Glamorama (6 page)

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.”

30

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.

“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?”

“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 supermodel?”

“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.