-is a has-been but just looks great."


    I move slowly back toward the frost-covered window, peer past the venetian blinds at the Jeep on Park.


    "I talked to Winona too. She is coming. Wait." Alison pushes two earrings into one ear, three into another, and is now pulling them out. "Is Johnny coming?"


    "What?" I murmur. "Who?"


    "Johnny Depp," she shouts, throwing a shoe at me.


    "I guess," I say vaguely. "Yeah."


    "Goody," I hear her say. "Rumor has it that Davey''s very friendly with heroin-ooh, don''t let Chloe get too close to Davey-and I also hear that Winona might go back to Johnny if Kate Moss disappears into thin air or a smallish tornado hurls her back to Auschwitz, which we''re all hoping for." She notices the half-smoked cigarette floating in the Snapple bottle, then turns around, holding the bottle out to me accusingly, mentioning something about how Mrs. Chow loves kiwi-flavored Snapple. I''m slouching in a giant Vivienne Tam armchair.


    "God, Victor," Alison says, hushed. "In this light"-she stops, genuinely moved-"you look gorgeous."


    Gaining the strength to squint at her, I say, finally, "The better you look, the more you see."


    Chapter Two


    Back at my place downtown getting dressed to meet Chloe at Bowery Bar by 10 I''m moving around my apartment cell phone in hand on hold to my agent at CAA. I''m lighting citrus-scented votive candles to help mellow the room out, ease the tension, plus it''s so freezing in my apartment it''s like an igloo. Black turtleneck, white jeans, Matsuda jacket, slippers, simple and cool. Music playing is low-volume Weezer. TV''s on-no sound-with highlights from the shows today at Bryant Park, Chloe everywhere. Finally a click, a sigh, muffled voices in the background, Bill sighing again.

 Page 13

    "Bill? Hello?" I''m saying. "Bill? What are you doing? Getting fawned over on Melrose? Sitting there with a headset on, looking like you belong in an air traffic controllers'' room at LAX?"


    "Do I need to remind you that I am more powerful than you?" Bill asks tiredly. "Do I need to remind you that a headset is mandatory?"


    "You''re my broker of opportunity, baby."


    "Hopefully I will benefit from you."


    "So baby, what''s going on with Flatliners II? The script is like almost brill. What''s the story?"


    "The story?" Bill asks quietly. "The story is: I was at a screening this morning and the product had some exceptional qualities. It was accessible, well-structured and not particularly sad, but it proved strangely unsatisfying. It might have something to do with the fact that the product would have been better acted by hand puppets."


    "What movie was this?"


    "It doesn''t have a title yet," Bill murmurs. "It''s kind of like Caligula meets The Breakfast Club."


    "I think I''ve seen this movie. Twice, in fact. Now listen, Bill-"


    "I spent a good deal of lunch at Barney Greengrass today staring at the Hollywood Hills, listening to someone trying to sell me a pitch about a giant pasta maker that goes on some kind of sick rampage."


    I turn the TV off, search the apartment for my watch. "And... your thoughts?"


    "`How near death am I?'' " Bill pauses. "I don''t think I should be thinking things like that at twenty-eight. I don''t think I should be thinking things like that at Barney Greengrass."


    "Well, Bill, you are twenty-eight."


    "Touching a seltzer bottle that sat in a champagne bucket brought me back to what passes for reality, and drinking half an egg cream solidified that process. The pitcher finally tried to make jokes and I tried to laugh." A pause. "Having dinner at the Viper Room started to seem vaguely plausible, like, i.e., not a bad evening."


    I open the glass-door refrigerator, grab a blood orange and roll my eyes, muttering "Spare me" to myself while peeling it.


    "At that lunch," Bill continues, "someone from a rival agency came up behind me and superglued a large starfish to the back of my head for reasons I''m still not sure of." Pause. "Two junior agents are, at this moment, trying to remove it."


    "Whoa, baby," I cough. "You''re making too much noise right now."


    "As we speak I am also having my photo taken for Buzz magazine by Fahoorzi Zaheedi..." Pause, not to me: "That''s not how you pronounce it? Do you think just because it''s your name that you know?"


    "Billy? Bill-hey, what is this?" I''m asking. "Buzz, man? That''s a magazine for flies, baby. Come on, Bill, what''s going on with Flatliners II? I read the script and though I found structural problems and made some notes I still think it''s brill and you know and I know that I''m perfect for the part of Ohman." I pop another slice of blood orange into my mouth and, while chewing, tell Bill, "And I think Alicia Silverstone would be perfect for the part of Julia Roberts'' troubled sister, Froufrou."


    I had a date with Alicia Silverstone last night," Bill says vacantly. "Tomorrow, Drew Barrymore." Pause. "She''s between marriages."


    "What did you and Alicia do?"


    "We sat around and watched The Lion King on video while eating a cantaloupe I found in my backyard, which is not a bad evening, depending on how you define `bad evening.'' I made her watch me smoke a cigar, and she gave me dieting tips, such as `Eschew hors d''oeuvres."'' Pause. "I plan to do the same exact thing with Kurt Cobain''s widow next week."


    "That''s really, uh, y''know, cutting edge, Bill."


    "Right now while Buzz is taking my photograph I''m prepping the big new politically correct horror movie. We''ve just been discussing how many rapes should be in it. My partners say two. I say half a dozen." Pause. "We also need to glamorize the heroine''s disability more."


    "What''s wrong with her?"


    "She doesn''t have a head."


    "Cool, cool, that''s cool."


    "Add to this the fact that my dog just killed himself. He drank a bucket of paint."


    "Hey, Bill, Flatliners II or not? Just tell me. Flatliners II or no Flatliners II. Huh, Bill?"


    "Do you know what happens to a dog when he drinks a bucket of paint?" Bill asks, sounding vague.


    "Is Shumacher involved or not? Is Kiefer on board?"

 Page 14

    "My dog was a sex maniac and very, very depressed. His name was Max the Jew and he was very, very depressed."


    "Well, I guess that''s why, y''know, he drank the paint, right?"


    "Could be. It could also be the fact that ABC canceled `My So- Called Life.''" He pauses. "It''s all sort of up in the air."


    "Have you ever heard the phrase `earn your ten percent''?" I''m asking, washing my hands. "Have you seen your mother, baby, standing in the shadows?"


    "The center cannot hold, my friend," Bill drones on.


    "Hey Bill-what if there''s no center? Huh?" I ask, thoroughly pissed off.


    "I''ll pursue that." Pause. "But right now I am quietly seething that Firhoozi thinks the starfish is hip, so I must go. We will speak as soon as it''s feasibly possible."


    "Bill, I''ve gotta run too, but listen, can we talk tomorrow?" I flip frantically through my daybook. "Um, like at either three-twenty-five or, um, like... four or four-fifteen... or, maybe even at, oh shit, six-ten?"


    "Between lunch and midnight I''m collecting art with the cast of ''Friends.''"


    "That''s pretty ultra-arrogant, Bill."


    "Dagby, I must go. Firhoozi wants a profile shot sans starfish."


    "Hey Bill, wait a minute. I just want to know if you''re pushing me for Flatliners II. And my name''s not Dagby."


    "If you are not Dagby, then who is this?" he asks vacantly. "Who am I now speaking with if not Dagby?"


    "It''s me. Victor Ward. I''m opening like the biggest club in New York tomorrow night."


    Pause, then, "No... "


    "I modeled for Paul Smith. I did a Calvin Klein ad."


    Pause, then, "No..." I can hear him slouching, repositioning himself.


    "I''m the guy who everyone thought David Geffen was dating but wasn''t."


    "That''s really not enough."


    "I date Chloe Byrnes," I''m shouting. "Chloe Byrnes, like, the super-model?"


    "I''ve heard of her but not you, Dagby."


    "Jesus, Bill, I''m on the cover of YouthQuake magazine this month. Your Halcion dosage needs trimming, bud."


    "I''m not even thinking about you at this exact moment."


    "Hey," I shout. "To save my life I dumped ICM for you guys."


    "Listen, Dagby, or whoever this is, I can''t really hear you since I''m on Mulholland now and I''m under a... big long tunnel." Pause. "Can''t you hear the static?"


    "But I just called you, Bill, at your office. You told me Firhoozi Zahidi was shooting you in your office. Let me talk to Firhoozi."


    A long pause, then disdainfully Bill says, "You think you''re so clever."


    29


    It''s so diabolically crowded outside Bowery Bar that I have to climb over a stalled limo parked crookedly at the curb to even start pushing through the crowd while paparazzi who couldn''t get in try desperately to snap my photo, calling out my name as I follow Liam Neeson, Carol Alt and Spike Lee up to Chad and Anton, who help pull us inside, where the opening riffs of Matthew Sweet''s "Sick of Myself" start booming. The bar is mobbed, white boys with dreadlocks, black girls wearing Nirvana T-shirts, grungy homeboys, gym queens with buzz cuts, mohair, neon, Janice Dickerson, bodyguards and their models from the shows today looking hot but exhausted, fleece and neoprene and pigtails and silicone and Brent Fraser as well as Brendan Fraser and pom-poms and chenille sleeves and falconer gloves and everyone''s smoochy. I wave over at Pell and Vivien, who are drinking Cosmopolitans with Marcus-who''s wearing an English barrister''s wig-and this really cool lesbian, Egg, who''s wearing an Imperial margarine crown, and she''s sitting next to two people dressed like two of the Banana Splits, which two I couldn''t possibly tell. It''s a kitsch-is-cool kind of night and there are tons of chic admirers.


    While scanning the dining room for Chloe (which I realize a little too slowly is totally useless since she''s always in one of the three big A booths), I notice Richard Johnson from "Page Six" next to me, also scanning the room, along with Mick and Anne Jones, and I sidle up to him and offer a high five.


    "Hey Dick," I shout over the din. "I need to ask you about something, por favor."


    "Sure, Victor," Richard says. "But I''m looking for Jenny Shimuzu and Scott Bakula."


    "Hey, Jenny lives in my building and she''s supercool and very fond of Haagen-Dazs frozen yogurt bars, preferably pina colada, not to mention a good friend. But hey, man, have you heard about a photograph that''s gonna run in like the News tomorrow?"

 Page 15

    "A photograph?" he asks. "A photograph?"


    "B-b-baby," I stammer. "That sounds kind of sinister when you ask it twice. But it''s, um, do you know Alison Poole?"


    "Sure, she''s Damien Nutchs Ross''s squeeze," he says, spotting someone, giving thumbs-up, thumbs-down, then thumbs-up again. "How are things with the club? Everything nice and tidy for tomorrow night?"


    "Cool, cool, cool: But it''s like an, um, embarrassing photo like maybe of me?"


    Richard has turned his attention to a journalist standing by us who''s interviewing a very good-looking busboy.


    "Victor, this is Byron from Time magazine." Richard motions with a hand.


    "Love your work, man. Peace," I tell Byron. "Richard, about-"


    "Byron''s doing an article on very good-looking busboys for Time," Richard says dispassionately.


    "Well, finally," I tell Byron. "Wait, Richard-"


    "If it''s an odious photograph the Post won''t run an odious photograph, blah blah blah," Richard says, moving away.


    "Hey, who said anything about odious?" I shout. "I said embarrassing."


    Candy Bushnell suddenly pushes through the crowd screaming "Richard," and then when she sees me her voice goes up eighty octaves and she screams "Pony!" and places an enormous kiss on my face while slipping me a half and Richard finds Jenny Shimuzu but not Scott Bakula and Chloe is surrounded by Roy Liebenthal, Eric Goode, Quentin Tarantino, Kato Kaelin and Baxter Priestly, who is sitting way too close to her in the giant aquamarine booth and I have to put a stop to this or else deal with an unbelievably painful headache. Waving over at John Cusack, who''s sharing calamari with Julien Temple, I move through the crowd toward the booth where Chloe, pretending to be engaged, is nervously smoking a Marlboro Light.


    Chloe was born in 1970, a Pisces and a CAA client. Full lips, bone- thin, big br**sts (implants), long muscular legs, high cheekbones, large blue eyes, flawless skin, straight nose, waistline of twenty-three inches, a smile that never becomes a smirk, a cellular-phone bill that runs $1,200 a month, hates herself but probably shouldn''t. She was discovered dancing on the beach in Miami and has been half-naked in an Aerosmith video, in Playboy and twice on the cover of the Sports Illustrated swimwear issue as well as on the cover of four hundred magazines. A calendar she shot in St. Bart''s has sold two million copies. A book called The Real Me, ghostwritten with Bill Zehme, was on the New York Times best-seller list for something like twelve weeks. She is always on the phone listening to managers renegotiating deals and has an agent who takes fifteen percent, three publicists (though PMK basically handles everything), two lawyers, numerous business managers. Right now Chloe''s on the verge of signing a multimillion-dollar contract with Lancome, but a great many others are also in pursuit, especially after the "rumors" of a "slight" drug problem were quickly "brushed aside": Banana Republic (no), Benetton (no), Chanel (yes), Gap (maybe), Christian Dior (hmm), French Connection (a joke), Guess? (nope), Ralph Lauren (problematic), Pepe Jeans (are we kidding?), Calvin Klein (done that), Pepsi (sinister but a possibility), et cetera. Chocolates, the only food Chloe even remotely likes, are severely rationed. No rice, potatoes, oils or bread. Only steamed vegetables, certain fruits, plain fish, boiled chicken. We haven''t had dinner together in a long time because last week she had wardrobe fittings for the fifteen shows she''s doing this week, which means each designer had about one hundred twenty outfits for her to try on, and besides the two shows tomorrow she has to shoot part of a Japanese TV commercial and meet with a video director to go over storyboards that Chloe doesn''t understand anyway. Asking price for ten days of work: $1.7 million. A contract somewhere stipulates this.


    Right now she''s wearing a black Prada halter gown with black patent-leather sandals and metallic-green wraparound sunglasses she takes off as soon as she sees me approaching.


    "Sorry, baby, I got lost," I say, sliding into the booth.


    "My savior," Chloe says, smiling tightly.


    Roy, Quentin, Kato and Eric split, all severely disappointed, muttering hey mans to me and that they''ll be at the opening tomorrow night, but Baxter Priestly stays seated-one collar point sticking in, the other sticking out, from under a Pepto-Bismol-pink vest-sucking on a peppermint-NYU film grad, rich and twenty-five, part-time model (so far only group shots in Guess?, Banana Republic and Tommy Hilfiger ads), blond with a pageboy haircut, dated Elizabeth Saltzman like I did, wow.


    "Hey man," I sigh while reaching over the table to kiss Chloe on the mouth, dreading the upcoming exchange of pleasantries.

 Page 16

    "Hey Victor." Baxter shakes my hand. "How''s the club going? Ready for tomorrow?"


    "Do you have the time to listen to me whine?"


    We sit there sort of looking out over the rest of the room, my eyes fixed on the big table in the center, beneath a chandelier made of toilet floats and recycled refrigerator wire, where Eric Bogosian, Jim Jarmusch, Larry Gagosian, Harvey Keitel, Tim Roth, and oddly enough, Ricki Lake are all having salads, which touches something in me, a reminder to deal with the crouton situation before it gets totally out of hand.


    Finally sensing my vibe, Baxter gets up, pockets his Audiovox MVX cell phone, which is sitting next to Chloe''s Ericsson DF, and clumsily shakes my hand again.


    "I''ll see you guys tomorrow." He lingers, removes the peppermint from full pink lips. "Until then, um, I guess."


    "Bye, Baxter," Chloe says, tired but sweet, as usual.


    "Yeah, bye, man," I mutter, a well-practiced dismissal, and once he''s barely out of earshot I delicately ask, "What''s the story, baby? Who was that?"


    She doesn''t answer, just glares at me.


    Pause. "Hey, honey, you''re looking at me like I''m at a Hootie and the Blowfish concert. Chill."


    "Baxter Priestly?" she says-asks morosely, picking at a plate of cilantro.


    "Who''s Baxter Priestly?" I pull out some excellent weed and a package of rolling papers. "Who the f**k is Baxter Priestly?"


    "He''s in the new Darren Star show and plays bass in the band Hey That''s My Shoe," she says, lighting another cigarette.


    "Baxter Priestly? What the f**k kind of name is that?" I mutter, spotting seeds that cry out for removal.


    "You''re complaining about someone''s name? You hang out with Plez and Fetish and a person whose parents actually named him Tomato-"


    "They conceded it might have been a mistake."


    "-and you do business with people named Benny Benny and Damien Nutchs Ross? And you haven''t apologized for being an hour late? I had to wait upstairs in Eric''s office."


    "Oh god, I bet he loved that," I moan, concentrating on the pot.


    "Hell, baby, I thought I''d let you entertain the paparazzi." Pause. "And that''s Kenny Kenny, honey."


    "I did that all day," she sighs.


    "Baxter Priestly? Why am I drawing a blank?" I ask earnestly, waving down Cliff the maitre d'' for a drink but it''s too late: Eric has already sent over a complimentary bottle of Cristal 1985.


    "I guess I''m used to your oblivion, Victor," she says.


    "Chloe. You do fur ads and donate money to Greenpeace. You''re what''s known as a bundle of contradictions, baby, not this guy."


    "Baxter used to date Lauren Hynde." She stubs her cigarette out, smiles thankfully at the very good-looking busboy pouring the champagne into flutes.


    "Baxter used to date Lauren Hynde?"


    "Right."


    "Who''s Lauren Hynde?"


    "Lauren Hynde, Victor," she stresses as if the name means something. "You dated her."


    "I did? I did? Yeah? Hmm."


    "Good night, Victor."


    "I just don''t remember Lauren Hynde, baby. Solly Cholly."


    "Lauren Hynde?" she asks in disbelief. "You don''t remember dating her? My god, what are you going to say about me?"


    "Nothing, baby," I tell her, finally done deseeding. "We''re gonna get married and grow old together. How did the shows go? Look-there''s Scott Bakula. Hey, peace, man. Richard''s looking for you, bud."


    "Lauren Hynde, Victor."


    "That''s so cool. Hey Alfonse-great tattoo, guy." I turn back to Chloe.


    "Did you know Damien wears a hairpiece? He''s some kind of demented wig addict."


    "Who told you this?"


    "One of the guys at the club," I say without pausing.


    "Lauren Hynde, Victor. Lauren Hynde."


    "Who''s dat?" I say, making a crazy face, leaning over, kissing her neck noisily. Suddenly Patrick McMullan glides by, politely asks for a photo, complimenting Chloe on the shows today. We move in close together, look up, smile, the flash goes off. "Hey, crop the pot," I warn as he spots Patrick Kelly and scampers off.


    "Do you think he heard me?"


    "Lauren Hynde''s one of my best friends, Victor."


    "I don''t know her, but hey, if she''s a friend of yours, well, need I say anything but automatically?" I start rolling the joint.

 Page 17

    "Victor, you went to school with her."


    "I didn''t go to school with her, baby," I murmur, waving over at Ross Bleckner and his new boyfriend, Mrs. Ross Bleckner, a guy who used to work at a club in Amagansett called Salamanders and was recently profiled in Bikini.


    "Forgive me if I''m mistaken, but you went to Camden with Lauren Hynde." She lights another cigarette, finally sips the champagne.


    "Of course. I did," I say, trying to calm her. "Oh. Yeah."


    "Did you go to college, Victor?"


    "Literally or figuratively?"


    "Is there a difference with you?" she asks. "How can you be so dense?"


    "I don''t know, baby. It''s some kind of gene displacement."


    "I can''t listen to this. You complain about Baxter Priestly''s name and yet you know people named Huggy and Pidgeon and Na Na."


    "Hey," I finally snap, "and you slept with Charlie Sheen. We all have our little faults."


    "I should''ve just had dinner with Baxter," she mutters.


    "Baby, come on, a little champagne, a little sorbet. I''m rolling a joint so we can calm down. Now, who is this Baxter?"


    "You met him at a Knicks game."


    "Oh my god that''s right-the new male waif, underfed, wild-haired, major rehab victim." I immediately shut up, glance nervously over at Chloe, then segue beautifully into: "The whole grunge aesthetic has ruined the look of the American male, baby. It makes you long for the ''80s."


    "Only you would say that, Victor."


    "Anyway, I''m always watching you flirt with John-John at Knicks games."


    "Like you wouldn''t dump me for Daryl Hannah."


    "Baby, I''d dump you for John-John if I really wanted the publicity." Pause, mid-lick, looking up. "That''s not, um, a possibility... is it?"


    She just stares at me.


    I grab her. "Come here, baby." I kiss her again, my cheek now damp because Chloe''s hair is always wet and slicked back with coconut oil. "Baby? Why isn''t your hair ever dry?"


    Video cameras from Fashion TV sweep the room and I have to get Cliff to tell Eric to make sure they come nowhere near Chloe. M People turns into mid-period Elvis Costello which turns into new Better Than Ezra. I order a bowl of raspberry sorbet and try to cheer Chloe up by turning it into a Prince song: "She ate a raspberry sorbet... The kind you find at the Bowery Bar..."


    Chloe just stares glumly at her plate.


    "Honey, that''s a plate of cilantro. What''s the story?"


    "I''ve been up since five and I want to cry."


    "Hey, how was the big lunch at Fashion Cafe?"


    "I had to sit there and watch James Truman eat a giant truffle and it really really bothered me."


    "Because... you wanted a truffle too?"


    "No, Victor. Oh god, you don''t get anything."


    "Jesus, baby, spare me. What do you want me to do? Hang around Florence for a year studying Renaissance pottery? You get your legs waxed at Elizabeth Arden ten times a month."


    "You sit around plotting seating arrangements."


    "Baby baby baby." I light up the joint, whining. "Come on, my DJ''s missing, the club''s opening tomorrow, I have a photo shoot, a f**king show and lunch with my father tomorrow." Pause. "Oh shit-band practice."


    "How is your father?" she asks disinterestedly.


    "A contrivance," I mutter. "A plot device."


    Peggy Siegal walks by in taffeta and I duck under the table with my head in Chloe''s lap, looking up into her face, grinning, while taking a deep toke. "Peggy wanted to handle the publicity," I explain, sitting up.


    Chloe just stares at me.


    "So-o-o anyway," I continue. "James Truman eating a giant truffle? The lunch? `Entertainment Tonight,'' yes-go on."


    "It was so hip I ate," I hear her say.


    "What did you eat?" I murmur indifferently, waving over at Frederique, who pouts her lips, eyes squinty, like she was cooing to a baby or a very large puppy.


    "I ached, ached, Victor. Oh god, you never listen to me."


    "Joking, baby. I''m joking. I really see what you''re saying."


    She stares at me, waiting.


    "Um, your hip ached and-have I got it?"


    She just stares at me.


    "Okay, okay, reality just zapped me..." I take another toke, glance nervously at her. "So-o-o the video shoot tomorrow, um, what is it exactly?" Pause. "Are you, like, naked in it or anything?" Pause, another toke, then I c**k my head to exhale smoke so it won''t hit her in the face. "Er... what''s the story?"

 Page 18

    She continues to stare.


    "You''re not naked... or... you are, um, naked?"


    "Why?" she asks curtly. "Do you care?"


    "Baby baby baby. Last time you did a video you were dancing on the hood of a car in your bra. Baby baby baby..." I''m shaking my head woefully. "Concern is causing me to like pant and sweat."


    "Victor, you did how many bathing suit ads? You were photographed for Madonna''s sex book. Jesus, you were in that Versace ad where-am I mistaken? -we did or did not see your pubic hair?"


    "Yeah, but Madonna dropped those photos and let''s just say thank you to that and there''s a major difference between my pubic hair-which was lightened-and your tits, baby. Oh Christ, spare me, forget it, I don''t know what you call-"


    "It''s called a double standard, Victor."


    "Double standard?" I take another hit without trying and say, feeling particularly mellow, "Well, I didn''t do Playgirl."


    "Congratulations. But that wasn''t for me. That was because of your father. Don''t pretend."


    "I like to pretend." I offer an amazingly casual shrug.


    "It''s fine when you''re seven, Victor, but add twenty years to that and you''re just retarded."


    "Honey, I''m just bummed. Mica the DJ has vanished, tomorrow is hell day and the Flatliners II thing is all blurry and watery-who knows what the f**k is happening there. Bill thinks I''m someone named Dagby and jeez, you know how much time I put into those notes to shape that script up and-"


    "What about the potato chip commercial you were up for?"


    "Baby baby baby. Jumping around a beach, putting a Pringle in my mouth and looking surprised because-why?-it''s spicy? Oh baby," I groan, slouching into the booth. "Do you have any Visine?"


    "It''s a job, Victor," she says. "It''s money."


    "I think CAA''s a mistake. I mean, when I was talking to Bill I started remembering that really scary story you told me about Mike Ovitz."


    "What scary story?"


    "Remember-you were invited to meet with all those CAA guys like Bob Bookman and Jay Mahoney at a screening on Wilshire and you went and the movie was a brand-new print of Tora! Tora! Tora! and during the entire movie they all laughed? You don''t remember telling me this?"


    "Victor," Chloe sighs, not listening. "I was in SoHo the other day with Lauren and we were having lunch at Zoe and somebody came up to me and said, `Oh, you look just like Chloe Byrnes.''"


    "And you said, er, `How dare you!''?" I ask, glancing sideways at her.


    "And I said, `Oh? Really?''"


    "It sounds like you had a somewhat leisurely, um, afternoon," I cough, downing smoke with a gulp of champagne. "Lauren who?"


    "You''re not listening to me, Victor."


    "Oh come on, baby, when you were young and your heart was an open book you used to say live and let live." I pause, take another hit on the joint. "You know you did. You know you did. You know you did." I cough again, sputtering out smoke.


    "You''re not talking to me," Chloe says sternly, with too much emotion. "You''re looking at me but you''re not talking to me."


    "Baby, I''m your biggest fan," I say. "And I''m admitting this only somewhat groggily."


    "Oh, how grown-up of you."


    The new It Girls flutter by our booth, nervously eyeing Chloe-one of them eating a stick of purple cotton candy-on their way to dance by the bathroom. I notice Chloe''s troubled glare, as if she just drank something black or ate a piece of bad sashimi.


    "Oh come on, baby. You wanna end up living on a sheep farm in Australia milking f**king dingoes? You wanna spend the rest of your life on the Internet answering E-mail? Spare me. Lighten up."


    A long pause and then, "Milking... dingoes?"


    "Most of those girls have an eighth-grade education."


    "You went to Camden College-same thing. Go talk to them."


    People keep stopping by, begging for invites to the opening, which I dole out accordingly, telling me they spotted my visage last week at the Marlin in Miami, at the Elite offices on the hotel''s first floor, then at the Strand, and by the time Michael Bergen tells me we shared an iced latte at the Bruce Weber/Ralph Lauren photo shoot in Key Biscayne I''m too tired to even deny I was in Miami last weekend and so I ask Michael if it was a good latte and he says so-so and it gets noticeably colder in the room. Chloe looks on, oblivious, meekly sips champagne. Patrick Bateman, who''s with a bunch of publicists and the three sons of a well-known movie producer, walks over, shakes my hand, eyes Chloe, asks how the club''s coming along, if tomorrow night''s happening, says Damien invited him, hands me a cigar, weird stains on the lapel of his Armani suit that costs as much as a car.

 Page 19

    "The proverbial show is on the proverbial road, dude," I assure him.


    "I just like to keep-abreast," he says, winking at Chloe.


    After he leaves I finish the joint, then look at my watch but I''m not wearing one so I inspect my wrist instead.


    "He''s strange," Chloe says. "And I need some soup."


    "He''s a nice guy, babe."


    Chloe slouches in the booth, looks at me disgustedly.


    "What? Hey, he has his own coat of arms."


    "Who told you that?"


    "He did. He told me he has his own coat of arms."


    "Spare me," Chloe says.


    Chloe picks up the check and in order to downplay the situation I lean in to kiss her, the swarming paparazzi causing the kind of disturbance we''re used to.


    28


    Stills from Chloe''s loft in a space that looks like it was designed by Den Flavin: two Toshiyuki Kita hop sofas, an expanse of white-maple floor, six Baccarat Tastevin wineglasses-a gift from Bruce and Nan Weber-dozens of white French tulips, a StairMaster and a free-weight set, photography books-Matthew Rolston, Annie Leibovitz, Herb Ritts-all signed, a Faberge Imperial egg-a gift from Bruce Willis (pre-Demi)-a large plain portrait of Chloe by Richard Avedon, sunglasses scattered all over the place, a Helmut Newton photo of Chloe walking seminude through the lobby of the Malperisa in Milan while nobody notices, a large William Wegman and giant posters for the movies Butterfield 8, The Bachelor Party with Carolyn Jones, Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany''s. A giant fax sheet taped above Chloe''s makeup table lists Monday 9am Byron Lars, 11am Mark Eisen, 2pm Nicole Miller, 6pm Ghost, Tuesday 10am Ralph Lauren, Wednesday 11am Anna Sui, 2pm Calvin Klein, 4pm Bill Blass, 7pm Isaac Mizrahi, Thursday 9am Donna Karan, 5pm Todd Oldham and on and on until Sunday. Piles of foreign currency and empty Glacier bottles litter tables and countertops everywhere. In her refrigerator the breakfast Luna has already prepared: ruby-red grapefruit, Evian, iced herbal tea, nonfat plain yogurt with blackberries, a quarter of a poppy- seed bagel, sometimes toasted, sometimes not, Beluga if it''s a "special day." Gilles Bensinion, Juliette Lewis, Patrick Demarchelier, Ron Galotti, Peter Lindbergh and Baxter Priestly have all left messages.


    I take a shower, rub some Preparation H and Clinique Eye Fitness under my eyes and check my answering machine: Ellen Von Unwerth, Eric Stoltz, Alison Poole, Nicolas Cage, Nicollette Sheridan, Stephen Dorff and somebody ominous from TriStar. When I come out of the bathroom with a Ralph Lauren fluffy towel wrapped around my waist, Chloe is sitting on the bed looking doomed, hugging her knees to her chest. Tears fill her eyes, she shudders, takes a Xanax, wards off another anxiety attack. On the large-screen TV is a documentary about the dangers of breast implants.


    "It''s just silicone, baby," I say, trying to soothe her. "I take Halcion, okay? I had half a bacon sandwich the other day. We smoke."


    "Oh god, Victor." She keeps shuddering.


    "Remember that period you chopped off all your hair and kept dyeing it different colors and all you did was cry?"


    "Victor, I was suicidal," she sobs. "I almost overdosed."


    "Baby, the point is you never lost a booking."


    "Victor, I''m twenty-six. That''s a hundred and five in model years."


    "Baby, this insecurity you''ve got has to, like, split." I rub her shoulders. "You''re an icon, baby," I whisper into her ear. "You are the guideline." I kiss her neck lightly. "You personify the physical ideal of your day," and then, "Baby, you''re not just a model. You''re a star." Finally, cupping her face in my hands, I tell her, "Beauty is in the soul."


    "But my soul doesn''t do twenty runway shows," she cries out. "My soul isn''t on the cover of f**king Harper''s next month. My soul''s not negotiating a Lancome contract" Heaving sobs, gasps, the whole bit, the end of the world, the end of everything.


    "Baby..." I pull back. "I don''t want to wake up and find you''ve freaked out about your implants again and you''re hiding out in Hollywood at the Chateau Marmont, hanging with Kiefer and Dermot and Sly. So y''know, um, chill out, baby."


    After ten minutes of silence or maybe two the Xanax kicks in and she concedes, "I''m feeling a little better."


    "Baby, Andy once said that beauty is a sign of intelligence."


    She turns slowly to look at me. "Who, Victor? Who? Andy who?" She coughs, blowing her nose. "Andy Kaufman? Andy Griffith? Who in the hell told you this? Andy Rooney?"

 Page 20

    "Warhol," I say softly, hurt. "Baby..."


    She gets up off the bed and moves into the bathroom, splashes water on her face, then rubs Preparation H under her eyes. "The fashion world is dying anyway," Chloe yawns, stretching, walking over to one of her walk-in closets, opening it. "I mean, what else can I say?"


    "Not necessarily a bad thing, baby," I say vaguely, moving over to the television.


    "Victor-whose mortgage is this?" she cries out, waving her arms around.


    I''m looking for a copy of the Flatliners tape I left over here last week but can only find an old Arsenio that Chloe was on, two movies she was in, Party Mountain with Emery Roberts and Teen Town with Hurley Thompson, another documentary about breast-implant safety and last week''s "Melrose Place." On the screen now, a commercial, grainy fuzz, a reproduction of a reproduction. When I turn around, Chloe is holding up a dress in front of a full-length mirror, winking at herself.


    The dress is an original Todd Oldham wraparound: not-so-basic black-slash-beige dress, strapless, Navajo-inspired and neon quilted.


    My first reaction: she stole it from Alison.


    "Um, baby..." I clear my throat. "What''s that?"


    "I''m practicing my wink for the video," she says, winking again. "Rupert says I wasn''t doing it right."


    "Uh-huh. Okay, I''ll take some time off and we''ll practice." I pause, then carefully ask, "But the dress?"


    "You like it?" she asks, brightening up, turning around. "I''m wearing it tomorrow night."


    "Um... baby?"


    "What? What is it?" She puts the dress back in the closet.


    "Oh honey," I say, shaking my head. "I don''t know about that dress."


    "You don''t have to wear it, Victor."


    "But then neither do you, right?"


    "Stop. I can''t deal with-"


    "Baby, you''re gonna look like Pocahontas in that thing."


    "Todd gave me this dress especially for the opening-"


    "How about something simpler, less multicult? Less p.c., perhaps? Something closer to Armani-ish?" I move toward the closet. "Here, let me choose something for you."


    "Victor." She blocks the closet door. "I''m wearing that." She suddenly looks down at my ankles. "Are those scratches?"


    "Where?" I look down too.


    "On your ankles." She pushes me onto the bed and inspects my ankles, then the red marks on my calves. "Those look like dogs did this. Were you around any dogs today?"


    "Oh baby, all day," I groan, staring at the ceiling. "You don''t even know."


    "Those are dog scratches, Victor."


    "Oh, those?" I say, sitting up, pretending to notice them too. "Beau and JD groveling, mauling at me... Do you have any, um, Bactine?"


    "When were you around dogs?" she asks again.


    "Baby, you''ve made your point."


    She stares at the scratches once more, passively, then silently gets into her side of the bed and reaches for a script sent to her by CAA, a miniseries set on another tropical island, which she thinks is dreadful even though "miniseries" is not a dirty word. I''m thinking of saying something along the lines of Baby, there might be something in tomorrow ''s paper that might, like, upset you. On MTV one uninterrupted traveling Steadicam shot races through an underfurnished house.


    I scoot over, position myself next to her.


    "It looks like we''ve got the new space," I say. "I''m meeting with Waverly tomorrow."


    Chloe doesn''t say anything.


    "I could open the new place, according to Burl, within three months." I look over at her. "You''re looking vaguely concerned, baby."


    "I don''t know how good an idea that really is."


    "What? Opening up my own place?"


    "It might destroy certain relationships."


    "Not ours, I hope," I say, reaching for her hand.


    She stares at the script.


    "What''s wrong?" I sit up. "The only thing I really want right now at this point in my life-besides Flatliners II-is my own club, my own place."


    Chloe sighs, flips over a page she didn''t read. Finally she puts the script down. "Victor-"


    "Don''t say it, baby. I mean, is it so unreasonable to want that? Is it really asking anyone too much? Does the fact that I want to do something with my life bore the shit out of you?"


    "Victor-"


    "Baby, all my life-"

 Page 21

    Then, out of the blue: "Have you ever cheated on me?"


    Not too much silence before "Oh baby." I lean over her, squeezing the fingers lying on top of the CAA logo. "Why are you asking me this?" And then I ask, but also know, "Have you?"


    "I just want to know if you''ve always been... faithful to me." She looks back at the script and then at the TV, showcasing a lovely pink fog, whole minutes of it. "I care about that, Victor."


    "Oh baby, always, always. Don''t underestimate me."


    "Make love to me, Victor," she whispers. I kiss her gently on the lips. She responds by pushing into me too hard and I have to pull back and whisper, "Oh baby, I''m so wiped out." I lift my head because the new Soul Asylum video is on MTV and I want Chloe to watch it too but she has already turned over, away from me. A photo of myself, a pretty good one, taken by Herb Ritts, sits on Chloe''s nightstand, the only one I let her frame.


    "Is Herb coming tomorrow?" I ask softly.


    "I don''t think so," she says, her voice muffled.


    "Do you know where he is?" I ask her hair, her neck.


    "Maybe it doesn''t matter."


    Arousal for Chloe: Sinead O''Connor CD, beeswax candles, my cologne, a lie. Beneath the scent of coconut her hair smells like juniper, even willow. Chloe sleeps across from me, dreaming of photographers flashing light meters inches from her face, of running naked down a freezing beach pretending it''s summer, of sitting under a palm tree full of spiders in Borneo, of getting off an overnight flight, gliding across another red carpet, paparazzi waiting, Miramax keeps calling, a dream within the dream of six hundred interview sessions melding into nightmares involving white-sand beaches in the South Pacific, a sunset over the Mediterranean, the French Alps, Milan, Paris, Tokyo, the icy waves, the pink newspapers from foreign countries, stacks of magazines with her unblemished face airbrushed to death and cropped close on the covers, and it''s hard to sleep when a sentence from a Vanity Fair profile of Chloe by Kevin Sessums refuses to leave me: "Even though we''ve never met she looks eerily familiar, as if we''ve known her forever."


    27


    Vespa toward the club to have breakfast with Damien at 7:30, with stops at three newsstands to check the papers (nothing, no photo, small-time relief, maybe something more), and in the main dining room, which this morning looks stark and nondescript, all white walls and black velvet banquettes, my line of vision is interrupted frequently by flashes from a photographer sent by Vanity Fair wearing a Thai-rice-field-worker hat, a video of Casino Royale on some of the monitors, Downhill Racer on others, while upstairs Beau and Peyton (ahem) man the phones. At our table Damien and me and JD (sitting by my side taking notes) and the two goons from the black Jeep, both wearing black Polo shirts, finish up breakfast, today''s papers spread out everywhere with major items about tonight''s opening: Richard Johnson in the Post, George Rush in the News (a big photo of me, with the caption "It Boy of the Moment"), Michael Fleming in Variety, Michael Musto plugging it in the Voice, notices in Cindy Adams, Liz Smith, Buddy Seagull, Billy Norwich, Jeanne Williams and A. J. Benza. I finish leaving a message under the name Dagby on my agent Bill''s voice mail. Damien''s sipping a vanilla hazelnut decaf iced latte, holding a Monte Cristo cigar he keeps threatening to light but doesn''t, looking very studly in a Comme des Garcons black T-shirt under a black double- breasted jacket, a Cartier Panthere watch wrapped around a semi-hairy wrist, Giorgio Armani prescription sunglasses locked on a pretty decent head, a Motorola Stortac cell phone next to the semi-hairy wrist. Damien bought a 600SEL last week, and he and the goons just dropped Linda Evangelista off at the Cynthia Rowley show and it''s cold in the room and we''re all eating muesli and have sideburns and everything would be flat and bright and pop if it wasn''t so early.


    "So Dolph and I walk backstage at the Calvin Klein show yesterday-just two guys passing a bottle of Dewar''s between them-and Kate Moss is there, no shirt on, arms folded across her tits, and I''m thinking, Why bother? Then I drank one too many lethal martinis at Match Uptown last night. Dolph has a master''s in chemical engineering, he''s married and we''re talking wife in italics, baby, so there wasn''t a bimbo in sight even though the VIP room was filled with eurowolves but no heroin, no lesbians, no Japanese influences, no British Esquire. We hung out with Irina, the emerging Siberian-Eskimo supermodel. After my fifth lethal martini I asked Irina what it was like growing up in an igloo." A pause. "The evening, er, ended sometime after that." Damien lifts off the sunglasses, rubs his eyes, adjusts them for the first time this morning to light, and glances at the headlines splashed over the various papers. "Helena Christensen splitting up with Michael Hutchence? Prince dating Veronica Webb? God, the world''s a mess."

 Page 22

    Suddenly Beau leans over me with the new revised guest list, whispers something unintelligible about the Gap into my ear, hands over a sample of the invitations, which Damien never bothered to look at but wants to see now, along with certain 8 x 10s and Polaroids of tonight''s various waitresses, stealing his two favorites-Rebecca and Pumpkin, both from Doppelganger''s.


    "Shalom Harlow sneezed on me," Damien''s saying.


    "I''ve got chills," I admit. "They''re multiplying."


    I''m looking over the menu that Bongo and Bobby Flay have come up with: jalapeno-cured gravlax on dark bread, spicy arugula and mesclun greens, southwestern artichoke hearts with focaccia, porcini mushrooms and herb-roasted chicken br**sts and/or grilled tuna with black peppercorns, chocolate-dipped strawberries, assorted classy granitas.


    "Did anyone read the Marky Mark interview in the Times?" Damien asks. "The underwear thing is `semi-haunting'' him."


    "It''s semi-haunting me too, Damien," I tell him. "Listen, here''s the seating arrangements."


    Damien studies Beau suspiciously for a reaction.


    Beau notices this, points out certain elements about the menu, then carefully says, "I''m semi-haunted... too."


    "Yesterday I wanted to f**k about twenty different strangers. Just girls, just people on the street. This one girl-the only one who hadn''t seen the 600SEL, who couldn''t tell Versace from the Gap, who didn''t even glance at the Patek Philippe-" He turns to the goons, one who keeps eyeing me in a f**ked-up way. "That''s a watch you might never own. Anyway, she''s the only one who would talk to me, just some dumpy chick who came on to me in Chemical Bank, and I motioned sadly to her that I was mute, you know, tongueless, that I simply couldn''t speak, what have you. But get this-she knew sign language."


    After Damien stares at me, I say, "Ah."


    "I tell you, Victor," Damien continues, "the world is full of surprises. Most of them not that interesting but surprising nonetheless. Needless to say, it was a mildly scary, humiliating moment. It actually bordered on the horrific, but I moved through it." He sips his latte. "Could I actually not be in vogue? I panicked, man. I felt... old."


    "Oh man, you''re only twenty-eight." I nod to Beau, letting him know that he can slink back upstairs.


    "Twenty-eight, yeah." Damien takes this in, but instead of dealing he just waves at the stacks of papers on the table. "Everything going as planned? Or are there any imminent disasters I should be apprised of?"


    "Here are the invites." I hand him one. "I don''t think you ever had the time to see these."


    "Nice, or as my friend Diane Von Furstenberg likes to say-nass."


    "Yeah, they were printed on recycled paper with boy-based-I mean soy-based ink." I close my eyes, shake my head, clear it. "Sorry, those little mos upstairs are getting to me."


    "Opening this club, Victor, is tantamount to making a political statement," Damien says. "I hope you know that."


    I''m thinking, Spare me, but say, "Yeah, man?"


    "We''re selling myths."


    "Mitts?"


    "No, myths. M-y-t-h-s. Like if a fag was gonna introduce you to Miss America, what would he say?"


    "Myth... America?"


    "Right on, babe." Damien stretches, then slouches back into the booth. "I can''t help it, Victor," he says blankly. "I sense sex when I walk around the club. I feel... compelled."


    "Man, I''m so with you."


    "It''s not a club, Victor. It''s an aphrodisiac."


    "Here is the, um, seating arrangements for the dinner and then the list of press invited to the cocktail party beforehand." I hand him a sheaf of papers, which Damien hands to one of his goons, who stares at it, like duh.


    "I just want to know who''s at my table," Damien says vacantly.


    "Um, here..." I reach over to grab the papers back, and for an instant the goon glares at me suspiciously before gradually releasing his grip. "Um, table one is you and Alison and Alec Baldwin and Kim Basinger and Tim Hutton and Uma Thurman and Jimmy and Jane Buffett and Ted Field and Christy Turlington and David Geffen and Calvin and Kelly Klein and Julian Schnabel and Ian Schrager and Russell Simmons, along with assorted dates and wives."


    "I''m between Uma Thurman and Christy Turlington, right?"


    "Well, Alison and Kelly-"


    "No no no no. I''m between Christy and Uma," Damien says, pointing a finger at me.

 Page 23

    "I don''t know how that is going to"-I clear my throat-"fly with Alison."


    "What''s she gonna do? Pinch me?"


    "Cool cool cool." I nod. "JD, you know what to do."


    "After tonight no one should get in for free. Oh yeah-except very good-looking lesbians. Anyone dressed like Garth Brooks is purged. We want a clientele that will up the class quotient."


    "Up the class quotient. Yeah, yeah." Suddenly I cannot tear my eyes off Damien''s head.


    "Ground Control to Major Tom," Damien says, snapping his fingers.


    "Huh?"


    "What in the f**k are you looking at?" I hear him ask.


    "Nothing. Go ahead."


    "What are you looking at?"


    "Nothing. Just spacing. Go ahead."


    After a brief, scary pause Damien continues icily. "If I see anyone and I mean anyone unhip wandering around this party tonight I will kill you."


    "My mouth suddenly is so dry I can''t even like gulp, man."


    Damien starts laughing and joking around, so I try to laugh and joke around too.


    "Listen, bud," he says. "I just don''t want the city''s most bizarre bohemians or anyone who uses the term `fagulous'' near me or my friends."


    "Could you write that down, JD?" I ask.


    "No one who uses the term `fagulous.''" JD nods, makes a note.


    "And what''s with the f**king DJ situation?" Damien asks disinterestedly. "Alison tells me someone named Misha''s missing?"


