"Oh my god," Evelyn says, and then, genuinely confused, "You mean... wait, she didn't have someone do them for her?"

"Tim said, and he reiterated this fact quite often, that she had all the personality of a gameshow host," I say dryly, sipping from the flute.

She smiles to herself, secretly. "Tim is a rascal."

Idly, I wonder if Evelyn would sleep with another woman if I brought one over to her brownstone and, if I insisted, whether they'd let me watch the two of them get it on. If they'd let me direct, tell them what to do, position them under hot halogen lamps. Probably not; the odds don't look good. But what if I forced her at gunpoint? gunpoint? Threatened to cut them both up, maybe, if they didn't comply? The thought doesn't seem unappealing and I can imagine the whole scenario quite clearly. I start counting the banquettes that encircle the room, then I start counting the people sitting in the banquettes. Threatened to cut them both up, maybe, if they didn't comply? The thought doesn't seem unappealing and I can imagine the whole scenario quite clearly. I start counting the banquettes that encircle the room, then I start counting the people sitting in the banquettes.

She's asking me about Tim. "Where do you think that rascal has been? Rumor is he's at Sachs Sachs," she says ominously.

"Rumor is," I say, "he's in rehab. This champagne isn't cold enough." I'm distracted. "Doesn't he send you postcards?"

"Has he been sick?" she asks, with the slightest trepidation.

"Yes, I think so," I say. "I think that's what it is. You know, if you order a bottle of Cristal it should at least be, you know, cold cold."

"Oh my god," Evelyn says. "You think he might be sick sick?"

"Yes. He's in a hospital. In Arizona," I add. The word Arizona Arizona has a mysterious tinge to it and I say it again. "Arizona. I think." has a mysterious tinge to it and I say it again. "Arizona. I think."

"Oh my god god," Evelyn exclaims, now truly alarmed, and she gulps down what little Cristal is left in her glass.

"Who knows?" I manage the slightest of shrugs.

"You don't think..." She breathes in and puts her glass down. "You don't think it's" and now she looks around the restaurant before leaning in, whispering "AIDS?"

"Oh no, nothing like that," I say, though immediately I wish I had paused long enough before answering to scare her. "Just... general... brain" I bite the tip off an herbed breadstick and shrug "injuries."

Evelyn sighs, relieved, and then says, "Is it warm in here?"

"All I can think about is this poster I saw in the subway station the other night before I killed those two black kids a photo of a baby calf, its head turned toward the camera, its eyes caught wide and staring by the flash, and its body seemed like it was boxed into some kind of crate, and in big, black letters below the photo it read, 'Question: Why Can't This Veal Calf Walk?' Then, 'Answer: Because It Only Has Two Legs.' But then I saw another one, the same exact photo, the same exact calf, yet beneath it, this one read, 'Stay Out of Publishing.'" I pause, still fingering the breadstick, then ask, "Is any of this registering with you or would I get more of a response from, oh, an ice bucket?" I say all of this staring straight at Evelyn, enunciating precisely, trying to explain myself, and she opens her mouth and I finally expect her to acknowledge my character. And for the first time since I've known her she is straining to say something interesting and I pay very close attention and she asks, "Is that..."

"Yes?" This is the only moment of the evening where I feel any genuine interest toward what she has to say, and I urge her to go on. "Yes? Is that... ?"

"Is that... Ivana Trump?" she asks, peering over my shoulder.

I whirl around. "Where? Where's Ivana?"

"In the booth near the front, second in from" Evelyn pauses "Brooke Astor. See?"

I squint, put on my Oliver Peoples nonprescription glasses and realize that Evelyn, her vision clouded by the cassisriddled Cristal, not only has mistaken Norris Powell for Ivana Trump but has mistaken Steve Rubell for Brooke Astor, and I can't help it, I almost explode.

"No, oh my god god, oh my god god, Evelyn," I moan, crushed, disappointed, my adrenaline rush turning sour, my head in my hands. "How could you mistake that wench wench for Ivana?" for Ivana?"

"Sorry," I hear her chirp. "Girlish mistake?"

"That is infuriating," I hiss, both eyes clenched tight.

