The bum nods and starts to cry, thankfully.

I reach into my pocket and pull out a tendollar bill, then change my mind and hold out a five instead. "Is this what you need?"

The bum nods again and looks away, shamefully, his nose running, and after clearing his throat says quietly, "I'm so hungry."

"It's cold out, too," I say. "Isn't it?"

"I'm so hungry." He convulses once, twice, a third time, then looks away, embarrassed.

"Why don't you get a job?" I ask, the bill still held in my hand but not within the bum's reach. "If you're so hungry, why don't you get a job?"

He breathes in, shivering, and between sobs admits, "I lost my job..."

"Why?" I ask, genuinely interested. "Were you drinking? Is that why you lost it? Insider trading? just joking. No, really were you drinking on the job?"

He hugs himself, between sobs, chokes, "I was fired. I was laid off."

I take this in, nodding. "Gee, uh, that's too bad."

"I'm so hungry," he says, then starts crying hard, still holding himself. His dog, the thing called Gizmo, starts whimpering.

"Why don't you get another one?" I ask. "Why don't you get another job?"

"I'm not..." He coughs, holding himself, shaking miserably, violently, unable to finish the sentence.

"You're not what?" I ask softly. "Qualified for anything else?"

"Tm hungry," he whispers.

"I know that, I know that," I say. 'Jeez, you're like a broken record. I'm trying to help you..." My impatience rises.

"I'm hungry," he repeats.

"Listen. Do you think it's fair to take money from people who do do have jobs? Who have jobs? Who do do work?" work?"

His face crumples and he gasps, his voice raspy, "What am I gonna do?"

"Listen," I say. "What's your name?"

"Al," he says.

"Speak up," I tell him. "Come on."

"Al," he says, a little louder.

"Get a goddamn job, Al," I say earnestly. "You've got a negative attitude. That's what's stopping you. You've got to get your act together. I'll help you."

"You're so kind, mister. You're kind. You're a kind man," he blubbers. "I can tell."

"Shhh," I whisper. "It's okay." I start petting the dog.

"Please," he says, grabbing for my wrist. "I don't know what to do. I'm so cold."

"Do you know how bad you smell?" I whisper this soothingly, stroking his face. "The stench, stench, my god..." my god..."

"I can't..." He chokes, then swallows. "I can't find a shelter."

"You reek reek," I tell him. "You reek reek of... of... shit shit." I'm still petting the dog, its eyes wide and wet and grateful. "Do you know that? Goddamnit, Al look at me and stop crying like some kind of faggot faggot," I shout. My rage builds, subsides, and I close my eyes,bringing my hand up to squeeze the bridge of my nose, then I sigh: "Al... I'm sorry. It's just that... I don't know. I don't have anything in common with you."

The bum's not listening. He's crying so hard he's incapable of a coherent answer. I put the bill slowly back into the pocket of my Luciano Soprani jacket and with the other hand stop petting the dog and reach into the other pocket. The bum stops sobbing abruptly and sits up, looking for the fiver or, I presume, his bottle of Thunderbird. I reach out and touch his face gently once more with compassion and whisper, "Do you know what a fucking loser you are?" He starts nodding helplessly and I pull out a long, thin knife with a serrated edge and, being very careful not to kill him, push maybe half an inch of the blade into his right eye, flicking the handle up, instantly popping the retina.

The bum is too surprised to say anything. He only opens his mouth in shock and moves a grubby, mittened hand slowly up to his face. I yank his pants down and in the passing headlights of a taxi can make out his flabby black thighs, rashed because of his constantly urinating in the pantsuit. The stench of shit rises quickly into my face and breathing through my mouth, down on my haunches, I start stabbing him in the stomach, lightly, above the dense matted patch of pubic hair. This sobers him up somewhat and instinctively he tries to cover himself with his hands and the dog starts yipping, really furiously, but it doesn't attack, and I keep stabbing at the bum now between his fingers, stabbing the backs of his hands. His eye, burst open, hangs out of its socket and runs down his face and he keeps blinking which causes what's left of it inside the wound to pour out like red, veiny egg yolk. I grab his head with one hand and push it back and then with my thumb and forefinger hold the other eye open and bring the knife up and push the tip of it into the socket, first breaking its protective film so the socket fills with blood, then slitting the eyeball open sideways, and he finally starts screaming once I slit his nose in two, lightly spraying me and the dog with blood, Gizmo blinking to get the blood out of his eyes. I quickly wipe the blade clean across the bum's face, breaking open the muscle above his cheek. Still kneeling, I throw a quarter in his face, which is slick and shiny with blood, both sockets hollowed out and filled with gore, what's left of his eyes literally oozing over his screaming lips in thick, webby strands. Calmly, I whisper, "There's a quarter. Go buy some gum gum, you crazy fucking nigger nigger." Then I turn to the barking dog and when I get up, stomp on its front legs while it's crouched down ready to jump at me, its fangs bared, immediately shattering the bones in both its legs, and it falls on its side squealing in pain, front paws sticking up in the air at an obscene, satisfying angle. I can't help but start laughing and I linger at the scene, amused by this tableau. When I spot an approaching taxi, I slowly walk away.