    "Damien, we''re checking all the hotels in South Beach, Prague, Seattle," I tell him. "We''re checking every rehab clinic in the Northeast."


    "It''s a little late, hmm?" Damien asks. "It''s a little late for Misha, hmm?"


    "Victor and I will be interviewing available DJs all day," JD assures him. "We''ve got calls in to everyone from Anita Sarko to Sister Bliss to Smokin Jo. It''s happening."


    "It''s also almost eight o''clock, dudes," Damien says. "The worst thing in the world, guys, is a shitty DJ. I''d rather be dead than hire a shitty DJ."


    "Man, I am so with you it''s unbelievable," I tell him. "We have a hundred backups, so it''s happening." I''m sweating for some reason, dreading the rest of this breakfast. "Damien, where can we find you if we need to get ahold of you today?"


    "I''m in the Presidential Suite at the Mark while they finish doing something to my apartment. Whatever." He shrugs, chews some muesli. "You still living downtown?"


    "Yeah, yeah."


    "When are you gonna move uptown with everyone else-hey, leave the foot-shaking outside," he says, staring at a black lace-up from Agnes b. my foot happens to be in.


    "Are you okay?"


    "Fine. Damien, we''ve got-"


    "What is it?" He stops chewing and is now carefully studying me.


    "I was just gonna ask-" I breathe in.


    "What are you hiding, Victor?"


    "Nothing, man."


    "Let me guess. You''re secretly applying to Harvard?" Damien laughs, looking around the room, encouraging everyone else to laugh with him.


    "Yeah, right." I laugh too.


    "I just keep hearing these vague rumors, man, that you''re f**king my girlfriend, but there''s like no proof." Damien keeps laughing. "So, you know, I''m concerned."


    The goons are not laughing.


    JD keeps studying his clipboard.


    I''m inadvertently doing Kegels. "Oh man, that''s so not true. I wouldn''t touch her, I swear to God."


    "Yeah." You can see him thinking..."


    You can see him thinking things out. "You''ve got Chloe Byrnes. Why would you do Alison?" Damien sighs. "Chloe f**king Byrnes." Pause. "How do you do it, man?"


    "Do... what?"


    "Hey, Madonna once asked this guy for a date," Damien tells the bodyguards, who don''t show it but in fact are impressed.


    "I smile sheepishly. "Well, dude, you dated Tatjana Patitz."


    "Who?"


    "The girl who got f**ked to death on the table in Rising Sun."


    "Ri-i-ight. But you''re dating Chloe f**king Byrnes," Damien, says, in awe. "How do you do it, man? What''s your secret?"


    "About... hey, um, I don''t have any secrets."


    "No, moron." Damien tosses a raisin at me. "Your secret with women."


    "Um... never compliment them?" I squeak out.

 Page 24

    "What?" Damien leans in closer.


    "Not disinterested, exactly. If they ask tell them, y''know, their hair looks bleached... Or if they ask tell them their nose is too wide..." I''m sweating. "But, y''know, be careful about it..." I pause faux- wistfully. "Then they''re yours."


    "Jesus Christ," Damien says admiringly, nudging one of the goons. "Did you hear that?"


    "How''s Alison?" I ask.


    "Hell, you probably see her more than I do."


    "Not really."


    "I mean, don''t you, Vic?"


    "Oh, y''know, me and Chloe and, um, probably not, but whatever, never mind."


    After a long and chilly silence, Damien points out, "You''re not eating your muesli."


    "Now I am," I say, lifting my spoon. "JD, some milk, please."


    "Alison, oh shit;" Damien groans. "I don''t know whether she''s a sexpot or a crackpot."


    A flash: Alison sneering at me while letting Mr. Chow lick her feet, punching open a coconut, listing her favorite male movie stars under twenty-four, including the ones she''s slept with, slugging down Snapple after Snapple after Snapple.


    "Both?" I venture.


    "Ah hell, I love her. She''s like a rainbow. She''s like a flower. Oh god," he moans. "She''s got that damn navel ring, and the tattoos need serious laser sessions."


    "I... didn''t know Alison had a, um, navel ring."


    "How would you know that?" he asks.


    "Anywa-a-a-ay-" JD starts.


    "I also hear you''re looking at your own space." Damien sighs, staring right at me. "Please say I''m hearing abstract, unfortunate rumors."


    "A vicious rumor, my friend. I''m not into even contemplating another club, Damien. I''m looking at scripts now."


    "Well, yeah, Victor, I know. It''s just that we''re getting a lot of press for this and I cannot deny that your name helps-"


    "Thanks, man."


    "-but I also cannot deny the fact that if you use this as-oh, what''s a good phrase? oh yeah-a stepping-stone and will then dump all of us the minute this place is SRO and then with that cachet open up your own place-"


    "Damien, wait a minute, this is a complex question, wait a minute-"


    "-leaving me and several investors along with various orthodontists from Brentwood-one who happens to be part vegetable-who have placed big bucks into this-"


    "Damien, man, where would I get the money to do this?"


    "Japs?" He shrugs. "Some movie star you''ve boned? Some rich faggot who''s after your ass?"


    "This is what''s known as big news to me, Damien, and I will ponder who leaked this rumor profusely."


    "My heartfelt thanks."


    Chapter Three


    "I just wanna put a smile back on clubland''s face."


    "I''ve gotta play golf," Damien says vacantly, checking his watch. "Then I''m having lunch at Fashion Cafe with Christy Turlington, who was just voted `least likely to sell out'' in the new issue of Top Model. There''s a virtual-reality Christy at Fashion Cafe-you should check it out. It''s called a spokesmannequin. It looks exactly like Christy. She says things like `I look forward to seeing you here again soon, perhaps in person,'' and she also quotes Somerset Maugham and discusses Salvadorian politics as well as her Kellogg cereal contract. I know what you''re thinking, but she brings class to it."


    Damien finally stands up, and the goons follow suit.


    "Are you going to any of the shows today?" I ask. "Or is another Gotti on trial?"


    "What? There''s another one?" Damien realizes something. "Oh, you''re kind of funny. But not really so much."


    "Thank you."


    "I''m going to shows. It''s Fashion Week, what else does one do in this world?" Damien sighs. "You''re in one, right?"


    "Yeah. Todd Oldham. It''s just guys who date models escorting them down the runway. Y''know, it''s like a theme: Behind every woman-"


    "There''s a weasel? Ha!" Damien stretches.


    "Sounds fan-fuckingtastic. So you''re ready for tonight?"


    "Hey man, I am a rock. I am an island."


    "Who''s gonna dispute that?"


    "That''s me, Damien. All dos, and no don''ts."


    "Are you down with OPP?"


    "Hey, you know me."


    "Crazy kid," he chuckles.


    "Lucidity. Total lucidity, baby."

 Page 25

    "I wish I knew what that meant, Victor."


    "Three words, my friend: Prada, Prada, Prada."


    26


    On a small soon-to-be-hip block in TriBeCa and up a flight of not-too-steep stairs and through a dark corridor: a long bar made of granite, walls lined with distressed-metal sconces, a medium-sized dance floor, a dozen video monitors, a small alcove that can easily convert into a DJ booth, a room off to the side cries out for VIPs, mirror balls hang from a high ceiling. In other words: The Fundamentals. You see a flashing light and you think you are that flashing light.


    "Ah," I sigh, looking around the room. "The club scene."


    "Yes." JD nervously follows me around, both of us guzzling bottles of Diet Melonberry Snapple he bought us.


    "There''s something beautiful about it, JD," I say. "Admit it, you little mo. Admit it."


    "Victor, I-"


    "I know just inhaling my manly scent must make you want to faint."


    "Victor, don''t get too attached," JD warns. "I don''t need to tell you that this club''s going to have a short life span, that this is all a short-term business."


    "You''re a short-term business." I run my hands along the smooth granite bar: chills.


    "And you put a lot of energy into it, and all the people who made it beautiful and interesting-hey, don''t snicker-in the first place go somewhere else."


    I yawn. "That sounds like a homosexual relationship."


    "Sorry, darling, we got lost." Waverly Spear-our interior designer, dead ringer for Parker Posey-sweeps in wearing sunglasses, a clingy catsuit, a wool beret, followed by a hip-hop slut from hell and this dreadfully gorgeous mope-rocker wearing an I AM THE GOD OF FUCK T-shirt.


    "Why so late, baby?"


    "I got lost in the lobby of the Paramount," Waverly says. "I went up the stairs instead of going down the stairs."


    "Ooh."


    "Plus, well..." She rummages through her black-bowed rhinestone -dotted Todd Oldham purse. "Hurley Thompson''s in town."


    "Continue."


    "Hurley Thompson is in town."


    "But isn''t Hurley Thompson supposed to be shooting the sequel to Sun City 2? Sun City 3?" I ask, vaguely outraged. "In Phoenix?"


    Waverly moves away from her zombies and motions me toward her, pulling me from JD.


    "Hurley Thompson, Victor, is in the Celine Dion Suite at the Paramount trying to persuade someone not to use a rubber as we speak."


    "Hurley Thompson is not in Phoenix?"


    "Certain people know this information." She lowers her voice gravely. "They just don''t know the why of it."


    "Does someone in this room? And don''t tell me one of the idiots you brought."


    "Let''s just put it this way: Sherry Gibson can''t shoot any more ''Baywatch Nights'' for a while." Waverly puffs greedily on her cigarette.


    "Sherry Gibson, Hurley Thompson-I dig the connection. Friends, lovahs, great PR."


    "He''s been freebasing so much that he had to leave the set of SC3 after he beat Sherry Gibson up-yes, in the face-and Hurley is now registered under the assumed name Carrie Fisher at the Paramount."


    "So he is quitting Sun City?"


    "And Sherry Gibson resembles a weepy raccoon."


    "Nobody knows this?"


    "Nobody knows but moi."


    "Who''s Moi?"


    "That means me, Victor."


    "Our lips are sealed." I move away, clap my hands, startling the other people in the space, and walk toward the middle of the floor.


    "Waverly, I want a minimal generic look. Sort of industrial-preppie."


    "But with a touch of internationalism?" she asks, following, out of breath, lighting another Benson Hedges Menthol 100.


    "The ''90s are honest, straightforward. Let''s reflect that," I say, moving around. "I want something unconsciously classic. I want no distinctions between exterior and interior, formal and casual, wet and dry, black and white, full and empty-oh my god, get me a cold compress."


    "You want simplicity, baby."


    "I want a no-nonsense approach to nightlife." I light a Marlboro.


    "Keep talking like that, baby, and we''re on our way."


    "To stay afloat, Waverly, you need to develop a reputation for being a good businessman and an all-around cool guy." I pause. "And I''m an all-around cool guy."


    "And, ahem, a businessman?" JD asks.


    "I''m too cool to answer that, baby," I say, inhaling. "Hey, did you see me on the cover of YouthQuake?"

 Page 26

    "No, ah..." Waverly says, then realizes something and adds, "Oh, that was you? You looked great."


    "Uh-huh," I say, somewhat dubiously.


    "But I saw you at the Calvin Klein show, baby, and-"


    "I wasn''t at the Calvin Klein show, baby, and have you noticed that whole wall is the color of pesto, which is, like, a no-no, baby?"


    "De rigueur," says the impeccably-put-together young thing behind her.


    "Victor," Waverly says. "This is Ruby. She''s a bowl designer. She makes bowls out of things like rice."


    "A bowl designer? Wow."


    "She makes bowls out of things like rice," Waverly says again, staring.


    "Bowls made from rice? Wow." I stare back. "Did you hear me say,`wow''?"


    Mope-rocker wanders over to the dance floor and looks up at the dozen or so disco balls, trancing out.


    "What''s the story with goblin boy?"


    "Felix used to work at the Gap," Waverly says, inhaling, exhaling. "Then he designed sets for `The Real World'' in Bali."


    "Don''t mention that show to me," I say, gritting my teeth.


    "Sorry, darling, it''s so early. But please be nice to Felix-he''s just out of rehab."


    "What-he OD''d on stucco?"


    "He''s friends with Blowpop and Pickle and he just designed Connie Chung''s, Jeff Zucker''s, Isabella Rossellini''s and Sarah Jessica Parker''s, er, closets."


    "Cool, cool." I nod approvingly.


    "Last month he went and f**ked his ex-boyfriend-Jackson-in the Bonneville salt flats and just three days ago they found Jackson''s skull in a swamp, so, you know, let''s be careful."


    "Uh-huh. My god it''s freezing in here."


    "I see orange flowers, I see bamboo, I see Spanish doormen, I hear Steely Dan, I see Fellini." Waverly suddenly gasps, exhaling again, tapping her cigarette. "I see the ''70s, baby, and I am wet."


    "Baby, you''re ashing on my club," I say, very upset.


    "Now what about Felix''s idea for a juice bar?"


    "Felix is thinking about where he''s going to score his next animal tranquilizer." I drop my cigarette carefully into the half-empty Snapple bottle JD holds out. "Plus-oh god, baby, I don''t want to have to fret over a juice bar that serves only-what-oh god-juice? Do you know how many things I have to worry about? Spare me."


    "So nix the juice bar?" Waverly asks, taking notes.


    "Oh please," I moan. "Let''s sell submarine sandwiches, let''s sell pizza, let''s sell f**king nachos," I sigh. "You and Felix are being muy muy drippy."


    "Baby, you are so right," Waverly says, mock-wiping sweat from her forehead. "We need to get our shit together."


    "Waverly, listen to me. The new trend is no trend."


    "No trend''s a new trend?" she asks.


    "No, no trend is the new trend," I say impatiently.


    "In is out?" Waverly asks.


    I smack JD on the shoulder. "See, she gets it."


    "Look-goose bumps," JD says, holding out an arm.


    "Lemons, lemons everywhere, Victor," Waverly says, twirling around.


    "And Uncle Heshy is not invited, right, baby?"


    "Sweet dreams are made of this, huh, Victor?" JD says, watching vacantly as Waverly twirls around the room.


    "Do you think we were followed here?" I ask, lighting another cigarette, watching Waverly.


    "If you have to ask that question, don''t you think that opening this behind Damien''s back is not, like, such a good idea?"


    "Nonresponsive answer. I move to strike," I say, glaring at him. "Your idea of hip is missing the boat, buddy."


    "I just don''t think it''s hip to have your legs broken," JD says warily. "Over a club? Have you ever heard the phrase `Resist the impulse''?"


    "Damien Nutchs Ross is a nonhuman primate," I sigh. "And your POV should be: sleeping person zzzzz."


    "Why do you even want to open another club?"


    "My own club."


    "Let me guess. Bingo! Instant friends?" JD shivers, his breath steaming.


    "Oh spare me. I see all this and think money-in-the-bank, you little mo."


    "A guy needs a hobby, huh?"


    "And you need some more Prozac to curb your homo-ness."


    "And you need a major injection of reality."


    "And you need coolin'', baby, I''m not foolin''."

 Page 27

    Victor. We''re not playing games here," JD asks, "are we?"


    "No," I say. "We''re going to the gym."


    25


    At a gym in the Flatiron District, in what last week became the most fashionable stretch of lower Fifth Avenue, my trainer, Reed, is being filmed for a segment of Entertainment Tonight about trainers for celebrities who are more famous than the celebrities they train, and in the gym now-which has no name, just a symbol and below that the motto ''Weakness Is a Crime, Don''t Be a Criminal''-beneath the row of video monitors showing episodes of The Flintstones and the low lighting from a crystal chandelier Matt Dillon, Toni Braxton, the sultan of Brunei''s wife, Tim Jeffries, Ralph Fiennes  -  all in agony. A couple of male models, Craig Palmer and Scott Benoit, pissed off over something I said about Matt Nye''s luck, semi-avoid me as they towel off in the Philippe Starck-designed changing room. Danny Errico from Equinox set the place up for Reed when the issue of Playgirl Reed appeared in sold something like ten million copies and he subsequently was dropped from the Gap''s new ad campaign. Now Reed''s costarring in a movie about a detective whose new partner is a pair of gibbons. Reed: $175 an hour and worth every goddamn penny (I stressed to Chloe), long blond hair never in a ponytail, light ''n'' sexy stubble, naturally tan, silver stud in right ear, designer weight-belt, a body with muscles so well defined he looks skinned, license plate on his black BMW reads VARMINT, all the prerequisites. It''s so freezing in the gym that steam rises from the lights the "ET" camera has set up.


    The Details reporter arrives late. "Sorry, I got lost," she says vacantly, wearing a black cashmere sweater, white cotton shirt, white silk pants and, in true girl-reporter-from-Details fashion, tube-sock elbow pads and a bicycle-reflector armband. "I had to interview President Omar Bongo of Gabon and his cute nephew, um..." She checks her notepad. "Spencer."


    "Ladies and gentlemen." Reed spreads his hands out, introducing me. "Victor Ward, the It Boy of the moment."


    Mumbled "hey"s and a few "yeah"s come from the crew, who remain darkened behind the steaming lights set up in front of the StairMaster, and finally someone tiredly says, "We''re rolling."


    "Take those sunglasses off," Reed whispers to me.


    "Not with those lights on, uh-uhn, spare me."


    "I smell Marlboros," Reed says, pushing me toward the StairMaster. "You shouldn''t smoke, baby, it takes years off your life."


    "Yeah, my sixties, great. Don''t wanna miss those."


    "Ooh, you''re tough. Come on-hop up here," Reed says, patting the side of the machine.


    "I want calves and thighs and definitely abs today," I stress. "But no biceps," I warn. "They''re getting too big."


    "What? They''re thirteen inches, baby." Reed sets the StairMaster to Blind Random, level 10.


    "Isn''t your T-shirt, uh, a little tight?" I ask, taunting.


    "Arms are the new br**sts," Reed intones.


    "Oh, and look," I say, noticing a tiny blackhead. "You have a nipple."


    "Cut," the segment director sighs.


    "Victor," Reed warns. "Pretty soon I''m gonna bring up that bounced check of yours-"


    "Hey, Chloe took care of the bill."


    "This is a business, baby," Reed says, trying to smile. "Not a charity."


    "Listen, if you need more work, I need bouncers."


    "This is work, man."


    "What? Being familiar with fitness equipment? Spare me."


    "I already supplement my income, Victor."


    "Listen, as long as the sex is safe I personally think being a male whore is cool-if it pays the bills."


    Reed smacks me upside the head and growls, "We''re doing squats today."


    "And abs," I stress. "I have a photo shoot, baby."


    "Okay," the director calls out. "We''re running."


    Automatically, without trying, Reed starts clapping his hands and shouts, "I want some strain, some pressure, some sweat, Victor. You''re too tense, buddy. Out with that tension. In with some love."


    "I''ve sworn off caffeine, Reed. I''m teaching myself how to relax by deep-sea visualization. I''m avoiding the urge to check my voice mail on a half-hourly basis. I''m hugging people left and right. And look." I reach under my CK T-shirt. "My new tranquillity beads."


    "Far out, baby," Reed wails, clapping his hands together.

 Page 28

    Looking into the camera, I say, "I''ve been to Radu and Pasquale Manocchia-that''s Madonna''s personal trainer, by the way, baby-and Reed is definitely the first name in celebrity training."


    "I have an obsession with biceps, with triceps, with forearm flexors," Reed admits sheepishly. "I have a major sinewy-arm fetish."


    "I have the endurance of a horse but my blood sugar''s low and I need a Jolly Rancher badly."


    "After the next song," Reed says, clapping endlessly. "PowerBar time, I promise."


    Suddenly Primal Scream''s "Come Together" blares out over the sound system. "Oh god," I moan. "This song is eight minutes and four seconds long."


    "How do you know things like that?" the Details girl asks.


    "The better you look, baby, the more you see," I pant. "Dat''s my motto, homegirl." My beeper goes off and I check it: JD at the club.


    "Reed, baby, hand me your cellular." I let go of the rails and dial, smiling into the camera. "Hey Leeza! Look, no hands!"


    This causes Reed to push up the speed, which I thought was impossible because I didn''t know StairMasters could go past level 10.


    "Hey, am I invited to the dinner tonight?" Reed asks. "I didn''t see my name mentioned in any of the columns."


    "Yeah, you''re at table 78 with the Lorax and Pauly Shore," I snap. "JD-talk to me."


    "Now don''t get too excited, Victor," JD says breathlessly. "But we''ve-myself, Beau and Peyton-set up an interview with DJ X."


    "With who?"


    "DJ X. You have a meeting with him at Fashion Cafe at five today," JD says. "He''s willing to do the party tonight."


    "I''m on a StairMaster now, baby." I''m trying not to pant. "What? Fashion Cafe?"


    "Victor, DJ X is the hottest DJ in town," JD says. "Imagine the publicity and then come all over yourself. Go ahead-shoot that load."


    "I know, I know. Just hire him," I say.


    "Tell him we''ll pay anything he wants."


    "He wants to meet with you first."


    "Oh dear god."


    "He needs some kind of reassurance."


    "Send him a bag of candy corn. Send him some cute, extrasuckable pacifiers. Tell him you give excellent head... do you?"


    "Victor," JD says, exasperated. "He won''t do it without meeting you first. We need him here tonight. Do it."


    "I''m taking commands from someone who uses the word `dish'' as a verb?" I yell. "Shut up."


    "Fashion Cafe," JD says. "Five o''clock. I''ve checked your schedule. You can make it."


    "JD, I''m in the middle of becoming some kind of brooding god," I groan. "I mean, is it too f**king much to ask-"


    "Fashion Cafe at five. Bye, Victor." JD clicks off.


    "JD-don''t click off on me, don''t you dare click off on me." I click off myself and blindly announce, "I''m suddenly seized by the need to climb."


    "I think you''ve been doing that your whole life, buddy," Reed says sadly.


    "You turned down a Reebok ad and that makes you tough?"


    After "ET" films me doing a thousand crunches and I''ve moved over to the Treadwall, an indoor rock-climbing simulator where you stay in one place while climbing, I notice Details girl slouching against a wall, holding her pad under the debut issue of a new magazine called Bubble. It''s so cold in the gym that it feels like I''m climbing a glacier.


    "Jesus," I moan, noticing the magazine''s cover. "Yeah, that''s just great. Luke Perry''s opinion of Kurt f**king Russell. We need more of that."


    "So what''s the story?" she asks vacantly. "Excited about tonight?"


    "Remember what the dormouse said," I say cryptically, watching Dillon walk by slurping a powershake. "Hey Matt, rock on."


    "You''re really into this," Details girl says.


    "What''s wrong with looking good?"


    She ponders this semi-thoughtfully. "Well, what if it''s at the expense of something else? I''m not implying anything. It''s just a hypothetical. Don''t be insulted."


    "I forgot the question."


    "What if it''s at the expense of something else?"


    "What''s... something else?"


    "I see." She attempts to complete a facial expression I''d hoped she wouldn''t.


    "Hey baby, we''re all in this together," I grunt, my hands dusted with chalk. "Yeah, I wanna give this all up and feed the homeless. I wanna give this all up and teach orangutans sign language. I''m gonna bike around the countryside with my sketchbook. I''m gonna-what? Help improve race relations in this country? Run for f**king President? Read my lips: Spare me."

 Page 29

    24


    By the time I arrive at Industria for today''s photo shoot I''m getting that certain feeling of being followed, but whenever I look behind me it''s only bicycle messengers carrying models'' portfolios for Click, Next, Elite, so to stamp out the paranoia I duck into Braque to grab a not-too- foamy decaf latte with skim milk and Alison keeps beeping me as I move through an enormous series of white empty spaces. The guys- nine of us, some already in bathing suits-are just hanging: Nikitas, David Boals, Rick Dean, newcomer Scooter, a couple of guys I''m not really sure about, including a waiter from Jour et Nuit, hunky with dreadlocks, who''s being followed around by a camera crew from "Fashion File," a pair of twins who work at Twins on the Upper East Side, plus some European guy who has arguably the best body here but a face like a donkey. All the guys basically look the same: cute head (one exception), great body, high hair, chiseled lips, cutting edge, naughty or however you want us.


    While waiting my turn for eyebrow tweezing I browse through the CD library and make time with this girl eating rice and broccoli while getting a pedicure and the only word she knows is "Blimey!" and all over the place I''m sensing a distinct laissez-faire attitude, no more so than when I''m handed a stick of Wrigley''s Doublemint gum by Stanford Blatch. The Caesar haircut has made another comeback and cowlicks are in which infuriates Bingo and Velveteen and the photographer Didier, so a lot of PhytoPlage gel is brought out while opera plays and to endure all this some of the guys drink champagne, check their horoscopes in the Post, play cat''s cradle with dental floss. Madonna''s ex-party planner Ronnie Davis, someone from Dolce Gabbana, Garren (who did the hair at Marc Jacobs'' and Anna Sui''s last shows) and Sandy Gallin are hanging out, staring at us impassively, like we''re for sale or something, and let''s just face it-as if.


    Three setups: Bermudas, Madras shorts and Speedos. The guys will be positioned in front of a huge blue drape and later a beach will be superimposed by Japanese technicians to make it look like we were actually on a beach, "maybe even one in Miami," Didier promises. Fake tattoos are applied on biceps, pectorals, on three thighs. It''s freezing.


    Bingo slaps gel on my scalp, wetting my hair, runs it through to the ends as Didier paces nearby, inspecting my abs, twenty-two and sucking on a pacifier. Dazed-looking Scooter-studying for his SATs-sits next to me on a high stool, both of us facing giant oval mirrors.


    "I want sideburns," Bingo moans. "I need elongation."


    "Forget about natural, Bingo," Didier says. "Just go for the edge."


    "Doesn''t anyone shampoo anymore?" Velveteen shudders. "My god."


    "I want a rough style, Bingo. I want a bit of meanness. A hidden anger. There has to be a hidden anger. I want the aggressive side to this boy."


    "Aggressive?" Bingo asks. "He''s a pastry chef at Dean Deluca."


    "I want the aggressive-pastry-chef look."


    "Didier, this boy is about as aggressive as a baby manatee."


    "Oh god, Bingo-you''re such a fussbudget," Velveteen sighs.


    "Am I being challenged?" Didier asks, pacing. "I think not, because I''m getting bored very quickly."


    "Velveteen," Bingo shouts. "You''re mushing Scooter''s do."


    "Bingo, you''re being a wee bit off."


    "I want extreme," Didier says. "I want Red Hot Chili Peppers. I want energy."


    "I want a big fat spleef," Scooter mutters.


    "I want garish and sexy," Didier says.


    "Let''s usher that combo in, baby."


    "I''m fizzy with excitement," Didier murmurs thoughtfully. "But where are these boys'' sideburns? I requested sideburns. Bingo? Bingo, where are you?"


    "I have sideburns?" I offer, raising my hand. "Uh, dude, that''s facial moisturizer," I have to point out to Bingo.


    "Not too in-your-face. Right, Didier?" Velveteen asks sourly. "Not too much of that hot Mambo King look."


    We''re all in front of the big blue drape, some of us doing bicep curls with free weights, a couple of us on the floor crunching, and Didier wants cigars and passes them out and Didier wants glycerin because the guys in Bermuda shorts should be crying while smoking cigars because we are sad and smoking cigars in front of the big blue drape which will be the beach.


    "Sad because we are smoking cigars?" I ask.


    "Or sad because this is just too `Baywatch''?"


    "Sad because you are all idiots and just now on this beach you have realized it," Didier says vaguely, ready to Polaroid.

 Page 30

    Scooter looks at his cigar wonderingly.


    "Do to that what you did to get this job," I tell him. "Suck on it."


    Scooter goes pale. "How... did you know?"


    "David-remove the nicotine patch," Didier calls out from behind the camera.


    "My girlfriend sees this," Scooter moans, "and she''s gonna think I''m g*y."


    "You still with Felicia?" Rick asks him.


    "No, this is some girl I met in the bathroom in the lobby of the Principe di Savoia," Scooter says blankly. "I was lost and she looked like Sandra Bullock. Or so they say."


    "What''s her name?" David asks.


    "Shoo Shoo."


    "Shoo Shoo what?"


    "No apparent last name."


    "How did you lose the CK job, man?" Nikitas asks him.


    "Calvin got pissed," Scooter says. "I cut my hair, but it''s considerably more, er, complex than that."


    Silence, a considerable pause, heavy nodding, the camera crew from "Fashion File" still circling.


    "Believe me," I say, holding up my hands, "Calvin and I have tussled many a time." I do a few more bicep curls. "Many a time."


    "He gave you pretty good seats for the show, though," David says, stretching his calf muscles.


    "That''s because Chloe was in it," Rick says.


    "I wasn''t at the Calvin Klein show," I say calmly, then shout, "I wasn''t at the f**king Calvin Klein show."


    "There''s a picture of you at the show in WWD, baby," Rick says. "You''re with David and Stephen. In the second row."


    "Someone find me that photo and you shall be proven wrong," I intone, rubbing my biceps, freezing. "Second row my ass."


    One of the twins is reading today''s WWD and cautiously hands it to me. I grab it and find the photos taken at yesterday''s shows. It''s not a clear photograph: Stephen Dorff, David Salle and myself, all wearing ''50s knit shirts and sunglasses, slouching in our seats, stone-faced. Our names are in bold type beneath the photo, and after mine, as if an explanation was necessary, the words "It Boy." A bottle of champagne topples from a table, someone calls out for a shawalla.


    So what''s the story, Victor?" David asks. "Let me get this straight. You weren''t at the show? You''re not in that photo? Let me guess-that''s Jason Gedrick."


    "Isn''t anybody going to ask how the club''s going?" I finally ask, thrusting the paper back at the twin, suddenly indignant over this fact.


    "Um, how''s the club going, Victor?" the other twin asks."


    "I want to rock-''n''-roll all night and party every day."


    "Why wasn''t I invited to the opening?" Rick asks.


    "I-want-to-rock-''n''-roll-all-night-and-party-everyday." I grab the WWD back from the twin and study the photo again. "This must be a mistake. This must be from another show. In fact, that must be Jason Gedrick."


    "What other shows have you been to this week?" someone asks.


    "None," I finally murmur.


    "When you stop orbiting around Jupiter, let us know, okay?" David says, patting me on the back. "And Jason Gedrick''s in Rome shooting Summer Lovers II, baby."


    "I''m in the here and the now, baby."


    "That''s not what I hear," Nikitas says, crunching.


    "I''m not really interested in what information you''re able to process," I tell him.


    "Everything cool with you and Baxter and Chloe?" David asks this casually and Nikitas and Rick manage sly grins, which of course I notice.


    "It''s so cool it''s icy, baby." I pause. "Er... what do you mean, O Wise One?"


    The three of them seem confused and their expressions lead me to believe that they expected an admission of some kind.


    "Um, well...," Rick stammers. "It''s, well, y''know..."


    "Please," I groan. "If you''re going to hand out shitty gossip about me, at least make it fast."


    "Did you ever see the movie Threesome?" David ventures.


    "Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh."


    "Story is that Chloe, Baxter and Victor are intrigued by that premise."


    "We are not speaking of Baxter Priestly, are we, gentlemen?" I ask. "Surely we are not speaking of that little mo waif."


    "He''s the mo?"


    "I mean, I know you''re a hip guy, Victor," David says. "I think it''s like cool, really cool."

 Page 31

    "Wait a minute, wait a minute." I hold my hands up in front of me. "If you think for one second I''d share Chloe-Chloe Byrnes-with that pipsqueak... oh baby, spare me."


    "Who said you''re sharing anybody, Victor?" someone asks.


    "What does that mean?"


    "Who said it was your idea?" David asks. "Who said you were happy about it?"


    "How can I not be happy about something that''s not happening?" I glare.


    "We''re just telling you what''s out on the street."


    "What street? What street do you live on, David?"


    "Uh... Ludlow."


    "Uh... Ludlow," I mimic without trying.


    "Victor, how can we believe you about anything?" Rick asks. "You say you weren''t at the CK show, but there you were. Now you say you''re not involved in a heavy menage with Baxter and Chloe, yet word around town-"


    "What else have you f**king heard?" I snap, waving a light meter out of my face. "I dare you, come on, I dare you."


    "That you''re f**king Alison Poole?" David shrugs.


    I just stare for a couple seconds. "Enough, enough. I''m not seeing Alison Poole."


    "The straight face is impressive, dude."


    "I''m gonna ignore that because I don''t fight with girls," I tell David. "Besides, that''s a dangerous rumor for you to spread. Dangerous for her. Dangerous for me. Dangerous for-"


    "Just go with it, Victor," David sighs. "Like I really even care."


    "You''ll be folding twenty-dollar sweaters at the Gap soon enough anyway," I mutter.


    "My little minnows," Didier calls out. "It''s time."


    "Say, shouldn''t David have like some beach moss or some kind of sand covering his face?"


    "Okay, Victor," Didier calls out from behind the camera. "I''m looking at you like you''re naked, baby."


    "Didier?" one of the twins says. "I am naked."


    "I''m looking at you like you''re naked, Victor, and you love it." A longish pause while Didier studies the twin, then he decides something. "Make me chase you."


    "Uh, Didier?" I call out. "I''m Victor."


    "Dance around and yell `pussy.''"


    "Pussy," we all mumble.


    "Louder!" Didier shouts.


    "Pussy!"


    "Louder!"


    "Pussy!"


    "Fantastic yet not so good."


    Speedos after Bermudas, baseball caps are positioned backward, lollipops are handed out, Urge Overkill is played, Didier hides the Polaroid, then sells it to the highest bidder lurking in the shadows, who writes a check for it with a quill pen. One of the boys has an anxiety attack and another drinks too much Taittinger and admits he''s from Appalachia, which causes someone to call out for a Klonopin. Didier insist we cup our balls and finally incorporates the camera crew from "Fashion File" into the photo shoot and then everyone except me and the guy who fainted go off for an early lunch at a new spot in SoHo called Regulation.


    23


    Moving fast through autumn light up the stairs toward the offices at the top of the club, Rollerblades slung over my shoulder, a camera crew on the third floor from (unfortunately) VH 1 interviewing power-florist Robert Isabell and the way everyone dresses makes you realize that lime and Campbell''s-soup orange are the most conspicuous new colors of the season and ultra-lounge music from the band I, Swinger floats around through the air like confetti saying "it''s spring" and "time to come dancing" and violets and tulips and dandelions are everywhere and the whole enterprise is shaping up into everything one wants: cool without trying. In the office photos of pecs and tanned abs and thighs and bone-white butts are plastered over an entire wall along with an occasional face-everyone from Joel West to Hurley Thompson to Marky Mark to Justin Lazard to Kirk Cameron (for god''s sake) to Freedom Williams to body parts that could or could not be mine-here in JD and Beau''s inner sanctum, and though it seems like I''m tearing down Joey Lawrence 8 x 10s on a daily basis, they''re always replaced, all the guys so similar-looking it''s getting tougher and tougher to tell them apart. Eleven publicists will work this party tonight. I bitch to Beau about croutons for seven minutes. Finally JD walks in with E-mail printouts, hundreds of faxes, nineteen requests for interviews.


    "Has my agent called?" I ask.


    "What do you think?" JD snorts, and then, "Agent for what?"


    "Loved that piece you wrote for Young Homo, JD," I tell him, going over the newly revised 10:45 guest list.

 Page 32

    "Which one was that, Victor?" JD sighs, flipping through faxes.


    "The one called `Help! I''m Addicted to Guys!''"


    "Point being?" Beau asks.


    "Just that you are both very unheterosexual," I say, stretching.


    "I might be a homo, Victor." JD yawns. "But I''m still a man-a man with feelings."


    "You are a homo, JD, and I don''t want to hear another word about it." I''m shaking my head at the new pinups-of Keanu, Tom Cruise, various Bruce Weber shots, Andrea Boccaletti, Emery Roberts, Jason Priestley, Johnny Depp, my nemesis Chris O''Donnell-covering the wall above their desk. "Jesus, it takes nothing to get you little mos turned on. A good bod, a nice face-Christ."


    "Victor," Beau says, handing me a fax. "I know for a fact that you''ve slept with guys in the past."


    I move into my office, looking for some Snapple or a joint. "I dealt with that whole hip bi thing for about three hours back in college." I shrug. "Big deal. But now it''s strictly the furburger era for me."


    "Like that plastic vagina Alison Poole''s a big improvement over-who?-Keanu Reeves?" JD says, following me.


    "Dude, Keanu and I have never gotten it on," I say, moving over to the stereo. "We''re just `good friends.''" I''m scanning my CD rack: Elastica, Garbage, Filter, Coolio, Pulp. I slip Blur in. "Did you know that Keanu in Hawaiian means `cool ocean breeze'' and he won the Japanese Oscar for his role as the FBI agent turned surfer in Point Break?" I preprogram tracks 2, 3 and 10. "Jesus-and we''re afraid of the Japanese?"


    "You have got to stop having sex with Damien''s girlfriend, Victor," Beau blurts out, whimpering. "It makes us new-"


    "Oh shit," I groan, throwing a CD case at him.


    "If Damien finds out he will kill us, Victor."


    "He''ll kill you if he finds out I''m really opening up my own club," I say carefully. "You will be implicated no matter what. Just, um, slide into it."


    "Oh Victor, your nonchalance is so cool."


    "First of all I don''t understand why you little mos think I''d be f**king Damien''s girlfriend in the first-"


    "And you lie so well too."


    "Hey-who the hell''s been listening to ABBA Gold? Oh wait-let me guess."


    "Victor, we don''t trust Damien," Beau says. "Or Digby or Duke."


    "Shhh," I say, holding a finger up to my lips. "This place could be bugged."


    "That''s not funny, Victor," JD says grimly. "It could be."


    "How many times do I have to tell you guys that this town is filled with horrible human beings?" I groan. "Get-used-to-it"


    "Digby and Duke are cute, Victor, but so wasted on steroids that it would make them quite happy to beat the living shit out of you," Beau says, then adds, "As if you didn''t need it."


    I check my watch. "My father''s gonna do that to me in about fifteen minutes, so spare me," I sigh, flopping onto the couch. "Listen, Digby and Duke are just Damien''s, er, friends. They''re like bouncers-What?"


    "Mob, baby," JD says.


    "Oh Jesus," I moan. "The mob? For who? Banana Republic?"


    "Mob, Victor." Beau nods in agreement.


    "Oh hell, they''re bouncers, guys." I sit up. "Feel sorry for them. Imagine dealing with cokeheads and tourists for a living. Pity them."


    Beau loses it. "Pity you, Victor, once Damien sees that goddamn photo of you-ouch!"


    "I saw you step on Beau''s foot," I say to JD very carefully, staring over at them.


    "Who are you protecting, JD?" Beau gasps. "He should know. It''s true. It''s gonna happen."


    I''m up off the couch. "I thought this was all taken care of, JD."


    "Victor, Victor-" JD holds his hands up.


    "Tell me now. What, where, when, who?"


    "Did anyone catch that he didn''t ask the most important question: why?"


    "Who told you there''s a photo? Richard? Khoi? Reba?"


    "Reba?" JD asks. "Who in the f**k is Reba?"


    "Who was it, JD?" I slap at one of his hands.


    "It was Buddy. Get away from me."


    "At the News?"


    Beau nods solemnly. "Buddy at the News."


    "And Buddy says..."


    I motion for him to go on.


    "Um, your fears about a certain photo are, um, `intact'' and the, um..." JD squints at Beau.

 Page 33

    "Probability rate," Beau says.


    "Right. The probability rate is that it will, um..." JD squints over at Beau again.


    "Be published," Beau whispers.


    "Be published are, um..." JD pauses. "Oh yeah, `up there.''"


    Silence, until I clear my throat and open my eyes. "How long were you going to wait until you fed me this tidbit of info?"


    "I paged you the minute this rumor was verified."


    "Verified by who?"


    "I don''t divulge my sources."


    "When?" I''m groaning. "Okay? How about when?"


    "There really is no when, Victor." JD swallows nervously. "I just confirmed what you wanted me to. The photo exists. Of what? I can only guess by your, um, description yesterday," JD says. "And here''s Buddy''s number."


    A long pause, during which Blur plays and I''m glancing around the office, finally touching a plant.


    "And, um, Chloe called and said she wants to see you before Todd''s show," JD says.


    "What did you tell her?" I sigh, looking at the phone number JD handed me.


    "`Your poorly dressed bitter half is having lunch with his father at Nobu.''"


    "I''m being reminded of a bad lunch I haven''t even had yet?" I cringe. "Jesus, what a day."


    "And she says thanks for the flowers."


    "What flowers?" I ask. "And will you puh-leeze stop staring at my bulge?"


    "Twelve white French tulips delivered backstage at the Donna Karan show."


    "Well, thank you for sending them for me, JD," I mutter, moving back to the couch. "There is a reason I''m paying you two dollars an hour."


    Pause. "I didn''t... send the flowers, Victor."


    Pause. My turn. "Well, I didn''t send the flowers."


    Pause. "There was a card, Victor. It said, ''Ain''t no woman like the one I''ve got'' and `Baby, I''m-a want you, Baby, I''m-a need you.''" JD looks at the floor, then back at me. "That sounds like you."


    "I can''t deal with this right now." I wave my arms around but then realize who might have sent the flowers. "Listen, do you know this kid named Baxter Priestly?"


    "He''s the next Michael Bergin."


    "Who''s the last Michael Bergin?"


    "Baxter Priestly''s in the new Darren Star show and in the band Hey That''s My Shoe. He''s dated Daisy Fuentes, Martha Plimpton, Liv Tyler and Glenda Jackson, though not necessarily in that order."


    "Beau, I''m on a lot of Klonopin right now, okay, so nothing you''re saying is really registering with me."


    "Cool, that''s cool, Victor."


    "What do I do about Baxter Priestly?" I moan. "He of the faggy cheekbones."


    "You jealous f**k," Beau hisses.


    "What do you mean, what do you do about him?" JD asks. "I mean, I know what I''d do."


    "Amazing cheekbones," Beau says sternly.


    "Yeah, but what a lunkhead. And I don''t want to suck him off," I mutter.


    "Hand me that fax."


    "What does Baxter Priestly have to do with anything?"


    "Enrolling him in a total-immersion English course wouldn''t hurt. Oh shit-I''ve got to get going. Let''s get down to business." I squint at the fax. "Does Adam Horowitz go under Ad-Rock or Adam Horowitz?"


    "Adam Horowitz."


    "Okay, what''s this? New RSVPs?"


    "People requesting to be invited."


    "Shoot. Run through ''em."


    "Frank De Caro?"


    "No. Yes. No. Oh god, I can''t do this now."


    "Slash and Lars Ulrich are coming together," JD says.


    "And from MTV, Eric Nies and Duff McKagan," Beau adds.


    "Okay, okay."


    "Chris Isaak is a yes, right?" JD asks.


    "The perfect cutie," Beau says.


    "He''s got ears like Dumbo, but whatever. I guess I''d do him if I was a fag," I sigh. "Is Flea under F or does he have like a real name?"


    "It doesn''t matter," JD says. "Flea''s coming with Slash and Lars Ulrich."


    "Wait a minute," I say. "Isn''t Axl coming with Anthony?"


    "I don''t think so." Beau and JD look at each other uncertainly.


    "Don''t tell me Anthony Kiedis isn''t coming," I groan.


    "He''s coming, Victor, he''s coming," Beau says. "Just not with Axl."

 Page 34

    "Queen Latifah? Under Q or L?" JD asks.


    "Wait," I exclaim, while going over the Ls.


    "Lypsinka''s coming? What did I tell you guys: we don''t want any drag queens."


    "Why not?" "They''re like the new mimes, that''s why."


    "Lypsinka is not a drag queen, Victor," Beau scolds me. "Lypsinka is a gender illusionist."


    "And you''re a little mo," I snarl, ripping down a photo of Tyson in a Ralph Lauren ad. "Did I ever tell you that?"


    "And you''re a f**king racist," Beau shouts, grabbing the crumpled page from me.


    I immediately pull out a Malcolm X cap I got at the premiere- signed by Spike Lee-and shove it in JD''s face. "See? Malcolm X cap. Don''t accuse me of not being multicultural, you little mo."


    "Paul Verhoeven said God is bisexual, Victor."


    "Paul Verhoeven is a Nazi and not invited."


    "You''re a Nazi, Victor," Beau sneers. "You''re the Nazi."


    "I''m a pu**y Nazi, you little mo, and you invited Jean-Claude Van Damme behind my back?!?"


    "Kato Kaelin''s publicist, David Crowley, keeps calling."


    "Invite David Crowley."


    "Oh, people like Kato, Victor."


    "Have they seen his last movie, Dr. Skull?"


    "It doesn''t matter: people totally lock on to the hair."


    Chapter Four


    "Speaking of: George Stephanopoulos."


    "Who? Snuffleupagus?"


    "No. George-"


    "I heard you, I heard you," I groan dismissively. "Only if he''s coming with someone recognizable."


    "But Victor-"


    "Only if"-I check my watch-"between now and nine he gets back together with Jennifer Jason Leigh or Lisa Kudrow or Ashley Judd or someone more famous."


    "Um-"


    "Damien will have a fit, JD, if he shows up solo."


    "Damien keeps reminding me, Victor, that he wants a little politics, a little class."


    "Damien wanted to hire MTV dancers and I talked him out of that," I shout. "How long do you think it''ll take me to make him eighty-six that little Greek?"


    JD looks at Beau. "Is this cool or useless? I''m not sure."


    I clap my hands together. "Let''s just finish the late RSVPs."


    "Lisa Loeb?"


    "Oh, this will certainly be a glittering success. Next."