Our hardbody waitress, who has on satin highbacked pumps, sets down two new champagne flutes for the second bottle of Cristal Evelyn orders. The waitress pouts her lips at me when I reach for another breadstick and I lift my head toward her and pout mine back, then press my head again into the palms of my hands, and this happens again when she brings our appetizers. Dried peppers in a spicy pumpkin soup for me; dried corn and jalapeno pudding for Evelyn. I've kept my hands over both ears trying to block out Evelyn's voice during this whole interim between her mistaking Norris Powell for Ivana Trump and the arrival of our appetizers but now I'm hungry so I tentatively remove my right hand from my ear. Immediately the whine seems deafening.

"...Tandoori chicken and foie gras, and lots of jazz, and he adored the Savoy, but shad roe, the colors were gorgeous, aloe, shell, citrus, Morgan Stanley..."

I clasp my hands back where they were, pressing even tighter. Once again hunger overtakes me and so humming loudly to myself I reach again for the spoon, but it's hopeless: Evelyn's voice is at a particular pitch that cannot be ignored.

"Gregory's graduating from Saint Paul soon and will be attending Columbia in September," Evelyn is saying, carefully blowing on her pudding, which, by the way, is served cold. "And I've got got to get him a graduation present and I'm at a total loss. Suggestions, hon?" to get him a graduation present and I'm at a total loss. Suggestions, hon?"

"A poster from Les Miserables Les Miserables?" I sigh, only half joldng.

"Perfect," she says, blowing on the pudding again, then after a sip of Cristal she makes a face.

"Yes, dear?" I ask, spitting a pumpkin seed that arches through.the air before gracefully hitting the dead center of the ashtray instead of Evelyn's dress, my original target. "Hmmm?"

"We need more cassis," she says. "Will you get our waitress?"

"Of course we do," I say goodnaturedly and, still smiling, "I have no idea who Gregory is. You do know that, right?"

Evelyn puts her spoon down delicately next to the plate of pudding and looks into my eyes. "Mr. Bateman, I really like you. I adore adore your sense of humor." She gives my hand a soft squeeze and laughs, actually your sense of humor." She gives my hand a soft squeeze and laughs, actually says, says, "Hahaha...," but she's serious, not joking. Evelyn really "Hahaha...," but she's serious, not joking. Evelyn really is is paying me a compliment. She paying me a compliment. She does does admire my sense of humor. Our appetizers are removed and at the same time our entrees arrive, so Evelyn has to take her hand off mine to make room for the plates. She ordered quail stuffed into blue corn tortillas garnished with oysters in potato skins. I have the freerange rabbit with Oregon morels and herbed french fries . admire my sense of humor. Our appetizers are removed and at the same time our entrees arrive, so Evelyn has to take her hand off mine to make room for the plates. She ordered quail stuffed into blue corn tortillas garnished with oysters in potato skins. I have the freerange rabbit with Oregon morels and herbed french fries .

"...He went to Deerfield then Harvard. She went to Hotchkiss then Radcliffe..."

Evelyn is talking but I'm not listening. Her dialogue overlaps her own dialogue. Her mouth is moving but I'm not hearing anything and I can't listen, I can't really concentrate, since my rabbit has been cut to look... just... like. . . a... star! Shoestring french fries surround it and chunky red salsa has been smeared across the top of the plate which is white and porcelain and two feet wide to give the appearance of a sunset but it looks like one big gunshot wound to me and shaking my head slowly in disbelief I press a finger into the meat, leaving the indentation of one finger, then another, and then I look for a napkin, not my own, to wipe my hand with. Evelyn hasn't broken her monologue she talks and chews exquisitely and smiling seductively at her I reach under the table and grab her thigh, wiping my hand off, and still talking she smiles naughtily at me and dips more champagne. I keep studying her face, bored by how beautiful it is, flawless really, and I think to myself how strange it is that Evelyn has pulled me through so much; how she's always been there when I needed her most. I look back at the plate, thoroughly unhungry, pick up my fork, study the plate hard for a minute or two, whimper to myself before sighing and putting the fork down. I pick up my champagne glass instead.

"...Groton, Lawrenceville, Milton, Exeter, Kent, Saint Paul's, Hotchkiss, Andover, Milton, Choate... oops, already said Milton..."

"If I'm not eating this tonight, and I'm not, I want some cocaine," I announce. But I haven't interrupted Evelyn she's unstoppable, a machine and she continues talking.

"Jayne Simpson's wedding was so beautiful," she sighs. "And the reception afterwards was wild. Club Chernoble, covered by Page Six. Billy covered it. WWD WWD did a layout." did a layout."