Afterwards, two blocks west, I feel heady, ravenous, pumped up, as if I'd just worked out and endorphins are flooding my nervous system, or just embraced that first line of cocaine, inhaled the first puff of a fine cigar, sipped that first glass of Cristal. I'm starving and need something to eat, but I don't want to stop by Nell's, though I'm within walling distance and Indochine seems an unlikely place for a celebratory drink. So I decide to go somewhere Al would go, the McDonald's in Union Square. Standing in the line, I order a vanilla milk shake ("Extrathick," I warn the guy, who just shakes his head and flips on a machine) and take it to a table up front, where Al would probably sit, my jacket, and its sleeves, lightly spattered with flecks of his blood. Two waitresses from the Cat Club walk in after me and sit in the booth across from mine, both smiling flirtatiously. I play it cool and ignore them. An old, crazy woman, wrinkled, chainsmoking, sits near us, nodding at no one. A police car passes by, and after two more milk shakes my high slowly dissolves, its intensity diminishing. I grow bored, tired; the evening seems horribly anticlimactic and I start cursing myself for not going to that Salvadorian bistro with Reed Thompson and the guys. The two girls linger, still interested. I check my watch. One of the Mexicans working behind the counter stares at me while smoking a cigarette and he studies the stains on the Soprani jacket in a way that suggests he's going to say something about it, but a customer comes in, one of the black guys who tried to sell me crack earlier, and he has to take the black guy's order. So the Mexican puts out his cigarette and that's what he does.

Genesis p I've been a big Genesis fan ever since the release of their 1980 album, Duke. Duke. Before that I didn't really understand any of their work, though on their last album of the 1970s, the concept-laden Before that I didn't really understand any of their work, though on their last album of the 1970s, the concept-laden And Then There Were Three And Then There Were Three (a reference to band member Peter Gabriel, who left the group to start a lame solo career), I did enjoy the lovely "Follow You, Follow Me." Otherwise all the albums before (a reference to band member Peter Gabriel, who left the group to start a lame solo career), I did enjoy the lovely "Follow You, Follow Me." Otherwise all the albums before Duke Duke seemed too artsy, too intelleotual. It was seemed too artsy, too intelleotual. It was Duke Duke (Atlantic; 1980), where Phil Collins' presence became more apparent, and the music got more modern, the drum machine became more prevalent and the lyrics started getting less mystical and more specific (maybe because of Peter Gabriel's departure), and complex, ambiguous studies of loss became, instead, smashing firstrate pop songs that I gratefully embraced. The songs themselves seemed arranged more around Collins' drumming than Mike Rutherford's bass lines or Tony Banks' keyboard riffs. A classic example of this is "Misunderstanding," which not only was the group's first big hit of the eighties but also seemed to set the tone for the rest of theiralbums as the decade progressed. The other standout on (Atlantic; 1980), where Phil Collins' presence became more apparent, and the music got more modern, the drum machine became more prevalent and the lyrics started getting less mystical and more specific (maybe because of Peter Gabriel's departure), and complex, ambiguous studies of loss became, instead, smashing firstrate pop songs that I gratefully embraced. The songs themselves seemed arranged more around Collins' drumming than Mike Rutherford's bass lines or Tony Banks' keyboard riffs. A classic example of this is "Misunderstanding," which not only was the group's first big hit of the eighties but also seemed to set the tone for the rest of theiralbums as the decade progressed. The other standout on Duke Duke is "Turn It On Again," which is about the negative effects of television. On the other hand, "Heathaze" is a song I just don't understand, while "Please Don't Ask" is a touching love song written to a separated wife who regains custody of the couple's child. Has the negative aspect of divorce ever been rendered in more intimate terms by a rock 'n' roll group? I don't think so. "Duke Travels" and "Dukes End" might mean something but since the lyrics aren't printed it's hard to tell what Collins is singing about, though there is "Turn It On Again," which is about the negative effects of television. On the other hand, "Heathaze" is a song I just don't understand, while "Please Don't Ask" is a touching love song written to a separated wife who regains custody of the couple's child. Has the negative aspect of divorce ever been rendered in more intimate terms by a rock 'n' roll group? I don't think so. "Duke Travels" and "Dukes End" might mean something but since the lyrics aren't printed it's hard to tell what Collins is singing about, though there is is complex, gorgeous piano work by Tony Banks on the latter track. The only bummer about complex, gorgeous piano work by Tony Banks on the latter track. The only bummer about Duke Duke is "Alone Tonight," which is way too reminiscent of "Tonight Tonight Tonight" from the group's later masterpiece is "Alone Tonight," which is way too reminiscent of "Tonight Tonight Tonight" from the group's later masterpiece Invisible Touch Invisible Touch and the only example, really, of where Collins has plagiarized himself. and the only example, really, of where Collins has plagiarized himself.