    "James Iha-guitarist from Smashing Pumpkins."


    "Billy Corgan would''ve been better, but okay."


    "George Clooney."


    "Oh, he''s so alive and wild. Next"


    "Jennifer Aniston and David Schwimmer?"


    "Blah, blah, blah."


    "Okay, Victor-we need to go over the Bs, and Ds, and the Ss."


    "Feed me."


    "Stanford Blatch."


    "Oh dear god."


    "Grow up, Victor," JD says. "He owns like half of Savoy."


    "Invite whoever owns the other half."


    "Victor, the Weinstein brothers love him."


    "That guy is so gross he''d work in a pet store just so he could eat free rabbit shit."


    "Andre Balazs?"


    "With Katie Ford, yes."


    "Drew Barrymore?"


    "Yes-and dinner too."


    "Gabriel Byrne?"


    "Without Ellen Barkin, yes."


    "David Bosom?"


    "Okay, but party only."


    "Scott Benoit?"


    "Party only."


    "Leilani Bishop."


    "Party."


    "Eric Bogosian."


    "Has a show. Can''t make dinner. Will come to the party."


    "Brandy."


    "Jesus, Beau, she''s sixteen."


    "`Moesha'' is a hit and the record''s gone platinum."


    "She''s in."


    "Sandra Bernhard."


    "Party only."


    "Billy, Stephen and/or Alec Baldwin."


    "Dinner, party only, dinner."


    "Boris Becker."


    "Uh-huh. Oh my god, this is sounding more and more like a Planet Hollywood opening you''d never want to eat at," I sigh. "Am I reading this fax right? Lisa Bonet?"


    "If Lenny Kravitz comes, she won''t."


    "Is Lenny Kravitz coming?"


    "Yes."


    "Cross her off."


    "Tim Burton."


    "Oh god I''m hot!"


    "Halle Berry."

 Page 35

    "Check."


    "Hamish Bowles."


    "Uh-huh."


    "Toni Braxton."


    "Yes."


    "Ethan Brown?"


    "Oh, I don''t care what''s real anymore," I moan, and then, "Party only."


    "Matthew Broderick."


    "Dinner if he''s with Sarah Jessica Parker."


    "Yes. Antonio Banderas."


    "Do you know what Antonio said to Melanie Griffith when they first met?"


    "` My deeck is beeger than Don''s''?"


    "`So you are Melanie. I am Antonio. How are you doing?''"


    "He''s got to stop telling interviewers that he''s `not silly.''"


    "Ross Bleckner."


    "Check."


    "Michael Bergin."


    "Check it out-right, guys?"


    "David Barton?"


    "Oh, I do hope he comes with Suzanne wearing something cute by Raymond Dragon," I squeal. "Party only."


    "Matthew Barney."


    "Yes." "Candace Bushnell."


    "Yes."


    "Scott Bakula."


    "Yes."


    "Rebecca Brochman."


    "Who''s that?"


    "The Kahlua heiress."


    "Fine."


    "Tyra Banks." "It''s all I can do to just hold myself until I calm down."


    "Yasmine Bleeth."


    "I am shuddering with pleasure."


    "Christian Bale."


    "Uh-huh."


    "Gil Bellows."


    "Who?"


    "He''s famous in a, um, certain universe."


    "You mean area code."


    "You mean zip code. Proceed."


    "Kevin Bacon."


    "Fine, fine. But please, where''s Sandra Bullock?" I ask.


    "Her publicist said..." Beau pauses.


    "Yes, go on."


    "She doesn''t know," JD finishes.


    "Oh Jesus."


    "Victor, don''t scrunch your face up," Beau says. "You''ve gotta learn that it''s more important to these people to be invited than to actually show up."


    "No," I snap, pointing a finger. "People just really need to learn how to embrace their celebrity status."


    "Victor-"


    "Alison Poole said Sandra Bullock was coming, is coming-"


    "When did you talk to Alison?" JD asks. "Or should I even be asking?"


    "Don''t ask why, JD," Beau says.


    "Oh shit." JD shrugs. "What could be cooler than cheating on Chloe Byrnes?"


    "Hey, watch it, you little mo."


    "Is it because Camille Paglia once wrote eight thousand words on Chloe and not once mentioned you?"


    "That bitch," I mutter, shuddering. "Okay, let''s do the Ds."


    "Beatrice Dalle."


    "She''s shooting that Ridley Scott movie in Prussia with Jean-Marc Barr."


    "Barry Diller."


    "Yes."


    "Matt Dillon."


    "Yes."


    "Cliff Dorfman."


    "Who?"


    "Friend of Leonardo''s."


    "DiCaprio?"


    "He will be wearing Richard Tyler and red velvet slippers and bringing Cliff Dorfman."


    "Robert Downey, Jr."


    "Only if he does his Chaplin! Oh please please get Downey to do his Chaplin!"


    "Willem Dafoe."


    "Party."


    "Michael Douglas."


    "Not coming. But Diandra is."


    "I have assiduously followed the shattered path of their marriage. Check."


    "Zelma Davis."


    "I do not think I can control myself much longer."


    "Johnny Depp."


    "With Kate Moss. Dinner, yes."


    "Stephen Dorff"


    "Stephen"-I start, hesitantly-"Dorff. I mean, why are these people stars?"


    "DNA? Dumb luck?"


    "Proceed."


    "Pilar and Nesya Demann."


    "Of course."


    "Laura Dern."


    "Yikes!"


    "Griffin Dunne."


    "No party is complete."


    "Meghan Douglas."


    "Somebody needs to hose-me-down."


    "Patrick Demarchelier."


    "Yes."


    "Jim Deutsch."


    "Who?"


    "A.k.a. Skipper Johnson?"


    "Oh right, right."

 Page 36

    "Shannen Doherty is coming with Rob Weiss."


    "A special couple." I''m nodding like a baby.


    "Cameron Diaz."


    "What about Michael DeLuca?"


    "Yes."


    "Great. Let''s move on to the Ss."


    "Alicia Silverstone is a yes."


    "Fan-fucking-tastic."


    "Sharon Stone is a maybe, though it `looks likely.''"


    "On and on and on-"


    "Greta Scacchi, Elizabeth Saltzman, Susan Sarandon-"


    "Tim Robbins too?"


    "Let me cross-reference-um, wait, wait-yes."


    "Faster."


    "Ethan Steifel, Brooke Shields, John Stamos, Stephanie Seymour, Jenny Shimuzu-"


    "Okay, okay-"


    "David Salle, Nick Scotti-"


    "More, more, more-"


    "Sage Stallone."


    "Why don''t we just invite the f**king Energizer bunny? Go on."


    "Markus Schenkenberg, Jon Stuart, Adam Sandler-"


    "But not David Spade."


    "Wesley Snipes and Lisa Stansfield."


    "Okay, my man."


    "Antonio Sabato, Jr., Ione Skye-"


    "She''s bringing the ghost of River Phoenix with her," Beau adds. "I''m serious. She demanded that it be put on the list."


    "That''s so f**king hip I want it faxed to the News immediately."


    "Michael Stipe-"


    "Only if he doesn''t keep flashing that damn hernia scar."


    "Oliver Stone, Don Simpson, Tabitha Soren-"


    "Oh boy, we''re in the hot zone now."


    "G. E. Smith, Anna Sui, Tanya Sama, Andrew Shue-"


    "And Elisabeth Shue?"


    "And Elisabeth Shue."


    "Great. Okay, what are we playing during cocktails?" Beau asks as I start walking out the door.


    "Start with something mellow. An Ennio Morricone soundtrack or Stereolab or even something ambient. Get the idea? Burt Bacharach. Then let''s move on to something more aggressive but unobtrusive, though not elevator music."


    "Space-age bachelor-pad Muzak?"


    "Mood sounds?" I''m flying down to the fourth floor.


    "Some Polynesia tiki-tiki or crime jazz." JD flies after me.


    "Basically an ultralounge cocktail mix."


    "Remember, you have a meeting with DJ X at Fashion Cafe," Beau calls down. "At five!"


    "Any news from Mica?" I call up from the third floor, where it''s freezing and a couple of flies merrily buzz past.


    "No. But Fashion Cafe at five o''clock, Victor!" Beau shouts out.


    "Why hasn''t anyone found Mica yet?" I shout, moving farther down into the club.


    "Victor," JD shouts from behind me. "Can you tell the difference between a platitude and a platypus?"


    "One''s a... beaver?"


    "Which one?"


    "Oh god, this is hard," I moan. "Where''s my publicist?"


    22


    My father sent a car to "insure my presence" at lunch, so I''m now in the backseat of a Lincoln Town Car trying to get Buddy at the News on my cell phone, the driver traversing noontime traffic on Broadway, sometimes stuck in place, heading down to Nobu, passing another poster of Chloe in a bus shelter, an ad for some kind of Estee Lauder light-diffusing makeup, and the sun glints so hard off the trunk of a limousine in front of us that it traumatizes my eyes with a hollow pink burn and even through the tinted windows I have to slip on a pair of Matsuda sunglasses, passing the new Gap on Houston, adults playing hopscotch, somewhere Alanis Morissette sings sweetly, two girls drifting along the sidewalk wave at the Town Car in slow motion and I''m offering the peace sign, too afraid to turn around to see if Duke and Digby are following. I light a cigarette, then adjust a microphone that''s hidden beneath the collar of my shirt.


    "Hey, no smoking," the driver says.


    "What are you gonna do? Just keep driving. Jesus."


    He sighs, keeps driving.


    Finally Buddy clicks on, sounds like accidentally.


    "Buddy-Victor. What''s the story?"


    "Confirm this rumor for me: Are you dating Stephen Dorff?"


    "Spare me, Buddy," I groan. "Let''s make a deal."


    "Shoot," he sighs.


    I pause. "Wait. I just, um, hope I''m still not on your guys-I-wanna- f**k list."


    "No, you already have a boyfriend."


    "Stephen Dorff is not my goddamn boyfriend," I shout.


    The driver eyes me in the rearview mirror. I lean forward and bang on the back of his seat. "Is there like a divider or partition or something that separates me from you?" The driver shakes his head.

 Page 37

    "What have you got, Victor?" Buddy sighs.


    "Baby, rumor has it that in your possession is a picture of, um, well, me."


    "Victor, I''ve got about a million."


    "No. A specific picture."


    "Specific? A specific picture? I don''t think so, pookie."


    "It''s of me and a, um, certain girl."


    "Who? Gwyneth Paltrow? Irina? Kristin Herold? Cheri Oteri?"


    "No," I shout. "Goddamnit-it''s of me and Alison Poole."


    "You and Alison Poole? Doing-ahem-what?"


    "Having a little iced latte while playing footsie on the Internet, you raging f**khead."


    "Alison Poole-as in Damien Nutchs Ross''s girlfriend? That Alison Poole?"


    "She''s also f**king like half the Knicks, so I''m not alone."


    "A naughty boy. Living on the edge. Not so nice."


    "What is that-Bon Jovi''s greatest hits? Listen to-"


    "I assume this photo was taken with Mr. Ross''s and Miss Byrnes'' permission and approval, you nonethical little bastard."


    "Me nonethical?" I choke. "Whoa-wait a minute. You peddled Robert Maxwell''s autopsy photos, you scumbag. You had f**king Polaroids of Kurt Cobain''s blown-apart skull. You had shots of River Phoenix convulsing on Sunset. You-"


    "I also gave you your first break in the media, you ungrateful little shit."


    "And you''re totally, totally right. Listen, I wasn''t putting you down. I meant to say I was impressed."


    "Victor, you get written about, mainly by me, for doing nothing."


    "No, man, I mean it, take it to the limit, that''s my motto, so y''know-"


    "Successful sucking up requires talent. Or at least a species of charm that you simply do not possess."


    "Bottom line: what can I give you in exchange for the photo?"


    "What have you got? And let''s make this fast. I''m about to be interviewed by `A Current Affair.''"


    "Well, um, what do you want to, like, know?"


    "Is Chloe dating Baxter Priestly and are you all involved in some kind of hot sicko threesome?"


    "Oh shit, man-no. For the last time-no," I groan. And then, after Buddy''s suspicious pause, "And I''m not dating Stephen Dorff."


    "Why is Chloe doing so much runway work this season?"


    "Oh, that''s easy: it''s her last year as a runway model. It''s her big farewell, so to speak," I sigh, relieved.


    "Why is Baxter Priestly at all her shows?"


    I suddenly sit up and shout into the phone, "Who is this little shit?" Trying to relax, I shift modes. "Hey Buddy-what about, um, Winona?"


    "What about Winona?"


    "She''s, um, y''know, coming to the opening tonight."


    "Well, that''s an auspicious start, Victor. Oh sorry, my ass just yawned. Who''s she with?" he sighs.


    "Dave Pirner and the Wrigley''s Doublemint gum heiress and the bassist from Falafel Mafia."


    "Doing what? Where?"


    "At the Four Seasons, discussing why Reality Bites didn''t open bigger.


    "My ass is yawning again."


    I pause, staring hard out the window. "Hurley Thompson," I finally say, hoping he''ll let it pass.


    "Now I''m vaguely enthralled."


    "Um, oh shit, Buddy..." I stop. "This is totally not from me."


    "I never reveal my sources, so please just tell your master what''s going on.


    "Just that, y''know, Hurley''s, like, in town."


    Pause. "I''m getting a little hot." The sound of computer keys clicking, and then, "Where?"


    Pause. "Paramount."


    "You''re stroking my boner," Buddy says. "Why isn''t he in Phoenix shooting Sun City 3 with the rest of the cast?"


    Pause. "Um, Sherry Gibson..."


    "I''m getting hot. You''re getting me very very hot, Victor."


    "She... dumped him..."


    "I''m rock hard. Continue."


    "Because of... a freebasing problem. His."


    "You''re gonna make me come."


    "And he, um, beat... Sherry up."


    "I''m coming, Victor-"


    "And so Sherry had to drop out of `Baywatch Nights''-"


    "I''m shooting my load-"


    "Because her face is all messed up-"


    "I''m coming I''m coming I''m-"


    "And he is now looking for a rehab clinic in the Poconos-"

 Page 38

    "Oh god, I''ve shot my load-"


    "And Sherry resembles a, um, oh yeah, `weepy raccoon.''"


    "I''ve shot my load. Can you hear me panting?"


    "You motherfucker," I whisper.


    "This is cosmic."


    "Buddy, I feel like we''ve become very close."


    "Where''s Hurley''s brother? Curley?"


    "He hung himself."


    "Who was at the funeral?"


    "Julia Roberts, Erica Kane, Melissa Etheridge, Lauren Holly and, um, Salma Hayek."


    "Didn''t she date his dad?"


    "Yeah."


    "So he was in and out of the picture?"


    "So no photo, Buddy?"


    "The photo of you and Alison Poole has vanished."


    "For the record, what was it of?"


    "For the record? You don''t want to know."


    "You know, Buddy, Alison just lost the role in the film version of The Real Thing," I add, "for what it''s worth."


    "Which is nada. Thank you, Victor. `A Current Affair'' has arrived."


    "No-thank you, Buddy. And please, this was not from me." I pause, then realize something and shout, "Don''t say it, don''t-"


    "Trust me." Buddy clicks off.


    21


    Nobu before noon and I''m biting off half a Xanax while passing what''s got to be Dad''s limo parked out front, and inside: various executives from MTV, a new maitre d'' being interviewed by "The CBS Morning News," Helena Christensen, Milla Jovovich and the French shoe designer Christian Louboutin at one table, and at another Tracee Ross, Samantha Kluge, Robbie Kravitz and Cosima Von Bulow, and Dad is the thin Waspish dude wearing the navy-blue Ralph Lauren suit sitting in the second booth from the front doodling notes on a yellow legal pad, a folder lying thick and suspicious next to a bowl of sunomono. Two of his aides have the front booth. He should look middle-aged but with the not-too-recent facelift and since according to my sister he''s been on Prozac since April (a secret), everything is vaguely cool. For relaxation: hunting deer, an astrologer to deal with those planetary vibes, squash. And his nutritionist has stressed raw fish, brown rice, no tempura but hijiki is okay and I''m basically here for some toro sashimi, some jokey conversation and a charming inquiry about some cash. He smiles, bright caps.


    "Sorry, Dad, I got lost."


    "You look thin."


    "It''s all those drugs, Dad," I sigh, sliding into the booth.


    "That''s not funny, Victor," he says wearily.


    "Dad, I don''t do drugs. I''m in great shape."


    "No, really. How are you, Victor?"


    "I''m a knockout, Dad. A total knockout. I''m rippin''. Things are happening. I''m in control of all the elements. You are laughing somewhat jaggedly, Dad, but I am in continuous flux."


    "Is that right?"


    "I''m staking out new territory, Dad."


    "Which is?"


    I stare straight ahead. "The future."


    Dad stares glumly back, gives up, looks around, smiles awkwardly. "You''ve become much more skillful, Victor, at expressing, um, your ambitions."


    "You bet, Dad. I''m streamlined and direct."


    "That''s wonderful." He motions to Evett, the waiter, for more iced tea. "So where are you coming from?"


    "I had a photo shoot."


    "I hope you''re not doing any more of those naked Webster shots or whatever. Jesus."


    "Near naked. Bruce Weber. I''m not trying to freak you out, Dad."


    "Wagging your ass around like-"


    "It was an Obsession ad, Dad. You''re acting like it was some kind of  p**n o movie."


    "What''s your point, Victor?"


    "Dad, the point is: the-column-blocked-my-crotch."


    He''s already flipping through his menu. "Before I forget, thank you for the, um, Patti Lupone CD you sent me for my birthday, Victor. It was a thoughtful gift."


    I scan the menu too. "No sweat, dude."


    Dad keeps glancing uneasily over at the MTV table, some of the executives probably making wisecracks. I resist waving.


    Dad asks, "Why are they staring over here like that?"


    "Maybe because you have `lost white guy'' written all over you?" I ask. "Christ, I need a glass of bottled water. Or a dry beer."


    Evett comes over with the iced tea and silently takes our order, then moves uncertainly toward the back of the restaurant. "Nice-looking girl," my dad says, admiringly.

 Page 39

    "Dad," I start.


    "What?"


    I can''t really look at him.


    "That''s a guy, but whatever."


    "You''re kidding me."


    "No, that is a guy. He has that whole, y''know, boy-girl thing going."


    "You''ve forgotten to take off your sunglasses."


    "I haven''t forgotten." I take them off, blinking a couple of times. "So what''s the story, morning glory?"


    "Well, I''ve been keeping tabs on you." He taps the folder ominously. "And whenever I think about my only son, my thoughts drift back to that conversation we had last summer about perhaps returning to school?"


    "Oh shit, Dad," I groan. "I went to Camden. I barely graduated from Camden. I don''t even know what I majored in."


    "Experimental Orchestra, as I recall," Dad says dryly.


    "Hey, don''t forget Design Analysis."


    My father''s gritting his teeth, dying for a drink, his eyes roaming the room. "Victor, I have contacts at Georgetown, at Columbia, at NYU for Christ sakes. It''s not as difficult as you might think."


    "Oh shit, Dad, have I ever used you?"


    "I''m concerned about your career and-"


    "You know, Dad," I interrupt, "the question that I always dreaded most at Horace Mann was whenever my counselor would ask me about my career plans."


    "Why? Because you didn''t have any?"


    "No. Because I knew if I answered him he''d laugh."


    "I just remember hearing about you being sent home for refusing to remove your sunglasses in algebra class."


    "Dad, I''m opening this club. I''m doing some modeling." I sit up alittle for emphasis."''Hey-and I''m waiting to hear if I have a part in Flatliners II."


    "This is a movie?" he asks dubiously.


    "No-it''s a sandwich," I say, stunned.


    "I mean, my god," he sighs. "Victor, you''re twenty-seven and you''re only a model?"


    "Only a model?" I say, still stunned. "Only a model? I''d rethink the way you phrased that, Dad."


    "I''m thinking about you working hard at something that-"


    "Yeah, Dad, I''ve really grown up in an environment where hard work is the way people get rich. Right."


    "Just don''t tell me you''re looking for, um, artistic and personal growth through-let me get this straight-modeling?"


    "Dad, a top male model can get eleven thousand dollars a day."


    "Are you a top male model?"


    "No, I''m not a top male model, but that''s not my point."


    "I lose a lot of sleep, Victor, trying to figure just what your point is."


    "I''m a loser, baby," I sigh, slumping back into the booth. "So why don''t you kill me?"


    "You''re not a loser, Victor," Dad sighs back. "You just need to, er, find yourself." He sighs again. "Find-I don''t know-a new you?"


    "`A new you''?" I gasp. "Oh my god, Dad, you do a great job of making me feel useless."


    "And opening this club tonight makes you feel what?"


    "Dad, I know, I know-"


    "Victor, I just want-"


    "I just want to do something where it''s all mine," I stress. "Where I''m not... replaceable."


    "So do I." Dad flinches. "I want that for you too."


    "A model... modeling is... I''m replaceable," I sigh. "There are a thousand guys who''ve got pouty lips and nice symmetry. But opening something, a club, it''s..." My voice trails off.


    After a longish silence Dad says, "A photo of you in People magazine last week was brought to my attention."


    "What issue? I didn''t see this. Who was on the cover?"


    "I don''t know," he says, glaring. "Someone on my staff brought it to my attention."


    "Goddamnit!" I slam my hand down on the table. "This is why I need a publicist."


    "The point being, Victor, that you were at a fairly lavish hotel somewhere-"


    "A fairly lavish hotel somewhere?"


    "Yes. In Miami."


    "I was at a hotel? Somewhere in Miami?"


    "Yes. A hotel. In Miami. Wearing-barely-a bathing suit made of white linen and very, very wet-"


    "Did I look good?"


    "Sunglasses. Smoking what I can only hope was a cigarette, your arms around two nubile well-oiled Penthouse Playmates-"

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    "I really need to see this, Dad."


    "When were you in Miami?"


    "I haven''t been to Miami in months," I stress. "This is so sad-mistaking your own flesh and blood, your own son, a-"


    "Victor," my father says calmly, "your name was in the caption below the photo."


    "I don''t think that was me, dude."


    "Well," he starts lightly, "if it wasn''t you, Victor, then who was it?"


    "I will have to check this out, baby."


    "And what''s with your last name?" he asks. "You''re still sticking with Ward?"


    "I thought changing my last name was your idea, bro."


    "It seemed like a good idea at the time," he murmurs, delicately opening a folder containing press clippings, faxes of press clippings, photos of me.


    "This is a quote from"-my father turns a blurry fax over-"from the New York Times Styles section, actually. A smallish article about you, and this pull quote: `In the uterus of love we are all blind cave fish.'' Is this true, Victor? Could you please explain the term `uterus'' in the context of that sentence? And also if blind cave fish actually exist?"


    "Oh boy-a two-parter. Dude, this is so bogus," I sigh. "The press always distorts what I say."


    "Well, what are you saying?"


    "Why are you so literal-minded?"


    "A CK One ad. Here it looks as if there are two guys-though what the hell do I know, it could be two gals-and yes, they''re kissing each other and you''re looking on with your hands down the front of your pants. Why are your hands down the front of your pants? Is this gesture supposed to tell us that CK One is a reliable product?"


    "Sex sells, dude."


    Chapter Five


    "I see."


    "The better you look, the more you see."


    "Here''s an interview from, um, YouthQuake-and by the way, congratulations on making the cover, wearing an eye shadow that''s a lovely shade of brown-"


    "It''s terra-cotta," I sigh. "But whatever."


    "-and they ask you who you would most like to have lunch with, and your answers are: the Foo Fighters, astrologist Patric Walker-who is dead, incidentally-and (this isn''t a misprint, right?) the Unabomber?"


    I stare back at him. "So?"


    "You want to have lunch with... the Unabomber?" he asks. "Is this valuable information? Do we really need to know this about you?"


    "What about my fans?"


    "Another quote attributed to you, unless this is another distortion: `Washington, D.C., is the stupidest city in the world, with the, like, dumbest people in it.''"


    "Oh Dad-"


    "I work and live in Washington, D.C., Victor. What you say and do actually affects my life, and because of what my life is like, it can be acutely embarrassing for me."


    "Dad-"


    "I just wanted to point this out."


    "Spare me, please."


    "It also says here that you''re in a band called Pussy Beat, which used to be called"-he gulps-"Kitchen Bitch."


    "We''ve changed the name. We''re the Impersonators now."


    "Oh Jesus, Victor. It''s just that whole crowd-"


    "Dad, I freaked out when Charlie and Monique tattooed their baby. Jeez-what? You think I''m some kind of delinquent?"


    "Add to this that your sister says outtakes of you from that Madonna book are showing up on the Internet-"


    "Dad, it''s all under control."


    "How can you say that?" he asks. "It''s just tacky, Victor. Very tacky."


    "Dad, life is tacky."


    "But you don''t need to win first prize."


    "So what you''re saying, basically, is that I''m a mixed bag."


    "No," he says. "Not exactly."


    "So I guess more cash is out of the question?"


    "Victor, don''t do this. We''ve been over that many, many times."


    I pause. "So I guess more cash is out of the question?"


    "I think the trust should suffice."


    "Hey, New York''s expensive-"


    "Then move."


    "Oh my god, get real."


    "What are you trying to tell me, Victor?"


    "Dad." I breathe in. "Let''s face it. I''m broke."


    "You have a check coming in a couple of days."


    "It''s gone."


    "How can the check be gone if you haven''t even received it yet?"

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    "Believe me, I find it a total mystery too."


    "Your monthly check is it, Victor," Dad stresses. "No more. No less. Understood?"


    "Well, I guess I''ll just have to max out my Visa."


    "Really smart idea, son."


    Amanda deCadenet stops by the table and kisses me hard on the mouth and says she''ll see me tonight and leaves without being introduced to Dad.


    "How''s Chloe?" he asks.


    20


    Lunch was mercifully short and now it''s only 1:10 and I tell the driver to drop me off at Broadway and Fourth so I can stop by Tower Records before band practice to pick up some badly needed new CDs, and inside, the pop group Sheep-the new alternative rock band, whose single "Diet Coke at the Gap" is the buzz clip on MTV this month-is milling around the front of the store blinking into various video cameras as Michael Levine-the Annie Leibovitz of alternative rock-snaps pictures and "Aeon Flux" is on all the monitors and I scan the magazine rack for the new issue of YouthQuake to see if there are any letters about the article on me. In my basket: Trey Lewd, Rancid, Cece Pensiton, Yo La Tengo, Alex Chilton, Machines of Loving Grace, Jellyfish, the 6th''s, Teenage Fanclub. I''ve also snuck my modeling portfolio in and I spot this cute Oriental girl wearing white jeans with a silver chain-link belt, a V-neck jersey tunic and flat black sandals looking at the back of an ELO CD and I "accidentally" drop the portfolio, bathing suit shots scattering around her feet. I pause before I bend down to pick them up, pretending to be mortified, hoping that she''ll check it out, but she just gives me a why-bother? look and walks away and then this cute-as-a-button little g*y guy starts helping me. "It''s okay, it''s okay," I keep saying, pulling a thong shot out of his hand, and then I see the hottest-looking girl in Tower Records.


    She''s standing by a listening station, headphones on, pressing buttons, swaying, wearing a pair of tight melon-colored Capri pants that meld into small black boots and an opened violet-beige Todd Oldham overcoat, and as I move closer I can see she''s holding Blur, Suede, Oasis, Sleeper CDs. I''m right behind her as she pulls the headphones off.


    "That''s the coolest record," I say, pointing at the Oasis CD. "Tracks three, four, five and ten are all excellent."


    She turns around, startled, sees my face, and what can only be described as a strange expression-one-third worried, one-third smiling, maybe one-third something else-creases her features and then she asks, "Do you know me?" but it''s in this teasing way that I''m accustomed to and so I''m able to answer confidently, "Yeah-L.A. or Miami, right?"


    "No," she says, her eyes hardening.


    "Did you"-I have a small flash-"go to Camden?"


    "You''re getting less cold," she says simply.


    "Wait-are you a model?"


    "No," she sighs. "I''m not."


    "But Camden is near the target?" I ask hopefully.


    "Yes, it is." She sighs again.


    "Yeah, yeah, foliage is definitely coming my way."


    "That''s good." She crosses her arms.


    "So you did go to Camden?" I ask and then, to make sure, "The one in New Hampshire?"


    "Is there another one?" she says impatiently.


    "Hey baby, whoa."


    "Well," she says, tapping the Oasis CD, "thanks for the record review, Victor."


    "Oh man, you know me?"


    She slings a red suede zip-top circular purse over her shoulder and lowers Matsuda sunglasses-blue eyes-and pouts, "Victor Johnson? I mean, that''s if you are Victor Johnson."


    "Well, yeah," I admit sheepishly. "Actually it''s Victor Ward now but, um, it''s still the same me."


    "Oh, that''s just great," she says. "So you got married? Who''s the lucky guy?"


    "The little pinhead over there with the strawberry strudel on his head." I point to the g*y guy who I''m just noticing has kept one of the bathing suit shots. He smiles, then scampers away. "He''s, uh, shy."


    Finally I realize that I actually know this girl. "Oh man, I''m so bad with names," I apologize. "I''m sorry."


    "Go ahead," she says, holding something in, "be a big boy-take a guess."


    "Okay, I''m gonna have a psychic moment." I bring my hands to my temples and close my eyes. "Karen... Nancy... Jojo... You have a brother named Joe?... I''m seeing a lot of, er, Js... I''m seeing, I''m seeing a... a... a kitten... a kitten named Cootie?" I open my eyes.

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    "It''s Lauren." She looks at me dully.


    "Lauren, ri-i-ight."


    "Yeah," she says in a hard way. "Lauren Hynde? Remember now?"


    I pause, freaked. "Gosh. Lauren Hynde. Whoa..."


    "Do you know who I am now?" she asks.


    "Oh baby, I''m really..." Stumped, I admit, "You know, they say Klonopin causes short-term memory loss, so-"


    "Why don''t we start with this: I''m Chloe''s friend."


    "Yeah, yeah," I say, trying to get comfortable. "We were just talking about you."


    "Mmm." She starts moving down an aisle, running her hand along the rim of the CD racks, moving away from me.


    I follow. "Yeah, it was a totally nice, um, chat, y''know?"


    "What about?"


    "Just, y''know, positive things."


    She keeps walking and I hang back, taking my sunglasses off to check the body beneath the open coat: thin with full br**sts, long and shapely legs, short blond hair, everything else-eyes, teeth, lips, whatever-equally nice. I catch up, keep moving with her, casually swinging the basket of CDs at my side.


    "So you remember me from Camden?" I ask.


    "Oh yeah," she says half-scornfully. "I remember you."


    "Well, did you act this way at college or am I acting different?"


    She stops moving and turns to face me. "You really don''t remember who I am, do you, Victor?"


    "Yes I do. You''re Lauren Hynde." I pause. "But y''know, I was away a lot and Klonopin causes long-term memory loss."


    "I thought it caused short-term memory loss."


    "See-I already can''t remember."


    "Oh god, forget it."


    She''s about to turn away when I ask, "Am I the same?"


    She looks me over carefully. "Pretty much, I guess." She focuses on my head, scanning my face. "Well, I don''t think you had those sideburns."


    An opening that I leap into. "Learn to love the sideburns, baby. They''re your best friends. Pet the sideburns." I lean in, offer my profile, purring.


    She just looks at me like I''ve lost it.


    "What? What is it?" I ask. "Pet the sideburns, baby."


    "Pet the sideburns?"


    "People worship the sideburns, baby."


    "You know people who worship hair?" she asks, semi-appalled. "You know people who want to look twenty forever?"


    I wave a fly away. I move into another mode.


    "So what''s going oft, Lauren Hynde? God you look great. What''s the story? Where''ve you been?" Maybe I ask this with the wrong tone, because she segues into the inevitable.


    "I ran into Chloe at Patricia Field''s last week," she says.


    "Patricia Field''s apartment?" I ask, impressed.


    "No," she says, looking at me strangely. "Her store, dummy."


    "Oh. That''s cool."


    A long pause, during which various girls pass by. A couple of them say hi to me but I casually ignore them. Lauren eyes them skeptically, troubled, which is a good sign.


    "Um, I''m unsure of what we were talking about-"


    My beeper goes off. I check the number: Alison.


    "Who''s that?" Lauren asks.


    "Oh, y''know, probably just another call about unionizing male models." I shrug, then add, after a pause, "I''m a model."


    "Unionizing male models?" She starts walking away again, which only makes me want to follow her more.


    "You say that like it''s a joke."


    "I think you need committed people to form a union, Victor."


    "Hey, no dark sarcasm in the classroom."


    "This is ridiculous," she says. "I''ve gotta go."


    "Why?"


    "I''m having lunch with someone." Her hand is actually trembling as she runs it through her hair.


    "Who?" I ask.


    "Why?" she asks back.


    "A guy?"


    "Victor."


    "Aw, come on."


    "Baxter Priestly, actually, if you must know."


    "Oh great," I groan. "Who is this little shit? I mean, spare me, baby."


    "Victor, Chloe and I are friends. I assume you know this," she says, staring straight at me. "At least you''re supposed to know this."


    "Why am I supposed to know this?" I smile.


    "Because she''s your girlfriend?" she asks, her mouth hanging open.


    "That''s an excuse?"

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    "No, Victor. A reason. You''re making it an excuse."


    "You''re losing me, baby. This is getting kinda trippy."


    "Well, steady yourself."


    "Hey, what about a cappuccino?"


    "Don''t you know who your girlfriend''s acquaintances are? Don''t you talk to her?" Lauren is losing it. "What''s with you-oh god, why am I asking? I know, I know. I''ve gotta go."


    "Wait, wait-I want to get these." I gesture toward the basket of CDs I''m holding. "Come with me and I''ll walk you out. I''ve got band practice but I can squeeze in a latte."


    She hesitates, then moves with me toward the registers. Once there, my AmEx card doesn''t go through. I moan "Spare me" but Lauren actually smiles-a smile that causes a major deja vu-and puts it on her card when she pays for her CDs and she doesn''t even say anything about paying her back.


    It''s so cold in Tower that everything-the air, the sounds revolving around us, the racks of CDs-feels white, snowed in. People pass by, moving on to the next register, and the high-set fluorescent lighting that renders everyone flat and pale and washed out doesn''t affect Lauren''s skin, which looks like ivory that''s tan, and her presence-just the mere gesture of her signing the receipt-touches me in a way I can''t shrug off, and the music rising above us-"Wonderwall"-makes me feel doped and far away from my life. Lust is something I really haven''t come across in a long time and I follow it now in Tower Records and it''s getting hard to shake off the thought that Lauren Hynde is part of my future. Outside, I put my hand on the small of her back, guiding her through the sidewalk crowd to the curb on Broadway. She turns around and looks at me for a long time and I let her.


    "Victor," she starts, responding to my vibe. "Look-I just want to make something clear. I''m seeing someone."


    "Who?"


    "That doesn''t matter," she says. "I''m involved."


    "Well, why don''t you tell me who it is?" I ask. "And if it''s that twerp Baxter Priestly I''ll actually give you a thousand bucks."


    "I don''t think you have a thousand bucks."


    "I have a big change bowl at home."


    "It was"-she stops, stuck-"interesting to see you."


    "Come on, let''s go get a cafe au lait at Dean Deluca. Sounds hip, huh?"


    "What about the band?" she asks.


    "Those losers can wait."


    "I can''t."


    She starts to move away. I reach out, touch her arm gently. "Wait-are you going to the Todd Oldham show? It''s at six. I''m in it."


    "Oh god, come off it, Victor." She keeps walking.


    I dart in and out of people''s way to keep up with her.


    "What? What is it?" I''m asking.


    "I''m not really part of that scene."


    "What scene, baby?"


    "The one where all anyone is interested in is who''s f**king who, who has the biggest dick, the biggest tits, who''s more famous than whoever."


    Confused, I keep following. "And you''re, um, not like into this?" I ask, watching her wave down a taxi. "You''ve got like a problem?"


    "I''ve gotta go, Victor."


    "Hey, can I get your phone number?"


    Before she slams the door, without turning toward me, I hear Lauren say, "Chloe has it."


    19


    Chloe and I went to L.A. last September for reasons we never really figured out, though in retrospect I think it had something to do with trying to save our relationship and Chloe was supposed to be a presenter at the MTV Awards, which I remember nothing of except Oscar talk, Frida Kahlo talk, Mr. Jenkins talk, how big is Dweezil Zappa''s dick talk, Sharon Stone wearing pajamas, Edgar Bronfman, Jr., coming on to Chloe, only two green Jujyfruits in the box I held while spacing out during the ceremony, and it was all really just Cindy Cindy Cindy and in every photo printed of me-in W, in US, in Rolling Stone-I am holding the same half-empty bottle of Evian.


    We stayed at the Chateau Marmont in a giant suite with a balcony twice its size overlooking West L.A. When Chloe didn''t want to talk she''d rush to the bathroom, turn on the hair dryer full blast and point it toward my calm, bewildered face. Her nickname for me during those weeks out there was "my little zombie." I tried out for and didn''t get the part of a drug addict''s friend in a medical-drama pilot that ultimately was never produced but it didn''t really matter since I was so out of it I even had to reread things Paula Abdul said in interviews. Chloe was always "dying of thirst," there were always tickets for some lame-o screening, our conversations were always garbled, the streets were always-inexplicably-covered with confetti, we were always at barbecues at Herb Ritts'', which were always attended by either Madonna or Josh Brolin or Amy Locane or Veronica Webb or Stephen Dorff or Ed Limato or Richard Gere or Lela Rochon or Ace of Base, where turkey-burgers were always served, which we always washed down with pink-grapefruit iced tea, and bonfires were always lit throughout the city along with the giant cones of klieg lights announcing premieres.

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    When we went to an AIDS fund-raiser thrown by Lily Tartikoff at Barneys, cameras flashed and Chloe''s dry hand clutched my limp hand and she squeezed it only once-a warning-when a reporter from E! television asked me what I was doing there and I said, "I needed an excuse to wear my new Versace tuxedo." I could barely make it up the series of steep staircases to the top floor but once I was there Christian Slater gave me a high five and we hung out with Dennis Leary, Helen Hunt, Billy Zane, Joely Fisher, Claudia Schiffer, Matthew Fox. Someone pointed someone else out to me and whispered "The piercing didn''t take" before melting back into the crowd. People talked about cutting off their hair and burning their fingernails.


    Most people were mellow and healthy, tan and buff and drifting around. Others were so hysterical-sometimes covered with lumps and bruises-that I couldn''t understand what they were saying to me, so I tried to stay close to Chloe to totally make sure she didn''t fall back into any destructive habits and she wore Capri pants and Kamali makeup, canceled aromatherapy appointments that I was unaware she had made, her diet dominated by grape- and lemongrass- and root-beer-flavored granitas. Chloe didn''t return phone calls from Evan Dando, Robert Towne, Don Simpson, Victor Drai, Frank Mancuso, Jr., Shane Black. She was bawling constantly and bought a print by Frank Gehry for something like thirty grand and an Ed Ruscha fog painting for considerably more. Chloe bought Lucien Gau shogun table lamps and a lot of iron baskets and had it all shipped back to Manhattan. Rejecting people was the hot pastime. We had a lot of sex. Everyone talked about the year 2018. One day we pretended to be ghosts.


    Dani Jansen wanted to take us to mysterious places and I was asked by four separate people what my favorite land animal was and since I didn''t know what these were I couldn''t even fake an answer. Hanging out with two of the Beastie Boys at a house in Silver Lake, we met a lot of crew-cut blondes and Tamra Davis and Greg Kinnear and David Fincher and Perry Farrell. "Yum-ice" was a constant refrain while we drank lukewarm Bacardi-and-Cokes and bitched about taxes. In the backyard a pool that had been drained was filled with rubble and the chaise longues had empty syringes scattered all over them. The only question I asked during dinner was "Why don''t you just grow your own?" From where I stood I watched someone take ten minutes to cut a slice of cheese. There was a topiary in the shape of Elton John in the backyard, next to the rubble-strewn pool. We were eating Vicodin and listening to Nico-era Velvet Underground tapes.


    "The petty ugliness of our problems seems so ridiculous in the face of all this natural beauty," I said.


    "Baby, that''s an Elton John topiary behind you," Chloe said.


    Back at the Chateau, CDs were scattered all over the suite and empty Federal Express packages littered the floor. The word "miscellany" seemed to sum up everything we felt about each other or so Chloe said. We had fights at Chaya Brasserie, three in the Beverly Center, one later in Le Colonial at a dinner for Nick Cage, another at House of Blues. We kept telling each other it didn''t matter, that we didn''t care, f**k it, which was actually pretty easy to do. During one of our fights Chloe called me a "peon" who had about as much ambition as a "parking lot attendant." She wasn''t right, she wasn''t wrong. If we were stuck in the suite at the Chateau after a fight there was really no place left to go, either the kitchen or the balcony, where two parrots, named Blinky and Scrubby the Gibbering Idiot, hung out. She lay in bed in her underwear, light from the TV flooding the darkened suite, the Cocteau Twins droning from the stereo, and during these lulls I would wander out by the pool and chew gum and drink Fruitopia while reading an old issue of Film Threat or the book Final Exit, rereading a chapter titled "Self-Deliverance via the Plastic Bag." We were in a nonzone.


    Ten or eleven producers were found dead in various Bel Air mansions. I autographed the back of a Jones matchbook in my "nearly indecipherable scrawl" for some young thing. I mused about publishing my journal entries in Details. There was a sale at Maxfields but we had no patience. We ate tamales in empty skyscrapers and ordered bizarre handrolls in sushi bars done up in industrial-chic decor, in restaurants with names like Muse, Fusion, Buffalo Club, with people like Jack Nicholson, Ann Magnuson, Los Lobos, Sean MacPherson, a. fourteen-year-old male model named Dragonfly who Jimmy Rip really dug. We spent too much time at the Four Seasons bar and not enough at the beach. A friend of Chloe''s gave birth to a dead baby. I left ICM. People told us that they either were vampires or knew someone who was a vampire. Drinks with Depeche Mode. So many people we vaguely knew died or disappeared the weeks we were there-car accidents, AIDS, murders, overdoses, run over by a truck, fell into vats of acid or maybe were pushed-that the amount for funeral wreaths on Chloe''s Visa was almost five thousand dollars. I looked really great.

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    18


    At Conrad''s loft on Bond Street it''s 1:30 which is really the only time to practice since everyone else in the building is at work or at Time Cafe acting like an idiot without trying over lunch, and from where I slouch in the doorway leading into the loft I can see all the members of the Impersonators lying around in various positions, each next to his own amp: Aztec''s wearing a Hang-10 T-shirt, scratching at a Kenny Scharf tattoo on his bicep, Fender in lap; Conrad, our lead singer, has a kind of damp appeal and dated Jenny McCarthy and has wilted hair the color of lemonade and dresses in rumpled linens; Fergy''s wrapped in an elongated cardigan and playing with a Magic 8 Ball, sunglasses lowered; and Fitzgerald was in a gothic rock band, OD''d, was resuscitated, OD''d again, was resuscitated again, campaigned mindlessly for Clinton, modeled for Versace, dated Jennifer Capriati, and he''s wearing pajamas and sleeping in a giant hot-pink-and-yucca-striped beanbag chair. And they''re all existing in this freezing, screwy-looking loft where DAT tapes and CDs are scattered everywhere, MTV''s on, Presidents of the United States merging into a Mentos commercial merging into an ad for the new Jackie Chan movie, empty Zen Palate take-out boxes are strewn all over the place, white roses dying in an empty Stoli bottle, a giant sad rag-doll photo by Mike Kelly dominates one wall, the collected works of Philip K. Dick fill an entire row in the room''s only bookcase, Lava lamps, cans of Play-Doh.


    I take a deep breath, enter the room casually, brush some confetti off my jacket.


    Except Fitz, they all look up, and Aztec immediately starts strumming something from Tommy on his Fender.


    "He seems to be completely unreceptive," Aztec sings-talks. "The tests I gave him show no sense at all."


    "His eyes react to light-the dials detect it," Conrad chimes in. "He hears but cannot answer to your call."


    "Shut up," I yawn, grabbing an ice beer out of the fridge.


    "His eyes can see, his ears can hear, his lips speak," Aztec continues.


    "All the time the needles flick and rock," Conrad admits.


    "No machine can give the kind of stimulation," Fergy points out, "needed to remove his inner block."


    "What is happening in his head?" the three of them sing out.


    "Ooh I wish I knew," Fitzgerald calls from the beanbag chair for one lucid moment. "I wish I kneeeeew." He immediately rolls over into a fetal position.


    "You''re late," Conrad snaps.


    "I''m late? It takes you guys an hour just to tune up," I yawn, flopping onto a pile of Indian pillows. "I''m not late," I yawn again, sipping the ice beer, notice them all glaring at me. "What? I had to cancel a hair appointment at Oribe to make it here." I toss a copy of Spin that''s lying next to an antique hookah pipe at Fitz, who doesn''t even flinch when it hits him.


    "''Magic Touch,''" Aztec shouts out.


    I answer without trying. "Plimsouls, Everywhere at Once, 3:19, Geffen."


    "''Walking Down Madison,''" he tosses out.


    "Kirsty MacColl, Electric Landlady, 6:34, Virgin."


    "''Real World.''"


    "Jesus Jones, Liquidizer, 3:03, SBK."


    "''Jazz Police.''"