"I heard there was a twodrink minimum," I say warily, signaling for a nearby busboy to remove my plate.

"Weddings are so so romantic. She had a diamond engagement ring. You romantic. She had a diamond engagement ring. You know know, Patrick, I won't won't settle for less," she says coyly. "It settle for less," she says coyly. "It has has to be diamond." Her eyes glaze over and she tries to recount the wedding in mindnumbing detail. "It was a sitdown dinner for five hundred... no, excuse me, seven hundred and fifty, followed by a sixteenfoot tiered Ben and Jerry's ice cream cake. The gown was by Ralph and it was white lace and lowcut and sleeveless. It was darling. Oh Patrick, what would you wear?" she sighs. to be diamond." Her eyes glaze over and she tries to recount the wedding in mindnumbing detail. "It was a sitdown dinner for five hundred... no, excuse me, seven hundred and fifty, followed by a sixteenfoot tiered Ben and Jerry's ice cream cake. The gown was by Ralph and it was white lace and lowcut and sleeveless. It was darling. Oh Patrick, what would you wear?" she sighs.

"I would demand to wear RayBan sunglasses. Expensive RayBans," I say carefully. "In fact I would demand that everyone would have to wear RayBan sunglasses."

"I'd want, a zydeco band, Patrick. That's what I'd want. A zydeco band," she gushes breathlessly. "Or mariachi. Or reggae. Something ethnic to shock Daddy. Oh I can't can't decide." decide."

"I'd want to bring a Harrison AK47 assault rifle to the ceremony; " I say, bored, in a rush, "with a thirtyround magazine so after thoroughly blowing your fat mother's head off with it I could use it on that fag brother of yours. And though personally I don't like to use anything the Soviets designed, I don't know, the Harrison somehow reminds me of..." Stopping, confused, inspecting yesterday's manicure, I look back at Evelyn. "Stoli?"

"Oh, and lots of chocolate truffles. Godiva Godiva. And oysters. Oysters on the half half shell. Marzipan. Pink shell. Marzipan. Pink tents tents. Hundreds, thousands thousands of roses. Photographers. Annie Leibovitz. We'll get of roses. Photographers. Annie Leibovitz. We'll get Annie Leibovitz Annie Leibovitz," she says excitedly. "And we'll hire someone to videotape it!" we'll hire someone to videotape it!"

"Or an AR15. You'd like it, Evelyn: it's the most expensive of guns, but worth every penny." I wink at her. But she's still talking; she doesn't hear a word; nothing registers. She does not fully grasp a word a word I'm saying. My essence is eluding her. She stops her onslaught and breathes in and looks at me in a way that can only be described as dewyeyed. Touching my hand, my Rolex, she breathes in once more, this time expectantly, and says, "We should do it." I'm saying. My essence is eluding her. She stops her onslaught and breathes in and looks at me in a way that can only be described as dewyeyed. Touching my hand, my Rolex, she breathes in once more, this time expectantly, and says, "We should do it."

I'm trying to catch a glimpse of our hardbody waitress; she's bending over to pick up a dropped napkin. Without looking back at Evelyn, I ask, "Do... what?"

"Get married," she says, blinking. "Have a wedding."

"Evelyn?"

"Yes darling?"

"Is your kir... spiked?" I ask.

"We should do it," she says softly. "Patrick..."

"Are you proposing to me to me?" I laugh, trying to fathom this reasoning. I take the champagne glass away from her and sniff its rim.

"Patrick?" she asks, waiting for my answer.

"Jeez, Evelyn," I say, stuck. "I don't know."

"Why not not?" she asks petulantly. "Give me one one good reason we shouldn't." good reason we shouldn't."

"Because trying to fuck you is like trying to Frenchkiss a very... small and... lively gerbil?" I tell her. "I don't know."

"Yes?" she says. "And?"

"With braces?" I finish, shrugging.

"What are you going to do?" she asks. "Wait three years until you're thirty?"

"Four years," I say, glaring. "It's years," I say, glaring. "It's four four years until I'm thirty." years until I'm thirty."

"Four years. Three years. Three months months. Oh god, what's the difference? You'll still be an old man." She takes her hand away from mine. "You know, you wouldn't be saying this if you'd been to Jayne Simpson's wedding. You'd take one look at it and want to marry me immediately."