Abacab (Atlantic; 1981) was released almost immediately after (Atlantic; 1981) was released almost immediately after Duke Duke and it benefits from a new producer, Hugh Padgham, who gives the band a more eighties sound and though the songs seem fairly generic, there are still great bits throughout: the extended jam in the middle of the title track and the horns by some group called Earth, Wind and Fire on "No Reply at All" are just two examples. Again the songs reflect dark emotions and are about people who feel lost or who are in conflict, but the production and sound are gleaming and upbeat (even if the titles aren't: "No Reply at All," "Keep It Dark," "Who Dunnit?" "Like It or Not"). Mike Rutherford's bass is obscured somewhat in the mix but otherwise the band sounds tight and is once again propelled by Collins' truly amazing drumming. Even at its most despairing (like the song "Dodo," about extinction), and it benefits from a new producer, Hugh Padgham, who gives the band a more eighties sound and though the songs seem fairly generic, there are still great bits throughout: the extended jam in the middle of the title track and the horns by some group called Earth, Wind and Fire on "No Reply at All" are just two examples. Again the songs reflect dark emotions and are about people who feel lost or who are in conflict, but the production and sound are gleaming and upbeat (even if the titles aren't: "No Reply at All," "Keep It Dark," "Who Dunnit?" "Like It or Not"). Mike Rutherford's bass is obscured somewhat in the mix but otherwise the band sounds tight and is once again propelled by Collins' truly amazing drumming. Even at its most despairing (like the song "Dodo," about extinction), Abacab Abacab musically is poppy and lighthearted. musically is poppy and lighthearted.

My favorite track is "Man on the Corner," which is the only song credited solely to Collins, a moving ballad with a pretty synthesized melody plus a riveting drum machine in the background. Though it could easily come off any of Phil's solo albums, because the themes of loneliness, paranoia and alienation are overly familiar to Genesis it evokes the band's hopeful humanism. "Man on the Corner" profoundly equates a relationship with a solitary figure (a bum, perhaps a poor homeless person?), "that lonely man on the corner" who just stands around. "Who Dunnit?" profoundly expresses the theme of confusion against a funky groove, and what makes this song so exciting is that it ends with its narrator never finding anything out at all.

Hugh Padgham produced next an even less conceptual effort, simply called Genesis Genesis (Atlantic; 1983), and though it's a fine album a lot of it now seems too derivative for my tastes. 'That's All" sounds like "Misunderstanding," "Taking It All Too Hard" reminds me of "Throwing It All Away." It also seems less jazzy than its predecessors and more of an eighties pop album, more rock 'n' roll. Padgham does a brilliant job of producing, but the material is weaker than usual and you can sense the strain. It opens with the autobiographical "Mama," that's both strange and touching, though I couldn't tell if the singer was talking about his actual mother or to a girl he likes to call "Mama." 'That's All" is a lover's lament about being ignored and beaten down by an unreceptive partner; despite the despairing tone it's got a bright singalong melody that makes the song less depressing than it probably needed to be. "That's All" is the best tune on the album, but Phil's voice is strongest on "House by the Sea," whose lyrics are, however, too streamofconsciousness to make much sense. It might be about growing up and accepting adulthood but it's unclear; at any rate, its second instrumental part puts the song more in focus for me and Mike Banks gets to show off his virtuosic guitar skills while Tom Rutherford washes the tracks over with dreamy synthesizers, and when Phil repeats the song's third verse at the end it can give you chills. (Atlantic; 1983), and though it's a fine album a lot of it now seems too derivative for my tastes. 'That's All" sounds like "Misunderstanding," "Taking It All Too Hard" reminds me of "Throwing It All Away." It also seems less jazzy than its predecessors and more of an eighties pop album, more rock 'n' roll. Padgham does a brilliant job of producing, but the material is weaker than usual and you can sense the strain. It opens with the autobiographical "Mama," that's both strange and touching, though I couldn't tell if the singer was talking about his actual mother or to a girl he likes to call "Mama." 'That's All" is a lover's lament about being ignored and beaten down by an unreceptive partner; despite the despairing tone it's got a bright singalong melody that makes the song less depressing than it probably needed to be. "That's All" is the best tune on the album, but Phil's voice is strongest on "House by the Sea," whose lyrics are, however, too streamofconsciousness to make much sense. It might be about growing up and accepting adulthood but it's unclear; at any rate, its second instrumental part puts the song more in focus for me and Mike Banks gets to show off his virtuosic guitar skills while Tom Rutherford washes the tracks over with dreamy synthesizers, and when Phil repeats the song's third verse at the end it can give you chills.