    "Leonard Cohen, I''m Your Man, 3:51, CBS."


    "''You Get What You Deserve.''"


    "Big Star, Radio City, 3:05, Stax." I yawn. "Oh, this is too easy."


    "''Ode to Boy.''"


    "Yaz, You and Me Both, 3:35, Sire."


    "''Top of the Pops.''" Aztec''s losing interest.


    "The Smithereens, Blow Up, 4:32, Capitol."


    "If only you gave the band that much attention, Victor," Conrad says in Conrad''s hey-I''m-hostile-here mode.


    "Who came in here last week with a list of songs we should cover?" I retort.


    "I''m not gonna sing an acid-house version of `We Built This City,'' Victor," Conrad fumes.


    "You''re throwing money out the window, dude." I shrug.


    "Covers are nowhere, Victor," Fergy pipes in. "There''s no money in covers.


    "That''s what Chloe always tells me," I say. "And if I don''t believe her, how am I gonna believe you?"


    "What''s the point, Victor?" someone sighs.


    "You, babe"-I''m pointing at Aztec-"have the ability to take a song that people have heard a million times and play it in a way that no one has ever heard it played before."


    "And you''re too f**king lazy to write your own material," Conrad says, pointing back, full of indie-rock venom.

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    "I personally think a cocktail-mix version of `Shiny Happy People'' is hopping-"


    "REM is classic rock, Victor," Conrad says patiently. "We do not do classic-rock covers."


    "Oh god, I want to kill myself," Fergy moans.


    "Hey-but the good news, everyone, is that Courtney Love''s over thirty," I say happily.


    "Okay. I feel better."


    "What kind of royalties is Courtney getting from Nirvana sales?" Aztec asks Fergy.


    "Was there a prenup?" Fergy wonders.


    Shrugs all around.


    "So," Fergy concludes, "since Kurt''s demise maybe nothing."


    "Hey, come on-Kurt Cobain didn''t die," I say. "His music lives on in all of us."


    "We really need to focus on new material, guys," Conrad says.


    "Well, can we at least write one song without a shitty reggae beat that starts off with the line `I was a trippin in da crack house late last night''?" I ask. "Or `Dere''s a rat in da kitchen-what I gonna do?''"


    Aztec pops open a Zima and restrums his Fender contemplatively.


    "When''s the last time you guys made a demo?" I ask, noticing Chloe on the cover of the new Manhattan File next to the latest Wired and the copy of YouthQuake with me on the front, totally defaced with purple ink.


    "Last week, Victor," I hear Conrad say through gritted teeth.


    "That''s a million years ago," I murmur, flipping around for the article about her. It''s all blah blah blah-the last year of doing runway shows, the Lancome contract, her diet, movie roles, denying the rumors about heroin addiction, Chloe talking about wanting to have kids ("A big playpen, the whole thing," she''s quoted), a photo of us at the VH 1 Fashion and Music Awards, with me staring vacantly into the camera, a photo of Chloe at the Doppelganger party celebrating the Fifty Most Fabulous People in the World, Baxter Priestly trailing behind her-and I''m trying to remember what my relationship with Lauren Hynde was like back at Camden or if there even was one, as if, right now, in the loft on Bond Street, it matters.


    "Victor," Conrad''s saying, hands on hips, "a lot of bands are in the music biz for the totally wrong reasons: to make money, to get laid-"


    "Whoa, wait a minute, Conrad." I hold my hands out, sitting up. "These are the wrong reasons? Really? Let me just get this straight."


    "All you do here, Victor, is drink beer and reread magazines that you or your girlfriend happen to be in this month," Conrad says, looming over me.


    "And you''re all so lost in the past, man", I say wearily. "Captain Beefheart records? Yoghurt? What the f**k is like going in here, huh?" I exclaim. "And Jesus, Aztec-cut your toenails! Where are your f**king morals? What do you even do besides going to f**king poetry reading at Fez? Why don''t you go to a f**king gym or something?"


    "I get enough exercise," Aztec says dubiously.


    "Rolling a joint isn''t exercise, guy," I say. "And shave off that goddamn facial hair. You look like a f**king billy goat."


    "I think it''s time you calm down, Victor," Aztec says, "and take your place with the glitterati."


    "I''m just offering you an escape from that whole stale hippie vibe."


    Fergy looks over at me and shivers vaguely.


    "You''re jeopardizing our friendship, dude," I say, though it emerges from my mouth without a lot of concern.


    "You''re never here long enough, Victor, to jeopardize anything!" Conrad shouts.


    "Oh spare me," I mutter, getting up to leave.


    "Just go, Victor," Conrad sighs. "No one wants you here. Go open your big tacky club."


    I grab my portfolio and bag of CDs and head toward the door.


    "You all feel this way?" I''m asking, standing over Fitz, who wipes his nose on the ice-hockey jersey he''s using as a pillow, eyes closed, sleeping serenely, dreaming about cartons of methadone. "I bet Fitz wants me to stay. Don''t you, Fitz?" I ask, leaning down, trying to shake him awake. "Hey Fitz, wake up."


    "Don''t even try, Victor," Fergy yawns.


    "What''s wrong with the Synthman?" I ask. "Besides spending his teen years in Goa."


    "He went on a Jagermeister binge last night," Conrad sighs. "He''s on ibogaine now."


    "And so?" I ask, still prodding Fitz.


    "And for breakfast Ecstasy cut with too much heroin."


    "Too much?"


    "Too much heroin."

 Page 47

    "Instead of like..."


    "The right amount of heroin, Victor."


    "Christ," I mutter.


    "Oh boy, Victor." Conrad smirks. "Farm living''s the life for you."


    "I''d rather be a farmer than hang out with people who drink their own blood, you f**king hippie vampires."


    "Fitz is also suffering from binocular dysphoria and carpal tunnel syndrome."


    "Shine on, you crazy diamond." I rummage in my coat pocket and start handing out free drink tickets. "Well, I guess I''m here to tell you I''m quitting the band and these are only good between 11:46 and 12:01 tonight."


    "So that''s it?" Conrad asks. "You''re just quitting?"


    "I give you my blessing to continue," I say, placing two free-drink tickets on Fitz''s leg.


    "Like you even care, Victor," Conrad says.


    "I think this is good news, Conrad," Fergy says, shaking the Magic 8 Ball. "I think, Far out. In fact Magic 8 Ball says `Far Out'' too." He holds the ball up for us to see.


    "It''s just this whole indie-rock scene equals yuck," I say. "Y''know what I''m saying?"


    Conrad just stares at Fitz.


    "Conrad, hey, maybe we should go bungee jumping with Duane and Kitty this weekend," Aztec says. "How about it, Conrad? Conrad?" Pause. "Conrad?"


    Conrad continues to stare at Fitz, and as I''m leaving he says, "Has anybody realized that our drummer is the most lucid person in this band?"


    17


    Walking up Lafayette unable to shake off the feeling of being followed and stopping on the corner of East Fourth I catch my reflection superimposed in the glass covering of an Armani Exchange ad and it''s merging with the sepia-toned photo of a male model until both of us are melded together and it''s hard to turn away but except for the sound of my beeper going off the city suddenly goes quiet, the dry air crackling not with static but with something else, something less. Cabs lumber by silently, someone dressed exactly like me crosses the street, three beautiful girls pass by, each maybe sixteen and eyeing me, trailed by a thug with a camcorder, the muted, dissonant strains of Moby float from the open doors of the Crunch gym across the street where on the building above it a giant billboard advertises in huge black block letters the word TEMPURA. But someone''s calling "Cut!" and the noise from the construction site of the new Gap behind me and the beeper going off-for some freaky reason it''s the number of Indochine-moves me toward a phone booth where before dialing I imagine a naked Lauren Hynde striding toward me in a suite at the Delano with a deeper sense of purpose than I can muster. Alison picks up.


    "I need to make a reservation," I say, trying to disguise my voice.


    "I''ve got something I want to tell you," she says.


    "What?" I gulp. "Y-you used to be a man?"


    Alison knocks the phone on a hard surface. "Oh sorry, that''s my call-waiting. I''ve gotta go."


    "That didn''t sound like, uh, call-waiting, baby."


    "It''s a new kind of call-waiting. It simulates the sound of someone who''s dating a useless ass**le angrily knocking their phone against a wall."


    "Essential, baby, you''re essential."


    "I want you here at Indochine within two minutes."


    "I''m inundated, baby, totally inundated."


    "What is this? Big-word day?" she snaps. "Just get that ass over here."


    "That ass has got to... see someone."


    "Jesus, Victor, the pregnant pause combined with `someone'' can only mean one person: that idiot you date."


    "Baby, I''ll see you tonight," I fake-purr.


    "Listen, I have Chloe''s number right in front of me, baby, and-"


    "She''s not at home, Medusa."


    "You''re right. She''s at Spy Bar shooting a Japanese TV commercial and-"


    "Damnit, Alison, you-"


    "-I''m in a mood to screw things up. I need to be distracted from that mood, Victor," Alison warns. "I need to be distracted from screwing things up."


    "You''re so phony, baby, it stings," I sigh. "Ouch," I add. "That was for, um, emphasis."


    "Oh Chloe, I''m so sorry. He came on to me. He was un animale. He told me he doesn''t even wuv you."


    "What''s your sick little point, baby?"


    "I just don''t want to share you anymore, Victor," Alison says, sighing as if she could care less. "I''m pretty sure I came to that conclusion at the Alfaro show."

 Page 48

    "You''re not sharing me," I say, which is useless.


    "You sleep with her, Victor."


    "Baby, if I didn''t some HIV positive scumbag would and then-"


    "Oh god!"


    "-we''d all be in a whole helluva lotta trouble."


    "End it!" Alison wails. "Just end it!"


    "And you''re gonna dump Damien?"


    "Damien Nutchs Ross and I are-"


    "Baby, don''t use the full monicker. It''s a bummer."


    "Victor, I keep explaining something to you and you act like you haven''t heard me."


    "What?" I ask, gulping again. "You u-used to be a man?"


    "Without me, and by extension without Damien, you would have no club. Now, how many times do we need to go over this?" Pause, exhale. "Nor would you have a chance to open that other club you''re planning to-"


    "Whoa!"


    "-open behind all our backs."


    We''re both silent. I can envision a slow, triumphant smile pulling Alison''s lips upward.


    "I don''t know why you think these things, Alison."


    "Shut up. I will only continue this conversation at Indochine." A pause that I let happen. Because of it, Alison calls out, "Ted-could you ring up Spy Bar for me?" She clicks off, daring me.


    Past the limousine parked out front next to a giant pile of black and white confetti and up the stairs into Indochine, where Ted the maitre d'' is being interviewed by "Meet the Press" wearing a giant top hat, and I ask him, "What''s the story?" Never breaking eye contact with the camera crew, I follow his finger as it points to a booth in the rear of the empty, freezing restaurant, noise from the latest PJ Harvey CD in the dank background. Alison spots me, stubs out a joint and gets up from a table where she''s on her Nokia 232 cell phone to Nan Kempner and eating cake with Peter Gabriel, David LaChapelle, Janeane Garofalo and David Koresh, all of them discussing lacrosse and the new monkey virus, a copy of this month''s Mademoiselle next to each plate.


    Alison pulls me into the back of the restaurant, pushes me into the men''s room and slams the door.


    "Let''s make this quick," she growls.


    "As if there''s any other way with you," I sigh, spitting out a piece of bubble gum.


    She lunges at me, clamping her mouth onto mine. In a matter of seconds she pulls back and frantically tears open a zebra-print waistcoat.


    "You were so cold to me earlier," she pants. "As much as I hate to admit it, I got wet."


    "I haven''t seen you all day, baby." I''m pulling her tits out of a beige push-up bra.


    "At the Alfaro show, baby." She pulls an electro-cut miniskirt with charred seams up over tan thighs, pushing down a white pair of panties.


    "Baby, how many times do we need to go through this?" I''m unbuttoning my jeans. "I wasn''t at the Alfaro show."


    "Oh my god, you''re such an absolute dick," she groans. "You spoke to me at the Alfaro show, baby." She glares cross-eyed while thrusting her tongue in and out of my mouth. "Barely, but you spoke."


    I''m at her neck and in mid-lick I straighten up, my pants falling to the floor, and just stare into her sex-crazed face. "You''re smoking wa-a-a-ay too much weed, baby."


    "Victor..." She''s delirious, my hand in her crotch, two now three fingers inside her, lolling her head back, licking her own lips, grinding down on my hand, her pu**y tightening around my fingers. "I''m just about through with this-"


    "With what?"


    "Just come here." She grabs my dick, squeezes it hard and pulls it condomless toward her, rubbing its head along the lips of her pu**y. "Feel this? Is this real?"


    "Against my better instincts, yes," I say, slamming into her, just how Alison likes it. "But baby, I sense someone is causing major mischief."


    "Baby, just f**k me harder," she groans. "And lift up your shirt. Let''s see that bod work."


    Afterwards, walking slowly back through the deserted restaurant, I grab a half-drunk Greyhound off a table and swish some around in my mouth before, spitting it back into the highball glass. While I''m wiping my lips with the sleeve of my jacket, Alison turns to me, sated, and admits, "I''ve been followed all day."


    I stop moving. "What?"


    "Just so you know, I''ve been followed all day." She lights a cigarette while moving past me, drifting by busboys setting up tables for tonight.


    "Alison-are you telling me that those goons are outside right now?" I slam my hand against a table. "Oww-oh shit, Alison."

 Page 49

    She turns around. "I lost those goons in a Starbucks an hour ago."


    She exhales, offers me the Marlboro. "If you can believe anyone''s stupid enough to lose someone in a Starbucks."


    "Starbucks can get pretty crowded, baby," I say, taking the cigarette from her, dazed yet relieved.


    "I''m not worried about them," she says lightly.


    "I think the fact that you can only have sex in the bathroom at Indo- chine should like give you major pause, baby."


    "I wanted to celebrate the fact that our worries about a certain photograph are over."


    "I talked to Buddy," I say. "I know."


    "What horrible string did you pull?" she asks admiringly. "Confirm Chloe''s nasty ex-habit?"


    "You don''t want to know."


    She considers this. "You''re right," she sighs. "I don''t."


    "Did you make Damien buy that new 600SEL?"


    "Actually he leased it," Alison mutters. "Asshole."


    "Damien''s not an ass**le."


    "I wasn''t referring to him, but yes he is."


    "Hey, tell me what you know about Baxter Priestly."


    "Someone with amazing cheekbones." She shrugs. "In the band Hey That''s My Shoe. He''s a model-slash-actor. Unlike you, who''s a model-slash-loser."


    "Isn''t he like a fag or something?"


    "I think Baxter has a major crush on Chloe Byrnes," she says, eyes flickering gleefully over my face for a reaction, then, after thinking about something, she shrugs. "She could do worse."


    "Oh boy, Alison."


    She''s laughing, relaxed. "Victor-just keep an eye out."


    "What are you saying?" I ask, stretching.


    "What is it you always say?" she asks. "The better you look, the more you see. Is that it?"


    "Are you saying that Baxter Priestly and Chloe are-what, Alison?" I ask, arms still spread out. "Humping?!?"


    "Why are you even worried?" She hands me back the cigarette. "What do you see in that poor little girl besides a staggering intellect?"


    "What about Lauren Hynde?" I ask casually.


    Alison stiffens up noticeably, plucks the cigarette from my lips, finishes it, starts moving toward the front of the restaurant.


    "Barely anything. Two Atom Egoyan movies, two Hal Hartley movies, the latest Todd Haynes. Oh, and a small part in the new Woody Allen. That''s about it. Why?"


    "Whoa," I say, impressed.


    "She''s so out of your league, Victor, it''s not even funny." Alison takes her coat and purse from a stool at the bar.


    "What''s that supposed to mean?"


    "It means I don''t think you have to worry about being taken seriously by her," Alison says. "You''re not gonna be."


    "I''m just having a fly time, bay-bee." I shrug.


    "She apparently had that whole hair-pulling madness disease. It disappeared entirely under Prozac therapy. Or so they say."


    "So you''re basically saying we''re caught in a trap and we can''t back out? Is that it?" I''m asking.


    "Well, you''re going to have to take the back way out." She kisses me on the nose.


    "There is no back way out, Alison."


    "Then just give me five." She yawns, buttoning up.


    "Where are you going?" I ask sheepishly. "I suppose a ride is out of the question considering the circumstances, huh?"


    "I have an extremely vital hair appointment at Stephen Knoll," Alison says, squeezing my cheek. "Kiss-kiss, bye-bye."


    "See you tonight," I say, waving wanly.


    "Big time," she mutters, walking down the stairs, outside, away from me.


    16


    Umberto guards the door at Spy Bar on Greene Street waving flies away with a hand


    holding a walkie-talkie and wishes me luck tonight and lets me in and I head up the stairs smelling my fingers then duck into the men''s room where I wash my hands and stare at myself in the mirror above the sink before I remember time is fleeting, madness takes its toll and all that and in the main room the director, assistant director, lighting cameraman, gaffer, chief electrician, two more assistants, Scott Benoit, Jason Vorhee''s sister, Bruce Hulce, Gerlinda Kostiff, scenic ops and a Steadicam operator stand around a very large white egg, mute, video cameras circling, filming a video of the making of the commercial, photographers taking pictures of the video team.


    Chloe sits away from them at a large booth in the back of the room. A group of makeup artists holding gels and brushes surround her and she''s wearing rhinestone-studded hot pants, a minidress with a flippy skirt and she looks unnaturally happy in this twilight zone but after catching my gaze she just shrugs helplessly. Someone named, I think, Dario, who used to date Nicole Miller, wearing sunglasses and a Brooks Brothers coconut hat with a madras band and a telescope crown and sandals, is lying on a tatami mat nearby, with a Mighty Morphin Power Rangers tattoo on his bicep. I use the phone at the bar to check my messages: Balthazar Getty, a check for my tai chi instructor bounced, Elaine Irwin, a publicist from my gym, Val Kilmer, Reese Witherspoon. Someone hands me a cafe au lait and I hang out with this model named Andre and share a too tightly rolled joint by a long buffet table covered with really trendy sushi and Kenny Scharf- designed ice buckets and Andre''s life is basically made up of lots of water, grilled fish and all the sports he can do and he has a look that''s young, grungy, somewhat destitute but in a hip way. "I just want people to smile a little more," Andre''s saying. "And I''m also concerned with the planet''s ecological problem."

 Page 50

    "That''s so cool," I say, gazing at thin sheets of light-blue ice that cover an entire wall, lie in patches on the bar and on the mirrors behind the bar. Someone walks by in a parka.


    "And I''d like to open a restaurant in the shape of a giant scarab."


    We both stand there staring at the egg and then I slowly walk away, explaining, "My cafe au lait''s a little too foamy, guy."


    The makeup team has finished and they leave Chloe alone and I move over to where she''s staring at us in a giant portable mirror that sits in the middle of the table, magazines scattered everywhere around her, some with Chloe''s face on the cover.


    "What''s with the glasses?" she asks.


    "Reef says it''s fashionable to look like an intellectual this season." It''s so cold our breath frosts, comes out in puffs.


    "If someone asked you to eat your own weight in Silly Putty, would you do that too?" she asks quietly.


    "I''m a-buggin'', I''m a-jumpin'', baby."


    "Victor, I''m so glad you know what''s important and what''s not."


    "Thanks, babe." I lean in to kiss her neck but she flinches and whispers something about disturbing powder, so I end up placing my lips on top of her scalp.


    "What am I smelling?" I ask.


    "I''ve been using vodka to lighten my hair," she says sadly. "Bongo got a whiff at the Donna Karan show and started muttering the Serenity Prayer."


    "Don''t sweat it, baby. Remember that all you have to do is say cheese about two hundred times a day. That''s it!"


    "Being photographed six hours straight is sheer torture."


    "Who''s the dude in the corner, baby?" I gesture toward the guy on the tatami mat.


    "That''s La Tosh. We go way back. I''ve known him for weeks. We met over a spring roll at Kin Khao."


    "Tres jolie." I shrug.


    "Supposedly he''s one of Rome''s best-connected psychos," she sighs. "Do you have any cigarettes?"


    "Hey, what happened to the nicotine patch you were gonna wear today?" I ask, concerned.


    "It was making me all wobbly on the runway." She takes my hand and looks up into my face. "I missed you today. Whenever I''m really tired I miss you."


    I lean in, hug her a little, whisper into her ear. "Hey-who''s my favorite little supermodel?"


    "Take those glasses off," she says sourly. "You look like somebody who''s trying too hard. You look like Dean Cain."


    "So what''s the story?" I remove the frames, slip them back into their case.


    "Alison Poole has called about ten times today," Chloe says, looking around the table for cigarettes. "I haven''t called her back. Do you have any idea what she wants?"


    "No, baby. Why?"


    "Well, didn''t you see her at the Alfaro show?"


    "Baby, I wasn''t at the Alfaro show." I pull a small piece of confetti from her hair.


    "Shalom said she saw you there."


    "Shalom needs new contacts, then, baby."


    "So why are you visiting me?" she asks. "Are you sure you don''t have a cigarette?"


    I check all my pockets. "I don''t think so, baby." I find a pack of Mentos, offer her one. "Um, I just wanted to stop in, say hello, the usual. I''ve gotta be back at the club, meet this DJ we desperately need for the party tonight and then I''ll see you at Todd''s show."


    "I''ve got to be out of here in forty minutes if I''m going to make it for hair." She takes a sip from a Fruitopia bottle.


    "God, it''s freezing in here," I say, shivering.


    "This week has been hell, Victor," Chloe says blankly. "Maybe the most hellish week of my life."


    "I''m here for you, baby."


    "I know I should be comforted by that," she says. "But thank you anyway."


    "I''ve just been so swamped today, baby, it''s totally scary," I say. "I''ve just been so totally swamped."


    Chapter Six


    "We really need to treat ourselves to a vacation," Chloe says.


    "So what''s the story, baby?" I try again. "What''s this thing about?" I ask, gesturing toward the crew, the egg, the guy on the tatami mat.


    "I''m not sure, but Scott is supposed to be some kind of phantom- android obsessed with curry-the spice-and we have a fight about whatever people who look like us have fights about and I throw a cube, some kind of-oh, I don''t know-a cube at him and then, according to the script, he ''flees.''"

 Page 51

    "Yeah, that''s right," I say. "I remember the script."


    "And then the bad phantom-android-"


    "Baby," I interrupt gently. "The synopsis can wait."


    "We''re waiting," Chloe says. "Scott forgot his dialogue."


    "Baby, I read the shooting script," I say. "He only has one line. Singular."


    The seventeen-year-old director moves over to the booth holding a walkie-talkie and he''s wearing DKNY silver jeans and sunglasses and it''s all kind of a glam combo. "Chloe, we''ve decided to shoot the first shot last."


    "Taylor, I''m desperately needed somewhere in less than an hour," Chloe pleads. "It''s a matter of life or death. Taylor, this is Victor."


    "Hey," Taylor says. "We met at Pravda last week."


    "I wasn''t at Pravda last week but oh what the hell, forget it-how''s it going?"


    "The extras are cool kids but we want to portray a lifestyle that people can relate to," Taylor explains. I''m nodding deeply. "My vision is to create the opposite of whatever smuggling Pervitin back from Prague in a rented Toyota means." An interruption, static from the walkie-talkie, garbled screams from across the room. "That''s just Lars, the runner." Taylor winks.


    "Taylor-" Chloe starts.


    "Baby, you will be whisked out of this room in less than thirty, I promise." Taylor moves back to the group surrounding the egg.


    "God, my nerves are fraught," she says.


    "What does that mean?"


    "It means it has taken a week to shoot this and we''re three weeks behind schedule."


    Pause. "No, what does `fraught'' mean?"


    "It means I''m tense. It means I''m very tense."


    Finally: "Baby, we gotta talk about something."


    "Victor, I''ve told you that if you need any money-"


    "No, no." Pause. "Well, actually that too, but..."


    "What?" She looks up at me, waiting. "What is it, Victor?"


    "Baby, it''s just that I''m getting really, um, I''m getting really nervous opening up magazines and reading about who your ideal man is."


    "Why is that, Victor?" She turns back to the mirror.


    "Well, I guess the main reason is that"-I glance over at La Tosh and lower my voice-"it''s like the total opposite of me?"


    "Oh, so what?" She shrugs. "I said I liked blonds."


    "But baby, I''m really a brunette."


    "Victor, you read this in a magazine, for god''s sake."


    "Jesus, and all this shit about having kids." I''m moving around now. "Spare me, baby. What''s the story? What''s the megillah?"


    "You''ll forgive me, Victor, if I have no idea what `megillah'' means."


    "Baby, I''m your best friend, so why don''t-"


    "A mirror''s your best friend, Victor."


    "Baby, it''s just that..." I trail off hopelessly. "I... care about us and..."


    "Victor, what''s wrong? What is it? Why are you doing this now?"


    I recover slightly. "Nothing, nothing. It''s nothing." I''m shaking my head, clearing it.


    "I''ve been holding an ice cube all day," Chloe says.


    "Your fingers are turning blue and you''ve been rolling around with Scott Benoit all day. Is that what you''re saying?"


    Music from a boom box, something British, Radiohead maybe, a ballad, lush and sad, plays over the scene.


    "Victor, all I want to do, in the following order, is Todd''s show, your opening and then collapse into bed, and I don''t even wanna do two of those."


    "Who''s Baxter Priestly?" I blurt out.


    "He''s a friend, Victor. A friend. My friend," she says. "You should get to know some of them."


    I''m about to take her hand but think better of it. "I ran into one today. Lauren Hynde." I wait for a reaction but there isn''t one. "Yeah, I saw her before band practice when I was buying CDs at Tower Records. She seemed like really hostile."


    "Buying CDs at Tower? Band practice? These are the essentials? You were swamped? What else did you do today? Visit a petting zoo? Take glass-blowing lessons?"


    "Hey baby, chill out. I met a friend of yours. That should soothe you-"


    "I''m dating an imbecile and I should be soothed by this?"


    A long pause, then, "Baby, I''m not an imbecile. You''re very cool."

 Page 52

    She turns away from the mirror. "Victor, you don''t know how many times in a day I come within inches of slapping you. You just don''t know."


    "Whoa, baby. I don''t think I want to. Makes me nervous." I smile, shivering.


    The runner comes by the booth. "Chloe, your limo''s here and Taylor needs you in about five minutes."


    Chloe just nods. When it becomes clear that I''ve got nothing else to say she fills the silence by murmuring, "I just want to finish this thing," and since I don''t know what thing she''s really talking about I start to babble. "Baby, why are you even doing this? I thought it was strictly features for Chloe Byrnes. You turned down that MTV thing."


    "You didn''t want me to do that MTV thing, Victor."


    "Yeah, but only when I found out what your per diem was."


    "No. You said no when you found out that you didn''t have one."


    "Might as well face it," I say. "You''re addicted to love."


    "Chloe," Taylor calls from the egg. "We''re ready. And please hurry. Mr. Benoit might forget his line again."


    "I''ll see you later, Victor." She slides out of the booth.


    "Okay," I say simply. "Bye, baby."


    "Oh Victor, before I forget."


    "Yeah?"


    "Thanks for the flowers."


    She kisses me lightly, moves on.


    "Yeah. Sure. Forget about it."


    15


    4:00. From my third-floor vantage the club hasn''t been this bustling since its inception and tables are being set by handpicked busboys who just skateboarded in, waiters brandishing glasses and tablecloths and candles also set chairs around the tables and the carpets are being vacuumed by guys with shag haircuts and a couple of waitresses who arrived early are being photographed by shadowy clumps of people while dancers rehearse amid technicians and security teams and guest-list people and three gorgeous coat-check girls chew gum and flaunt their midriffs and pierced belly buttons and bars are being stocked and giant flower displays are in the process of being strategically lit and Matthew Sweet''s "We''re the Same" is blaring and the metal detectors sit in place at the entrance waiting to be entered and I''m taking it all in blankly, considering fleetingly what it all means and also that being semi-famous is in itself difficult but since it''s so cold in the club it''s hard to stay still so I rush up two flights to the offices more relieved than I should be that everything''s finally falling into place.


    "Where was Beau? I called him four times today," I ask JD the second I enter.


    "Acting class, then an audition for the new big vampire movie," JD says.


    "What''s it called?" I throw a clump of invites on my desk. "Fagula?"


    "Now he''s interviewing DJs in the VIP room in case we don''t get DJ X tonight," JD says, a fey warning.


    "You know, JD, that outfit would look really good on a girl."


    "Here, Victor," JD says, grimly handing me a fax.


    I KNOW WHO YOU ARE AND I KNOW WHAT YOU''RE DOING is scrawled on the fax addressed to me that JD basically stuffs into my hands, looking vaguely panicked.


    "What is this?" I ask, staring at the words.


    "Seven of them have arrived since you left for lunch."


    "Seven of them?" I ask. "What the f**k does it mean?"


    "I think they''re coming from the Paramount Hotel," JD says, finding another one. "Someone has made sure that the logo was erased on top of the fax sheets but Beau and I caught half the number on the second one and it matched."


    "The Paramount?" I ask. "What does this mean?"


    "Victor, I don''t want to know what it means," JD says, shivering. "Just make the bad man go away."


    "Jesus, it could apply to anything," I mutter. "So ultimately it''s like meaningless." I crumple it up. "Would you please eat this? Chew carefully."


    "Victor, you need to make an appearance in front of the DJs upstairs," JD says carefully.


    "Do you think I''m actually being stalked?" I ask. "Wait-how cool."


    "And the Details reporter is hanging out with the DJs and-"


    I start to move out of the office, JD trailing behind.


    "-here are more late RSVPs." JD hands me another fax as we head toward the VIP room.


    "Dan Cortese?" I''m asking. "A brave man. He bungee jumps, he sky surfs, he''s a Burger King spokesperson, but he needs a nose job and I want Dan Cortese unplugged."

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    "Richard Gere is coming, Victor," JD says, keeping up. "And Ethan Hawke, Bill Gates, Tupac Shakur, Billy Idol''s brother Dilly, Ben Stiller and Martin Davis are also coming."


    "Martin Davis?" I groan. "Jesus, let''s just invite George the Pee Drinker and his good friend Woody the Dancing Amputee."


    "So is Will Smith, Kevin Smith and, um, Sir Mix-a-Lot," JD says, ignoring me.


    "Just apprise me of the crouton situation." I stop in front of the velvet curtains leading into the VIP room.


    "The croutons are in excellent shape and we''re all incredibly relieved," JD says, bowing.


    "Don''t mock me, JD," I warn. "I will not be mocked."


    "Now wait-before you go in," JD says. "It''s pretty much a catastrophe, so just, y''know, give your usual winning spiel and get the f**k out of there. They just want to know that you, er, exist." JD thinks about it. "On second thought-" He''s about to hold me back.


    "You''ve got to be sensitive to their needs, JD," I tell him. "They''re not just DJs. They''re music designers."


    "Before you go in, Jackie Christie and Kris Spirit are also available."


    "Lesbian DJs, man? I don''t know. Is it happening? Is it cool?" I slap on a pair of wraparound green-tinted sunglasses before I slip into the VIP room, where a mix of seven guys and girls hang out in two booths, Beau sitting on a chair in front of them with a clipboard. The loony Details girl reporter, hovering dangerously nearby, waves and JD says "Hey, Beau" in a very professional way and then glumly introduces me. "Hey everybody-here''s Victor Ward."


    "My nom de guerre in clubland," I faux-gush.


    "Victor," Beau says, standing. "This is Dollfish, Boomerang, Joopy, CC Fenton, Na Na and, um"-he checks his clipboard-"Senator Claiborne Pell."


    "So-o-o," I ask, pointing at the guy with blond dreadlocks. "What do you play?"


    "I play Ninjaman but also a lot of Chic and Thompson Twins, and man, this is all kind of borderline bogus."


    "Beau, take note of that," I instruct. "How about you?" I ask, pointing at a girl wearing a harlequin outfit and dozens of love beads.


    "Anita Sarko taught me everything I know and I also lived with Jonathan Peters," she says.


    "You''re warming this place up, bay-bee," I say.


    "Victor," JD says, pointing at another DJ, hanging back in the dark. "This is Funkmeister Flex."


    "Hey Funky." I lower my sunglasses for a wink. "Okay, guys, you got three turntables, a tape deck, a DAT player, two CD players and a reel- to-reel for delay effects to spin your respective magic. How does that sound?"


    Muffled cool noises, mindless looks, more cigarettes lit.


    "While you''re spinning," I continue, pacing, "I want you all to sulk. I don''t want to see anyone enjoying themselves. Got it?" I pause to light a cigarette. "There is techno, there is house, there is hard house, there''s Belgian house, there''s gabba house." I pause again, unsure of where I''m going with this, then decide to segue into "I don''t want to be sweating in an actual warehouse. I want that sweating-in-a-warehouse feeling in a three-million-dollar nightclub with two VIP rooms and four full bars."


    "It should be very chill," JD adds. "And don''t forget ambient dub-we should have that too."


    "I want instantaneous buzz," I say, pacing. "It''s not a lot to ask. I just want you to make these people dance." I pause before adding, "And abortion-clinic violence does not interest me."


    "Um..." Dollfish tentatively raises a hand.


    "Dollfish," I say. "Please speak."


    "Um, Victor, it''s already four-fifteen," Dollfish says.


    "Your point, sistah?" I ask.


    "What time do you need one of us?" she asks.


    "Beau-please take care of these questions," I say, bowing, before sweeping out of the room.


    JD follows me as I head back up toward Damien''s office.


    "Really nice, Victor," JD says. "You inspired people, as usual."


    "That''s my job," I say. "Where''s Damien?"


    "Damien has instructed me not to have anyone interrupt him right now," JD says.


    "I have got to complain to him about inviting Martin Davis," I say, heading back up the stairs. "Things are getting horrific."


    "That''s not a good idea, Victor." JD runs ahead of me. "He was very insistent that there be no interruptions."

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    "Turn the beat around, JD."


    "Um... why?"


    "Because I love to hear percussion."


    "Don''t do this now, Victor," JD pleads. "Damien wants to be left alone."


    "But that''s the way, uh-huh uh-huh, I like it, uh-huh uh-huh."


    "Okay, okay," JD pants. "Just get that fabulous ass over to Fashion Cafe, nab DJ X and do not sing `Muskrat Love."''


    "`Muskrat Suzy, Muskrat Sa-a-am... ''"


    "Victor, I''ll do whatever you want."


    "London, Paris, New York, Munich, everybody talk about-pop music." I tweak his nose and march toward Damien''s chamber.


    "Please, Victor, let''s go the other way," JD says. "The better way."


    "But that''s the way, uh-huh uh-huh, I like it."


    "He doesn''t want to be bothered, Victor."


    "Hey, I don''t either, so get away from me, you little mo."


    "Victor, he told me to hold all calls and-"


    "Hey-" I stop, turning toward him, pulling my arm out of his grasp. "I''m Victor Ward and I''m opening this club and I am sure that I am-what''s the word? oh yeah-exempt from Mr. Ross''s rules."


    "Victor-"


    I don''t even knock, just stride in and begin bitching.


    "Damien, I know you didn''t want to be bothered but have you checked the guest list for this thing? We have people like Martin Davis supposedly stopping in and I just think that we have to be careful about who the paparazzi are going to see and who they''re not..."


    Damien''s standing by the windows of his office, a large expanse of glass that overlooks Union Square Park, and he''s wearing a polka-dot shirt and Havana-style jacket and he''s pressed up against a girl wearing an Azzedine Alaia wrap coat and a pair of Manolo Blahnik high heels, all covered in pink and turquoise, who immediately disengages from him and flops onto a green hop sofa.


    Lauren Hynde has changed since I saw her outside Tower Records earlier this afternoon.


    "And, um, I, um..." I trail off, then recover and say, "Damien-I love that moneyed beachcomber look on you, baby."


    Damien looks down at himself, then back at me, smiles tightly as if nothing''s really wrong, and in the overall context of things maybe it isn''t, then he says, "Hey, I like that unconstructed boxy look you got going."


    Stunned, I look down at my hip-hugger pants, the tight satin shirt, the long leather coat, forcing myself not to glance over at the green hop sofa and the girl lounging on it. A long, chilly silence none of us are able to fill floats around, acts cool, lives.


    JD suddenly sticks his head in, the Details girl looking over his shoulder, both of them still stuck in the doorway, as if there''s a dangerous invisible line existing that they are not allowed to cross.


    "Damien, I''m sorry about the interruption," he says.


    "It''s cool, JD," Damien says, moving over to the door and closing it in their faces.


    Damien moves past me and I''m concentrating on staring out the window at people in the park, squinting to make some of them come into focus, but they''re too far off and anyway Damien enters my view, dominating it, and picks up a cigar on his desk and a book of matches from the Delano. The new issue of Vanity Fair sits by an Hermes lamp, along with various glossy Japanese magazines, CDs, a PowerBook, a bottle of Dom Perignon 1983 in an ice bucket, two half-empty flutes, a dozen roses, which Lauren will not carry out of this room.


    "Jesus f**king Christ," Damien snaps. I flinch. "Why in the f**k is Geena Davis on the cover of goddamn Vanity Fair? Does she have a movie out? No. Is she doing anything new? No. Jesus Christ, the world''s falling apart and no one cares. How do these things happen?"


    Not looking over at Lauren Hynde, I just shrug amiably. "Oh, you know how it happens: a shoe ad here, a VJ spot there, a bit part in ''Baywatch,'' a bad indie film, then boom: Val Kilmer."


    "Maybe she has cancer." Lauren shrugs. "Maybe she went on a big shopping expedition."


    "Do you guys know each other?" Damien asks. "Lauren Hynde, Victor Ward."


    "Hey, Lauren." I manage a ghastly little wave, which turns into a peace sign, then back into a ghastly little wave.


    "Hi." She tries to smile without looking at me, concentrating on her fingernails.


    "You two know each other?" Damien asks again, pressing.


    "Oh yeah, sure," I say. "You''re friends with Chloe."


    "Yes," she says. "And you''re..."

 Page 55

    "I''m her... yeah, well..."


    "You two knew each other at college, right?" Damien asks, still staring at us.


    "But we haven''t seen each other since then," Lauren says, and I''m wondering if Damien catches the harshness of her tone, which gratifies me.


    "So this is like a little reunion?" Damien jokes. "Right?"


    "Sort of," I say blankly.


    Damien has now decided just to continue staring at me.


    "Well, Damien, um, you know..." I stop, start again. "The DJ situation is-"


    "I called Junior Vasquez today," Damien says, lighting the cigar. "But he has another party tonight."


    "Another party?" I gasp. "Oh man, that is so low."


    Lauren rolls her eyes, continues studying her nails.


    Damien breaks the silence by asking, "Don''t you have a meeting soon?"


    "Right, right, I gotta get outta here," I say, moving back toward the door.


    "Yeah, and I have a how-to-relax-in-cyberspace seminar in ten minutes," Damien says. "Ricki Lake told me about it."


    JD buzzes on the intercom. "Sorry, Damien-Alison on line three."


    "In a minute, JD," Damien says.


    "It''s hard to tell her that," JD says before getting cut off.


    "Victor," Damien says. "You wanna walk Lauren out?"


    Lauren gives Damien an almost imperceptible glare and gets up too quickly from the sofa. In front of me she kisses Damien lightly on the lips and he touches the side of her face, each of them silently acknowledging the other, and I can''t look away until Damien glances over at me.


    I can''t say anything until we''re outside the club. I picked up my Vespa from the coat-check room and am now wheeling it across Union Square, Lauren listlessly moving next to me, the sound of the vacuums inside the club fading behind us. Klieg lights are being rolled across patches of lawn and a film crew is shooting something and extras seem to be wandering aimlessly all around the park. Guillaume Griffin and Jean Paul Gaultier and Patrick Robinson stroll past us. Hordes of Japanese schoolchildren Rollerblade toward the new Gap on Park Avenue and beautiful girls drift by wearing suede hats and ribbed cardigans and Irish jockey caps and there''s confetti strewn all over the benches and I''m still looking down as my feet move slowly along the concrete, walking across large patches of ice so thick that the wheels on the Vespa can''t even crack them and the bike still smells of the patchouli oil I rubbed into it last week, an impulsive move that seemed hip at the moment. I keep my eyes on the guys who pass Lauren by and a couple even seem to recognize her and squirrels skate over the patches of ice in the dim light and it''s almost dark out but not yet.


    "What''s the story?" I finally ask.


    "Where are you going?" Lauren hugs her wrap coat tighter around herself.


    "Todd Oldham show," I sigh. "I''m in it."


    "Modeling," she says. "A man''s job."


    "It''s not as easy as it may look."


    "Yeah, modeling''s tough, Victor," she says. "The only thing you need to be is on time. Hard work."


    "It is," I whine.


    "It''s a job where you need to know how to wear clothes?" she''s asking. "It''s a job where you need to know how to-now let me get this straight-walk?"


    "Hey, all I did was learn how to make the most of my looks."


    "What about your mind?"


    "Right," I snicker. "Like in this world"-I''m gesturing-"my mind matters more than my abs. Oh boy, raise your hand if you believe that." Pause. "And I don''t remember you majoring in Brain Surgery at Camden."


    "You don''t even remember me at Camden," she says. "I''d be surprised if you even remember what happened Monday."


    Stuck, trying to catch her eyes, I say, "I modeled... and had a... sandwich." I sigh.


    Silently we keep moving through the park.


    "He looks like a goddamn schmuck," I finally mutter. "He gets his shorts tailored. Jesus, baby." I keep wheeling the Vespa along.


    "Chloe deserves better than you, Victor," she says.


    "What does that mean?"


    "When''s the last time it was just you and her?" she asks.


    "Oh man-"


    "No, seriously, Victor," she says. "Just you and her for a day without any of this bullshit around you?"


    "We went to the MTV Movie Awards," I sigh. "Together."


    "Oh god," she moans. "Why?"

 Page 56

    "Hey, it''s the twentysomething Oscars."


    "Exactly."


    A giant billboard of Chloe that went up last week above the Toys ''?'' Us on Park suddenly comes into sharp focus through the dead trees, her eyes glaring down at us, and Lauren sees it too and then I''m looking back at the building the club is in and the windows appear blackened in the cold light of late afternoon.


    "I hate this angle," I mutter, pulling us out of the shot and steering Lauren across Park so we have some privacy on a street behind the Zeckendorf Towers. She lights a cigarette. I light one too.


    "He was probably watching us," I say.


    "So act natural," she says. "You don''t know me anyway."


    "I want to know you," I tell her. "Can we see each other tomorrow?"


    "Aren''t you going to be too busy basking in the glow of your success?"


    "Yeah, but I want to share it with you," I say. "Lunch?"


    "I can''t," she says, taking another drag. "I have a luncheon at Chanel."


    "What do you want, Lauren?" I''m asking. "Some yuppie guy to take you out to Le Cirque every night?"


    "What''s better?" she asks back. "Unable to pay your rent and depressed and trembling in the local Kentucky Fried Chicken?"


    "Oh please. That''s the only alternative?"


    "You''d marry him if you could, Victor."


    "Damien''s totally not my type, baby."


    "That''s probably not true," she says softly.


    "You want him to give you-what? Things? You want to discover the true meaning of suburban life? You think that goombah''s even in the Social Register?"


    "Damien is in the Social Register."


    "Well, yeah, right, sure."


    "There was a time, Victor, when I wanted you," she says, taking a drag on the cigarette. "There was actually a moment, Victor, when all I ever wanted was you." Pause. "I find it hard to believe myself, but well, there it is."


    "Baby, you''re cool," I say very softly. "Please-you''re very cool."


    "Oh stop it, Victor," she says. "You''re so full of shit."


    "What? You''re still not into me?"


    "I need a commitment, Victor," she says. "You''re the last person on earth I''d ever ask for one from."


    "Like you''re gonna get it from Damien Nutchs Ross? Spare me, baby. Just spare me."


    She finishes the cigarette and starts to move slowly up Park.


    "How long have you been doing it with Alison Poole?"


    "Hey, watch it." Almost instinctively I look for Duke or Digby, but they''re not around. "Why do you think that shit''s true?"


    "Is it true?"


    "If it is: how do you know?"


    "Oh god, Victor, who doesn''t?"


    "What does that mean?"


    "The only two books she owns are the Bible and The Andy Warhol Diaries, and the Bible was a gift," Lauren mutters. "Queen of the f**king pig people."


    "I guess I''m not following."


    "That doesn''t sound like you, Victor." She smiles at me and then says, "It''s nice to have someone responsible around-"


    "You mean loaded. You mean rich. You mean moola."


    "Maybe."


    "What? You don''t like me because maybe I''m hustling a little? You don''t like me because I''m like affected by the recession?"


    "Victor," she says, "if only you cared this much when you first met me."


    I lean in, kiss her on the mouth hard, and I''m surprised that she lets me and after I pull away she presses her face up into mine, wanting the kiss to continue, her hand clutching mine, her fingers grasping my fingers. Finally I break it off and mumble that I''ve got to get uptown and in a very casual, hip way, without even really trying, I hop on the Vespa, kick it into gear and speed up Park without looking back, though if I had been I would''ve seen Lauren yawning while she waved for a cab.


    14


    A black Jeep, its top up, its windows tinted, wheels in behind me on 23rd Street and as I zoom through the Park Avenue tunnel whoever''s driving flips on his brights and closes in, the Jeep''s fender grazing the back of the Vespa''s wheel guard.