"But I was was at Jayne Simpson's wedding, Evelyn, love of my life," I say. "I was seated next to Sukhreet Gabel. Believe me, I was at Jayne Simpson's wedding, Evelyn, love of my life," I say. "I was seated next to Sukhreet Gabel. Believe me, I was there. there."

"You're impossible," she whines. "You're a party pooper."

"Or maybe I didn't," I wonder aloud. "Maybe I... was it covered by MTV?"

"And their honeymoon was so so romantic. Two hours later they were on the Concorde. To London. Oh, Claridge's." Evelyn sighs, her hand clasped under her chin, eyes tearing. romantic. Two hours later they were on the Concorde. To London. Oh, Claridge's." Evelyn sighs, her hand clasped under her chin, eyes tearing.

Ignoring her, I reach into my pocket for a cigar, pull it out and tap it against the table. Evelyn orders three flavors of sorbet: peanut, licorice and doughnut. I order a decaffeinated espresso. Evelyn sulks. I light a match.

"Patrick," she warns, staring at the flame.

"What?" I ask, my hand frozen in midair, about to light the tip of the cigar.

"You didn't ask permission," she says, unsmiling.

"Did I tell you I'm wearing sixtydollar boxer shorts?" I ask, trying to appease her.

Tuesday

There's a black-tie party at the Puck Building tonight for a. new brand of computerized professional rowing machine, and after playing squash with Frederick Dibble I have drinks at Harry's with Jamie Conway, Kevin Wynn and Jason Gladwin, and we hop into the limousine Kevin rented for the night and take it uptown. I'm wearing a wingcollar jacquard waistcoat by Kilgour, French & Stanbury from Barney's, a silk bow tie from Sales, patentleather slipons by BakerBenjes, antique diamond studs from Kentshire Galleries and a gray wool silklined coat with drop sleeves and a buttondown collar by Luciano Soprani. An ostrich wallet from Bosca carries four hundred dollars cash in the back pocket of my black wool trousers. Instead of my Rolex I'm wearing a fourteenkarat gold watch from H. Stern.

I wander aimlessly around the Puck Building's firstfloor ballroom, bored, sipping bad champagne (could it be nonvintage Bollinger?) from plastic flutes, chewing on kiwi slices, each topped with a dollop of chevre, vaguely looking around to score some cocaine. Instead of finding anyone who knows a dealer I bump into Courtney by the stairs. Wearing a silk and cotton stretchtulle bodywrap with jeweled lace pants, she seems tense and warns me to stay away from Luis. She mentions that he suspects something. A cover band plays lame versions of old Motown hits from the sixties.

"Like what?" I ask, scanning the room. "That two plus two equals four? That you're secretly Nancy Reagan?"

"Don't have lunch with him next week at the Yale Club," she says, smiling for a photographer, the flash blinding us momentarily.

"You look... voluptuous tonight," I say, touching her neck, running a finger up over her chin until it reaches the bottom lip.

"I'm not joking, Patrick." Smiling, she waves to Luis, who is dancing clumsily with Jennifer Morgan. He's wearing a creamcolored wool dinner jacket, wool trousers, a cotton shirt, and a silk glenplaid cummerbund, all from Hugo Boss, a bow tie from Sales and a pocket square from Paul Stuart. He waves back. I give him thumbsup.

"What a dork," Courtney whispers sadly to herself.

"Listen, I'm leaving," I say, finishing the champagne. "Why don't you go dance with the... receptacle tip?"

"Where are are you going?" she asks, gripping my arm. you going?" she asks, gripping my arm.

"Courtney, I don't want to experience another one of your... emotional outbursts," I tell her. "Besides, the canapes are shitty."

"Where are are you going?" she asks again. "Details, Mr. Bateman." you going?" she asks again. "Details, Mr. Bateman."

"Why are you you so concerned?" so concerned?"

"Because I'd like to know," she says. "You're not going to Evelyn's, are you?"

"Maybe," I lie.

"Patrick," she says. "Don't leave me here. I don't want want you to go." you to go."

"I have have to return some videos," I lie again, handing her my empty champagne glass, just as another camera flashes somewhere. I walk away. to return some videos," I lie again, handing her my empty champagne glass, just as another camera flashes somewhere. I walk away.

The band segues into a rousing version of "Life in the Fast Lane" and I start looking around for hardbodies. Charles Simpson or someone who looks remarkably like him, slickedback hair, suspenders, Oliver Peoples glasses shakes my hand, shouts "Hey, Williams" and tells me to meet a group of people with Alexandra Craig at Nell's around midnight. I give him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder and tell him I'll be there.