"Illegal Alien" is the most explicitly political song the group has yet recorded and their funniest. The subject is supposed to be sad a wetback trying to get across the border into the United States but the details are highly comical: the bottle of tequila the Mexican holds, the new pair of shoes he's wearing (probably stolen); and it all seems totally accurate. Phil sings it in a brash, whiny pseudoMexican voice that makes it even funnier, and the rhyme of "fun" with "illegal alien" is inspired. "Just a Job to Do" is the album's funkiest song, with a killer bass line by Banks, and though it seems to be about a detective chasing a criminal, I think it could also be about a jealous lover tracking someone down. "Silver Rainbow" is the album's most lyrical song. The words are intense, complex and gorgeous. The album ends on a positive, upbeat note with "It's Gonna Get Better." Even if the lyrics seem a tiny bit generic to some, Phil's voice is so confident (heavily influenced by Peter Gabriel, who never made an album this polished and heartfelt himself) that he makes us believe in glorious possibilities.

Invisible Touch (Atlantic; 1986) is the group's undisputed masterpiece. It's an epic meditation on intangibility, at the same time it deepens and enriches the meaning of the preceding three albums. It has a resonance that keeps coming back at the listener, and the music is so beautiful that it's almost impossible to shake off because every song makes some connection about the unknown or the spaces between people ("Invisible Touch"), questioning authoritative control whether by domineering lovers or by government ("Land of Confusion") or by meaningless repetition ("Tonight Tonight Tonight'. All in all it ranks with the finest rock 'n' roll achievements of the decade and the mastermind behind this album, along of course with the brilliant ensemble playing of Banks, Collins and Rutherford, is Hugh Padgham, who has never found as clear and crisp and modern a sound as this. You can practically hear every nuance of every instrument. (Atlantic; 1986) is the group's undisputed masterpiece. It's an epic meditation on intangibility, at the same time it deepens and enriches the meaning of the preceding three albums. It has a resonance that keeps coming back at the listener, and the music is so beautiful that it's almost impossible to shake off because every song makes some connection about the unknown or the spaces between people ("Invisible Touch"), questioning authoritative control whether by domineering lovers or by government ("Land of Confusion") or by meaningless repetition ("Tonight Tonight Tonight'. All in all it ranks with the finest rock 'n' roll achievements of the decade and the mastermind behind this album, along of course with the brilliant ensemble playing of Banks, Collins and Rutherford, is Hugh Padgham, who has never found as clear and crisp and modern a sound as this. You can practically hear every nuance of every instrument.

In terms of lyrical craftsmanship and sheer songwriting skills this album hits a new peak of professionalism. Take the lyrics to "Land of Confusion," in which a singer addresses the problem of abusive political authority. This is laid down with a groove funkier and blacker than anything Prince or Michael Jackson or any other black artist of recent years, for that matter has come up with. Yet as danceable as the album is, it also has a strippeddown urgency that not even the overrated Bruce Springsteen can equal. As an observer of love's failings Collins beats out the Boss again and again, reaching new heights of emotional honesty on "In Too Deep"; yet it also showcases Collins' clowny, prankish, unpredictable side. It's the most moving pop song of the 1980s about monogamy and commitment. "Anything She Does" (which echoes the J. Geils Band's "Centerfold" but is more spirited and energetic) starts off side two and after that the album reaches its peak with "Domino," a twopart song. Part one, "In the Heat of the Night," is full of sharp, finely drawn images of despair and it's paired with "The Last Domino," which fights it with an expression of hope. This song is extremely uplifting. The lyrics are as positive and affirmative as anything I've heard in rock.