    I swerve onto the dividing line, oncoming traffic racing toward me while I bypass the row of cabs on my side, heading toward the wraparound at Grand Central. I accelerate up the ramp, zoom around the curve, swerving to miss a limo idling in front of the Grand Hyatt, and then I''m back on Park without any hassles until I hit 48th Street, where I look over my shoulder and spot the Jeep a block behind me.

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    The instant the light on 47th turns green the Jeep bounds out of its lane and charges forward.


    When my light turns I race up to 51st, where the oncoming traffic forces me to wait to turn left.


    I look over my shoulder down Park but I can''t see the Jeep anywhere.


    When I turn back around, it''s idling next to me.


    I shout out and immediately slam into an oncoming cab moving slowly down Park, almost falling off the bike, and noise is a blur, all I can really hear is my own panting, and when I lift the bike up I veer onto 51st ahead of the Jeep.


    Fifty-first is backed up with major gridlock and I maneuver the Vespa onto the sidewalk but the Jeep doesn''t care and careens right behind me, halfway on the street, its two right wheels riding the curb, and I''m yelling at people to get out of the way, the bike''s wheels kicking up bursts of the confetti that litters the sidewalk in layers, businessmen lashing out at me with briefcases, cabdrivers shouting obscenities, blaring their horns at me, a domino effect.


    The next light, at Fifth, is yellow. I rev up the Vespa and fly off the curb just as the traffic barreling down the avenue is about to slam into me, the sky dark and rolling behind it, the black Jeep stuck on the far side of the light.


    Fashion Cafe is one block away and at Rockefeller and 51st I hop off the bike and run with it behind the mostly useless vinyl ropes that stand outside the doors keeping away no one because there''s no one to keep away.


    I''m gasping at Byana, the doorman this afternoon, to let me in.


    "Did you see that?" I''m shouting. "Those ass**les tried to kill me."


    "What else is new?" Byana shrugs. "So now you know."


    "Listen, I''m just gonna wheel this in." I motion toward the bike. "Just let me leave it right inside here for ten minutes."


    "Victor," Byana says, "what about that interview you promised me with Brian McNally?"


    "Just give me ten minutes, Byana," I pant, wheeling the bike inside.


    The black Jeep idles at the corner and I duck down to peer through the glass doors of Fashion Cafe, watching as it slowly makes the turn and disappears.


    Jasmine, the hostess, sighs when she sees me move through the giant lens that doubles as a hallway and enter the main room of the restaurant.


    "Jasmine," I say, holding my hands up. "Just ten, baby."


    "Oh Victor, come on," Jasmine says, standing behind the hostess podium, cell phone in hand.


    "I''m just gonna leave the bike there." I point back at the Vespa leaning against a wall near coat check.


    ''We''re empty," she relents. "Go on in."


    The whole place is totally deserted. Someone hollowly whistles "The Sunny Side of the Street" behind me and when I turn around nobody''s there and I realize it could be the last notes of the new Pearl Jam song over the sound system but as I''m waiting for a new song to start it becomes apparent that it sounded too clear, the whistling was too human and I shrug it off and move deeper inside Fashion Cafe, past someone vacuuming confetti off the floor and a couple of bartenders changing shifts and a waitress adding up tips at the Mademoiselle booth.


    The only person at any of the tables is a youngish guy with a Caesar hair cut looking like a thirtyish Ben Arnold, wearing sunglasses and what looks like a black three-button Agnes B. suit, sitting in the Vogue booth behind the fake Arc de Triomphe that hogs the middle of the main dining room. DJ X is looking a little too sharp this afternoon, though pretty sleek nonetheless.


    He looks up questioningly, lowering the sunglasses, and then I take a semi-arrogant turn around the room before moving over to the booth.


    He takes the sunglasses off and says, "Hello." He offers his hand.


    "Hey, where''s the baggy pants?" I sigh, slipping into the booth, lightly slapping the hand around. "Where''s the oversized zigzag-print T-shirt? Where''s the new issue of Urb? Where''s that groovy mop of bleached chopped hair?"


    "I''m sorry." He cocks his head. "I''m sorry, but what?"


    "So here I am," I say, spreading my arms wide. "I exist. So will you do it or not?"


    "Do... what?" He puts down a purple menu in the shape of a Hasselblad camera.


    "One of the DJs we interviewed today actually wanted to play ''Do the Bartman,"'' I moan. "He said it was ''unavoidable.'' He said it was his ''signature'' song. Can you believe how f**ked up the world is at this moment?"


    The guy slowly reaches into his jacket and pulls out a card and hands it to me. I look at it, vaguely catch a name, F. Fred Palakon, and below that a phone number.

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    "Okay, baby," I say, breathing in. "Top fee for a DJ on a Thursday night in Manhattan is five hundred but since we''re in a bind and according to all my g*y friends you''re the hippest thing since Astrolube and we need you badly we''ll up it to five-forty."


    "Thank you, Mr. Johnson-excuse me, Mr. Ward-but I''m not a DJ."


    "I know, I know. I meant music designer."


    "No, I''m afraid I''m not that either, Mr. Ward."


    "Well, uh, like who are you then and why am I sitting across from you in a booth in Fashion Cafe?"


    "I''ve been trying to get ahold of you for weeks," he says.


    "You''ve been trying to get ahold of me?" I ask. "You''ve been trying to get ahold of me? My answering machine''s not really happening this week, I guess." I pause. "Do you have any pot?"


    Palakon scans the room, then looks slowly back at me. "No. I do not."


    "So what''s the story, morning glory?" I''m staring at the remake of La Femme Nikita on one of the video monitors hanging near the Arc de Triomphe. "You know, Palakon, you really got that whole very well dressed educated rich junkie thing going on, man. If you don''t have it"-I shrug helplessly-"well, my man, you might as well be sucking up a soft-serve cone in an Idaho Dairy Queen in between painting barn silos, huh?"


    Palakon just stares across the table at me. I offer him a cinnamon toothpick.


    "Did you attend Camden College in New Hampshire during the years 82 to, ah, 1988?" Palakon asks gently.


    Staring back at him, I blankly answer, "I took half a year off." Pause. "Actually four of them."


    "Was the first one in the fall of 1985?" Palakon asks.


    "Could''ve been." I shrug.


    "Did you know a Jamie Fields while attending Camden College?"


    I sigh, slap my hands on the table. "Listen, unless you have a photo-no dice, my man."


    "Yes, Mr. Ward," Palakon says, reaching for a folder sitting next to him. "I happen to have photos."


    Palakon offers me the folder. I don''t take it. He coughs politely and sets it on the table in front of me. I open the folder.


    The first set of shots are of a girl who looks like a cross between Patricia Hartman and Leilani Bishop and she''s walking down a runway, the letters DKNY vaguely legible in the background, photos of her with Naomi Campbell, one with Niki Taylor, another of her drinking martinis with Liz Tilberis, various shots of her lounging on a couch in what looks like a studio at Industria, two of her walking a small dog in the West Village and one, which looks as if it was taken with a telephoto lens, of her moving along the commons at Camden, heading toward the rim of that lawn before it drops offinto the valley below, nicknamed End of the World by students suffering from vertigo.


    The second set of shots abruptly place her in front of the Burlington Arcade in London, on Greek Street in Soho, in front of the American Airlines terminal at Heathrow. The third set I come across is a pictorial. I''m in with her and Michael Bergin and Markus Schenkenberg, where we''re modeling ''60''s-inspired swimwear. I''m about to jump into a pool wearing white trousers and a Nautica tank top and she''s looking at me darkly in the background; the three of us are fooling around with hula hoops; another has us dancing on a patio; in one I''m on a raft in the pool, spitting out an arc of water while she bends down at water''s edge motioning for me to come closer. Since I do not remember this shoot at all, I start to close the folder, unable to look at any more photos. My first reaction is: that''s not me.


    "Does this help your memory?" Palakon asks.


    "Whoa, pre-tattoo," I sigh, noticing my bicep curled around Michael''s neck before I close the folder. "Jesus, that must''ve been the year everyone wore Levi''s with ripped knees."


    "It, um, may have been," Palakon says, sounding confused.


    "Is this the girl who signed me up for Feminists for Animal Rights?" I ask. "FAR?"


    "Um... um..." Palakon flips through his file. "She was a"-he squints at a sheet of paper-"a pot activist. Does that help?"


    "Not enough, baby." I open the folder again. "Is this the girl I met at Spiros Niarchos''s fortieth-birthday party?"


    "No."


    "How do you know?"


    "We-I-know that you did not meet Jamie Fields at Spiros Niarchos''s fortieth-birthday party." Palakon closes his eyes, squeezing the bridge of his nose. "Please, Mr. Ward."


    I just stare at him. I decide to try another tactic. I lean in to Palakon, which causes him to lean toward me hopefully.

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    "I want techno techno techno," I stress, suddenly noticing a half-eaten Oriental chicken salad on a plate with Anna Wintour''s face on it at the end of the table.


    "I... didn''t order that," Palakon says, startled, and then, looking at the plate, asks, "Who is that?"


    "That''s Anna Wintour."


    "No." He cranes his neck. "It isn''t."


    I push some of the rice noodles and a tiny slice of mandarin away, revealing the entire face, sans sunglasses.


    "Oh. You''re right."


    "Really happening place," I yawn.


    A waitress walks by. I whistle for her to stop.


    "Hey baby, I''ll have an ice beer."


    She nods. I watch her move away, thinking two words: not bad.


    "Don''t you have a runway show at six?" Palakon asks.


    "I''m a model. I''m a lush. But it''s cool. I''m cool." I suddenly realize something. "Wait-is this like an intervention or something?" I ask. "Because I''ve laid off the blow for-jeez, it must be weeks now."


    "Mr. Ward," Palakon starts, his patience snapping. "Supposedly you dated this girl."


    "I dated Ashley Fields?" I ask.


    "Her name is Jamie Fields and at one point somewhere in your past yes, you did."


    "I''m not interested in any of this, man," I point out. "I thought you were a DJ, man."


    "Jamie Fields disappeared three weeks ago from the set of an independently financed movie that was being shot in London. The last sightings of Jamie Fields were at the Armani store on Sloane Street and L''Odeon on Regent Street." Palakon sighs, flips through his file. "She has not been heard from since she left the set."


    "Maybe she didn''t like the script." I shrug. "Maybe she felt they didn''t develop her character well enough. It happens, man."


    "How"-Palakon looks down at his file, confused-"would you know?"


    "Proceed, O Cool One," I say casually.


    "There are certain individuals who would be pleased if she was found," Palakon says. "There are certain individuals who would like her brought back to America."


    "Like her agent and stuff?"


    Palakon, at the instant I say this, immediately relaxes, almost as if he suddenly realizes something, and it makes him smile widely for the first time since I sat down and he says, "Yes. Her agent. Yes."


    "Cool."


    "There have been unconfirmed sightings in Bristol, but that was ten days ago," Palakon says. "Basically we have not been able to locate her."


    "Baby?" I lean in again.


    "Er, yes?" He leans in too.


    ''"You''re pitching a concept nobody gets," I say quietly.


    "I see."


    "So she''s an MTA?"


    "Excuse me?"


    "Model-turned-actress?"


    "I suppose so."


    Models are sashaying endlessly down runways on the giant screen above the Arc de Triomphe, even Chloe a couple of times.


    "Did you ever see me on the cover of YouthQuake magazine?" I ask suspiciously.


    "Er... yes." Palakon has trouble admitting this, for some reason.


    "Cool." I pause. "Can I borrow two hundred dollars from you?"


    "No."


    "Cool. That''s cool."


    "This is superfluous," he mutters. "Totally superfluous."


    "What does that mean? That I''m a jerk? That I''m some kind of ass**le? That I''m a bakehead?"


    "No, Mr. Ward," Palakon sighs. "It doesn''t mean any of those things."


    "Listen-you''ve got the wrong guy," I say. "I''m outta here." I stand up. "Spare me."


    Palakon looks up at me and with a dreamy gaze says, "We''re offering you three hundred thousand dollars if you find her."


    There''s no hesitation. I sit back down.


    "Plus all traveling expenses," he adds.


    "Why... me, dude?" I''m asking.


    "She was in love with you, Mr. Ward," Palakon says loudly, startling me. "At least according to her journal entries for the year 1986."


    "How... did you get those?" I ask.


    "Her parents showed them to us."


    "Oh man," I groan. "Why don''t they come to me, then? What are you- their flunky? That was last decade, man."


    "Basically," he says, reddening, "I''m simply here, Mr. Ward, to make an offer. Three hundred thousand dollars to find Jamie Fields and bring her back to the States. That''s it. You seem to have meant a lot to this girl, whether you remember her or not. We think you might be able to... sway her."

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    After a while I ask, "How did you find me?"


    Without pausing, Palakon says, "Your brother told me where to find you."


    "I don''t have a brother, man."


    "I know," Palakon says. "Just testing. I trust you already."


    I''m studying Palakon''s nails-pink and smooth and clean. A busboy rolls


    a barrel of avocados into the kitchen. Loops of the fall shows repeat themselves endlessly.


    "Hey," I say. "I still need a DJ."


    "I can arrange that."


    "How?"


    "Actually I already have." He pulls out a cell phone and hands it to me. I


    just stare at it. "Why don''t you call your associates at the club?"


    "Uh... why?"


    "Just do it, Mr. Ward. Please," Palakon says. "You don''t have much time."


    I flip the cell phone open, punch in my number at the club. JD answers.


    "It''s... me," I say, scared for some reason.


    "Victor," JD says breathlessly. "Where are you?"


    "Fashion Cafe."


    "Get out of there."


    "Why?"


    "We''ve got Junior Vasquez tonight," he squeals.


    "How?" I''m staring right into Palakon''s face. "How... did that happen?"


    "Junior''s manager called Damien and said Junior wants to do it. We''re set."


    I hang up the phone and place it slowly, deliberately, on the table. I study Palakon''s face very carefully, thinking a lot of things through, and then I ask him, "Can you do anything about getting me into Flatliners II?"


    "We can talk about that later, Mr. Johnson."


    "Also any role where I could play a callow American Eurail traveler."


    "Will you consider this proposal?" Palakon asks.


    "You haven''t sent me any faxes, have you?"


    "What faxes?" he asks, placing the folder of photos in a thin black briefcase. "What did they say?"


    "''I know who you are and I know what you''re doing.''"


    "I already know who you are, Mr. Johnson, and I already know what you''re doing," he says, snapping the briefcase shut.


    "Whoa-what are you?" I ask, vaguely impressed. "A f**king watchdog?"


    "You might say so," he sighs.


    "Listen." I check my watch. "We''ll, um, talk later, I guess. That''s just too much moola to ignore, baby."


    "I was hoping that you could give me an answer now."


    I stare at him, lost. "You want me to go to London and find some girl I don''t even remember dating?"


    "So you''ve understood me," Palakon says, visibly relieved. "For a moment there I was worried that nothing was registering."


    Suddenly contemplative, I stare into Palakon''s face. "You look like the kind of guy who eats his own scabs," I murmur. "Did you know that? That you look like that kind of guy?"


    "I''ve been called many things, Mr. Ward, but a scab-eater has not been among them."


    "Hell, there''s a first time for everything, buddy," I sigh, pushing myself away from the table, standing up. Palakon keeps staring at me, which makes me nervous and all tingly, creeps me out in a way I''ve never been creeped out before.


    "Hey, look-it''s Ricki Lake hugging a street urchin." I point at a video monitor behind Palakon''s head.


    Palakon turns his head to look.


    "Ha-ha-made you look." I start walking away.


    Palakon stands up. "Mr. Ward-"


    "Hey," I call from across the room. "I''ve got your card."


    "Mr. Ward, I-"


    "I''ll talk to you later, man. Peace."


    The restaurant is still totally deserted. I can''t even see Byana or Jasmine or the waitress I ordered the ice beer from anywhere. When I reach my bike someone''s stuck a giant fax on one of the handlebars: I KNOW WHAT YOU''RE DOING AND I KNOW WHAT YOU SAID. I grab it and run back into the soft light of the main room to show Palakon, but that room, too, is empty.


    Chapter Seven


    The show''s at Bryant Park even though it was supposed to be in an abandoned synagogue on Norfolk Street but Todd freaked when he heard it was haunted by the ghosts of two feuding rabbis and a giant floating knish and as I roll up to the back entrance-42nd Street jammed with TV vans and satellite dishes and limousines and black sedans-photographers have already lined up, calling out my name as I flash my pass at the security guards. Behind barricades groups of teenagers shout out for Madonna even though she''s not expected to show because she''s too busy facing down her latest stalker in court but Guy from Maverick Records promised to appear and Elsa Klensch and a CNN camera crew''s interviewing FIT students about their favorite designers and just an hour ago the runway was shortened because of the supposed overflow of five hundred and there was a desperate need to add room for the three hundred standees. Video monitors have been set up outside for the overflow''s overflow. The show cost $350,000 to put on so everyone needs to see it.

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    Backstage preshow is a blur of clothes racks and taped instruction sheets and Polaroids of outfits and tables of wigs along with a lot of fierce airkissing and hundreds of cigarettes being lit and naked girls running around and basically no one really paying attention. A huge poster overlooking the scene screams WORK IT in giant black letters, the sound track from Kids plays at an excruciating decibel level. Rumors abound that two models are missing, either running late from another show or being abused by their scummy new boyfriends in a limo stalled in traffic somewhere on Lexington but no one really knows.


    "The buzzword today is tardy, no?" Paull, the director of the show, bitches direly at me. "I don''t think so."


    "As if," I Alicia-Silverstone-in-Clueless back at him.


    "Okay-five minutes to first looks," calls out Kevin, the producer from Hastings, Minnesota.


    Todd runs around frantically, managing to somehow calm shaking, frightened, wiped-out models with just a kiss. I''m kissing a heavily eye- shadowed Chloe, who is surrounded by clothes hanging from racks and looking exactly like someone should look who has been shooting a Japanese soda-pop commercial for most of the day, but I tell her she looks like a "total doll" and she does. She complains about blisters and the brown paper pedicure sandals on her feet while Kevyn Aucoin, wearing a clear plastic tool belt and an orange ruffled Gaultier body shirt, powders her cle**age and glosses her lips. Orlando Pita has done the girls'' hair and we''re all definitely opting for semi-understatement here and pearly cream pink eye shadow, upper lids done, lower rims just about. Someone rubs a fake tattoo of Snappy the Shark on my left pectoral while I smoke a cigarette then eat a couple of Twizzlers that I wash down with a Snapple an assistant hands me while someone inspects my belly button, vaguely impressed, and someone else cam- cords the event-another modern moment completed.


    Modeling Todd''s new ''70s-influenced punk/New Wave/Asia-meets-East-Village line are Kate Moss paired with Marky Mark, David Boals with Bernadette Peters, Jason Priestley with Anjanette, Adam Clayton with Naomi Campbell, Kyle MacLachlan with Linda Evangelista, Christian Slater with Christy Turlington, a recently slimmed-down Simon Le Bon with Yasmin Le Bon, Kirsty Hume with Donovan Leitch, plus a mix of new models-Shalom Harlow (paired with Baxter f**king Priestly), Stella Tennant, Amber Valletta-and some older ones including Chloe, Kristen McMenamy, Beverly Peele, Patricia Hartman, Eva Herzigova, along with the prerequisite male models: Scott Benoit, Rick Dean, Craig Palmer, Markus Schenkenberg, Nikitas, Tyson. There will be one hundred eighty costume changes. My first walk: black swimsuit and black T-shirt. Second walk: bare-chested. Third walk: pair of slacks and a tank top. Fourth walk: bikini briefs and a tank top. But everyone will probably be gazing at Chloe, so in a way it''s all kind of mooty. Todd recites his preshow instructions: "Big smiles and be proud of who you are."


    On the first walk Chloe and I head toward a multitude of long zoom lenses that go nuts when we approach. Under the TV floodlights models glide by each other, each foot swinging effortlessly around the other. Chloe''s hips are swaying, her ass is twisting, a perfect pirouette at the runway''s end, our stares unflinching, full of just the right kind of attitude. In the audience I''m able to spot Anna Wintour, Carrie Donovan, Holly Brubach, Catherine Deneuve, Faye Dunaway, Barry Diller, David Geffen, Ian Schrager, Peter Gallagher, Wim Wenders, Andre Leon Talley, Brad Pitt, Polly Mellon, Kal Ruttenstein, Katia Sassoon, Carre Otis, RuPaul, Fran Lebowitz, Winona Ryder (who doesn''t applaud as we walk by), Rene Russo, Sylvester Stallone, Patrick McCarthy, Sharon Stone, James Truman, Fern Mallis. Music selections include Sonic Youth, Cypress Hill, Go-Go''s, Stone Temple Pilots, Swing Out Sister, Dionne Warwick, Psychic TV and Wu-Tang Clan. After the final walk with Chloe I back off slightly and Todd grabs her by the waist and they both bow and then she pulls away and applauds him and I have to resist the impulse to stand back next to her and then everyone jumps onto the runway and follows everyone else backstage to Will Regan''s after-show party.


    Backstage: "Entertainment Tonight," MTV News, AJ Hammer from VH1, "The McLaughlin Group," "Fashion File" and dozens of other TV crews push through the tents, which are so clogged no one can really move, overhead microphones towering over the crowd on long poles. It''s freezing backstage even with all the lights from the video crews, and huge clouds of secondhand smoke are billowing over the crowd. A long table is covered with white roses and Skyy martinis and bottles of Moet and shrimp and cheese straws and hot dogs and bowls of jumbo strawberries. Old B-52 records blare, followed by Happy Mondays and then Pet Shop Boys, and Boris Beynet and Mickey Hardt are dancing. Hairstylists, makeup artists, mid-level transvestites, department store presidents, florists, buyers from London or Asia or Europe, are all running around, being chased by Susan Sarandon''s kids. Spike Lee shows up along with Julian Schnabel, Yasmeen Ghauri Nadege, LL Cool J, Isabella Rossellini and Richard Tyler.

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    I''m trying to meet the vice president of casting and talent at Sony but too many retailers and armies of associates and various editors with what seems like hundreds of cameras and microphones hunched over them keep pushing through the tents, relegating me to the boyfriends-and-male-models-sitting-around-slack-jawed corner, some of them already lacing up their Rollerblades, but then I''m introduced to Blaine Trump''s cook, Deke Haylon, by David Arquette and Billy Baldwin. A small enclave consisting of Michael Gross, Linda Wachner, Douglas Keeve, Oribe and Jeanne Beker is talking about wanting to go to the club''s opening tonight but everyone''s weighing the consequences of skipping the Vogue dinner. I bum a Marlboro from Drew Barrymore.


    Then Jason Kanner and David, the owner of Boss Model, both tell me they had a wild time hanging with me at Pravda the other night and I just shrug "whatever" and struggle over to Chloe''s makeup table, passing Damien, who has a cigar in one hand and Alison Poole in the other, her sunglasses still on, angling for photo ops. I open Chloe''s bag while she''s being interviewed by Mike Wallace and search her datebook for Lauren Hynde''s address, which I find and then take $150 and when Tabitha Soren asks me what I think about the upcoming elections I just offer the peace sign and say "Every day my confusion grows" and head for Chloe, who looks really sweaty, holding a champagne flute to her forehead, and I kiss her on the cheek and tell her I''ll swing by her place at eight. I head for the exit where all the bodyguards are hanging out and pass someone''s bichon frise sluggishly lifting its head and even though there are hundreds of photo ops to take advantage of it''s just too jammed to make any of them. Someone mentions that Mica might be at Canyon Ranch, Todd''s engulfed by groovy wellwishers and my feelings are basically: see, people aren''t so bad.


    12


    I pull up to Lauren''s apartment at the Silk Building right above Tower Records where I saw her earlier this afternoon and as I roll the Vespa up to the lobby the teenage doorman with the cool shirt picks up a phone hesitantly, nodding as Russell Simmons walks past me and out onto Fourth Street.


    "Hey." I wave. "Damien to see Lauren Hynde."


    "Er... Damien who?"


    "Damien... Hirst."


    Pause. "Damien Hirst?"


    "But actually it''s just Damien." Pause. "Lauren knows me as just Damien."


    The doorman stares at me blankly. "Damien," I say, urging him on a little. "Just... Damien."


    The doorman buzzes Lauren''s apartment. "Damien''s here?" I reach out to feel the collar of his shirt, wondering where he got it. "What is this?" I''m asking. "Geek chic?"


    He waves my hand away, taking a karate stance. A pause, during which I just stare at him.


    "Okay," the doorman says, hanging up the phone. "She says the door''s open. Go on up."


    "Can I leave the moped here, man?"


    "It might not be here when you get back."


    I pause. "Whoa, dude." I wheel the bike into an elevator. "Hakuna matata."


    I check my nails, thinking about the Details reporter, the crouton situation, a conversation I had on a chairlift in a ski resort somewhere that was so inane I can''t even remember what was said. The elevator doors slide open and I lean the bike in the hallway just outside Lauren''s apartment. Inside: all white, an Eames folding screen, an Eames surfboard table, the roses I saw in Damien''s office lie on a giant Saarinen pedestal surrounded by six tulip chairs. MTV with the sound off on a giant screen in the living room: replays of today''s shows, Chloe on a runway, Chandra North, other models, ABBA''s "Knowing Me, Knowing You" coming from somewhere.


    Lauren walks out of her bedroom wearing a long white robe, a towel wrapped around her hair, and when she looks up to see me standing in the middle of the room asking "What''s the story, baby?" she lets out a little yelp and falls back a few steps but then composes herself and just glares, eyes frozen, arms crossed, mouth set hard-a woman''s stance I''m familiar with.


    "Aren''t you going to bother to hide your annoyance?" I finally ask. "Aren''t you gonna like offer me a Snapple?"


    "What are you doing here?"


    "Don''t freak."


    She moves over to a desk piled high with fashion magazines, flicks on a crystal chandelier, rummages through a Prada handbag and lights a Marlboro Medium. "You''ve got to get out of here."


    "Hey, can''t we just talk for a minute, baby?" "Victor, leave," she warns impatiently and then scrunches her face up. "Talk?"

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    "I''ll vacate only after we chat."


    She considers this and, grimacing, forces herself to ask quickly, "Okay-how was the Oldham show?"


    "Very major," I say, slouching around the room. "Chatted with Elsa Klensch. The usual."


    "How is Elsa?" she asks, still glaring.


    "Elsa and I are both Capricorns so we get along very nicely," I say. "Is it cold in here or is it just me?"


    "And otherwise?" she asks, waiting.


    "It was, er, very, very-oh yeah-important"


    "Important?" Lauren asks semi-dubiously.


    "Clothes are important, baby."


    "They eventually clean furniture, Victor."


    "Hey," I exclaim. "Lighten up, baby."


    "Victor, you''ve got to get out of here."


    "What were you doing?" I ask, moving around the room, taking the whole apartment in. "Why weren''t you at the show?"


    "I had a photo shoot promoting a terrible movie I''m in with Ben Chaplin and Rufus Sewell," she hisses, barely able to contain herself. "Then I took a bubble bath and read an article on the impossibility of real emotion on the Upper East Side in New York magazine." She stubs out the cigarette. "This was a draining conversation, yet one I''m glad we had. The door''s over there in case you''ve forgotten."


    She walks past me, down a hallway covered with a Berber-style woven carpet and Moroccan embroidered pillows stacked against the walls and then I''m in her bedroom, where I flop on the bed, leaning back on my elbows, my feet barely touching the floor, watching as Lauren stalks into the bathroom and begins toweling her hair dry. Behind her a poster for some indie film starring Steve Buscemi hangs above the toilet. She''s so annoyed-but maybe in a fake way-that I have to say, "Oh come off it, I''m not so bad. I bet you hang out with guys who say things like ''But what if I want a new Maserati'' all the time. I bet your life is filled with that." I stop, then add, "Too."


    She picks up a half-empty glass of champagne by the sink, downs it.


    "Hey," I say, pointing at the framed poster. "You were in that movie?"


    "Unfortunately," she mutters. "Notice where it''s hanging?"


    She closes her eyes, touches her forehead.


    "You just finished a new movie?" I ask softly.


    "Yes." Suddenly she searches through an array of Estee Lauder jars, Lancome products, picks up a L''Occitane butter massage balm that Chloe also uses, reads the ingredients, puts it down, finally gives up and just looks at herself in the mirror.


    "What''s it about?" I ask as if it matters. "It''s kind of like Footloose," she says, then pauses and delicately whispers, "But set on Mars." She waits for my reaction.


    I just stare at her from the bed. A longish silence. "That''s so cool, baby."


    "I wept on the set every day."


    "Did you just break up with someone?"


    "You-are-a-dunce."


    "I''m waiting to see if I''m getting a role in Flatliners II," I mention casually, stretching.


    "So we''re in the same boat?" she asks. "Is that it?"


    "Alison Poole told me you were doing pretty well."


    She swigs from a nearby bottle of Evian. "Let''s just say it''s been lucratively tedious."


    "Baby, I''m sensing that you''re a star."


    "Have you seen any of my movies?"


    Pause. "Alison Poole told me you were doing-"


    "Don''t mention that cunt''s name in this apartment," she screams, throwing a brush at me.


    "Hey baby," I say, ducking. "Come here, baby, chill out."


    "What?" she asks, irritably. "Come where?"


    "Come here," I murmur, staring straight at her. "Come here," I say, patting the comforter.


    She just stares at me lying on the bed, my shirt pulled up a little, showing off my lower abs, my legs slightly spread. Sometime during all of this my jacket came off.


    "Victor?"


    "Yeah?" I whisper.


    "What does Chloe mean to you?"


    "Come here," I whisper.


    "Just because you''re a gorgeous guy doesn''t give you any more rights than...," she falters, picks up: "... anyone else."


    "I know, baby. It''s cool." I sit up, gazing at her, never breaking eye contact. She moves toward me.


    "Come on," I say. "That''s it."


    "What do you want, Victor?"

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    "I want you to come over here."


    "What are you?" she asks, suddenly pulling back. "One of the fringe benefits of being a pretty girl?"


    "Hey, I''m a stud muffin." I shrug. "Take a bite."


    A flicker of a smile that tells you she will probably do anything. It''s time to relax and play it differently. I reach into my jeans, lifting up my shirt a little more so that she can see the rest of my stomach and spreading my legs even wider so she can spot the bulge in my jeans. I offer her a Mentos.


    "You really look like you work out," I say. "How do you keep in such buff shape, doll?"


    "Not eating helps," she mutters.


    "So you''re refusing the Mentos?"


    She smiles, barely, and nods.


    "Are you coming to the club tonight?" I ask.


    "To the Copa? The Copacabana? The hottest spot north of Havana?" she asks, clapping her hands together, eyes wide with fake delight.


    "Hey, don''t be dissing me, sistah."


    "Where''s Chloe now, Victor?" she asks, moving closer.


    "Who was your last significant other, baby?"


    "An ex-rogue trader I met at a screenplay-writing seminar, then Gavin Rossdale," she says. "Oh, and Adam Sandler for three days."


    "Oh shit." I smack my forehead. "Now I know who you are. Now I remember."


    She smiles a little, warming up. "Who are you dating now, Victor?" She pauses. "Besides Alison Poole?"


    "Hey, I thought that name wasn''t allowed in this apartment." "Only someone who owns a voodoo doll of her with five hundred pins stuck in its head and an extra-large Snickers bar strapped to its ass can," she says. "Now, who are you dating, Victor? Just say it. Just let me hear you say a name."


    "Four that wanna own me, two that wanna stone me, one that says she''s a friend of mine."


    She smiles now, standing over the bed.


    "Can I ask you something?" I ask.


    "Can you?"


    "You won''t freak out?"


    "It depends."


    "Okay. Just promise me you''ll take this within a certain context."


    "What?"


    "It''s just that..." I stop, breathe in, laugh a little.


    "It''s just what?"


    Now, playing it very seriously, I say, "It''s just that I really want to stick my tongue up your pu**y right now." I''m squeezing my dick through my jeans, staring straight at her. "I promise I won''t do anything else. I just have this urge to lick your pu**y right now." I pause, shyly. "Can I?"


    She breathes in but doesn''t move away.


    "Are you going to complain about my behavior?" I ask.


    "No," she says.


    "Come here," I say.


    Her eyes move over my body.


    "Come here," I say again.


    She just stands there, deciding what to do, unmoving.


    "Is there a... dilemma?" I''m asking.


    "Victor," she sighs. "I can''t."


    "Why?" I ask. "Come here."


    "Because it''s like you''re back from... outer space or something," she says. "And I don''t know you."


    "You''re a little hard to unwrap too, baby."


    She lets her robe drop.


    "I think we should maybe end the conversation here," I say.


    She kneels over me, pushing me back down on the bed, straddling my waist. I work one finger into her pu**y, finally just easing it in, then two fingers, and her own fingers are rubbing her clit and I sit up and start licking and sucking on her br**sts. I take my fingers out of her pu**y and put them in my mouth, telling her how much I want to eat her pu**y, and then I easily flip her onto her back and spread her legs wide apart and push them back so her whole pu**y is spread out, available, and I start fingerfucking her while licking and sucking on her clit. I stick another finger in my mouth and slip it in between her legs, lower, until it touches her ass**le, pressing lightly against it. I''m rock hard and I''ve pulled my pants down to my knees, my ass sticking up in the air, stroking myself off, my tongue way up her cunt, but then she pulls me up to her br**sts, urging me to suck her ni**les, and still stroking my prick I immediately move up and we start eating each other''s mouths, sucking hungrily, and she''s gripping my c**k and rubbing it against her lower lips and then my cock''s sliding up into her without any effort and she starts humping hard on it and I start meeting her thrusts and she''s coming and then the intercom buzzes and the doorman''s voice announces, "Lauren-Damien Ross is on his way up," and we both freeze.

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    "Oh shit" She stumbles up and grabs her robe off the floor and then she''s running down the hallway, calling out, "Get dressed- Damien''s here."


    "Oh shit, baby." Panicked, I sit up, misjudge my place on the bed and fall off. I immediately pull my pants up and tuck my boner, aching and still stiff and wet, back into my Calvins.


    "He''s early," she groans, racing back into the room. "Shit!"


    "Early for what?" I ask.


    When I turn around she''s at the closet, tearing through dresses and stacks of sweaters until finally she finds a black ladies'' hat-cool-looking, with a tiny red flower embroidered on its side-and she studies it for a nanosecond before shoving it at me. "Here."


    "What?" I''m asking. "This is your idea of a disguise?"


    "Tell him you came by to pick it up for Chloe," she says. "And wipe your face off."


    "Lauren, baby," I say. "Chill out."


    "You shouldn''t have come over." She starts moving down the hallway. "I''m an idiot for not throwing you out."


    "I thought we were having a pretty good time," I say, following her.


    "Well, that''s not what we should''ve been doing," she yells. "That''s not what we should''ve been doing," she whispers.


    "Hey, don''t say that."


    "Let''s just find a place to stand and call it a weak moment," she says. "You shouldn''t have come over."


    "Baby, you''ve established that-I get it, okay?" I follow her into the living room and find a casual place to position myself.


    "No, stand here," Lauren says, tying the sash on her robe.


    "As if we''re-oh god-talking."


    "Okay, what do you want to talk about?" I ask, calming down. "How hard you make my dick?"


    "Just give me that damn hat back."


    "Chloe would more likely wear a rotting log around her neck."


    "She dates you, so what do you know?"


    Damien walks in, holds up the cigar in his hand and says, "Hey baby, don''t worry, it''s not lit." They don''t bother to kiss and in a really serene way Damien nods at me, gives a cute little wave and says, "Hey Victor."


    "Hey Damien." I give a cute little wave back.


    "You''re everywhere today, huh?"


    "Everywhere at once-that''s me."


    "Victor," Lauren says. "Tell Chloe she can return this to me anytime, okay, Victor?" She hands me back the hat.


    "Yeah, sure, Lauren. Um, thanks." I look at the hat, turning it around in my hands, inspecting it. "Nice... hat."


    "What''s that?" Damien asks.


    "A hat," Lauren says.


    "For who?" he asks.


    "Chloe," Lauren and I say at the same time.


    "Victor came by to pick it up for her," she finishes.


    "When''s she gonna wear that?" Damien asks. "What''s the urgency?"


    "Tonight," I say. "She''s going to wear it tonight."


    The three of us look at each other and something weird, something a little too intimate, passes between us, so we all look back at the hat.


    "I can''t look at this hat anymore," Lauren says. "I have to take a shower."


    "Baby, wait," Damien says. "I''m in a real rush. We have to talk about something."


    "I thought we already discussed what you want to discuss," she says tightly.


    "Victor," Damien says, ushering Lauren out of the room. "We''ll be right back."


    "No problemo, guys."


    I check my messages: Gavin Palone, Emmanuelle Beart, someone from Brillstein-Grey, someone else who I''ve decided looks good with his new goatee. It''s freezing in the apartment. Everything suddenly seems slightly exhausting, vaguely demanding: the lifting of a spoon, the draining of a champagne flute, the glance that means you should go, even pretending to sleep. There''s a room somewhere and in that room all the tables are empty but all of them are reserved. I check the time. Next to my watch is a stray piece of confetti I''m too tired to brush off and I could really use some chips and salsa since I''m famished. I know who you are and I know what you said.


    At the bar Damien pours himself a shot of Patron tequila and stares forlornly at his cigar. "She won''t let me smoke in here." He pauses. "Well, not cigars." I''m aware for the first time that Damien''s actually sort of really good-looking and in this light I can''t even tell he has extensions; his hair looks thick and black and strong, and I''m touching my jaw, limply, to see if it feels as hollowed out as Damien''s looks.

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    "It''s cool," I say.


    "Victor, what are you doing here?"


    I hold up the hat.


    "Yeah?" he asks. "Really?"


    "Hey, I heard about Junior Vasquez DJ''ing tonight," I say, elegantly changing the subject.


    Damien sighs tiredly. "Great. Isn''t it?"


    "How did that happen?"


    "On the record?"


    I nod.


    "Some special-events impresario called," Damien says. "And-voila."


    "Can I ask you a question?" I start, feeling daring.


    "What is it?"


    "Where did you guys meet? I mean, you and Lauren."


    He downs the tequila, gently places the glass back on the bar and frowns.


    "I met her while we were both having dinner with the world''s richest people."


    "Who?"


    "We''re not allowed to give out these names."


    "Oh."


    "But you''d know them", Damien says. "You wouldn''t be surprised."


    "Cool."


    "Hint: they just spent the weekend at Neverland Ranch."


    "Would you like a Mentos?" I ask.


    "I need a favor, Victor."


    "I''d do anything for you, man."


    "Please don''t grovel."


    "Sorry."


    "Will you take Lauren with you to the opening tonight?" Damien asks. "She won''t come otherwise. Or if she does she''s threatening to come with f**king Skeet Ulrich or Olivier Martinez or Mickey Hardt or Daniel Day-fucking-Lewis."


    "That would be cool", I consider. "I mean if we could get Daniel Day-Lewis-"


    "Hey", he snaps. "Watch it."


    "Oh yeah. My apologies."


    Damien still has traces of this morning''s mud mask next to his right ear. I reach out and flick a speck gently away.


    "What''s that?" he asks, flinching.


    "Mud?" I guess.


    He sighs. "It''s shit, Victor. It''s all shit."


    I pause. "You had... shit on your face?" I ask. "Whoa, dude. Don''t go there."


    "No. My life, Victor. My whole f**king life. It''s all shit."


    "Why, guy?" I ask. "When did this massive dumping occur?"


    "I have a girlfriend, Victor," Damien says, staring straight at me.


    "Yeah-" I stop, confused. "Alison?"


    "No. Alison''s my fiancee. Lauren''s the girlfriend."


    "You guys are engaged?" I gasp involuntarily and when I try to hide the gasp, I gasp again. "Oh, I knew that, dude. Um, I knew that."


    Damien''s face hardens. "How did you know that?" he asks. "Nobody knows that."


    Pause, then semi-effortlessly, in a tight voice while holding my breath, out comes: "Man oh man this town, guy."


    Damien seems too depressed to not accept this. A long pause.


    "You mean," I start, "like getting-married engaged?"


    "That''s usually what it means."


    "So I''ve heard," I murmur.


    "When did you and Lauren get so close?" he asks suddenly.


    "I really don''t know her at all, Damien," I say, squeezing the hat. "She''s a friend of Chloe''s."


    "She said she went to school with you," he mutters. "She said you were-and don''t take this the wrong way-a total ass**le."


    "I won''t take that the wrong way."


    "I can see that your self-esteem is pretty high today, huh?"


    "It''s funny-I thought she went to school with you, man." I chuckle lamely to myself, bowing a little, eyes half-closed. "Didn''t you guys go to school together, m-man?"


    "Victor, I''ve got a f**king migraine. Just, y''know, don''t." He closes his eyes, reaches for the Patron, stops himself. "So-will you do it? Will you take her?"


    "I''m... taking Chloe."


    "Just take Lauren with you guys." His beeper goes off. He checks it. "Shit. It''s Alison. I''ve gotta go. Tell Lauren goodbye. And I''ll see you at the club."


    "Tonight''s the night," I say.


    "I think it''ll work," he says. "I think it won''t be a disaster."


    "We''ll see, man." Damien reaches out his hand. Instinctively I shake it. Then he''s gone.


    I''m standing in the living room, taking a long time to notice Lauren leaning in the doorway.


    "I heard everything," she murmurs.


    "That''s probably more than I heard," I murmur back.

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    "Did you know they were engaged?"


    "No," I say. "I didn''t."


    "I guess I''m coming with you guys tonight."


    "I want you to," I say.


    "I know you do."


    "Lauren-"


    "I really wouldn''t worry about it," she says, brushing past me. "Damien thinks you''re a fag anyway."


    "An... important fag or an unimportant fag?"


    "I don''t think Damien bothers to differentiate."


    "If I was a fag I think I''d probably be an important one."


    "If we continue this conversation I think I''d probably be entering the Land of the Nitwits."


    She turns off the TV and holds her face in her hands, looking like she doesn''t know what to do. I don''t know what to do either, either, so I check my watch again.


    "Do you know when the last time I saw you was, Victor?" she asks, her back to me.


    "At... Tower Records?"


    "No. Before that."


    "Where?" I ask. "For god''s sake, don''t say the Calvin Klein show or in Miami."


    "It was in `The Sexiest Men in the Galaxy'' issue of some crappy magazine," she says. "You were lying on top of an American flag and didn''t have a shirt on and basically looked like an idiot."


    I move toward her.


    "How about before that?" "


    In 1985," she says. "Years ago."


    "Jesus, baby."


    "When you told me you''d come pick me up. At Camden."


    "Pick you up from where?"


    "My dorm," she says. "It was December and there was snow and you were supposed to drive me back to New York."


    "What happened?" I ask. "Did I?"


    A long pause, during which the phone rings. Fabien Baron leaves a message. The phone rings again. George Wayne from London. Lauren just stares at my face, totally lost. I think about saying something but then don''t bother.


    "You should go."


    "I am."


    "Where?"


    "Pick up my tux."


    "Be careful."


    "It''s okay," I say. "I''m a sample size."


    11


    The last time Chloe and I were in L.A.: a rehab stint in a famously undisclosed location that only me and one of Chloe''s publicists knew about. The various strings had been pulled and Chloe bypassed waiting lists, landing in a fairly posh cell: she had her own deluxe adobe-inspired bungalow with a daiquiri-blue-colored sunken living room, a patio with faux-''70s lounge chairs, a giant marble bathtub decorated with pink eels and dozens of mini-Jacuzzi jets, and there was an indoor pool and a fully equipped gym and an arts-and-crafts center but there wasn''t a television set so I had to tape "All My Children" on the VCR in the hotel I was staying at in a nearby desert town, which was really the least I could do. Chloe had her own horse, named Raisin.


    At first, whenever I visited, Chloe said that it was "all useless." She bitched about the "too hypernutritious" food served on trays in the cafeteria (even though the chef was from a chic Seattle hotel) and she bitched about emptying her own ashtrays and there had been four suicide attempts that week and someone who was in for Valium dependency had climbed out a window and escaped for three days before anyone on staff noticed until a nurse read about it in the Star on Monday. Chloe bitched about the constant rambling and the shoving matches between patients-various self-destructive moguls, kids who copped to sniffing butane in group therapy sessions, heads of studios who had been smoking half an ounce of freebase daily, people who hadn''t been in touch with the real world since 1987. Steven Tyler hit on her at a vending machine, Gary Oldman invited her out to Malibu, Kelsey Grammer rolled on top of her "accidentally" in a stretching class, a biofeedback technician commented favorably on her legs.


    "But baby, you have full phone privileges," I told her. "Cheer up."


    "Kurt Cobain stayed here, Victor," she whispered, dazed, bleached out.


    And then, as it always does, time began to run out. The tabloids were casting a shadow, her publicist warned, and "Hard Copy" was getting closer and Chloe''s private phone number was being changed daily and I had to remind Pat Kingsley that Chloe''s monthly retainer at PMK was $5,000 and couldn''t they do better?


    And so Chloe finally surrendered. We were left with Chloe''s counselor telling us from behind a black granite desk, "Hey, we try to do everything we can-but we''re not always successful," and then I was guiding Chloe out to a waiting gold Lexus I had rented and she was carrying a gift bag filled with mugs, T-shirts, key rings, all stamped with the words "One Day at a Time," and someone sitting cross-legged on a lawn was strumming "I Can See Clearly Now" on his guitar while the palm trees swayed ominously above us and Mexican children danced in a semicircle next to a giant blue fountain. That month cost $50,000, not including my suite in the nearby desert town.