Outside, smoking a cigar, contemplating the sky, I spot Reed Thompson, who emerges from the Puck Building with his entourage Jamie Conway, Kevin Wynn, Marcus Halberstam, no babes and invites me along to dinner; and though I suspect they have drugs, I have misgivings about spending the evening with them and decide not to trek up to that Salvadorian bistro, especially since they don't have reservations and aren't guaranteed a table. I wave them off, then cross Houston, dodging other limos leaving the party, and start moving uptown. Walking along Broadway I stop at an automated teller where just for the hell of it I take out another hundred dollars, feeling better having an even five hundred in my wallet.

I find myself walking through the antique district below Fourteenth Street. My watch has stopped so I'm not sure what time it is, but probably tenthirty or so. Black guys pass by offering crack or hustling tickets to a party at the Palladium. I walk by a newsstand, a dry cleaners, a church, a diner. The streets are empty; the only noise breaking up the silence is an occasional taxi cruising toward Union Square. A couple of skinny faggots walk by while I'm at a phone booth checking my messages, staring at my reflection in an antique store's window. One of them whistles at me, the other laughs: a high, fey, horrible sound A torn playbill from Les Miserables Les Miserables tumbles down the cracked, urinestained sidewalk. A streetlamp burns out. Someone in a JeanPaul Gaultier topcoat takes a piss in an alleyway. Steam rises from below the streets, billowing up in tendrils, evaporating. Bags of frozen garbage line the curbs. The moon, pale and low, hangs just above the tip of the Chrysler Building. Somewhere from over in the West Village the siren from an ambulance screams, the wind picks it up, it echoes then fades. tumbles down the cracked, urinestained sidewalk. A streetlamp burns out. Someone in a JeanPaul Gaultier topcoat takes a piss in an alleyway. Steam rises from below the streets, billowing up in tendrils, evaporating. Bags of frozen garbage line the curbs. The moon, pale and low, hangs just above the tip of the Chrysler Building. Somewhere from over in the West Village the siren from an ambulance screams, the wind picks it up, it echoes then fades.

The bum, a black man, lies in the doorway of an abandoned antique store on Twelfth Street on top of an open grate, surrounded by bags of garbage and a shopping cart from Gristede's loaded with what I suppose are personal belongings: newspapers, bottles, aluminum cans. A handpainted cardboard sign attached to the front of the cart reads I AM HUNGRY AND HOMELESS PLEASE HELP ME. A dog, a small mutt, shorthaired and rail thin, lies next to him, its makeshift leash tied to the handle of the grocery cart. I don't notice the dog the first time I pass by. It's only after I circle the block and come back that I see it lying on a pile of newspapers, guarding the bum, a collar around its neck with an oversize nameplate that reads GIZMO. The dog looks up at me wagging its skinny, pathetic excuse for a tail and when I hold out a gloved hand it licks at it hungrily. The stench of some kind of cheap alcohol mixed with excrement hangs here like a heavy, invisible cloud, and I have to hold my breath, before adjusting to the stink. The bum wakes up, opens his eyes, yawning, exposing remarkably stained teeth between cracked purple lips.

He's fortyish, heavyset, and when he attempts to sit up I can make out his features more clearly in the glare of the streetlamp: a few days' growth of beard, triple chin, a ruddy nose lined with thick brown veins. He's dressed in some kind of tackylooking lime green polyester pantsuit with washedout Sergio Valente jeans worn over over it (this season's homeless person's fashion statement) along with a ripped orange and brown Vneck sweater stained with what looks like burgundy wine. It seems he's very drunk either that or he's crazy or stupid. His eyes can't even focus when I stand over him, blocking out the light from a streetlamp, covering him in shadow. I kneel down. it (this season's homeless person's fashion statement) along with a ripped orange and brown Vneck sweater stained with what looks like burgundy wine. It seems he's very drunk either that or he's crazy or stupid. His eyes can't even focus when I stand over him, blocking out the light from a streetlamp, covering him in shadow. I kneel down.

"Hello," I say, offering thy hand, the one the dog licked. "Pat Baternan."

The bum stares at me, panting with the exertion it takes to sit up. He doesn't shake my hand.

"You want some money?" I ask gently. "Some... food?"