Glamorama (86 page)

The only things that suggest living: a wind billows across the wreckage, the moon rises into an expanse of sky so dark it’s almost abstract, confetti and glitter continue raining down. Aviation fuel starts burning the trees in the forest, the word
CANCELED
appears on a big black arrival board at JFK airport in New York, and the next morning, as the sun rises gently over cleanup crews, church bells start ringing and psychics start calling in with tips and then the gossip begins.

5

9

I’m walking through Washington Square Park, carrying a Kenneth Cole leather portfolio that holds my lawbooks and a bottle of Evian water. I’m dressed casually, in Tommy Hilfiger jeans, a camel-hair sweater, a wool overcoat from Burberrys. I’m stepping out of the way of Rollerbladers and avoiding clusters of Japanese NYU film students shooting movies. From a nearby boom box Jamaican trip-hop plays, from another boom box the Eagles’ “New Kid in Town,” and I’m smiling to myself. My beeper keeps going off. Chris Cuomo keeps calling, as does Alison Poole, whom I rather like and plan to see later this evening. On University, I run into my newly appointed guru and spiritual adviser, Deepak.

Deepak is wearing a Donna Karan suit and Diesel sunglasses, smoking a cigar. “Partagas Perfecto,” he purrs in a distinct Indian
accent. I purr back “Hoo-ha” admiringly. We exchange opinions about a trendy new restaurant (oh, there are so many) and the upcoming photo shoot I’m doing for
George
magazine, how someone’s AIDS has gone into remission, how someone’s liver disease has been cured, the exorcism of a haunted town house in Gramercy Park, the evil spirits that were flushed out by the goodwill of angels.

“That’s so brill, man,” I’m saying. “That’s so genius.”

“You see that bench?” Deepak says.

“Yes,” I say.

“You think it’s a bench,” Deepak says. “But it isn’t.” I smile patiently.

“It’s also you,” Deepak says. “You, Victor, are also that bench.”

Deepak bows slightly.

“I know I’ve changed,” I tell Deepak. “I’m a different person now.”

Deepak bows slightly again.

“I am that bench,” I hear myself say.

“You see that pigeon?” Deepak asks.

“Baby, I’ve gotta run,” I interrupt. “I’ll catch you later.”

“Don’t fear the reaper, Victor,” Deepak says, walking away.

I’m nodding mindlessly, a vacant grin pasted on my face, until I turn around and mutter to myself, “I
am
the fucking reaper, Deepak,” and a pretty girl smiles at me from underneath an awning and it’s Wednesday and late afternoon and getting dark.

8

After a private workout with Reed, my personal trainer, I take a shower in the Philippe Starck locker room and as I’m standing in front of a mirror, a white Ralph Lauren towel wrapped around my waist, I notice Reed standing behind me, wearing a black Helmut Lang leather jacket. I’m swigging from an Evian bottle. I’m rubbing Clinique turnaround lotion into my face. I just brushed past a model named Mark Vanderloo, who recited a mininarrative about his life that was of no interest to me. A lounge version of “Wichita Lineman” is piped
through the gym’s sound system and I’m grooving out on it in my own way.

“What’s up?” I ask Reed.

“Buddy?” Reed says, his voice thick.

“Yeah?” I turn around.

“Give Reed a hug.”

A pause in which to consider things. To wipe my hands on the towel wrapped around my waist.

“Why … man?”

“Because you’ve really come a long way, man,” Reed says, his voice filled with emotion. “It’s weird but I’m really choked up by all you’ve accomplished.”

“Hey Reed, I couldn’t have done it without you, man,” I’m saying. “You deserve a bonus. You really got me into shape.”

“And your attitude is impeccable,” Reed adds.

“No more drinking binges, I’ve cut down on partying, law school’s great, I’m in a long-term relationship.” I slip on a Brooks Brothers T-shirt. “I’ve stopped seriously deluding myself and I’m rereading Dostoyevsky. I owe it all to you, man.”

Reed’s eyes water.

“And you stopped smoking,” Reed says.

“Yep.”

“And your body fat’s down to seven percent.”

“Oh man.”

“You’re the kind of guy, Victor, that makes this job worthwhile.” Reed chokes back a sob. “I mean that.”

“I know, man.” I rest a hand on his shoulder.

As Reed walks me out onto Fifth Avenue he asks, “How’s that apple diet working out?”

“Great,” I say, waving down a cab. “My girlfriend says my seminal fluid tastes sweeter.”

“That’s cool, man,” Reed says.

I hop into a cab.

Before the door closes, Reed leans in and, offering his hand after a pause, says, “I’m sorry about Chloe, man.”

7

After some impassioned clothing removal I’m sucking lightly on Alison’s breasts and I keep looking up at her, making eye contact, rolling my tongue across her nipples and holding on to her breasts, applying slight pressure but not squeezing them, and she keeps sighing, content. Afterwards Alison admits she never faked an orgasm for my benefit. We’re lying on her bed, the two dogs—Mr. and Mrs. Chow—snuggled deeply in the folds of a neon-pink comforter at our feet, and I’m running my hands through their fur. Alison’s talking about Aerosmith as a Joni Mitchell CD plays throughout the room at low volume.

“Steven Tyler recently admitted that his first wet dream was about Jane Fonda.” Alison sighs, sucks in on a joint I didn’t hear her light. “How old does that make him?”

I keep stroking Mr. Chow, scratching his ears, both his eyes shut tight with pleasure.

“I want a dog,” I murmur. “I want a pet.”

“You used to hate these dogs,” Alison says. “What do you mean, a pet? The only pet you ever owned was the Armani eagle.”

“Yeah, but I changed my mind.”

“I think that’s good,” Alison says genuinely.

A long pause. The dogs reposition themselves, pressing in close to me.

“I hear you’re seeing Damien tomorrow,” Alison says.

I stiffen up a little. “Do you care?”

“What are you seeing him about?” she asks.

“I’m telling him”—I sigh, relax—“I’m telling him that I can’t open this club with him. Law school’s just too … time-consuming.”

I take the joint from Alison. Inhale, exhale.

“Do you care?” I ask. “I mean, about Damien?”

“No,” she says. “I’ve totally forgiven Damien. And though I really can’t stand Lauren Hynde, compared to most of the other wenches that cling to guys in this town she’s semi-acceptable.”

“Is this on the record?” I grin.

“Did you know she’s a member of WANAH?” Alison asks. “That new feminist group?”

“What’s WANAH?”

“It’s an acronym for We Are Not A Hole,” she sighs. “We also share the same acupuncturist.” Alison pauses. “Some things are unavoidable.”

“I suppose so.” I’m sighing too.

“And she’s also a member of PETA,” Alison says, “so I can’t totally hate her. Even if she was—even if she is—fucking what was once my fiancé.”

“What’s PETA?” I ask, interested.

“People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.” Alison slaps me playfully. “You should know that, Victor.”