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    10


    The movies being shot all over SoHo tonight are backing up traffic everywhere and it''s damp and cold as I exit Lauren''s place and wheel the Vespa down the sidewalk on Fourth Street to the intersection at Broadway and the red light waiting for me there.


    I don''t spot the black Jeep until the light turns green (nothing moves, horns blare), and I pretend not to notice as I merge into the traffic heading downtown. In the handlebar mirror I watch the Jeep finally turn slowly behind me, making a right off Fourth, and I casually begin moving across lanes to the far side of Broadway, wheeling past dozens of cars, their headlights momentarily blinding me as I them, my breath coming in short, jagged gasps, the Jeep trapped in traffic behind me.


    Passing Third Street, I''m keeping my eyes on Bleecker, where I immediately jam a right, zooming around oncoming cars, "... bumping over the curb onto the sidewalk, almost hitting a group of kids hanging under the awning of the Bleecker Court apartments, and then I make a hard left onto Mercer and take it down to Houston, where I make a wide right, and just when I think I''m clear I almost collide with the black Jeep waiting at the corner. But it''s not the same black Jeep, because this one idling at Wooster and Houston has a license plate that reads SI-CO2 and the one still stuck on Broadway has a license plate that reads SI-CO1.


    As I pass this new Jeep, it pulls away from the curb and surges after me.


    At West Broadway I swing a wide left but with construction everywhere and all the movies being shot the street is virtually impassable.


    Inching toward Prince Street, I notice vacantly that the first Jeep has somehow gotten in front of me and is now waiting at the end of the block.


    In the mirror I notice that the second Jeep is three cars back.


    I wheel the bike between two limousines parked at the curb, Space Hog blaring out of one of the sunroofs, and I hop off, take the keys and begin walking very slowly down West Broadway.


    On the sidewalk, lights from the stores lining the street throw shadows of someone following me. Stopping suddenly, I whirl around, but no one''s there, just this sort of semi-electric feeling that I''m unable to focus in on, and now someone, an extra, really passes by and says something unintelligible.


    Behind me someone gets out of the black Jeep.


    I spot Skeet Ulrich hanging out in front of the new martini bar, Babyland, and Skeet''s signing autographs and wearing suede Pumas and just taped the Conan O''Brien show and finished an on-line press conference and maybe or maybe not has the lead in the new Sam Raimi movie and we compare tattoos and Skeet tells me he has never been more hungover than when we got wasted together at the Wilhelmina party in Telluride and I''m kicking at the confetti that surrounds us on the sidewalk and waving a fly away with a Guatemalan crucifix Simon Rex gave me for my twenty-fifth birthday.


    "Yeah," Skeet''s saying, lighting a cigar. "We were hanging with the new Thai-boxing champ."


    "I am so lost, man."


    "Caucasian dreadlocks?" Skeet says. "He had an Ecstasy factory hidden in his basement?"


    "Rings a bell, man, but man I''m so wiped out," I say, looking over my shoulder. "Hey, what were we-I mean, what were you doing in Telluride?"


    Skeet mentions a movie he was in, while I offer him a Mentos.


    "Who were you in that movie, man?"


    "I played the ''witty'' corpse."


    "The one who lived in the crypt?"


    "No. The one who f**ked the coven of witches."


    "And taught them slang in the cauldron? Whoa."


    "I''m a strict professional."


    Someone walks by and takes our photo, calls Skeet "Johnny Depp," and then Kate Spade says hi and I still have Lauren''s folded-up hat hanging out of my pocket and I touch it to remind myself of something. When I casually glance over my shoulder, the guy who got out of the Jeep on West Broadway is standing three doors down, staring into the windows of a new tanning salon/piercing parlor, and I can''t help giggling.


    "Johnny Depp, man?" Skeet mutters. "That''s cold."


    "You look so much like Johnny Depp it''s eerie, man."


    "I was relieved to hear that Johnny Depp has won a hard-earned reputation for monogamy."


    "He''s slightly more famous than you, man," I have to point out. "So you should probably watch what you say."


    "Famous for what?" Skeet bristles. "Turning down commercial scripts?"


    "Man, I''m so wiped out."


    "Still modeling, bro?" Skeet asks glumly.


    "Sometimes I wonder how I keep from going under." I''m staring past Skeet at a guy who gets out of the jeep on Prince and slowly, vaguely, starts walking my way.

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    "Hey man, you''ve got it made," Skeet says, relighting the cigar. "You''ve got it made. You''re a pretty good model."


    "Yeah? How come, Skeet?"


    "Because you''ve got that semi-long thick hair thing going and those full lips and like a great physique."


    The guy keeps moving up the block. Behind me, the other guy is now two stores away.


    "Hey, thanks, man," I say, looking both ways. "Far out".


    "It''s cool," Skeet says. "Hey man, stop breathing so hard."


    I urge Skeet to move with me over to the window of the Rizzoli bookstore. "Let''s pretend we''re browsing."


    I look over my shoulder.


    "What, man?" Skeet asks, confused. "Browsing for... books?"


    The guy walking up from Prince is moving toward me faster.


    The other guy''s maybe two yards away.


    I keep my eyes glued to the window at Rizzoli and I can barely hear Skeet say, "Hey man-what''re you doing?" Pause. "Is that browsing?"


    Suddenly, just as Skeet starts to pose another question, I bolt across West Broadway and in that instant both guys start after me and when I hit Broome another guy dressed in black runs up the street toward me.


    I cut back across West Broadway, almost getting hit by a limo, to the other side of the street, all three guys behind me. A fourth suddenly lunges out of the new Harry Cipriani restaurant and I cross West Broadway again and run up the stairs into Portico, a furniture store.


    The four guys-young and good-looking, all wearing black-converge below me on the stairs of Portico, discussing something while I''m hiding behind a white-stained concrete armoire. Someone asks if I work here and I wave her away, hissing. One of the guys on the stairs lifts a walkie-talkie out of his black leather jacket, revealing a gun strapped in a holster, and then mumbles something into the walkie-talkie. He listens, turns to the other three guys, says something that causes them to nod and then casually opens the door and strides into Portico.


    I race through the store toward the back exit, which leads onto Wooster Street.


    All I hear is someone shouting "Hey!"


    I stumble out, grabbing the railing as I leap onto the sidewalk.


    I duck in and out of the traffic moving down Wooster and then walk-run up to Comme des Garcons to pick up my tuxedo.


    I slam the door behind me and rush downstairs, where Carter''s waiting.


    "What the f**k''s going on?" I shout. "Jesus Christ!"


    "Victor, the alterations are done," Carter says. "Calm down. The tux is fabulous. Chloe took care of the bill this-"


    "No-some ass**les just chased me down West Broadway," I pant.


    He pauses. "Are you bragging or complaining?"


    "Spare me," I shout.


    "Well, you''re here, so I''m just saying your ninja skills are reaching their peak, dear Donatello."


    Still panting, I throw the tux on and have Carter call CLS for a BMW. JD pages me while Carter circles, mincing and wincing, making sure-along with Missy, the seamstress-that the fit is perfect, both of them grabbing me in totally inappropriate places, and when I call JD back on my cell phone Beau answers and asks why I''m not at my place for the MTV "House of Style" interview, which I''ve totally forgotten about. Supposedly people are outside my apartment "throwing fits," and the chills I get hearing that phrase relax me somewhat.


    Wearing the tux, I stuff my other clothes into a Comme des Garcons bag, and as I''m heading out of the store, peering up Wooster, then down Wooster-totally serpenting to the BMW waiting at the curb-Carter calls out, "Wait-you forgot this!" and shoves the black hat with the red rose back into my sweaty hands.


    9


    At my place the Details reporter leans against a column just hanging out, eyeing my every move while sucking on a raspberry-flavored narcotic lollipop, and there''s also a ton of assistants milling around, including this really muscular girl with a clip-on nose ring who places gels the colors of kiwi and lavender and pomegranate over lights, and the cameraman says "Hey Victor" in a Jamaican patois and he''s wearing a detachable ponytail because he didn''t have one earlier when I saw him on Bond Street this afternoon and he''s part Chippewa and the director of the segment, Mutt, is conferring with a VJ from MTV News and Mutt just kind of smiles at me and rubs the scars on his bicep caused from bust-ups on his Harley when I say, "Sorry, I''m late-I got lost."


    "In your own... neighborhood?" he asks.


    "The neighborhood is going through what is known as gent-rah-fah-cay-shun, so it''s getting, um, complicated."

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    Mutt just kind of smiles at me and it''s freezing in the apartment and I''m slouching in a big pile of white satin pillows that the crew brought and some Japanese guy is filming the interview that MTV will be filming and another Japanese guy is taking photographs of the video crew and I start throwing out names of bands they should play over the segment when it airs: Supergrass, Menswear, Offspring, Phish, Liz Phair ("Supernova"), maybe Pearl Jam or Rage Against the Machine or even Imperial Teen. I''m so lost that I don''t even notice Mutt standing over me until he snaps his fingers twice right under my nose and I purse my lips and wink at him and wonder how cool I look in other people''s eyes.


    "I''m going to smoke a big Cohiba during the interview," I tell Mutt.


    "You''re going to look like a big ass**le during the interview."


    "Hey, don''t forget who you''re talking to."


    "MTV policy. No smoking. Advertisers don''t like it."


    "Yet you sell Trent Reznor''s hate to millions of unsuspecting youth. Tch-tch-tch."


    "I want to get out of here, so let''s start this thing."


    "I was chased through SoHo earlier tonight."


    "You''re not that popular, Victor."


    I buzz JD on my cell phone. "JD-find out who just chased me through SoHo." I click off and since I''m in my element I''m all smiles so I call out to the really muscular girl with the clip-on nose ring, "Hey pu**ycat, you could hail a cab with that ass."


    "My name''s David," he says. "Not Pussycat."


    "Whoa-you got that whole boy/girl thing going down," I say, shivering.


    "Who is this clown?" David asks the room.


    "The same old story," Mutt sighs. "Nobody, up-and-comer, star, has-been. Not necessarily in that order."


    Hey, keep the vibe alive," I say halfheartedly to nobody and then the makeup girl brushes my sideburns teasingly and I snarl "Don''t touch those" and then, in a more vacant mode, "Can somebody get me a Snapple?" It''s at this precise moment I finally notice the thing that''s totally lacking in my apartment: Cindy. "Wait, wait a minute-where''s Cindy?"


    "Cindy''s not conducting the interview," Mutt says. "She''s just introducing it, in her own faux-inimitable style."


    "That sucks pretty majorly if you ask me," I say, stunned.


    "Does it?"


    "I wouldn''t be sitting here now if I knew this earlier."


    "I doubt that."


    "Where the f**k is she?"


    "In Beirut, at the opening of a new Planet Hollywood."


    "This is seriously demeaning."


    "Tough shit, you big baby."


    "That-gosh, Mutt-that really shocks me," I say, tears welling up. "That really shocks me that you would talk that way to me."


    "Uh-huh." Mutt closes his eyes, holds a viewfinder up to his ear. "Okay."


    "Wait a minute, so wait..." I look over at the VJ on his cell phone underneath a giant Nan Goldin that Chloe gave me for a Christmas present. "That pederast over there''s going to do it?" I''m asking, appalled. "That fag pederast?"


    "Hey, what''s your life? A G-rated movie?"


    "I don''t want to be interviewed by someone who is known in this business as a big fag pederast."


    "You ever sleep with a guy, Victor?"


    Remembering MTV''s new all-consuming the-entire-world-is-full-of-homos mentality, I smirk and semi-nod and choke out "Maybe" and then compose myself to add, "But now I am a strict heterosexual." Long pause. "Devout, in fact."


    "I''ll alert the media."


    "You are the media, Mutt," I exclaim. "You and the fag pederast VJ are the media."


    "Ever sleep with a fifteen-year-old?" Mutt asks tiredly.


    "Girl?" Pause. "Maybe."


    "So?"


    Trying to decipher what Mutt''s getting at, I pause, squinting, then yelp out, "What the f**k does that mean, bozo? Are you trying to make a point? Because it''s like, um, eluding me."


    The VJ comes over, all boyish smiles and Versace.


    "He dates Chloe Byrnes," Mutt says. "That''s all you really need to know."


    "Super," the VJ says. "Can we work it in?"


    "You will work it in," I answer for Mutt. "And no questions about my father."


    "You''re shooting from the hip," the VJ says. "And I like it."


    "And I''m camera ready."

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    MTV: "So how does it feel to be the It Boy of the moment?"


    ME: "Fame has a price tag but reality''s still a friend of mine."


    MTV: "How do you think other people perceive you?"


    ME: "I''m a bad boy. I''m a legend. But in reality everything''s a big world party and there are no VIP rooms."


    MTV (pause, confusion): "But aren''t there three VIP rooms at your new club?"


    ME: "Um... cut. Cut. Cut."


    Everyone huddles together and I explain the game plan-that I want to discuss my personal relationships with Robert Downey, Jr., Jennifer Aniston, Matt Dillon, Madonna, Latouse LaTrek and Dodi Fayed-and people finally nod, satisfied. Life moves on with a few soft-lob inquiries and a chance to be fashionably rude, which I grab.


    MTV: "How was it guest-starring on ''Beverly Hills 90210''?"


    ME: "A classic cliche. Luke Perry looks like a little Nosferatu and Jason Priestley is a caterpillar."


    MTV: "Do you see yourself as a symbol of a new generation in America?"


    ME: "Well, I represent a pretty big pie-wedge of the new generation. I''m maybe a symbol." Pause. "An icon? No." Longer pause. "Not yet." Long pause. "Have I mentioned that I''m a Capricorn? Oh yeah, and I''m also for regaining the incentive to get this generation more involved in environmental issues."


    MTV: "That''s so cool."


    ME: "No, you''re so cool, dude."


    MTV. "But what do you picture when you envision your generation?"


    ME: "At its worst? Two hundred dead-ass kids dressed like extras from The Crow dancing to C+C Music Factory."


    MTV: "And what do you think about this?"


    ME (genuinely moved to be asked): "It stresses me out."


    MTV: "But aren''t the 1980s over? Don''t you think opening a club like this is a throwback to an era most people want to forget? Don''t kids want less opulence?"


    ME: "Hey, this is a personal vision, man." Pause. "No matter how commercial it, y''know, feels. And"-finally realizing something-"I just want to give something back to the community." Pause. "I do it for the people." Pause. "Man."


    MTV: "What are your thoughts on fashion?"


    ME: "Fashion may be about insecurity but fashion is a good way to relieve tension."


    MTV (pause): "Really?"


    ME: "I''m completely absorbed by fashion. I seek it. I crave it. Seven days a week, twenty-eight hours a day. Did I mention that I''m a Capricorn? Oh, and yeah-being the best at only one thing is counterproductive."


    MTV (long pause, mild confusion): "You and Chloe Byrnes have been together how long now?"


    ME: "Time is meaningless when it comes down to Chloe. She defies time, man. I hope she has a long-term career as an actress-slash-model. She''s gorgeous and, er, is my... best friend."


    (Sounds of Details reporter laughing.)


    Chapter Eight


    MTV. "There have been rumors that-"


    ME: "Hey, maintaining a relationship is one of the difficulties of my job, babe."


    MTV: "Where did you meet?"


    ME: "At a pre-Grammy dinner."


    MTV. "What did you say when you met?"


    ME: "I said `Hey pu**ycat'' and then that I was-and still am-an aspiring male model of the year."


    MTV (after longish pause): "I can tell that you were in a, um, reflective mood that evening."


    ME: "Hey, success is loving yourself, and anyone who doesn''t think so can f**k off."


    MTV: "How old are you?"


    ME: "Twentysomething."


    MTV: "No, really. Exact."


    ME: "Twen-ty-something."


    MTV: "What really pisses Victor Ward off?"


    ME: "The fact that David Byrne named his new album after a ''tea from Sri Lanka that''s sold in Britain.'' I swear to God I heard that somewhere and it drove me nuts."


    MTV (after polite laughter): "No. What really makes you mad? What really gets you angry?"


    ME (long pause, thinking): "Well, recently, missing DJs, badly behaved bartenders, certain gossipy male models, the media''s treatment of celebs... um..."


    MTV: "We were thinking more along the lines of the war in Bosnia or the AIDS epidemic or domestic terrorism. How about the current political situation?"


    ME (long pause, tiny voice): "Sloppy Rollerbladers?... The words ''dot com''?..."


    MTV (long pause): "Anything else?"


    ME (realizing something, relieved): "A mulatto, an albino, a mosquito, my libido."

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    MTV (long pause): "Did you... understand the question?"


    ME: "What do you mean by that?"


    MTV: "Aren''t there things going on-"


    ME (pissed): "Maybe you''ve misunderstood my answers."


    MTV: "Okay, forget it, um-"


    ME: "Just move to the next question."


    MTV: "Oh, okay-"


    ME: "Shoot."


    MTV (really long pause, then): "Have you ever wished that you could disappear from all this?"


    8


    Having no idea where my keys are I rush up to Chloe''s realizing we''re running late (also thinking, That''s cool) and Lauren Hynde opens the door and we stare at each other blankly until I say "You look... wonderful tonight" and she suddenly looks like she''s shot through with something like pain or maybe something else like maybe something by Versace and she opens the door wider so I can enter Chloe''s apartment where grunged-out Baxter Priestly''s sitting on the island in the kitchen with a mullet haircut and Oakley eyewear and he''s rolling a joint laced with Xanax and the Sci-Fi Channel is on in the background with the sound turned down and swanky dreampop coming from two ten-thousand-dollar speakers plays over it and Chloe''s standing next to Baxter eating a peppermint patty in the Todd Oldham dress and listening to Baxter say things like "I saw a bum with really great abs today" and thirteen bottles of mineral water are in various stages of emptiness on a marble countertop next to faxes sent that say I KNOW WHO YOU ARE AND I KNOW WHAT YOU''RE DOING and the dozen French white tulips that I supposedly sent Chloe are in a giant crystal vase that someone named Susan Sontag gave her.


    "You possess repartee in abundance, my friend," I mutter, slapping Baxter''s shoulder, startling him out of his inanity, leaning in to kiss Chloe in the same movement, waiting for someone to comment on how chic I look. Behind me Lauren Hynde lingers by the door and Chloe says something like "The limo''s waiting on the street" and I nod okay and move sullenly into our bedroom, making sure Chloe catches the scowl I hurl at Baxter while he continues deseeding.


    In my closet: white jeans, leather belts, leather bomber jacket, black cowboy boots, a couple of black wool crepe suits, a dozen white shirts, a black turtleneck, crumpled silk pajamas, a high-class  p**n o movie I''ve watched hundreds of times starring people who look just like us. I''m pretending to go through stuff until Chloe walks in seconds after I''ve crouched down inspecting a pair of sandals I bought in Barcelona at a Banana Republic.


    "What''s the story?" I finally ask. "Where''s my three-snap blazer?"


    "About what?" she asks back, tightly.


    "Wasn''t he a head in a Mr. Jenkins ad, baby?"


    "I told you he was coming."


    "What do you think that antifashion look costs?" I ask. "Two thousand bucks? Three thousand bucks?"


    "Forget about it, Victor." She''s searching for a pair of sunglasses to wear.


    "Far out."


    "Victor," she starts. "What are you looking for?"


    "My hair gel." I walk away from the closet and brush by her into the bathroom where I start gelling my hair, slicking it back. My beeper goes off and I ignore it. When it goes off again I wash my hands and find out it''s Alison and I''m wondering how everything got so f**ked up, but checking out my profile calms me down and I take a few deep breaths, complete a couple of seconds of some deep-sea visualization and then: ready to go.


    "The tux looks nice," Chloe says, standing in the bathroom door, watching me. "Who was that?" Pause. "On the beeper?"


    "Someone at the club." I just stand there and then I look at my watch and then move back to the bed where I rummage through the Comme des Garcons bag so the clothes can go to Chloe''s dry cleaners. Absently I find the hat Lauren gave me, all scrunched up.


    "What''s that?" I hear Chloe ask.


    "Oops, wrong hat," I say, tossing it back in the bag, a Bullwinkle impression that used to make her laugh but now she doesn''t get and she''s not really looking at the hat but thinking other thoughts.


    "I really want things to work out," Chloe says hesitantly. "Between us," she clarifies.


    "I''m mad about you." I shrug. "You''re mad about me." I shrug again.


    "Don''t do this, Victor."


    "Do what?"


    "I''m happy for you, Victor," she says, strained, just standing there in front of me, exhausted. "I''m really happy for you about tonight."

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    "You look faux-orgasmic, baby, and nibbling on that giant mint doesn''t really help matters much." I brush past her again.


    "Is this about Baxter?" she asks.


    "That twerp? Spare me. It''s freezing in this apartment."


    "Hey Victor, look at me."


    I stop, sigh, turn around.


    "I don''t want to apologize about how good my boyfriend is at irritating people, okay?"


    I''m just staring at nothing or what I imagine is nothing until I''m finally moved to say, "As a general rule you shouldn''t expect too much from people, darling," and then I kiss her on the cheek.


    "I just had my makeup done, so you can''t make me cry."


    7


    We''ll slide down the surface of things... Old U2 on the stereo and gridlock jams the streets two blocks from the club and I''m not really hearing the things that are being said in the back of the limousine, just words-technobeat, slamming, moonscape, Semtex, nirvana, photogenic-and names of people I know-Jade Jagger, Iman, Andy Garcia, Patsy Kensit, the Goo-Goo Dolls, Galliano-and fleeting pieces of subjects I''m usually interested in-Doc Martens, Chapel Hill, the Kids in the Hall, alien abduction, trampolines-because right now I''m fidgeting with an unlit joint, looking up through the limo''s sunroof, spacing on the sweeping patterns spotlights are making on the black buildings above and around us. Baxter and Lauren are sitting across from Chloe and me and I''m undergoing a slow-motion hidden freak-out, focusing on our excruciating progress toward the club while Chloe keeps trying to touch my hand, which I let her do for seconds at a time before I pull away to light one of Baxter''s cigarettes or to rewind the U2 tape or to simply touch my forehead, specifically not looking in the direction of Lauren Hynde or how her legs are slightly spread or the way she''s staring sadly back at her own reflection in the tinted windows. "We all live in a yellow limousine," Baxter sing-laughs. "A yellow limousine," Chloe sings too, giggling nervously, looking over at me for approval. I give it by nodding at Baxter, who''s nodding back, and I''m shuddering. We''ll slide down the surface of things...


    Finally we''re at the curb in front of the club and the first thing I hear is someone yelling "Action!" and U2''s "Even Better Than the Real Thing" starts playing somewhere out of the sky as the driver opens the door and Baxter''s checking his hair in Chloe''s compact and I toss him my cummerbund. "Just wrap this around your head and look dreamy," I mutter. "You''ll be okay."


    "Victor," Chloe starts.


    A wave of cold wind sweeps over the crowd standing behind the barricades in front of the club and causes the confetti strewn over the plush purple-and-green carpet leading up to the entrance to dance and swirl around the legs of cops guarding the place and behind the velvet ropes stand three cool Irish guys Damien hired, each of them holding a walkie-talkie and a separate guest list, and on either side of the velvet ropes are huge gangs of photographers and then the head publicist-smiling warmly until she sees Chloe''s dress-asks us to wait where we are because Alison, wearing the same Todd Oldham dress Chloe has on, and Damien in a Gucci tuxedo are making their entrance and posing for the paparazzi, but people in the crowd have already noticed Chloe and shout out her name in high, garbled voices. Damien appears unusually tense, his jaw clenching and unclenching itself, and Lauren suddenly grabs my hand and I''m also holding Chloe''s and when I look over at Chloe I notice she''s holding Baxter''s.


    Damien turns around when he hears people shouting out Chloe''s name and he nods at me, then smiles sadly at Lauren, who just mutters something indifferent, and when he sees Chloe''s dress he does a hideous double take and tries valiantly to smile back a humongous gag and then he hurriedly ushers Alison into the club even though she''s in the middle of taking major advantage of the photo ops, obviously pissed at the interruption, and thankfully Chloe''s already too blinded by the flashing cameras to have noticed Alison''s dress and I''m making a significant mental note about what should happen once inside: dim all the lights, sweet darling, or the night will be over with.


    The photographers start shouting out all our names as we move toward the stairs leading up into the club and we linger for the appropriate amount of time-our faces masks, Chloe smiling wanly, Baxter smiling sullenly, Lauren genuinely smiling for the first time tonight, me sufficiently dazed-and above the door in giant ''70s lettering is a warning from MTV ("This Event Is Being Videotaped. By Entering You Consent to the Cablecast and Other Exhibition of Your Name, Voice and Likeness") and then we''re inside moving through the metal detectors and Chloe whispers something into my ear that I can''t hear. We''ll slide down the surface of things...

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    And U2''s "Even Better Than the Real Thing" bursts out as we enter the main room of the club and someone calls out "Action!" again and there are already hundreds of people here and immediately Chloe is pounced on by a new group of photographers and then the camera crews are pushing their way toward her and I let go of her hand, allowing myself to be repositioned by the crowd over to one of the bars, actively ignoring celebs and fans, Lauren following close behind, and I nab the bartender''s attention and order a glass of Veuve Clicquot for Lauren and a Glenlivet for myself and we just stand there while I''m admiring Patrick Woodroffe''s lighting design and how it plays off all the floor-to-ceiling black velvet and Lauren''s thinking I-don''t-even-know-what as she downs the champagne and motions for another one and glancing over at her I finally have to say "Baby..." and then I lean in and nuzzle her cheek with my lips so briefly it wouldn''t register to anyone except someone standing right behind me and I breathe in and close my eyes and when I open them I look to her for a reaction.


    She''s gripping the champagne flute so tightly her knuckles are white and I''m afraid it will shatter and she''s glaring past me at someone behind my back and when I turn around I almost drop my glass but with my other hand hold the bottom to keep it steady.


    Alison finishes a Stoli martini and asks the bartender for another without looking at him, waiting for a kiss from me.


    I grin boyishly while composing myself and kiss her lightly on the cheek but she''s staring back at Lauren when I do this as if I were invisible, which tonight, for maybe the first time in my life, I sort of wish I was. Harry Connick, Jr., Bruce Hulce and Patrick Kelly jostle by. I look away, then down.


    "So-o-o... another Stoli?" I ask Alison.


    "I am now entering the stolar system," Alison says, staring at Lauren. Casually, to block her view, I lean into the bar.


    "Welcome to the state of relaxation," I say "jovially." "Er, enjoy your, um, stay."


    "You ass**le," Alison mutters, rolling her eyes, then grabs the drink from the bartender and downs it in one gulp. Coughing lightly, she lifts my arm and uses my jacket sleeve to wipe her mouth.


    "Um... baby?" I start uncertainly.


    "Thank you, Victor," she says, too politely.


    "Um... you''re welcome."


    A tap on the shoulder and I turn from Alison and lean in toward Lauren, who very sweetly asks, "What do you two see in that bitch?"


    "Let''s redirect our conversation elsewhere, ''kay?"


    "Spare me, you loser," Lauren giggles.


    Luckily Ione Skye and Adam Horowitz push through the crowd toward me-an opening I seize upon.


    "Hey! What''s new, pu**ycat?" I smile, arms outstretched.


    "Meow," Ione purrs, offering her cheek.


    "Excuse me while I kiss the Skye," I say, taking it.


    "Yuck," I hear Alison mutter behind me.


    Camera flashes explode from the middle of the room like short bursts from a damaged strobe light and Ione and Adam slip away into the churning crowd and I''ve lit a cigarette and am generally just fumbling around looking for an ashtray while Lauren and Alison stare at each other with mutual loathing. Damien spots me and extracts himself from Penelope Ann Miller and as he moves closer and sees who I''m standing between he stops, almost tripping over this really cool midget somebody brought. Shocked, I mouth Come here.


    He glances at Lauren mournfully but keeps blinking because of all the cameras flashing and then he''s pushed forward by the crowd and now he''s shaking my hand too formally, careful not to touch either girl, neither one responding to his presence anyway. Behind him Chloe and Baxter are answering questions in front of camera crews and Christy Turlington, John Woo, Sara Gilbert and Charles Barkley slide by.


    "We need to talk," Damien says, leaning in toward me. "It''s crucial."


    "I, um, don''t think that''s such a good idea right... now, um, dude," I say with careful, deliberate phrasing.


    "For once you may have a point." He tries to smile through a scowl while nodding at Lauren and Alison.


    "I think I''m going to take Lauren over to the ''Entertainment Tonight'' camera crew, okay?" I say.


    "I have got to talk to you now, Victor," Damien growls.


    Suddenly he reaches through the crowd and grabs Baxter, yanking him away from Chloe and the MTV camera crew, and then whispers something in Baxter''s ear and U2 turns into the Dream Warriors'' "My Definition of a Boombastic Jazz Style." Lauren and Alison have both lit cigarettes and are blowing smoke directly into each other''s faces. Baxter''s nodding intently and lets Damien sandwich him at the bar-in a style I wish was slightly more subtle-between Alison and Lauren, filling the empty space where I used to stand.

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    "Who''s this?" Alison asks Damien dully.


    "This is Baxter Priestly, baby," Damien says. "He wants to say hi and, um, wish you well."


    "Yeah, yeah, you look really familiar," Alison says, totally bored, waving down the bartender, mouthing Another.


    "He''s in the new Darren Star show," I say. "And he''s in the band Hey That''s My Shoe."


    "Who are you in the Darren Star show?" Alison asks, perking up.


    "He''s the Wacky Guy," Lauren says, staring at the bartender.


    "Right, he''s the Wacky Guy," I tell Alison as Damien pulls me away and uses my body as a barrier to push through the crowd and up the first flight of stairs to the deserted second floor, where he guides me toward a railing overlooking the party. We immediately light cigarettes. On this floor twenty tables have been set up for the dinner and really handsome busboys are lighting candles. On all the TV monitors: fashionable static.


    "What in the f**k?" Damien inhales deeply on the cigarette.


    "They''re just, um, lighting the candles for dinner," I say, gesturing innocently at the busboys.


    Damien smacks me lightly on the side of the head.


    "Why in the f**k is Chloe''s dress exactly like Alison''s?"


    "Damien, I know they look alike but in actuality-"


    He pushes me toward the railing and points down. "What are you telling me, Victor?"


    "It''s a-it''s supposedly a, um, very popular dress this... y''know..." I trail off.


    Damien waits, wide-eyed. "Yes?"


    "... season?" I squeak out.


    Damien runs a hand over his face and stares over the railing to make sure Alison and Chloe haven''t seen each other yet, but Alison''s flirting with Baxter and Chloe''s answering questions about how high the fabulous factor is tonight while a line of TV crews jostle for the perfect angle and Damien''s muttering "Why isn''t she wearing that hat you picked up?" and I''m making excuses ("Oribe said it was a no-no") and he keeps asking "Why isn''t she wearing the goddamn hat you picked up?" and Lauren''s talking to f**king Chris O''Donnell and Damien guzzles down a large glass of Scotch then sets it on the railing with a shaky hand and I''m kind of like infused with panic and so tired.


    "Damien, let''s just try to have a cool-"


    "I don''t think I care anymore about that," he says.


    "About what? About having a cool time?" I''m asking. "Don''t say that." And then after a long patch of silence: "I really don''t know how to respond to that." And then after a longer patch of silence: "You look really great tonight."


    "About her," he says. "About Alison. I don''t think I care about that."


    I''m staring out over the crowd, my eyes involuntarily refocusing on the expressions Lauren''s making while Chris O''Donnell chats her up, swigging from a bottle of Grolsch, Lauren seductively playing with the damp label, models everywhere. "Why... did you ever?" I hear myself ask, thinking, At least the press will be good.


    Damien turns to me and I look away but meet his gaze when he says, "Whose money do you think this all is?"


    "Pardon?" I ask, leaning away, my neck and forehead soaked with sweat.


    "Who do you think is bankrolling all of this?" he sighs.


    A long pause. "Various... orthodontists... from, um, Brentwood?" I ask, squinting, wiping my forehead. "Um, you. Aren''t you like responsible for all of, um, this?"


    "It''s hers," he shouts. "It''s all Alison''s."


    "But..." I stop, swaying.


    Damien waits, looking at me.


    "But... I don''t know how to respond to... that."


    "Haven''t you been paying attention?" he snaps.


    We''ll slide down the surface of things...


    "They found Mica," Damien''s saying.


    "Who?" I ask numbly, staring off.


    "The police, Victor," he says. "They found Mica."


    "Well, it''s a little too late," I''m saying, trying to recover. "Right? Do not pass Go? Do not collect two million bucks, right? Junior''s doing a great job and personally I always felt Mica was sort of-"


    "Victor, she''s dead," Damien says tiredly. "She was found in a Dumpster in Hell''s Kitchen. She was beaten with a hammer and... Jesus Christ"-he breathes in, waves down into the crowd at Elizabeth Berkley and Craig Bierko, then brings his hand to his mouth-"eviscerated."

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    I''m taking this in with a large amount of extreme calm. "She OD''d?"


    "No," Damien says very carefully. "She was eviscerated, Victor."


    "Oh my god," I gasp, holding my head, and then, "What does eviscerated mean?"


    "It means she didn''t die a peaceful death."


    "Well, yeah, but how do we know that?"


    "She was strangled with her own intestines."


    "Right, right."


    "I hope you realize this conversation is off the record."


    Below us I''m just looking down at Debi Mazar and Sophie B. Hawkins, who''s with Ethan Hawke and Matthew Barney. Below us a photographer spots me and Damien standing by the railing and snaps three, four, eight shots in rapid succession before I can straighten my tie.


    "No one knows this yet," Damien sighs, lighting another cigarette. "Let''s keep it this way. Let''s just keep everyone smiling until tomorrow."


    "Yeah man, cool," I say, nodding. "I think I''m capable."


    "And please try to keep Alison and Lauren away from each other," he says, walking away. "Let''s make a concerted effort to try and pull that off, okay?"


    "I think I''m capable, dude."


    We''ll slide down the surface of things...


    Someone calls up to me and I move away from the railing and head downstairs back into the party and then Carmen, this Brazilian heiress, grabs my arm. Chris O''Donnell has moved away from Lauren, who spots me from across the room and just stares, and Baxter''s still desperately keeping Alison occupied, even though it looks like she''s losing interest, because she''s rolling her eyes and making yapping gestures with her hands.


    "Victor! I just see the film Beauty and the Beast and I love it! I-love-it!" Carmen''s shrieking, eyes wide, flailing her arms around.


    "Baby, you''re cool," I say worriedly. "But it would be somewhat profitable if you chilled out a bit."


    Alison pats Baxter on the side of his face and starts to move away from the bar toward the center of the room, where the camera flashes are most intense, and Chloe, predictably, is now standing with Chris O''Donnell.


    "But Victor, you hear me?" Carmen''s blocking my way. "I love it. I adore both the Beauty and the Beast. I love it. ''Be My Guest''-Oh my god!"


    "Baby, be my guest. You need a drink." Distressed, I snap at Beau while pointing at Carmen. "Beau-get this chick a Caipirinha."


    I push Carmen out of the way but it''s too late. Tarsem and Vivienne Westwood grabbing each of my arms, I can only watch helplessly as Alison glides gaily, drunkenly toward Chloe, who''s being interviewed with Chris O''Donnell for MTV, her expression becoming more confused the nearer she gets. Once she''s behind Chloe, Alison sees the dress, immediately grabs a lighter out of Sean Penn''s hand and, horror-struck, waves the flame so she can see Chloe better. Bijoux from MTV isn''t looking at Chloe now and has lowered her microphone, and Chloe turns around, sees Alison, smiles, and in the middle of a tiny wave notices Alison''s dress, grimaces, squints desperately, tries to take a closer look-Chris O''Donnell is pretending not to notice, which makes things better-and Bijoux leans in to ask a question and Chloe, dazed, turns hesitantly back to the camera to try and answer it, succeeds with a shrug.


    Lauren is standing next to me holding a giant glass filled with what I can only hope is not vodka and without saying a word clamps her free hand onto my ass. Alison starts heading toward us, purposefully grabbing a martini off a passing tray and getting about half of it in her mouth.


    "How did you get off the Xanax?" I''m murmuring to somebody quasi-famous.


    "You mean get the Xanax."


    "Yeah, yeah, get the Xanax, cool."


    "I was withdrawing from marijuana addiction and so I went to my mom''s doctor and-hey Victor, you''re not listening to me-"


    "Hey, don''t freak, you''re cool."


    Alison walks up to me, licks my cheek and, standing incredibly close, places her mouth on mine, desperately trying to push her tongue in, but my teeth are clenched and I''m nodding to the guy who''s talking about Xanax and shrugging my shoulders, trying to casually carry on my part of the conversation, when Alison finally gives up, pulls back, leaving my mouth and chin slathered with a combo of saliva and vodka, smiles meanly and then stands next to me so that I''m flanked by her and Lauren. I''m watching Chloe, her interview over, squinting into the crowd trying to find me, Chris O''Donnell still nursing his Grolsch. I look away.


    Alison leans in and touches my ass, which I tense uselessly, causing her hand to creep across until it touches the back of Lauren''s hand and freezes.

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    I''m asking Juliette Lewis how her new dalmatian, Seymour, is doing and Juliette says "So-so" and moves on.


    I can feel Alison trying to push Lauren''s hand off but Lauren''s hand has clutched the left cheek and will not let go and I look at her nervously, spilling my drink on the cuff of the Comme des Garcons tuxedo, but she''s talking to someone from the Nation of Islam and Traci Lords, her jaw set tightly, smiling and nodding, though Traci Lords senses something''s wrong and tells me I looked great slouching in the seat next to Dennis Rodman at the Donna Karan show and leaves it at that.


    A curvy blonde staggers over with a girl in an African headdress and this Indian dude, and the curvy blonde kisses me on the mouth and stares dreamily into my face until I have to clear my throat and nod at her friends.


    "This is Yanni," the curvy blonde says, gesturing at the girl. "And this is Mudpie."


    "Hey Mudpie. Yanni?" I ask the black girl. "Really? What does Yanni mean?"


    "It means ''vagina,''" Yanni says in a very high voice, bowing.


    "Hey honey," I say to Alison, nudging her. "This is Mudpie and Yanni. Yanni means ''vagina.''"


    "Great," Alison says, touching her hair, really drunk. "That''s really, really great." She hooks her arm through mine and starts pulling me away from Lauren, and Lauren, seeing Chloe approaching, lets go of my ass and finishes whatever she''s drinking and Alison''s tugging me away and I try to keep my footing to talk to Chloe, who grabs my other arm.


    "Victor, what''s Alison doing?" Chloe calls out. "Why is she wearing that dress?"


    "I''m going to find that out now-"


    "Victor, why didn''t you want me to wear this dress tonight?" Chloe''s asking me. "Where are you going, goddamnit?"


    "Honey, I''m checking for specks," I tell her, shrugging helplessly, Alison pulling my shoulder out of its socket. "I''ve seen none and am gratefully, er, relieved but there might be some upstairs-"


    "Victor, wait-" Chloe says, holding on to my other arm.


    " ''Allo, my leetle fashion plate." Andre Leon Talley and the massive-titted Glorinda greet Chloe with impossibly wettish airkisses, causing Chloe to let go of my arm, which causes me to collide with Alison, who, unfazed, just drags me up the stairs.


    We''ll slide down the surface of things...


    Alison slams the bathroom door, locks it, then moves over to the toilet and lifts up her skirt, pulls her stockings down and falls onto the white porcelain seat, muttering to herself.


    "Baby, this is not a good idea," I''m saying, pacing back and forth in front of her. "Baby, this is definitely not a good idea."


    "Oh my god," she''s moaning. "That tuna has been giving me total shark-eye all night. Did she actually come with you, Victor? How in the f**k did she weasel in here? Did you see the f**king look she gave me when I first made eye contact?" Alison wipes herself and, still sitting there, immediately begins to rummage through a Prada handbag. "That bitch actually told Chris O''Donnell that I run a quote-unquote highly profitable fat-substitute emporium."


    "I think your meeting could definitely be construed as an uh-oh moment."


    "And if you keep ignoring me you''re gonna have a whole night chock-full of them." In the Prada handbag Alison finds two vials and stands up, her voice brimming with acid. "Oh, but I forgot, you don''t want to see me anymore. You want to break up. You need your space. You, Victor, are a major loser." She tries to compose herself, fails. "I think I''m gonna be sick. I''m gonna be sick all over you. How could you do this to me? And of all nights!" She''s hissing to herself, unscrewing the top of one vial, doing two, three, six huge bumps of coke, then suddenly she stops, inspects the vial, then says "Wrong vial" and unscrews the other one and does four bumps from that. "You''re not going to get away with this. You''re not. Oh my god." She grabs her head. "I think I have sickle-cell anemia." Then, snapping her head up, she shrieks, "And why in the hell is your girlfriend-sorry, ex-girlfriend-wearing the same f**king dress I am?"


    "Why?" I shout out. "Does it bother you?"


    "Let''s just say-" Alison starts coughing, her face crumples up and between huge sobs she wails, "it was mildly horrifying?" She immediately recovers, slaps my face, grabs my shoulders and screams, "You''re not getting away with this!"


    "With what?" I shout, grabbing a vial away from her, scooping out two huge capfuls for myself. "What am I not getting away with?"

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    Alison grabs the vial away from me and says, "No, that''s, er, something else." She hands me the other vial.


    Already wired, I''m not capable of stopping myself from kissing her on the nose, an involuntary reaction to whatever I just snorted.


    "Oh hot," she sneers miserably. "How hot."


    Unable to move my mouth, I gurgle, "I''m speechless too."


    "That little conversation we had, Victor, upset me very much," Alison groans, fixing her hair, wiping her nose with Kleenex. She looks at my innocent face in the mirror, while I stand behind her doing a few more hits. "Oh please, Victor, don''t do this-do not do this."


    "When?" I''m shouting out. "What in the hell-"


    "About ninety minutes ago? Stop acting like such an idiot. I know you''re a guy who''s not exactly on the ball, but please-even this could not get past you."


    I hand back the vial, wiping my nose, and then say very quietly, hoping to reassure her, "Baby, I don''t know what you''re talking about."


    "That''s the problem, Victor," she screams. "You never know."


    "Baby, baby-"


    "Shut up, shut up, shut up," she screams, whirling away from her reflection. "You stand in front of me just ninety minutes ago outside my apartment and tell me it''s all over-that you''re in love with Lauren Hynde? That you''re dumping Chloe for her? Remember that, you humongous idiot?"


    "Wait a minute," I say, holding up my hands, both of which she smacks at. "You''re really coked up and you need a tranquilizer and you need to get your facts straight-"


    "Are you saying this didn''t happen, Victor?" she shouts, grabbing at me.


    Holding her back, I look intently into her face and offer, "I''m not saying it didn''t happen, Alison." I breathe in. "I''m just saying that I wasn''t conscious when this occurred and I guess I''m saying that you weren''t conscious either."


    "Are you telling me we didn''t have this conversation?" she screams. "Are you telling me I hallucinated it?"


    I stare at her. "Well, in a nutshell, yeah."


    Someone starts knocking on the bathroom door, which provokes Alison into some kind of massive freak-out. I grab her by the shoulders and turn her around to face me.


    "Baby, I was doing my MTV ''House of Style'' interview"-I check the watch I''m not wearing-"ninety minutes ago, so-"


    "Victor, it was you!" she shouts, pushing me away from her. "You were standing there outside my place telling me that-"


    "You''re wasted!" I cry out. "I''m leaving and yeah, baby-it is all over. I''m outta here and of this I''m certain!"


    "If you think Damien''s ever going to let you open a f**king door let alone a club after he finds out you''re f**king his little girlfriend you''re more pitifully deluded than I ever thought possible."


    "That"-I stop, look back at her questioningly-"doesn''t really mean anything to me."


    I swing the door open, Alison standing motionless behind me. A whole group of people squeeze past me and though they probably despise Alison they decide to surround her and take notes while she sobs, her face a wreck.


    "You are not a player," is the last thing Alison ever screams at me.


    I slam the door shut.


    We''ll slide down the surface of things ...


    Lauren stands with Jason London and Elle Macpherson exchanging recipe tips for smart drinks even though someone shockingly famous''s penis exploded when his smart drink was mixed with "the wrong elements" and everyone goes "oooh" but Lauren''s not really listening because she''s watching Damien schmoozing a group that includes Demi Moore, Veronica Webb and Paulina Porizkova, and when Elle kisses me on the cheek and compliments my stubble Lauren abruptly looks away from Damien and just stares at me blankly-a replicant-and I wipe my nose and move toward her, suddenly in a very huggy mood.


    "Have you heard?" she asks, lighting a cigarette.


    "That I''m in dire need of a crisis-management team? Yes."


    "Giorgio Armani couldn''t make it because he''s in rehearsals for ''Saturday Night Live,'' which he''s hosting."


    "Dig it," I murmur.


    "What did Alison want to show you?" she asks. "The third claw growing out of her ass?"


    I grab a martini from a passing waiter. "No."


    "Oh damnit, Victor," she groans. "Just live up to it."


    Chloe stands in the middle of the room chatting with Winona Ryder and Billy Norwich, and Baxter Priestly is perched nearby drinking a tiny white-wine spritzer and people squeezing past us block the view from where Chloe and Damien stand of my hand clutching Lauren''s while Lauren keeps staring at Damien, who''s touching the black fabric of Veronica Webb''s dress and saying things like "Love the dress but it''s a tad Dracula-y, baby," and the girls laugh and Veronica grabs his hand playfully and Lauren''s hand squeezes mine tightly.

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    "I really wouldn''t call that flirting, baby," I tell her. "Don''t get ruffled."


    Lauren''s nodding slowly as Damien, swigging a martini, shouts out, "Why don''t you titillate me literally, baby," and the girls explode with laughter, fawning over him, and the entire room is humming around us and the lights of cameras are flashing behind every corner.


    "I know you have a keen sense of the way people behave," Lauren says. "It''s okay, Victor." She tosses back what''s left of her jumbo-sized drink.


    "Do you want to talk about it?"


    "About what?" she asks. "Your Bravery-in-the-Face-of-Doom nomination?"


    "I''d be thrilled if you moved on to soda pop, baby."


    "Do you love Chloe?" she asks.


    All I can say is, "You look very Uma-ish tonight."


    In the interim Damien moves over to us and Lauren lets my hand drop from hers and while I light a cigarette Alison spots Damien and excuses herself from Heather Locklear and Eddie Veder and prowls over, hyperventilating, and hooks her arm through Damien''s before he can say anything to Lauren, refusing to look at me, and then she plays with his hair and in a panic Damien pushes her hand away and in the background the "cute" magician performs card tricks for James Iha, Teri Hatcher, Liv Tyler, Kelly Slater and someone dressed disconcertingly like Willie Wonka and I''m trying to be cool but my fists are totally clenched and the back of my neck and my forehead are soaked with sweat.


    "Well," Damien says hollowly. "Well, well... well."


    "Loved you in Bitch Troop, darling," Alison gushes at Lauren.


    "Oh shit," Damien mutters under his breath.


    "Nice dress," Lauren says, staring at Alison.


    "What?" Alison asks, shocked.


    Lauren looks directly at Alison and, enunciating very clearly, nodding appreciatively, says, "I said nice dress."


    Damien holds Alison back as JD and Beau walk up to Damien and they''re with some white-blond surfer wearing nylon snowboarding pants and a faux-fur motorcycle jacket.


    "Hey Alison, Lauren," I say. "This is JD and Beau. They''re the stars of Bill and Ted''s Homosexual Adventure."


    "It''s, um, time for dinner," JD says tentatively, trying not to notice Alison vibrating with rage, emitting low rumbling sounds. She finally looks over at Damien''s falsely placid face and sneers, dropping her cigarette into his glass. Damien makes a strangled noise, then averts his eyes from the martini.


    "Um, great," Damien says. "Dinnertime. Fantastic. Here, Beau." Damien hands Beau his martini glass. While we all watch, Beau stares at it and then very carefully places the glass on a nearby table.


    "Yeah, great," I say, overly enthusiastic, unable to stop staring at the cigarette floating in the martini. "Hey, who''s this?" I ask, shaking the surfer''s limp hand.


    "This is Plez," someone says.


    "Hey Plez," Damien says, glancing quickly at Alison. "How ya loin''?"


    "Plez is a snowboarder," JD says.


    "And he won the world half-pipe championship," Beau adds.


    "And he''s a messenger at UPS," JD adds.


    "Cha cha cha," I say.


    Conversation stops. No one moves.


    "Cha... cha... cha," I say again.


    "So-o-o, dude-what are you doing in Manhattan?" Damien asks Plez, glancing quickly at Lauren.


    "He just returned from Spain, where he was shooting a video for Glam Hooker," Beau says, patting Plez on the head.


    Plez is shrugging amiably, eyes half-closed, reeking of marijuana, nodding out.


    "How brill." I''m nodding too.


    "Total brill," JD says.


    "Not to mention fagulous," Beau gushes.


    "Totally brill and totally fagulous," JD adds.


    Chloe appears and her hand''s freezing as it clasps mine and looking at the floor I''m thinking my god someone will have to do a lot of vacuuming and Lauren offers Baxter a tight smile and the gravity of the situation starts to become apparent to most of us as Bridget Fonda and Gerlinda Kostiff pass by.


    "Let''s, er, eat." Damien claps his hands, knocking himself out of some kind of reverie, startling all of us out of our own respective silences. Alison looks so drunk and is staring at Lauren with so much hatred that the urge to sneak away is almost overwhelming.


    "The way you said that was so, um... debonair," I tell Damien.


    "Well, I just think we should sit down before the nonessential personnel arrive at eleven," he says, shoving Alison away from the rest of us, at the same time holding tightly on to one arm.

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    A cue for everyone to move up the stairs to the second floor for dinner.


    "A sense of frenzy in the air?" JD whispers to me.


    "There''s a mass branding at Club Lure in about two hours," I hiss at him. "It''s Pork Night and your name''s on the list."


    "Oh Victor," JD says. "Be aware if you dare."


    We''ll slide down the surface of things...


    How it got to be eleven so suddenly is confusing to us all, not that it really means anything, and conversation revolves around how Mark Vanderloo "accidentally" ate an onion-and-felt sandwich the other night while viewing the Rob Lowe sex tapes, which Mark found "disappointing"; the best clubs in New Zealand; the injuries someone sustained at a Metallica concert in Pismo Beach; how Hurley Thompson disappeared from a movie set in Phoenix (I have to bite my tongue); what sumo wrestlers actually do; a gruesome movie Jonathan just finished shooting, based on a starfish one of the producers found behind a fence in Nepal; a threesome someone fell into with Paul Schrader and Bruce Wagner; spinning lettuce; the proper pronunciation of "ooh la la." At our table Lauren''s on one side of me, Chloe''s on the other along with Baxter Priestly, Johnathon Schaech, Carolyn Murphy, Brandon Lee, Chandra North, Shalom Harlow, John Leguizamo, Kirsty Hume, Mark Vanderloo, JFK Jr., Brad Pitt, Gwyneth Paltrow, Patsy Kensit, Noel Gallagher, Alicia Silverstone and someone who I''m fairly sure is Beck or looks like Beck and it seems like everyone''s wearing very expensive pantsuits. Earlier in the day I was upset that Chloe and I weren''t seated at Damien''s table (because there were things I had to say to David Geffen and an apology I had to make to Calvin) but right now, watching Alison slumped against Damien while trying to light a joint the size of a very long roll of film, everyone very buzzed, people knocking into each other as table-hopping on a very massive scale resumes while cappuccino''s served, everything sliding in and out of focus, it''s okay.


    I''m trying to light a cigarette someone''s spilled San Pellegrino on and Lauren''s talking to a kneeling Woody Harrelson about hemp production and so I tap in to Chloe, interrupting what I''m sure is a stunning conversation with Baxter, and she turns reluctantly to me, finishing another Cosmopolitan, her face taut with misery, and then she simply asks, "What is it?"


    "Um, baby, what''s the story with Damien and Lauren?" I inquire gingerly.


    "I am so bored with you, Victor, that I don''t even know how to answer that," she says. "What are you talking about?"


    "How long have you known about Damien and your so-called best friend Lauren?" I ask again, lowering my voice, glancing over at Lauren and Woody.


    "Why is my so-called boyfriend asking someone he actually thinks supposedly cares?" she sighs, looking away.


    "Honey," I whisper patiently, "they''re having an affair."


    "Who told you this?" she asks, recoiling. "Where did you read this? Oh god, I''m so tired."


    "What are you so tired of?" I ask patiently.


    She looks down glassy-eyed at the scoops of sorbet melting into a puddle on her plate.


    "You''re a big help," I sigh.


    "Why do you even care? What do you want me to say? You wanna f**k her? You wanna f**k him? You-"


    "Shhh. Hey baby, why would you think that?"


    "You''re whining, Victor." She waves a hand in front of my face tiredly, dismissing me.


    "Alison and Damien are engaged-did you know that?" I ask.


    "I''m not interested in the lives of other people, Victor," Chloe says. "Not now. Not tonight. Not when we''re in serious trouble."


    "I think you definitely need a toke off that major joint Alison''s smoking."


    "Why?" She snaps out of something. "Why, Victor? Why do you think I need to do drugs?"


    "Because I have a feeling we''re on the verge of having that conversation again about how lost and fat you were at fourteen."


    "Why did you ask me last night not to wear this dress?" she asks, suddenly alert, arms crossed.


    Pause. "Because... you''d resemble... Pocahontas, but really, baby, you look smashing and-" I''m just glancing around, smiling gently over at Beck, fidgeting with a Marlboro, searching for Chap Stick, smiling gently over at Beck again.


    "No, no, no." She''s shaking her head. "Because you don''t care about things like that. You don''t care about things that don''t have anything to do with you."


    "You have something to do with me."

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    "Only in an increasingly superficial way," she says. "Only because we''re in this movie together."


    "You think you know everything, Chloe."


    "I know a f**k of a lot more than you do, Victor," she says. "Everyone knows a f**k of a lot more than you do and it''s not cute."


    "So you don''t have any lip balm?" I ask carefully, glancing around to see if anyone heard her.


    Silence, then, "How did you know Alison was going to wear that dress?" she suddenly asks. "I''ve been thinking about that all night. How did you know Alison was going to be wearing the same dress? And you did know, didn''t you?"


    "Baby," I say, semi-exasperated. "The way you look at things is so hard-"


    "No, no, Victor," she says, sitting up. "It''s very simple. It''s actually very, very simple."


    "Baby, you''re very, very cool."


    "I am so tired of looking at that empty expanse that''s supposed to be your face-"


    "Alfonse." I raise my hand at a passing busboy, making a pouring motion. "Mineral water for the table. Con gas?"


    "And why does Damien keep asking me why I''m not wearing a hat?" she asks. "Is everyone demented or something?"


    Chloe zones out on her reflection in a mirror situated across the room while Brad Pitt and Gwyneth Paltrow celebrate her choice of fingernail polish and gradually we drift away from one another and those who aren''t doing drugs light up cigars so I grab one too and somewhere above us, gazing down, the ghosts of River Phoenix and Kurt Cobain and my mother are totally, utterly bored.


    "Is Lauren dating Baxter?" I ask innocently, giving Chloe one last try for an answer, and I''m leaning in, nodding goodbye to Brad and Gwyneth. "


    "''Is Lauren dating Baxter?''" she mimics. "I need another Cosmopolitan and then I''m getting the hell out of here." She turns her attention to Baxter, completely ignoring me, and I''m totally startled so I do a few cool moves with the cigar and turn to Lauren, who seems to be paying attention to my plight.


    "She looks displeased," Lauren says, glancing over at Chloe.


    "My fault." I shrug. "Forget about it."


    "Everyone here is just... so... dead."


    "Alicia Silverstone doesn''t look so dead. Noel Gallagher doesn''t look so dead. JFK Jr. doesn''t look so dead -


    "JFK Jr. never showed up, Victor."


    "Would you like some more dessert?"


    "I suppose it''s all relative," she sighs, then starts drawing on a large cocktail napkin with purple Hard Candy nail polish.


    "Are you dating Baxter Priestly?" I finally ask.


    She looks up from the napkin briefly, smiles a private smile, continues drawing with the nail polish. "Rumor has it that you are," she murmurs.


    "Rumor has it that Naomi Campbell''s shortlisted for the Nobel Prize but really, what are the odds?" I ask, annoyed.


    Lauren''s looking at Alison, considering her, while Alison pitches forward in her chair, drunkenly grabbing onto Calvin Klein for support, everyone knocking back shots of Patron tequila, a small gold bottle sitting half-empty in the middle of Damien''s plate.


    "She''s like a tarantula," Lauren whispers.


    Alfonse starts pouring San Pellegrino into extra glasses scattered around our table. "Could you please bring her another Diet Dr Pepper?" I ask him, pointing at Lauren.


    "Why?" Lauren asks, overhearing me.


    "Because everything needs to be redefined right now," I say. "Because things need to be redefined for me. People need to sober up, that''s why, and-"


    Something crawls up my neck and I whirl around to slap it away but it''s just one of Robert Isabell''s floral arrangements going limp. Lauren looks at me like I''m insane and I pretend to study the point where Mark Vanderloo''s eyebrows don''t meet. Someone says "Pass the chips," someone else says "Those aren''t chips." I finally turn back to Lauren, who''s still writing on the cocktail napkin, concentrating, her eyes slits. I notice the letters W, Q, J, maybe an R. We''ll slide down the surface of things. Damien slowly disengages himself from his table and starts moving toward me, cigar in hand.


    "Lauren-" I start.


    "You''re high," she says somewhat menacingly.


    "I was high. I''m not high anymore. I am no longer high." I pause. "You said that somewhat menacingly."


    I pause, testing the situation. "But do you have any coke?" and then, "Are you, like, carrying?"

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    She shakes her head then reaches down into my lap and still smiling sweetly squeezes my balls then picks up the napkin, kisses me on the cheek, whispers "I''m still in love with you" and glides away, floating past Damien, who tries to reach out for her but she''s gliding away, floating past him, the expression on her face saying don''t touch.


    Damien just stands there, mutters something, closes and opens his eyes, then takes Lauren''s seat next to mine as Lauren walks over to Timothy Hutton and gently turns to him in an exceedingly intimate way, and Damien''s puffing on his cigar, staring at the two of them, and I''m waving smoke away, slouching in my seat, my cigar unlit.


    Damien''s saying things like "Have you ever felt like crawling under a table and living there for a week?"


    "I''ve spent most of this night gasping," I''m conceding. "And I''m exhausted."


    "I think this place is actually great," Damien says, gesturing at the room. "I just wish it wasn''t such an awful night."


    My eyes are still watering from the squeeze Lauren gave me but through the tears I notice she''s not terribly far from the seat Damien vacated next to Alison''s, and my heart speeds up, something tightens in my stomach, my armpits start tingling and Lauren''s swaying her hips exaggeratedly and Alison''s totally wired, sucking on a joint, greedily chatting away with Ian Schrager and Kelly Klein, then Damien looks away from me and watches too as Lauren says something that causes Tim Hutton to raise his eyebrows and cough while Uma''s talking to David Geffen. Her eyes gleaming, Lauren brings the cocktail napkin to her lips, kissing it, wetting it, and I''m holding my breath watching everything and Alison whispers something to Kelly Klein and Lauren leans away from Tim and with the hand holding the cocktail napkin pats Alison on the back and the napkin sticks and Damien makes a strangled noise.


    On the napkin is one word in giant garish purple letters: CUNT. Alison glances up briefly. She pushes Lauren''s hand away.


    Next to me, Chloe''s watching too and she lets out a little whimper. Damien lurches from the table.


    Lauren''s laughing gaily, walking away from Tim Hutton in mid-sentence. And then he notices the napkin on Alison''s back.


    Before Damien can get to Alison she''s already reaching behind her neck and she feels the napkin and pulls it off and slowly brings it in front of her face and her eyes go wide and she lets out a giant mama of a scream.


    She spots Lauren making her way out of the dining room and hurls a glass at her, which misses Lauren and explodes against the wall.


    Alison leaps up from her chair and races toward Lauren but Lauren''s out the door, heading up the stairs to the private VIP lounge that hasn''t opened yet.


    Damien gets to Alison and while he wrestles with her she starts sobbing hysterically and the napkin falls out of Alison''s hand and somebody takes it for a souvenir and then I''m standing and about to run after Lauren when Chloe grabs my arm.


    "Where are you going?" she asks.


    "I''m going to try to, um, deal with this," I say, gesturing helplessly at the door Lauren just breezed through.


    "Victor-"


    "What, baby?"


    "Victor-" she says again.


    "Honey, I''ll be back in twenty"-l check my wrist but there''s no watch and then I look back at her-"in like ten minutes."


    "Victor-"


    "Honey, she needs some air-"


    "In the VIP lounge?" Chloe asks. "In the VIP lounge, Victor? She needs some air in the VIP lounge?"


    "I''ll be right back."


    "Victor-"


    "What?" I say, loosening my arm from her grasp.


    "Victor-"


    "Honey, we''re having a fly time," I say, pulling awav. "''Talk to Baxter. Spin some damage control. That''s what I''m gonna do."


    "I don''t care," she says, letting go. "I don''t care if you come back," Chloe says. "I don''t care anymore," she says. "Do you understand?" Dazed, I can only nod my head and rush out of the room.


    "Victor-"


    We''ll slide down the surface of things... .


    I find Lauren in the private VIP room on the top floor where earlier lay I interviewed prospective DJs but now it''s empty except for the bartender setting up behind a stainless-steel slab. Holly just points over a banquette, where Lauren''s feet are sticking out from beneath a tablecloth, one high heel on, one high heel hanging off a totally delectable foot, and a just-opened bottle of Stoli Cristall is standing on the table and when a hand reaches up the bottle disappears, then reappears noticeably less full. The high heel falls off.

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    I wave my hand, dismissing Holly, and he shrugs and slouches out id I close the doors behind him as mellow music plays somewhere around us, maybe the Cranberries singing "Linger," and I''m passing the antique pool table in the center of the room, running my hands along the soft green felt, moving over to the booth where Lauren''s splayed out. Except for candies and the very dim, very hip lighting and the chilly hues coming from the steel bar it''s almost pitch black in the lounge, but then one of the spotlights outside on the street beams through the windows, scanning the room before disappearing again, only to beam back moments later, again bathing everything around us in a harsh, metallic glow.


    "My psychiatrist wears a tiara," Lauren says from beneath the patterned tablecloth. "Her name is Dr. Egan and she wears a giant diamond tiara."


    I''m silent for a minute before I can say, "That''s... so depressing, baby."


    Lauren struggles up out of the booth and, standing unsteadily, grabs he edge of the table for support, shakes her head to clear it and then lances slowly, gracelessly with herself across the raw concrete floor over to the pool table and I reach out and touch the strand of pearls I suddenly notice draped around her neck, trying to move with her.


    "What are you doing, Victor?" she asks, dreamily. "Dancing? Is that dancing?"


    "Squirming. It''s called squirming, baby."


    "Oh, don''t squirm, lovebutton," she pouts.


    "I think there''s quite a bit to squirm about tonight," I say tiredly. "In fact, I think lovebutton''s squirming is totally justified."


    "Oh god, Victor," she groans, still swaying to the music. "You were such a cute, sweet, normal guy when I first met you." A long pause. "You were so sweet."


    After a minute without moving, I clear my throat. "Um, baby, I don''t think I was ever any of those things." A realization. "Except for, um, cute, of course."


    She stops dancing, considers this, then admits, "That''s probably the first honest thing you''ve probably ever said."


    And then I ask, "Did you mean what you said down there?" Pause, darkness again. "I mean about us." Pause. "And all that," I add.


    I hand her the bottle of vodka. She takes it, starts to drink, stops, puts it on the pool table. The rays from the spotlight cross her face, illuminating it for seconds, her eyes closed, tearing, her head slightly turned; a hand is brought up to her mouth, and it''s curled.


    "What?" I carefully move the icy bottle of vodka off the pool table so it won''t leave a damp ring on the felt. "Is this all too bummerish?"


    She nods slowly and then moves her face next to mine and the sounds of horns from limos in gridlock and the relentless roar of the massive crowd outside is carried up in waves to where we''re stumbling around clutching each other and I''m muttering "Dump Damien, baby" into her ear as she pushes me away when she feels how hard I am.


    "It''s not that simple," she says, her back to me.


    "Hey babe, I get it," I say casually. "Lust never sleeps, right?"


    "No, Victor." She clears her throat, walks slowly around the pool table. I follow her. "It''s not that. It''s just not that simple."


    "You have... star quality, baby," I''m saying, grasping, sending out a vibe.


    She suddenly rushes up to me and holds on, shivering.


    "Don''t you think everything happens for a reason?" she''s asking, breathing hard, moving against me. "Don''t you think everything happens for a reason, Victor?" And then, "Victor, I''m so scared. I''m so scared for you."


    "The time to hesitate is through," I whisper into her hair, pushing against her, easing her slowly against the pool table. "Okay, baby?" I''m whispering while kissing her mouth, my hands reaching down below her waist, and she''s whispering back "Don''t" and I''m reaching underneath her dress, unable to stop myself, not caring who sees us, who walks in through the door, immediately getting lost in the moment, my fingers grazing her panties, one finger slipping inside, touching first the hair there and then a crease and beyond that an entrance that I can actually feel dampen as my finger runs over it gently at first and then more insistently until another slips inside and Lauren''s pressing herself against me, her mouth locked onto mine, but I push her back because I want to see the expression her face is making and now she''s sitting on the pool table with both legs spread and raised up, her hands on the back of my neck grasping me closer, her mouth on my mouth again, making desperate noises that I''m making too but suddenly she pulls back, looking past me, and when I turn around, visible in the darkness of the VIP room is a silhouette of a man standing backlit against the windows that look over Union Square.

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    Lauren quickly disengages herself from me.


    "Damien?" I ask.


    The silhouette starts moving closer.


    "Hey Damien?" I''m whispering, backing away.


    As the silhouette moves closer it raises a hand, holding what looks like a rolled-up newspaper.


    "Damien?" I''m whispering over and over.


    The spotlight beam moves across the room, scanning it again, slowly catching everything in its glare, and as it passes over the silhouette''s face, illuminating it, my mouth opens in confusion and then Hurley Thompson rushes at me, shouting, "You f**ker!"


    His fist slams against the side of my face before I can raise my arm up and in the background Lauren''s crying out for me and after I manage to raise up my arms to block his blows Hurley changes position and starts lifting me up when each thrust of his fists reaches my stomach and chest and then I''m falling, gasping for help, and Hurley''s leaning down, pausing before he slaps my head with the rolled-up newspaper, hissing into my ear, "I know what you did, you f**k, I know what you said, you dumb f**k," and then he steps on my face and when he''s gone I finally lift my head and through totally blurry vision I can make out Lauren standing by the exit and she flicks a switch and the room explodes with light and I''m shielding my eyes, calling out for her, but she doesn''t answer.


    Pages of the newspaper are scattered around me-it''s tomorrow''s News and on the page I''m looking down at, the blood drooling from my mouth staining the paper, is Buddy Seagull''s column, the headline reading HURLEY THOMPSON FLEES SC3 AMID RUMORS OF DRUGS AND ABUSE, and there''s a photo of Hurley and Sherry Gibson in "happier times" and on the bottom of the page in the boxed section called "What''s Going On Here?" is a photo whose graininess suggests it was taken with a telephoto lens and it''s of someone who''s supposed to be me kissing Lauren Hynde on the mouth, our eyes closed, a caption in bold letters reading IT BOY VICTOR WARD SMOOCHING ACTRESS HYNDE AT GALA PREMIERE -DOES CHLOE KNOW?, and blood dripping from my face keeps swirling all over the paper and I stagger up and when I look in the mirror above the bar I try to smooth things out but after touching my mouth and trying to slick my hair back I end up wiping blood all over my forehead and after trying to get it off with a napkin I''m running downstairs.


    We''ll slide down the surface of things. ..


    Everyone who was at the dinner has vacated the second floor and the space is now filled with other people. While I''m craning my neck, looking for someone familiar, JD appears and takes me aside.


    "Just let go," I say uselessly.


    "Hold on. What happened to your head?" JD asks calmly, handing me a napkin. "Why is there blood on your tux?"


    "Nothing. I slipped," I mutter, looking down. "That''s not blood-it''s an AIDS ribbon."


    JD flinches. "Victor, we all know Hurley Thompson just pulverized you, so you don''t need to-"


    "Where''s Chloe?" I keep craning my neck, looking out across the room. "Where''s Chloe, JD?"


    JD breathes in. "That is, however, a problem."


    "JD-don''t f**k with me!" I''m shouting.


    "All I saw was Hurley Thompson dropping a newspaper into Chloe''s lap. He leaned into her while he placed his hand in an ice bucket and whispered into her ear until her face-which was staring down at the paper Hurley Thompson dropped into her lap-fell, um, apart."


    I''m just staring at JD wide-eyed, wondering at what point in the last ten seconds my hands started gripping his shoulders.


    "And?" I''m panting, my entire body goes clammy.


    "And she ran out and Hurley lit a cigar, very pleased with himself, and then Baxter Priestly ran after her."


    I''m so alarmed by this that I must look really bashed-up, because JD looks into my face and whispers, "Jesus, Victor."


    "Everything''s still sketchy, JD," I''m saying while clutching the side of my stomach Hurley did the most damage to.


    "No," he says. "It''s all clear to us." He pauses. "It''s only sketchy to you."


    "JD, Cindy Crawford always says-"


    "Who gives a shit what Cindy Crawford says right now?" JD yells. "What are you talking about?"


    I stare at him for a long time, confused, before I push him away and then I turn and race down the staircase, people rotating around me everywhere, cameras flashing, causing me to keep tripping into people who keep propping me up, until I''m finally on the first level, where there''s so much cigar and pot and cigarette smoke the air''s not breathable and I''m shoving people out of the way, constantly adjusting my focus, music booming out way too loud, minor chords crashing down around me, the Steadicam operator unable to keep up.

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    Bursting out the door, I''m confronted by a crowd so enormous that everyone in it is hidden and when I appear everything grows calm and then, slowly at first, they start shouting my name and seconds later they''re screaming to be allowed in and I dive into the throng, pushing through it, constantly turning around, saying "Hello" and "Excuse me" and "You look great" and "It''s cool, baby," and once I''m through the maze of bodies I spot the two of them down the block: Baxter trailing after Chloe, trying to subdue her, and she keeps breaking away, rocking the cars parked along the curb, hysterical, setting off their alarms each time she falls against one, and I''m taking in air in great gulps, panic-stricken but laughing too.


    I try to run past Baxter to get to Chloe but he whirls around when he hears me approaching and grabs my jacket, wrestling me against the wall of a building, shouting into my face while I''m helplessly staring at Chloe, "Get out of here, Victor, just leave her the f**k alone," and Baxter''s smiling as he''s shouting this, traffic pulsing behind him, and when Chloe turns to glare at me, Baxter-who''s stronger than I ever could have imagined-seems secretly pleased. Over his shoulder Chloe''s face is ravaged, tears keep pouring from her eyes.


    "Baby," I''m shouting. "That wasn''t me-"


    "Victor," Baxter shouts, warning me. "Let it go."


    "It''s a hoax," I''m shouting.


    Chloe just stares at me until I go limp and finally Baxter relaxes too and a cab behind Chloe slows down and Baxter quickly breaks into a jog and when he reaches Chloe he takes her arm and eases her into the waiting cab but she looks at me before she falls into it, softening, slipping away, deflated, unreachable, and then she''s gone and a smirking Baxter nods at me, casually amused. Then total silence.


    Girls hanging out the window of a passing limousine making catcalls knock my legs back into motion and I run toward the club where security guards stand behind the barricades barking orders into walkie-talkies and I''m panting as I climb through the crowd and then I''m pulled by the doormen back onto the stairs leading up to the entrance, cries of grief billowing up behind me, steam from the klieg lights rising up into the sky and filling the space above the crowd, and I''m moving through the metal detectors again and running up one flight of stairs and then another, heading up to Damien''s office, when suddenly I slam into a column on the third floor.


    Damien''s escorting Lauren to a private staircase that will lead them down a back exit onto the street and Lauren looks like she''s breathing too hard-she actually seems thinner-as Damien talks rapidly into her ear even though her face is so twisted up it doesn''t seem like she can comprehend anything Damien''s saying as he closes the door behind them.


    I rush downstairs to the first floor again, alarmingly fast, struggling through the crowd, too many people passing by, indistinct faces, just profiles, people handing me flowers, people on cellular phones, everyone moving together in a drunken mass, and I''m pushing through the darkness totally awake and people just keep dimly rolling past, constantly moving on to someplace else.


    Outside again I push through the crowd avoiding anyone who calls my name and Lauren and Damien seem miles away as they vanish into a limousine and I shout "Wait" and I''m staring too long at the car as it disappears into the mist surrounding Union Square and I keep staring until some tiny thing in me collapses and my head starts clearing.


    Everything looks washed out and it''s cold and the night suddenly stops accelerating: the sky is locked in place, fuzzy and unmoving, and I''m stumbling down the block, then stopping to search my jacket for a cigarette, when I hear someone call my name and I look across the street at a limousine and Alison standing beside it, her face expressionless, and at her feet, on leashes, are Mr. and Mrs. Chow. When they see me their heads snap up and they start leaping, straining at their leashes excitedly, teeth bared, yapping, and I''m just standing there dumbly, touching my swollen lip, a bruised cheek.


    Smiling, Alison drops the leashes.


    Chapter Nine


    Florent: a narrow, bleak 24-hour diner in the meat-packing district and I''m feeling grimy, slumped at a table near the front, finishing the coke I picked up at a bar in the East Village sometime in the middle of the night where I lost my tie, and a copy of the News is spread out in front of me, open to the Buddy Seagull column I''ve been studying for hours, uselessly since it reveals nothing, and behind me something''s being filmed, a camera crew''s setting up lights. I had gone by my place at around 4 but someone suspiciously well coiffed-a handsome guy, twenty-five, maybe twenty-six-was hanging out in front of the building, smoking a cigarette like he''d been waiting there a very long time, and another guy-someone in the cast I hadn''t met yet-sat in a black

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    Jeep talking into a cell phone, so I split. Bailey brings me another decaf frappuccino and it''s freezing in Florent and I keep blowing confetti off my table but whenever I''m not paying attention it reappears and I glare over at the set designer and continuity girl who stare back and restaurant music''s playing and each minute seems like an hour.


    "How''s it hanging, Victor?" Bailey''s asking.


    "Hey baby, what''s the story?" I mutter tiredly.


    "You doing okay?" he asks. "You look busted up."


    I ponder this before asking, "Have you ever been chased by a chow, man?"


    "What''s a chow man?"


    "A chow, a chow-chow. It''s like a big fluffy dog," I try to explain. "They''re mean as shit and they were used to guard palaces in like China and shit."


    "Have I ever been chased by a chow?" Bailey asks, confused. "Like the last time I was... trying to... break into a palace?" His face is all scrunched up.


    Pause. "I just want some muesli and juice right now, ''kay?"


    "You look busted up, man."


    "I''m thinking... Miami," I croak, squinting up at him.


    "Great! Sunshine, deco, seashells, Bacardi, crashing waves"-Bailey makes surfing motions with his arms-"fashion shoots, and Victor making a new splash. Right on, man."


    I''m watching the early-morning traffic cruise by on 14th Street and then I clear my throat. "Er... maybe Detroit."


    "I''m telling you, baby," he says. "The world is a jungle. Wherever you go it''s still the same."


    "I just want some muesli and juice right now, okay, man?"


    "You need to utilize your potential, man."


    "There''s a snag in your advice, man," I point out.


    "Yeah?"


    "You''re-a-waiter."


    I finish reading an article about new mascaras (Shattered and Roach are the season''s most popular) and hip lipsticks (Frostbite, Asphyxia, Bruise) and glam nail polish (Plaque, Mildew) and I''m thinking, genuinely, Wow, progress, and some girl behind me with a floppy beach hat on and a bandeau bra top and saucer eyes is listening to a guy wearing a suit made of sixteenth-century armor saying "um um um" while snapping his fingers until he remembers-"Ewan McGregor!"-and then they both fall silent and the director leans in to me and warns, "You''re not looking worried enough," which is my cue to leave Florent.


    Outside, more light, some of it artificial, opens up the city, and the sidewalks on 14th Street are empty, devoid of extras, and above the sounds of faraway jackhammers I can hear someone singing "The Sunny Side of the Street" softly to himself and when I feel someone touch my shoulder I turn around but no one''s there. A dog races by going haywire. I call out to it. It stops, looks at me, runs on. "Disarm" by the Smashing Pumpkins starts playing on the sound track and the music overlaps a shot of the club I was going to open in TriBeCa and I walk into that frame, not noticing the black limousine parked across the street, four buildings down, that the cameraman pans to.


    5


    A door slams shut behind me, two pairs of hands grab my shoulders and I''m shoved into a chair, and under the fuzzy haze of a black light, silhouettes and shadows come into focus: Damien''s goons (Duke but not Digby, who was recast after we shot yesterday''s breakfast) and Juan, the afternoon doorman at Alison''s building on the Upper East Side, and as the lights get brighter Damien appears and he''s smoking a Partagas Perfecto cigar and wearing skintight ''cans, a vest with bold optical patterns, a shirt with starburst designs, a long Armani overcoat, motorcycle boots, and his hands-grabbing my sore face, squeezing it-are like ice and kind of soothing until he pushes my head back trying to snap my neck, but one of the goons-maybe Duke-pulls him away and Damien''s making noises that sound like chanting and one of the mirror balls that used to hang above the dance floor lies shattered in a corner, confetti scattered around it in tall piles.


    "That was a particularly hellish greeting," I say, trying to maintain my composure once Damien lets go.


    Damien''s not listening. He keeps pacing the room, making the chanting noises, and the room is so freezing that the air coming out of his mouth steams and then he walks back to where I''m sitting, towering over me even though he''s not that tall, and looks into my face again, cigar smoke making my eyes water. He studies my blank expression before shaking his head disgustedly and backing away to pace the room without knowing which direction to take.


    The goons and Juan just stare vacantly at me, occasionally averting their eyes but mostly not, waiting for some kind of signal from Damien, and I tense up, bracing myself, thinking, just don''t touch the face, just anywhere but the face.

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    "Did anybody read the Post this morning?" Damien''s asking the room. "The headline? Something about Satan escaping from hell?"


    A few nods, some appreciative murmuring. I close my eyes.


    "I''m looking at this place, Victor," Damien says. "And do you want to know what I''m thinking?"


    Involuntarily I shake my head, realize something, then nod.


    "I''m thinking, Jesus, the zeitgelst''s in limbo."


    I don''t say anything. Damien spits on me, then grabs my face, smearing his saliva all over my nose, my cheeks, reopening a wound on my mouth where Hurley hit me.


    "How do you feel, Victor?" he''s asking. "How do you feel this mornng?"


    "I feel very... funny," I say, guessing, pulling back. "I feel very... unhip?"


    "You look the part," Damien sneers, livid, ready to pounce, the veins in his neck and forehead bulging, grasping my face so tightly that when I yell out the sounds coming from my mouth are muffled and my vision blurs over and he abruptly lets go, pacing again.


    "Haven''t you ever come to a point in your life where you''ve said to yourself. Hey, this isn''t right?"


    I don''t say anything, just continue sucking in air.


    "I guess it''s beside the point to tell you you''re fired."


    I nod, don''t say anything, have no idea what kind of expression is on my face.


    "I mean, what do you think you are?" he asks, baffled. "A reliable sales tool? Let''s just put it this way, Victor: I''m not too thrilled by your value system."


    I nod mutely, not denying anything.


    "There''s good in this business, Victor, and there''s bad," Damien says, breathing hard. "And it''s my impression that you can''t discern between the two."


    Suddenly something in me cracks. "Hey," I shout, looking up at him. "Spare me."


    Damien seems pleased by this outburst and starts circling the chair, raising the cigar to his mouth, taking rapid light puffs, its tip glowing off then on then off.


    "Sometimes even the desert gets chilly, Victor," he intones pretentiously.


    "Please continue, O Wise One," I groan, rolling my eyes. "Fucking spare me, man."


    He smacks me across the head, then he does it again, and when he does it a third time I wonder if that third slap was in the script, and finally Duke pulls Damien back.


    "I may park wherever I feel like it, Victor," he growls, "but I also pay the f**king tickets."


    Damien breaks free from Duke and grabs my cheek at the place Hurley''s fist struck and twists it upward between two fingers until I''m shouting out for him to stop, reaching up to pull his hand away, but when he lets go I just fall back, limp, rubbing my face.


    "I''m just like..." I''m trying to catch my breath. "I''m just like... trying to fit this into... perspective," I choke, slipping helplessly into tears.


    Damien slaps my face again. "Hey, look at me."


    "Man, you''re shooting from the hip." I''m panting, delirious. "I admire that, man." I take in air, gasping. "I go to jail, right? I go directly to jail?"


    He sighs, studying me, rubs a hand over his face. "You act very hard to be cool, Victor, but really you''re very normal." Pause. "You''re a loser." He shrugs. "You''re an easy target with a disadvantage."


    I try to stand up but Damien pushes me back down into the chair.


    "Did you f**k her?" he suddenly asks.


    I can''t say anything since I don''t know who he''s talking about.


    "Did you f**k her?" he asks again, quietly.


    "I''ll, um, take the Fifth," I mumble.


    "You''ll take what, you sonofabitch?" he roars, the two goons rushing over, holding him back from beating the shit out of me.


    "The photograph''s a lie," I''m shouting back. "The photo was faked. It looks real but it''s not. That''s not me. It must have been altered-"


    Damien reaches into the Armani overcoat and throws a handful of photographs at my head. I duck. They scatter around me, one hitting my lap, faceup, the rest falling to the floor, different photos of Lauren and me making out. In a few shots our tongues are visible, entwined and glistening.


    "What are... these?" I''m asking.


    "Keep them. Souvenirs."


    "What are these?" I''m asking.


    "The originals, f**khead," Damien says. "I''ve had them checked out. They weren''t altered, f**khead."


    Damien crosses the room, gradually calming himself down, closes and locks a briefcase, then checks his watch.

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    "I suppose you''ve figured out that you''re not opening this dump?" Damien''s asking. "The silent partners have already been consulted on this minor decision. We''ve taken care of Burl, and JD''s been fired too. He''ll actually never work anywhere in Manhattan again because of his unfortunate association with you."


    "Damien, hey," I say softly. "Come on, man, JD didn''t do anything."


    "He has AIDS," Damien says, slipping on a pair of black leather gloves. "He''s not going to be around much longer anyway."


    I just stare at Damien, who notices.


    "It''s a blood disease," he says. "It''s some kind of virus. I''m sure you''ve heard of it."


    "Oh, yeah," I say uncertainly.


    "Baxter Priestly''s with me now," Damien says, getting ready to make an exit. "It somehow seems..." He searches for the right word, cocks his head, comes up with "appropriate."


    Juan shrugs at me as he follows Damien and the goons out of the club and I pick up one of the photographs of Lauren and me and turn it over as if there might be some kind of explanation for its existence on the back but it''s blank and I''m drained, my head spinning, swearing "fuck f**k f**k" as I move over to a dusty sink behind what would have been the bar and I''m waiting for the director to shout "Cut" but the only sounds I''m hearing are Damien''s limo screeching out of TriBeCa, my feet crunching what''s left of the mirror ball, sleigh bells not in the shooting script, a buzzing fly circling my head which I''m too tired to wave away.


    4


    I''m standing at a pay phone on Houston Street, three blocks from Lauren''s apartment. Extras walk by, looking stiff and poorly directed. A limousine cruises toward Broadway. I''m crunching on a Mentos.


    "Hey pu**ycat, it''s me," I say. "I need to see you."


    "That''s not possible," she says, and then less surely, "Who is this?"


    "I''m coming over."


    "I won''t be here."


    "Why not?"


    "I''m going to Miami with Damien." She adds, "In about an hour. I''m packing."


    "What happened to Alison?" I ask. "What happened to his fiancee?" I spit out. "Huh, Lauren?"


    "Damien dumped Alison and she''s put a contract out on his head," she says casually. "If you can believe that, which I actually can."


    While I''m processing this information the cameraman keeps circling the pay phone, distracting me into forgetting my lines, so I decide to improvise and surprisingly the director allows it.


    "What about... what about when you get back, baby?" I ask hesitantly.


    "I''m going on location," she says, very matter-of-fact. "To Burbank."


    "For what?" I''m asking, covering my eyes with my hand.


    "I''m playing the squealing genie in Disney''s new live-action feature Aladdin Meets Roger Rabbit, which is being directed by-oh, what''s his name?-oh yeah, Cookie Pizarro." She pauses. "CAA thinks it''s my big break."


    I''m stuck. "Give Cookie my, um, best," and then I sigh. "I really want to come over."


    "You can''t, honey," she says sweetly.


    "You''re impossible," I say through clenched teeth. "Then why don''t you come meet me?"


    "Where are you?"


    "In a big deluxe suite at the SoHo Grand."


    "Well, that sounds like neutral ground, but no."


    "Lauren -what about last night?"


    "My opinion?"


    A very long pause that I''m about to break when I remember my line, but she speaks first.


    "My opinion is: I guess you shouldn''t expect too much from people. My opinion is: You''re busted and you did it to yourself."


    "I''ve been... I''ve been under... a lot of pressure, baby," I''m saying, trying not to break down. "I... stumbled."


    "No, Victor," she says curtly. "You fell."


    "You sound pretty casual, huh, baby?"


    "That''s what people sound like when they don''t care anymore, Victor," she says. "I''m surprised it doesn''t sound more familiar to you."


    Pause. "There''s nothing, um, very encouraging about that answer, baby."


    "You sound like your tongue''s pierced," she says tiredly.


    "And you exude glamour and, um, radiance... even over the phone," I mumble, feeding another quarter into the slot.


    "See, Victor, the problem is you''ve got to know things," she says. "But you don''t."

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    "That picture wasn''t us," I say, suddenly alert. "I don''t know how, Lauren, but that wasn''t-"


    "Are you sure?" she asks, cutting me off.


    "Oh come on," I yell, my voice getting higher. "What''s the story, Lauren? I mean, Jesus, this is like a nightmare and you''re taking it so-"


    "I don''t know, Victor, but I''m sure you''ll wake up and figure it all out," she says. "I wouldn''t necessarily bet on it but I think you''ll figure it all out. In the end."


    "Jesus, you sound like you don''t want to ruin the surprise for me."


    "Victor," she''s sighing, "I have to go."


    "It''s not me, Lauren," I stress again. "That might be you. But that''s not me."


    "Well, it looks like you, Victor. The paper says it''s you-"


    "Lauren," I shout, panicking. "What in the hell''s happening? Where in the f**k did that photo come from?"


    "Victor," she continues calmly. "We cannot see each other anymore. We cannot talk to each other anymore. This relationship is terminated."


    "You''re saying this like you''ve just completed some kind of f**king assignment," I cry out.


    "You''re projecting," she says sternly.


    "I urge you, baby, one last time to reconsider," I say, breaking down. "I want to be with you," I finally say.


    "Trust me, Victor," she says. "You don''t."


    "Baby, he gets his shirts tailored-"


    "Frankly I couldn''t care less," she says. "Those are things you care about. Those are the things that make you decide a person''s worth."


    After a long pause I say, "I guess you heard about Mica."


    "What about Mica?" she asks, sounding totally uninterested.


    "She was, um, murdered, baby," I point out, wiping my nose.


    "I don''t think that was a murder," Lauren says carefully.


    After another long pause I ask, "What was it?"


    Finally, solemnly, she says, "It was a statement," giving it more meaning than I''m capable of understanding.


    "Spare me, Lauren," I whisper helplessly.


    She hangs up.


    The camera stops rolling and the makeup girl drops a couple glycerin tears onto my face and the camera starts rolling again and just like in rehearsals I hang the phone up in such a way that it drops out of my hand, swinging by its cord, and then carefully, gently, I lift it up, staring at it. We don''t bother reshooting and it''s on to the next setup.


    3


    Chloe actually lets the doorman buzz me up after the director tells Ashton to give me the rundown so that I''m prepared for the following scene, which is basically that when Chloe skipped the shows she was supposed to do today it caused some kind of horrible ruckus and since "Hard Copy," "Inside Edition," "A Current Affair," "Entertainment Tonight" and "Nightline" have been calling all morning Chloe is heading to Canyon Ranch for two weeks with Baxter Priestly and in the elevator the director, getting fed up with me, hisses "Look anguished" and I try to but I''m just vaguely unhappy and when I glance uncertainly at the camera it rises up as the elevator doors open and follows me into the darkness of the hallway that leads to Chloe''s loft.


    Inside the apartment it''s freezing, even with all the lights burning; the windows are covered with huge sheets of ice, and frost layers the kitchen cabinets and the giant glass coffee table, the floor slippery in places. The phone keeps ringing, competing with the TV in Chloe''s bedroom, and as I walk in to turn it down a promo for this afternoon''s "Patty Winters Show" appears, the host cradling a severely deformed four-year-old while Bette Midler sings "From a Distance" on the sound track, and then it''s back to a soap opera, where a character says to another character, "That wasn''t nice," and I move slowly over to the bathroom but Chloe isn''t in there. The tub is full of suds and there are two empty containers of Ben Jerry''s Chubby Hubby ice cream sitting by the sink, next to the retainer Chloe uses to bleach her teeth, which sits beside a large hand mirror that with a twinge of panic I''m about to inspect, but then Chloe walks into the bedroom and I whirl around and the phone keeps ringing.


    She''s on a cellular, listening to someone, and looking remarkably composed, she glances over at me as she walks toward the bed, on top of which sits the set of Gucci luggage Tom Ford sent for her birthday, and she says something into the phone I can''t hear, then clicks off, and I reconsider opening my arms and saying "Ta-da!" but instead ask "Who was that?" and then, when there isn''t an answer, "That''s not your phone."

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    "It''s Baxter''s," she says. "He gave it to me." Pause. "Since I can''t answer my own.


    "Baby," I start. "Are you okay?" I''m thinking about the hand mirror in the bathroom behind me, wondering if there was anything on it. "You''re not back into..." I let my voice drift off.


    It takes longer than I want for her to realize what I''m referring to and she says "No, Victor" but she flinches when she says this so I''m not too relieved.


    The phone keeps ringing and Chloe keeps lifting sweaters out of her armoire and placing them in the suitcases oh the bed and she''s moving slowly, deliberately, nodding to herself, every move seemingly mapped out, only slightly distracted by my presence, but then she sighs and stops moving. She looks over at where I''m shivering, slumped in a giant white chair. In a mirror across the room I can make out my reflection and my face isn''t as bruised as I feared. Chloe''s asking "Why?" and the phone keeps ringing, a reminder.


    "Why... what?"


    "Just why, Victor."


    "Baby," I say, holding my hands up, about to offer an explanation. "You''re a, um, great source of... inspiration to, um, me."


    "I want some kind of answer from you," she says calmly. "Don''t free-associate. Just tell me why."


    I take this in. "I can dig that, baby."


    "If there was just some speck of feeling in you, Victor," she sighs, padding over to the closet.


    "Oh please, baby-"


    "Why, Victor?" she asks again.


    "Baby, I-"


    "I''m not going to cry. I cried all night," she says. "I''m not going to cry while you''re here so just be straight with me."


    "Baby, I need... I need..." I sigh, then start again. "Baby, see, this thing-"


    "You never really answer a question directly if you can help it, do you?"


    "Um..." I look up at her, confused. "What was the question?"


    She''s carefully placing T-shirts and panties on one side of the largest suitcase. She wraps the cord of a hair dryer around its handle, then places it in a smaller bag. "It''s taken me a long time to like myself, Victor," she says, gliding by me. "I''m not going to let you change that."


    "But you don''t like yourself," I mutter wearily, shaking my head. "Not really," and then, "Baby, please stop moving around."


    Baxter''s cell phone rings. She picks it up off the bed and listens to whoever''s calling, studying me until she finally turns away and says, "Yeah, okay... I''ll be ready... I just need to meet with someone... Okay, thanks... Hugh Grant and Elizabeth Hurley?... Okay, great... No, I''ll be fine... Yeah, he''s here right now... No, no, no-it''s okay, don''t. I''m fine, really... I''ll see you then."


    She clicks off, moves directly into the bathroom and closes the door. The toilet flushes twice and then she walks back into the bedroom. I want to ask her who was on the phone so she''ll have to say his name but I already know who it was and in the end I don''t really want to hear her say his name.


    "So can you tell me why, Victor?" she asks. "Why did all this happen?"


    "Because, baby..." I swallow. "This is hard... Come on, baby... This is... all I know?... It''s all... I am?" I say, hoping it''s the right way of explaining.


    "Everything you know is wrong," she says. "Everything you know is wrong."


    "Oh man," I sigh.


    "Just look at your life, Victor. You''re going nowhere. You know girls named Vagina-"


    "Hey, her name was Yanni, baby. It just means vagina."


    "How many thousands of nightclub booths can you hang out in?" she''s asking. "You just sit around Bowery Bar or Pravda or Indochine complaining about how much it sucks." She pauses, waiting. "And you do this four times a week?"


    "I''m... pretty much exhausted, baby."


    "No, you''re sick," she says, staring deeply into the luggage, contemplating the arrangement of clothes, hands on hips. "You''re soul sick, Victor."


    "Baby, it''s just"-I raise my head to look at her, confused-"some bad coke, but whatever." I sigh, giving up. "It''s irrelevant."


    "Everything is irrelevant with you."


    "I''m... baffled. Why is everyone dissing me?"


    "You spend your life trying to impress people you''re impressed with, that''s why."


    "Why should I try to impress people who don''t impress me, baby?"

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    "Because the people you want to impress aren''t worth it?"


    After taking this in, I clear my throat. "My... emotions at the moment are a little, um, mixed up," I whimper.


    "You cater to people who don''t really give a damn."


    "Oh come on, baby," I exclaim. "They just pretend not to give a damn-"


    She cuts me off with a look of total disbelief. "Do you actually listen to yourself?"


    I shrug, miserably.


    "I know it''s difficult for you to adjust to reality, but isn''t it time?" She zips one bag up, contemplates another.


    "Baby, baby, this has been like the most difficult week, I think, of my life and"-I breathe in-"this has been so scary, so-"


    "Oh, this tiny little world of yours," she says, waving me away.


    "No, no, really, I''m sick of it, I''m sick of it all too, baby," I say, panting, sitting up in the giant white chair. "I''m sick of being friendly with like people who either hate me or or or are planning to kill me or-"


    "Did you actually think you''d get away with this?" she asks, cutting me off.


    I sigh, then pause for the appropriate amount of time before asking, "Why not?"


    She stares at me, expressionless.


    "People get away with more," I mutter.


    "That''s because everyone''s smarter than you," she says. "That''s because everything you know is wrong and everyone is smarter than you.


    "Baby, that picture... I don''t know what it was but that didn''t happen, that never happened-"


    "What never happened?" she asks, suddenly interested.


    "What that photo showed," I say.


    "You didn''t have sex with or attempt to have sex with or kiss Lauren Hynde?" she asks. "Is that what you''re saying?"


    I consider this, reword what she asked me, then blurt out, "I''m saying that-"


    She moves away from me. "Maybe you come to life when I''m not around-who knows?"


    I''m gesturing with my hands, trying to make some kind of point, attempting to form even a sentence. "Didn''t you like, um, didn''t Von talk to Lauren? Didn''t she explain?" I ask hopefully.


    "No," she says. "I like Lauren. I just never want to see her again." Chloe checks her watch, mumbles an inaudible curse.


    I lift myself up from the chair and move toward the bathroom where Chloe''s placing jars filled with creams and oils and powders into another Gucci bag. I notice that the hand mirror I saw by the sink isn''t there anymore. A razor blade and a small transparent straw sit by a bottle of perfume and I am not imagining this.


    "What?" she asks suddenly, turning around. "Why are you still here?"


    "Because..." I smile sadly. "You''re... my ideal mate?"


    "A mirror''s your ideal mate."


    "Maybe... " I start, haltingly. "Maybe if you didn''t expect so much from me you might not be so... disappointed," I finally admit, and then, watching her reflection in the mirror, "Don''t cry."


    "I''m not crying," she says, surprised. "I''m yawning."


    And back down in the lobby, on my way outside, dazed, shuffling across the marble floor, I bump into Tristan, an ex-model who deals drugs, chatting with Ashton, and Tristan''s magnetic in a gorgeous kind of way and though I''m totally absent right now I''m able to instinctively shake his hand, make the prerequisite small talk, avoid the obvious (Buddy Seagull''s column, the stains on my shirt, the bruise above my eyebrow), trade compliments about our hair, recommend one or two cool foreign movies, a new band from Nevada ("a really happening state," Tristan assures me), and then we move on.


    Outside, on the steps leading down to the sidewalk, I turn around, and through the lobby doors I see Tristan getting into the elevator and I want to ask him who he''s going to see and then maybe buy a couple of grams but instead I start panicking because I make a connection and Tristan spots me staring at him and he gives a little wave just as the elevator doors close and a horrible vision breaks open in front of me of Chloe in an ambulance, another detox center in the desert somewhere, another series of failed suicide attempts followed up with a successful one and I cry out and try to run back into the lobby but crew members are struggling to hold me back and I''m crying out "No but why but why this wasn''t in the script" until I collapse and a technician props me up on the steps where I''m still freaking out and shouting "But you don''t understand you don''t understand" and suddenly the director kneels beside me and gently tells the two crew members to let go, that it''s okay, shhh.

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    I''m shaking so hard the director has to hold my face in his hands, steadying it, before he can talk to me.


    Basically summing things up, he asks, "Do you really want to go back up there?"


    I''m shaking so hard I can''t answer him.


    "Do you really want to go back up there?" he asks again. "Is this something your character would do?"


    I''m inhaling and exhaling so hard I can''t catch my breath and slowly people start moving away from me.


    After what seems like hours I finally stand up when the urge to go back up to the apartment recedes (not all that unexpectedly, really) and over the sounds of construction and traffic I''m still hearing sleigh bells and someone from wardrobe is brushing off my jacket as I head down the steps leading to the sidewalk and the black sedan waiting for me at the curb which will take me back to my apartment where my viewpoint of this project will be, if not exactly clarified, then at least placed in some kind of perspective.


    2


    Outside my apartment building the Details reporter is playing hopscotch, wearing a citrus-colored catsuit, a white leather jacket, platform sneakers, braids held in place by plastic barrettes, and she''s dialing a number on a cell phone, her fingernails half-covered with chipped brown polish. I trudge by her without saying a word, gingerly stepping over the remains of my crushed and mangled Vespa, which lies crumpled by the trash lining the curb, a cigarette dangling from my lips, my sunglasses on.


    "Hey, we were supposed to meet this morning," she says, clicking off the cell phone.


    I don''t say anything, just busy myself looking for my keys.


    "They canceled the piece on you anyway," she says.


    "And you came to tell me in person?" I find the keys. "How intimidating."


    "Don''t you care?" she asks.


    I sigh, take my sunglasses off. "What did you think of me?"


    She cocks her head "meaningfully," studies the sidewalk, squinting, then looks back up at my face.


    "I thought you were well-nigh inscrutable," she says, mimicking a British accent.


    "Well, I thought you were a hodgepodge of banality," I say, mimicking a British accent too.


    I open the door and step inside. She shrugs, skips away.


    An eviction notice is pinned to my door and when I pull it off I glance over at the director and roll my eyes, groaning "Oh puhleeeze." The instant I walk into my apartment the phone starts ringing and I flop down on my beanbag chair, exhausted, and pick it up, yawning. "It''s Victor-whass up?"


    "This is Palakon calling," a voice says crisply.


    "Palakon, I really can''t talk now, so-"


    "There''s a manila envelope on your kitchen table," Palakon says, cutting me off. "Open it."


    I stare into the kitchen from where I''m slouching and spot the envelope on the table.


    "Okay," I say, "I''m opening the vanilla envelope, dude."


    "No, Mr. Johnson," Palakon says, annoyed. "Please get up and go to the kitchen."


    "Whoa," I say, impressed.


    "I want you to take that envelope with you when you go to London to find Jamie Fields," Palakon says. "You have a reservation in a first-class cabin on the QE2. It leaves New York at four o''clock this afternoon. Your tickets are in that manila envelope on your kitchen table, along with-"


    "Wait a minute, wait a minute," I say. "Hold on."


    "Yes?" Palakon asks politely.


    I pause for a long time, mulling things over before blurting out, "You could''ve at least put me on the f**king Concorde."


    "You have a reservation in a first-class cabin on the QE2," Palakon says again, undeterred. "It leaves New York at four o''clock this afternoon. A car will be by to pick you up at one-thirty. Your tickets are in the manila envelope along with ten thousand dollars in cash for, er, expenses-"


    "Need receipts?"


    "That won''t be necessary, Mr. Johnson."


    "Cool."


    "I will contact you on the ship. And don''t forget to take the manila envelope with you. It''s crucial."


    "Why?" I ask.


    "Because everything you need is in it."


    "It''s a nice manila envelope," I say finally.


    "Thank you."


    "How did you know I''d be able to go today, Palakon?"


    "I read the News," he says. "I figured it out."


    "Palakon-"


    "Oh yes," Palakon says, befor hanging up. "Take the hat with you too."

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    I pause before asking, "What hat?"


    "You know which one."


    He hangs up.


    1


    "You have potential," Jamie said.


    We were lounging in a Camden flashback in the commons, splitting a Molson, our sunglasses on, our eyes glazed over, a peeled orange sitting untouched between us on a table, and we''d already read our horoscopes and I was wearing a T-shirt that read IF YOU''RE NOT WASTED THE DAY is and waiting for my laundry to dry and she was alternating between playing with a pencil and smelling a Thai orchid a secret admirer had sent her and heavy-metal pop-Whitesnake or Glass Tiger-was playing from somewhere we couldn''t figure out and it was driving us nuts and her dealer wasn''t coming up until next Tuesday so we were fairly unresponsive toward certain events and in the sky things were getting dark.


    We were lounging in the commons and we''d been talking about how shallow everyone was, ticking off the affairs we''d had with all these shallow people, and then Jamie saw someone she hated or she''d f**ked (they usually existed in the same realm) and she leaned in and kissed me even before I could say "What''s the story?" The guy, Mitchell, passed by. It wasn''t enough that she and I had been screwing each other for the last two weeks or so; she needed people to know that we had.


    "Man, did I get torqued last night," I yawned, stretching. "Totally excellent," she said.


    "Get a haircut," I muttered to someone with a ponytail shuffling by, and Jamie eyed a maintenance worker trimming a rosebush and licked her lips naughtily.


    She had long fingernails always painted with white polish and liked starting sentences with the words "Contrary to popular opinion..." She hated baseball caps on men but would wear one if she thought her hair looked bad or if she was too hungover to wash it. Her other pet peeves about men ranged along the predictable lines of: fake rap talk, urine or se**n stains on jockey shorts (a type of underwear she abhorred), razor stubble, giving hickeys, carrying books around ("Camden isn''t Yale for god''s sake," she''d moan). Condoms didn''t necessarily mean anything to her but she knew every guy on campus who had herpes (through some kind of deal with a lesbian nurse in Health Services who was in love with her), so it was all moot. Shakespeare "irritated" her.


    I would tell her "I''m not looking for a serious relationship" and she would stare back at me like I was insane, as if I wasn''t capable of one in the first place. I would tell her "Your roommate''s really pretty," before moving on to long monologues about ex-girlfriends, every cheerleader I ever f**ked, a cousin I fingerbanged at a party in Virginia Beach, or I''d brag about how much money my family had and I always inflated the amount because sometimes this was the only way to get her attention, even though she knew who my dad was, having seen him on CNN. She forgave me for a lot of flaws because I was "simply too goodlooking."


    At first she was so inexpressive and indifferent that I wanted to know more about her. I envied that blankness-it was the opposite of helplessness or damage or craving or suffering or shame. But she was never really happy and already, in a matter of days, she had reached a stage in our relationship when she no longer really cared about me or any thoughts or ideas I might have had. I''d try and f**k her into some kind of conciousness, desperate to make her come, and I''d f**k her so hard that she''d be drenched with sweat and red-faced and yelling out, the two of us on the mattress on the floor next to piles of books she''d stolen from the library and a couple of  p**n o magazines I bought that we both whacked off over and her accountant was always calling or her therapist was always calling or her cousin lost in Ibiza was always calling and we''d have sad conversations about how much she hated her mother and wished she was dead like my mother was but I listened "intently" and took it easy on Jamie since I knew her first boyfriend died in a car accident coming back from cheating on her at a ski lodge in Brattleboro. "But he was so weird I really don''t even want to talk about it," she''d finally say after an hour, after seventy minutes, sometimes eighty.


    A limousine rolled up next to one of the dorms and a group of freshmen were sunning themselves beneath a darkening sky on a mattress pulled out from Booth House, which bordered the commons. A keg was being tapped and people drifted toward it and the wind tossing leaves around the lawn made Jamie and me look at how leafless the trees were. MTV was on the large-screen television set that hung above the fireplace and a VJ introduced a video but the sound was off and then there was static and people were really just hanging out, waiting for lunch, for another class to begin. Someone sat down next to us and started taping our conversation and someone else was explaining to someone behind me how a camcorder worked. Jamie was gazing at the giant NO PHOTOGRAPHY poster pinned on an unnecessary column in the middle of the room and I had just noticed a naked mannequin lying on its side that someone had discarded on the stairs leading tip to the dining halls.

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    "Do you have any cash?" I asked her.


    "Don''t overdo it, baby," she warned, lowering her sunglasses, scanning the room.


    I took my sunglasses off and checked my reflection in the lenses.


    She snapped her fingers at me. "Hey, why don''t you just start chewing with your mouth open. Why don''t you just start licking your fingers after meals."


    "I don''t intend to take you anywhere nice," I told her.


    "Nice butt," she murmured, ogling a Brazilian guy she hadn''t f**ked yet but would a week later as he passed by, bouncing a soccer ball on his knee as he crossed the length of the room while eating a bagel, his jeans perfectly ripped, wearing a tank top with a gym logo on it.


    I agreed, teasingly.


    "You fag," she yawned, taking the last swallow of Molson.


    "He wears socks with sandals," I pointed out. "He still wears his high-school graduation ring."


    "You, too, are in dire need of a maturity alert, my friend," she said.


    "I don''t wear Members Only jackets."


    "Contrary to popular opinion this is not enough to not make you evil," she said.


    "Evil?" I faux-gasped. "Black light posters are in. Bongos are in.


    "Pervert," she said gleefully. "You have potential."


    Sean Bateman, whom she had f**ked, joined us, offered a distracted smile, nodding even though no one had said anything that required a nod. He wondered aloud if any of us had pot, mentioned something about Rupert getting arrested in Albany late last night or early this morning. Sean pulled a beer out of the ''acket he had just taken off and handed it to Jamie, who opened it with her teeth. I noticed how nice Bateman''s forearms were and someone was sadly strumming Led Zeppelin-I think it was "Thank You"-on a guitar and any light that had been streaming through the window we were all sitting next to disappeared and Sean whispered in my ear, "All the boys think she''s a spy..."


    I nodded and managed to smile.


    Jamie was eyeing me carefully.


    "What?" I asked, confused.


    "You''re easy to unfold," she said to me in front of Sean.


    "What''s the story, baby?" I was asking, worried, blank-faced.


    "You have potential," Jamie said, grinning. "You definitely have potential."


    0


    The camera slowly pans around my apartment, Smashing Pumpkins'' "Stumbleine" pours out over the sound track: a vintage industrial fan, an empty fish tank, dried flowers, a candelabra, a bicycle, a kitchen custom-made from several kinds of stone, a glass-door refrigerator, a food processor unwashed and stained with the grain and pulp from a health shake, a set of martini glasses. In the bathroom there''s a poster of Diana Rigg in "The Avengers" and candles from Agnes b. and in the bedroom there''s a down comforter lying on a futon that was handcarved in a Japanese forest and the original poster for La Dolce Vita that Chloe gave me for a birthday hangs over it and in the closet in that bedroom is a black Paul Smith suit, a black turtleneck, jeans and white shirts, vests, an open-weave pullover sweater, a pair of brightly colored Hush Puppies, black desert boots. On my desk: free drink tickets, a Cohiba cigar still in its container, a Clash CD-Sandinista!-unopened, a check to Save the Rainforest returned because of insufficient funds, last year''s Social Register, a Baggie of psilocybin mushrooms, a half-empty Snapple, a roll of Mentos, an ad ripped from a magazine of Tyson promoting a new lip balm and the dragon tattoo etched on his bicep has a Chinese inscription on it that translated means "don''t trust anyone" and an old fax machine and falling out of the fax machine at this moment is a slip of fax paper that I pick up and read.


    On it:


    nie Marais, Christopher Lambert, Tommy Lee, Lauren Hutton, Claire


    Danes, Patty Hearst, Richard Grieco, Pino Luongo, Steffi Graf


    Michael J. Fox, Billy Crudup, Marc Jacobs, Marc Audibet, the


    Butthole Surfers, George Clinton, Henry Rollins, Nike, Kim Deal,


    Beavis and Butt-head, Anita Hill, Jeff Koons, Nicole Kidman, Howard


    Stem, Jim Shaw, Mark Romanek, Stussy, Whit Stillman, Isabella


    Rossellini, Christian Francis Roth, Vanessa Williams, Larry Clark, Rob


    Morrow, Robin Wright, Jennifer Connelly, RuPaul, Chelsea Clinton,


    Penelope Spheeris, Glenn Close, Mandie Erickson, Mark Kostabi,


    Rend Russo, Yasmen, Robert Rodriguez, Dr. Dre, Craig Kallman,


    Rosie Perez, Campion Platt, lane Pratt, Natasha Richardson, Scott


    Wolf, Yohji Yamamoto, L7, Donna Tartt, Spike Jonze, Sara Gilbert,


    Sam Bayer, Margaret Cho, Steve Albini, Kevin Smith, Jim Rome, Rick

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    Rubin, Gary Panter, Mark Morris, Betsey Johnson, Angela Janklow,


    Shannen Doherty, Molly Ringwald, 0. J. Simpson, Michael DeLuca,


    Laura Dern, Rene Chun, the Brady Bunch, Toni Braxton,


    Shabba Ranks, the Miller Sisters, Jim Carrey, Robin Givens, Bruno


    Beuilacqua di Santangelo, Huckleberry Finn, Bill Murr


    I''m about to reread it for a fourth time, wiping tears off my face, when I hear someone outside the front door and a key slipped into the lock, unlocking the door, and the door opens and someone playing the building''s superintendent-"a young gorgeous guy"-peers in and spots me, wasted on the beanbag chair beneath a giant framed poster of the Replacements'' Pleased to Meet Me LP, and the actor seems bewildered and finally he apologizes for missing his cue.


    2


    16


    Everything surrounding the ship is gray or dark blue and nothing is particularly hip, and once or maybe lee a day this thin strip of white appears at the horizon line but it''s so far in the distance you can''t be sure whether it''s land or more sky. It''s impossible to believe that any kind of life sustains itself beneath this flat, slate-gray sky or in an oceaii so calm and vast, that anything breathing could exist in such Iiiiibo, and any movement that occurs below the surface is so faint it''s like some kind of small accident, a tiny indifferent moment, a minor iiicident that shouldn''t have happened, and in the sky there''s never any trace of sun-the air seems vaguely transparent and disposable, with the texture of Kleenex-yet it''s always bright in a dull way, the wind usually constant as we drift through it, weightless, and below us the trail the ship leaves behind is a Jacuzzi blue that fades within minutes into the same boring gray sheet that blankets everything else surrounding the ship. One day a normal-looking rainbow appears and you vaguely notice it, thinking about the enormous sums of money the Kiss reunion tour made over the summer, or maybe a whale swims along the starboard side, waving its fin, showing off. It''s easy to feel safe, for people to look at you and think someone''s going somewhere. Surrounded by so much boring space, five days is a long time to stay unimpressed.


    15


    I boarded the QE2 still wearing the Comme des Garcons tux and I was so stoned by the time the driver Palakon had sent dropped me off at the passenger terminal on West 50th Street that how I actually got on the ship is a blur of images so imprecise you couldn''t really even classify them as a montage: red, white and blue balloons floating in midair, crowds of photographers that I assumed were paparazzi but weren''t, a porter assuring me that my luggage-faded Gucci bags hurriedly and badly packed-would be in my cabin when ("and if," he added) I got there, a live band playing "The Lambeth Walk." In my haze I vaguely realized that "things" had already been taken care of, since I moved through the whole embarkation process-security, passport, receiving a QE2 VIP Gold Card-swiftly and with no hassles. But I was still so wasted that I barely made it up the gangway, and then only with the help of a couple of production assistants dressed as extras, one on either side of me, and a triple espresso from Starbucks, force-fed, as the band began playing a jaunty version of "Anything Goes."


    In my cabin I opened a complimentary split of Perrier-Jouet and downed two crumbled Xanax with it and then slumped into an overstuffed armchair. My eyes were sore and glazed and only by squinting could I take in my surroundings: a telephone, a minifridge, an okay bed, an unopenable porthole blurred opaque by the salt air, baskets of fresh fruit and flowers that I glumly stared at. Impassively, I noticed a television and turned it on with a remote control it took me fifteen minutes to find, the prop sitting (inconspicuously, I thought) on top of the TV. I tried to focus and read a "Welcome Aboard" letter but started hyperventilating when I saw an invitation requesting my presence for cocktails with the ship''s "cruise director." My maid, a cute little English thing, a tiny Courteney Cox maybe, introduced herself, and eyeing the bright new oversized orange felt Versace overcoat I''d unpacked and thrown across the bed, she smiled proudly and said, "I see you''ve already gotten acquainted with your life jacket," and I just mumbled whatever I was supposed to mumble at that point, which was, I think, "Just respect yourself, baby," then glared at her until she left and I relaxed back into my stupor.


    As we started moving down the Hudson River I wrapped my head in a fluffy towel, started to sob inauthentically and then used one of the gift-box lotions I found when I hobbled into the bathroom to jerk off with but I was too wasted even to get half hard or to conjure up a fantasy about Lauren Hynde or Chloe Byrnes or, for that matter, Gwen Stefani. On the TV screen was a live feed of the horizon from the prow of the ship and now skyscrapers were passing by and then we were under the Verrazano Bridge and then the sky was darkening and another world was taking over as it always does in times like these and then I was dreaming of things that I couldn''t really remember later: I was making various Bart Simpson noises, Heather Locklear was a stewardess, I kissed and made up with Chris O''Donnell, the sound track was remixed Toad the Wet Sprocket and the special effects were cool and the filmmakers had hired a topnotch editor so the sequence really zipped and then there was a final shot- the camera moving closer and closer into the black hat Lauren Hynde gave me until the image was distorted by the hat''s tiny red rose.

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    14


    The first couple days "at sea" I was in a stupor, still recovering. Was it Saturday? Was it Tuesday? Was I disappointed either way? I compensated by sleeping all the time until alarms blared late one morning and I woke up, panicking, the reality that the Details piece was never going to run hitting hard, and I vaguely remembered something about a lifeboat drill-a reminder I barely noticed had been slipped under my door the night before when I came back from a crummy dinner in the Queen''s Grill. Exhausted, I found the life jacket locked in some kind of coffin in my bathroom, grabbed my sunglasses and ran-walked, hungover, along dozens of empty corridors and down two flights of stairs trying to follow the directions on a badly Xeroxed map until I found a deck filled with old people who were huddled in masses and staring rudely, annoyed by my tardiness as I muttered "Oh, give me a break" and muttered and muttered. "It''s backwards, son," I was told by an officer, who struggled, fumbling, to untie the life jacket I had sloppily put on. While I stood there, the officer said, "Don''t worry"-patting me on the shoulder as I flinched a dozen times-"you probably won''t need it." I offered him a Mentos, told him he was a dead ringer for Kurt Loder, which he wasn''t.


    I wandered around on what was left of my Xanax and made an appointment for a massage that I actually kept. I did a little rehearsing, nailed a couple of scenes down, but they had already been shot, someone had already commented favorably on the dailies, so that whole enterprise could be construed as kind of a waste. The elderly and Japanese were everywhere, surrounded me at miserable dinners I ate alone in the Queen''s Grill while staring at an issue of last month''s Interview magazine because there were new photos by Jurgin Teller of Daniela Pestova contemplating a plate of spring rolls and a Corrine Day photo essay on martini glasses and the entire issue was filled with bruises and scars and underarm hair and beautiful, shiftless-looking guys lounging improbably in front of empty 7-Elevens at dusk somewhere in the "heartland" and all I could think about, holding back tears and wincing, was: that should have been me.


    Jurassic Park was the only movie playing in the ship''s Dolbyequipped auditorium so I ended up in the casino a lot, uselessly gambling away the money Palakon had left me, dropping a thousand dollars'' worth of chips at the 21 table in what seemed like a matter of minutes. In the Queen''s Lounge old couples sat on long couches everywhere, trying to complete massive jigsaw puzzles that they were getting absolutely nowhere with, and I was always getting lost and I couldn''t find anything anywhere. I''d finally locate one of the ship''s many bars and sit down, knock back a Mai Tai or four and smoke a pack of cigarettes until the strength to resume looking for my cabin wandered back to me. At one of these bars I was so bored I even flirted with a young German guy who in hushed tones kept inviting me to accompany him the next day to the gym-"da voorkoot stashoon"-and I politely declined by telling him that I had just recovered from a humongous heart attack. His response: "Ja?"


    The next time I saw the German guy I was floating near the rim of the huge whirlpool bath in the spa and after that I sluggishly moved to the thalassotherapy pool and when I saw him saunter over, wearing a silver thong a little too confidently, I bolted toward a private inhalation booth, where I daydreamed about what I was going to do with the $300,000 F. Fred Palakon had offered me to find Jamie Fields. I came up with so many things that I almost passed out and had to be revived with a facial and an aromatherapy session administered by someone who looked like the Crypt-Keeper, as a Muzak version of "Hooked on a Feeling" was piped through the spa''s sound system.


    Occasionally the crew converged and the camera would follow me at a discreet distance, shots mainly of Victor on the upper-deck starboard railing, trying to light cigarettes, some rolled with marijuana, sunglasses on, wearing an oversized Armani leather jacket. I was told to look sad, as if I missed Lauren Hynde, as if I regretted my treatment of Chloe, as if my world were falling apart. I was encouraged to try and find Lauren in Miami, where she was staying with Damien, and I was given the name of a famous hotel, but I feigned seasickness and those scenes were scrapped since they really weren''t in character anyway.


    The Dave Matthews Band''s "Crash into Me" played over the montage, not that the lyrics had anything to do with the images the song was played over but it was "haunting," it was "moody," it was "summing things up, it gave the footage an "emotional resonance" that I guess we were incapable of capturing ourselves. At first my feelings were basically so what? But then I suggested other music: "Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails, but I was told that the rights were sky-high and that the song was "too ominous" for this sequence; Nada Surf''s "Popular" had "too many minor chords," it didn''t fit the "mood of the piece," it was-again-"too ominous." When I told them I seriously did not think things could get any more f**king ominous than they already were, I was told, "Things get very much more ominous, Victor," and then I was.left alone.

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    "I''m... a party person," I muttered to no one.


    Innumerable old people passed by, limped through miles of corridors, slowly lifted themselves up dozens of broad staircases, the lost wandered the decks pretending they weren''t, the ship sailed on.


    13


    The second night of the voyage I had another boring dinner in the Queen''s Grill. The sommelier I''d befriended by ordering a $200 bottle of semi-decent red wine asked if I wanted to join the Mashioki family at the captain''s table instead of sitting alone and I told Bernard that I simply couldn''t, hinting at an indiscretion I''d committed with the Mashiokis'' eldest daughter, a fat, dour teenager who was always wandering near the ship''s kennels wearing an UP WITH LIFE T-shirt, visiting her "cat." The sommelier nodded gravely, brought me another small tin of Beluga, recommended the foie gras, went back to the business of his life while I slipped into my noncommittal dining mode. Afterwards, I dropped another grand of Palakon''s at the 21 table and found the cinematographer, Felix, at the Captain''s Bar, hunched over a giant snifter of brandy and chain-smoking Gauloises. I sidled up next to him and we had the obligatory "ominous" conversation.


    "What''s the story?" I asked, after ordering a split of champagne, maybe my tenth on that particular evening. "You''re the guy shooting this, right?"


    "You could say that," Felix said in a thick, not-quite-traceable accent.


    "I just did," I pointed out. "How''s it going? I just want your professional opinion."


    "It is going better than the last one I did," Felix muttered.


    "Which one was that?"


    "A picture called Shh! The Octopus." He paused. "It was the third part of a soon to be completed quartet funded by Ted Turner that began with Beware! The Octopus, which was followed by Watch Out! The Octopus. The fourth part is called, tentatively, Get the Hell Away from That Octopus." Felix sighed again, distracted, and stared into his snifter. "The third one had a good cast. A very bitter Kristin Scott Thomas, an equally bitter Alan Alda, and Al Sharpton had signed on to play Whitney Houston''s extremely bitter father-the bitter harpoonist." Felix paused. "David Hasselhoff is the first victim of the octopus." Pause. "Isn''t it ironic, huh?"


    A long pause occurred while I tried to process this information. Confused, I broke it hesitantly. "So-o-o... the octopus''s name was... Shh?"


    Felix glared at me, then finally sighed, waved to the bartender for another, even though he hadn''t finished the brandy sitting in front of him.


    "How am I doing?" I asked expectantly.


    "Oh, you''ll do," he sighed and then paused before phrasing carefully: "You have a... kind of... nonspecific... fabulosity-oh my god..." He groaned as his head dropped onto the bar.


    I was looking around, not paying attention to all the faux-angst emanating from the cinematographer. "This isn''t exactly what you''d call Babesville, huh?"


    "It''s about time you gave up your foolish dreams, Victor," Felix said sternly, lifting his head. "Your world''s a little limited."


    "Why''s that, bro?"


    "Haven''t you read the rest of the script?" he asked. "Don''t you know what''s going to happen to you?"


    "Oh man, this movie''s so over." A semi-restlessness was settling in and I wanted to take off. "I''m improvising, man. I''m just coasting, babe."


    "Just be prepared," Felix said. "You need to be prepared." He gulped down the rest of his brandy and watched intently as the bartender set the new snifter in front of him. "You need to pay attention."


    "This really isn''t happening," I yawned. "I''m taking my champagne elsewhere."


    "Victor," Felix said. "Things get mildly... er, hazardous."


    "What are you saying, Felix?" I sighed, sliding off the barstool. "Just make sure I''m lit well and don''t play any colossal tricks on me."


    "I''m worried that the project is... ill-conceived," he said, swallowing. "The writers seem to be making it up as it goes along, which normally I''m used to. But here..."


    "I''m taking my champagne elsewhere," I sighed, tossing him a $100 chip from the casino.


    "I think things will be getting out of hand," he said faintly before I wandered away.


    In bed I finally had the sense to just smoke a large joint while listening on my Walkman to a bootleg Nirvana tape that Jerry Harrington had loaned me, and the live feed of the ship heading straight into darkness on the TV was the only light in the cabin as a dead guy sang me to sleep, dreams intervening, peaking with a voice shouting out, then fading, hello? hello? hello?

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    12


    Just another sunny day and semi-balmy but with a constant headwind and I''m at the pool deck holding a towel, wandering around, amiably spacey with rock-star stubble, wearing a tight Gap tank top, sunglasses lowered at the girl with the total Juliette-Binoche-if-Juliette-Binoche-were-blond-and-from-Darien-Connecticut look lying on a chaise longue in a row of twenty: tall, statuesque, killer abs, a little too muscular maybe but the hardness offset by large, soft-looking br**sts straining against a white gauzy half-shirt, the prerequisite curvy legs outlined beneath leopard-print Capri pants. On the table next to her, copies of Vogue, Details, a W Chloe and I are in, Vanity Fair and Harper''s Bazaar are kept from flying overboard by a small pitcher of iced tea placed on top of them and I''m instinctively moving into frame, hitting my mark. The girl suddenly rummages through an enormous Chanel tote bag-and then-a mascara wand falls from her hand which I gracefully stoop down to pick up-a rehearsed gesture I''m pretty good at.


    "Thank you," she says demurely, a familiar voice. She retrieves a pack of Silk Cuts from the Chanel tote and with absolutely no difficulty lights one. A cue to motion toward the empty chaise next to her.


    "Please, go ahead," she says a little too loudly because of the Walkman she''s wearing. I notice the case of the new Tricky cassette sticking out of the Chanel tote and mentally brush up on the last Tricky CD, reviews of certain Tricky concerts I''ve read, any Tricky details from my own past I''m about to use on the girl with the total Juliette Binoche look.


    Even though it''s too cold to take off the tank top-and not like it''s doing a good job of hiding anything- I slip out of it without removing my sunglasses, lay the towel down and ease myself on top of it, flexing my abs to get her attention. She''s reading a book with the words MARTIN AMIS in giant black letters on the cover and I''m hoping she''s not a member of Amnesty International. A waiter appears and I order a light beer and a large bottle of mineral water, which he brings quickly. I tip him, he''s gone.


    When the girl takes the Walkman off I remember a line, make a move.


    "Hey, didn''t we meet at that barbecue Kevyn Aucoin threw in New York?"


    She takes off her sunglasses, stubs the cigarette in an ashtray, smiles without squinting and says, "I don''t think so."


    "Well, what''s the story?" I ask. "How do I know you? You look disturbingly familiar." I lean on my side, staring admiringly. "Though it could be because you''re the only person on this boat born the same decade I was."


    But some element keeps distracting us. There is a couple-handsome and maybe in their mid-forties, dressed in fashionable beachwear that proves they''re in pretty good shape-standing by the railing. The man camcords the woman clowning around in a semi-forced way against the backdrop of the ocean moving slowly behind them and occasionally they glance over at where I''m lounging, the woman with a harsh, almost severe expression that morphs instantly into a garish smile whenever she catches me looking at her. The man is basically a blank and I''m totally not interested.


    "Are those your parents?" I ask, nodding toward the couple.


    "No, my parents are in the States," the girl says, glancing over as the couple now shuffles out of her line of vision when they notice her paying attention. "Actually, though, I do know Kevyn Aucoin. I just haven''t been invited to one of his soirees."


    "They''re quite fun as soirees go," I tell her, perking up. "The whole gang is usually there. Cindy, Linda, Kate, the Sandras-Bullock, Bernhard and Gallin. Oh, and I met Sheryl Crow there too."


    "I take it you''re also a bold-faced name, no?" she asks. "Just quasi-famous," I shrug.


    The girl offers what doesn''t seem like a fake smile.


    "So maybe we''ve run into each other at various VIP fashion events?" I suggest. "Brushed by each other in the front room at Doppelganger''s or Jet Lounge? Shared cocktails at a private screening where we weren''t aware of each other''s presence, hmm?" I''m arching my eyebrows faux-lasciviously but she''s not amused.


    "You''re not a photographer, are you?" she asks suspiciously, her face tightening.


    "Hey, no, baby, relax." I stall, then lift her iced tea and pick up W, flipping it open to the Star Spotting section, a photo of Chloe and me at a premiere at Radio City Music Hall. I hand it to the girl over the table. She glances at the page, then looks at me, then back at the photo.


    "You''re... Christian Slater?" she asks, confused.


    "No, no, the one below that."


    "Oh, I see."

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    I start feeling my face and then ask worriedly, "Is my head really that big?"


    She focuses in on the right photo: Chloe in a practiced daze, me staring intently into the paparazzi''s lens.


    "Yes, that looks like you," she says. "And that''s Chloe Byrnes, right?"


    "I date her," I say, then, "I mean, I used to date her."


    "Well, I dated Peter Morton," she says, handing back the magazine. "Peter Morton and I used to get photographed together too."


    "So you''re saying we''re in the same boat?" I ask.


    "Well, actually we are," she says, gesturing around, rolling her eyes and groaning inwardly at the line she has to deliver.


    "Well, yeah, yes," I faux-chuckle. "That we, um, are."


    "Marina," she says. "Marina Cannon."


    "Hey, Victor Ward." I pause, letting the name resonate, then offer my hand and she takes it lightly. "And you''re off to..." I leave an opening for the name of a place.


    "Paris, she says. "Actually, Cherbourg and then Paris."


    "Why Paris?" I ask. Then, quite suavely, "Though of course, why not?"


    "Oh..." She pauses, looks at all that boring black water. "Let''s just say certain individuals weren''t sticking to the plan and leave it at that."


    I immediately sense boyfriend troubles and pounce gingerly. "What''s his name?" I ask softly.


    "Gavin," she says, a bit perturbed but still smiling.


    I make a face, mock-shiver. "Ooh, I don''t trust anyone named Gavin." I make another face, grimacing, holding the expression until she notices, then ask casually, "Where''s Gavin now?"


    "Gavin plans to run with the bulls in Pamplona," she says dryly.


    "He''s a basketball player?" I ask, wilting. "I thought the Bulls were in Chicago."


    She just stares at me, a flicker of panic creasing her features. Suddenly the g*y German youth bounds down the stairs onto the pool deck, wearing a Garth Brooks tour T-shirt and giant black Nikes. He spots me and starts bounding over. I immediately feign sleep. Soon I feel a shadow cross my face and linger, followed by the sounds of footsteps bounding away. When I feel enough time has passed I open my eyes. Countless Japanese splash around in the pool. The noon whistle goes off. Elderly report: they''re everywhere.


    "Someone just... inspected you," Marina says.


    "Just a fan. A hanger-on," I shrug. "It''s tough but I''m used to it. So what do you do?"


    "I model," she says simply. "Part time."


    I sit up, swing my legs across the chaise, then realize the move is a little too urgent and reach for the light beer instead.


    "But just a little bit," she adds, noticing. "Just here and there."


    "Baby, that is so cool," I''m saying. "I knew you were a model. I knew you were recognizable."


    "Well, I''m not Chloe Byrnes but I do okay."


    "Yeah, Chloe...," I say "wistfully."


    "Oh, I''m sorry," Marina says and then-when I fail to say anything else-adds, "Anyway, I''m off to visit friends and do, oh, touristy things."


    Chapter Ten


    "Hey, roam if you want to. That''s my motto, baby."


    "So why are you sailing?" she asks. "Afraid to fly?" "I saw The Poseidon Adventure twenty times as a small, frightened child," I explain. "My favorite line in movies is ''My God-it''s a giant wall of water, heading straight for us."''


    A long pause on Marina''s part that I''m responsible for, and then, "That''s... your answer?"


    "I''m going to London, babe," I say quickly. "I''m looking for a friend." I realize something, my eyes gliding over her body, and add, "But I''m in no hurry."


    "So why do you have to find this friend?"


    "Off the record? It''s a long story."


    "We''re not going anywhere."


    "Well, I was about to host this MTV show-"


    "Oh really?" she asks, repositioning herself on the chaise. "About what?"


    Without stalling: "Well, it was just going to be about me. My life, y''know, what I do during an average day."


    "I... see," she says, somewhat contemplatively.


    "And the whole modeling grind was getting me down and being quasi-famous was just getting too overwhelming so"-I breathe in for emphasis -"I decided to chuck it all and I thought, man, Europe''s not that far away. But I didn''t really want to participate in that whole Prague scene. I didn''t want to sit in a moldy cafe with my PowerBook and deal with chicks from RISD. I just wanted to write some poetry and, y''know, make some videos... get away from that whole cyberspace scene. Just chill out... Get back to my roots. Gotta get back, back to my roots." I sip the light beer confidently. "Come back down to earth and get back to my roots."

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    "Your family''s from Europe?" she asks.


    "Er, well, I''m not sure, but I''m, I mean, I''ve heard I had a few roots there"-I pause-"Europe." I pause again. "Baby, I''m just really searching for some honesty."


    She says nothing.


    "Um, y''know, it''s hard right now, it''s so damn hard," I sigh. "I''m just beginning to adjust to not fending off autograph hunters and I''m not used to it yet. I need to detox from that whole celeb thing. But I''m just not used to it yet. Can''t you tell how jittery I am? I think I just twitched." I pause, sip the light beer thoughtfully. "Do you know who I am now?" I open the W up again and show her the picture of Chloe and me at the premiere at Radio City, my thumb subtly blocking out Chloe''s face.


    "I''m not really sure I know who you are," she says. "But you look more familiar now."


    "I was on the cover of YouthQuake magazine last month," I say. "Does that help?"


    "So you''re an actor too?" she asks.


    "Yes. I know how to laugh, applaud, cry out in amazement, all on cue. Aren''t you impressed?"


    "I sense a supporting-actor Oscar in your future," she says, smiling.


    "Thank you," I say, then faux-blanch. "Supporting?"


    I notice the couple conferring with the director, who''s looking schleppier by the minute, and then I notice Marina watching them too and the man turns his head away from us, freezing up when he notices us looking at him, and he nods at the director, who I don''t think is noticing anything, and the three of them are huddled together as if forming a plan.


    "So who is this person you''re trying to find?" Marina asks.


    "A girl I went to school with," I murmur.


    "Where did you go to school?"


    "Undergraduate? Camden College."


    "And where did you get your master''s?"


    I pause. "Actually... I haven''t gotten it yet."


    "Well, she must be very important to you."


    "Well, she''s, um... yeah." I squint up into the sky, which looks weird, nonexistent. "I think it''s like in her best interest if I, um, show up.


    "Camden," Marina murmurs. "I think I know a couple of people who went to Camden." She concentrates for a moment. "Katrina Svenson?"


    "Sure, yeah, right," I say, nodding. "Very good, um, Hacky Sack player."


    "Paul Denton?"


    "Oh yeah, Paulie, Paulie, Paulie."


    "Sean Bateman?"


    "Good buddy of mine."


    "He''s actually a fairly lousy individual."


    "Baby, I am so glad you said that because, baby, I am so with you on that one."


    I notice that the director has moved somewhere else and that the couple in fashionable beachwear has started heading toward our general vicinity. When I look over at Marina she''s gathering up her magazines and Walkman and placing them in the Chanel tote, her skin flawless, the scent of flowers rising off her, playing let''s-get-happy with my nostrils.


    "Hey, what''s the story?" I ask. "Where are you going?"


    "I hate to dash off like this," she says apologetically, standing up. "But I''m feeling a little exposed." She grabs her towel.


    "Um, well, how about-" I start.


    "It was nice to meet you, Victor," she interrupts, concentrating on getting her things together. "I hope you have a pleasant voyage."


    "Um, wait a minute," I say, standing up also. "What are you doing for dinner?"


    "Call me. I''m in room 402. Deck 3." She starts walking away, offering a slight wave without turning around, and then she''s gone.


    I''m suddenly so cold I pull the Gap tank top back on and, leaving the towel on the chaise, decide to follow Marina, ask her to dinner again, reestablish our groovy rapport, inquire as to whether I freaked her out, if I wasn''t behaving gentlemanly enough, if I came on too hard, if she knows Chloe maybe, which causes me to panic about my reputation, but the couple hurry over before I can rush away and they''re older than they looked from far away and I busy myself with the towel and start folding it uselessly, my back to them, hoping they''re not going to ask me to camcord a tiresome message for friends back home with the two of them framed against the dully sparkling miniwhitecaps stretching out to the horizon.


    "Are you Victor Johnson?" the man behind me asks with an English accent. "Or is it Victor Ward?"


    I drop the towel on the chaise and turn to face him, whipping off my sunglasses, smiling wide, and-tingling-admit, "Yeah."