Phil Collins' solo efforts seem to be more commercial and therefore more satisfying in a narrower way, especially No Jacket Required No Jacket Required and songs like "In the Air Tonight" and "Against All Odds" (though that song was overshadowed by the masterful movie from which it came) and "Take Me Home" and "Sussudio" (great, great song; a personal favorite) and his remake of "You Can't Hurry Love," which I'm not alone in thinking is better than the Supremes' original. But I also think that Phil Collins works better within the confines of the group than as a solo artist and I stress the word and songs like "In the Air Tonight" and "Against All Odds" (though that song was overshadowed by the masterful movie from which it came) and "Take Me Home" and "Sussudio" (great, great song; a personal favorite) and his remake of "You Can't Hurry Love," which I'm not alone in thinking is better than the Supremes' original. But I also think that Phil Collins works better within the confines of the group than as a solo artist and I stress the word artist. artist. In fact it applies to all three of the guys, because Genesis is still the best, most exciting band to come out of England in the 1980s. In fact it applies to all three of the guys, because Genesis is still the best, most exciting band to come out of England in the 1980s.

Lunch

I'm sitting in DuPlex, the new Tony McManus restaurant in Tribeca, with Christopher Armstrong, who also works at P & P. We went to Exeter together, then he went to the University of Pennsylvania and Wharton, before moving to Manhattan. We, inexplicably, could not get reservations at Subjects, so Armstrong suggested this place. Armstrong is wearing a fourbutton doublebreasted chalkstriped spreadcollar cotton shirt by Christian Dior and a large paisleypatterned silk tie by Givenchy Gentleman. His leather agenda and leather envelope, both by Bottega Veneta, lie on the third chair at our table, a good one, up front by the window. I'm wearing a nailhead-patterned worsted wool suit with overplaid from DeRigueur by Schoeneman, a cotton broadcloth shirt by Bill Blass, a Macclesfield silk tie by Savoy and a cotton handkerchief by Ashear Bros. A Muzak rendition of the score from Les Miserables Les Miserables plays lightly throughout the restaurant. Armstrong's girlfriend is Jody Stafford, who used to date Todd Hamlin, and this fact plus the TV monitors hanging from the ceilings with closedcircuit video of chefs working in the kitchen fills me with nameless dread. Armstrong just got back from the islands and has a very deep, very even tan, but so do I. plays lightly throughout the restaurant. Armstrong's girlfriend is Jody Stafford, who used to date Todd Hamlin, and this fact plus the TV monitors hanging from the ceilings with closedcircuit video of chefs working in the kitchen fills me with nameless dread. Armstrong just got back from the islands and has a very deep, very even tan, but so do I.

"So how were the Bahamas?" I ask after we order. "You just got back, right?"

"Well, Taylor," Armstrong begins, staring at a point somewhere behind me and slightly above my head on the column that has been terracottaized or perhaps on the exposed pipe that runs the length of the ceiling. "Travelers looking for that perfect vacation this summer may do well to look south, as far south as the Bahamas and the Caribbean islands. There are at least five smart reasons for visiting the Caribbean including the weather and the festivals and events, the less crowded hotels and attractions, the price and the unique cultures. While many vacationers leave the cities in search of cooler climates during the summer months, few have realized that the Caribbean has a yearround climate of seventyfive to eightyfive degrees and that the islands are constantly cooled by the trade winds. It is frequently hotter north in..."

On The Patty Winters Show The Patty Winters Show this morning the topic was ToddlerMurderers. In the studio audience were parents of children who'd been kidnapped, tortured and murdered, while on stage a panel of psychiatrists and pediatricians were trying to help them this morning the topic was ToddlerMurderers. In the studio audience were parents of children who'd been kidnapped, tortured and murdered, while on stage a panel of psychiatrists and pediatricians were trying to help them cope cope somewhat futilely I might add, and much to my delight with their confusion and anger. But what really cracked me up was via satellite on a lone TV monitor three convicted ToddlerMurderers on death row who due to fairly complicated legal loopholes were now seeking parole and would probably get it. But something kept distracting me while I watched the huge Sony TV over a breakfast of sliced kiwi and Japanese applepear, Evian water, oatbran muffins, soy milk and cinnamon granola, ruining my enjoyment of the grieving mothers, and it wasn't until the show was almost over that I figured out what it was: the crack above my David Onica that I had asked the doorman to tell the superintendent to fix. On my way out this morning I stopped at the front desk, about to complain to the doorman, when I was confronted with a somewhat futilely I might add, and much to my delight with their confusion and anger. But what really cracked me up was via satellite on a lone TV monitor three convicted ToddlerMurderers on death row who due to fairly complicated legal loopholes were now seeking parole and would probably get it. But something kept distracting me while I watched the huge Sony TV over a breakfast of sliced kiwi and Japanese applepear, Evian water, oatbran muffins, soy milk and cinnamon granola, ruining my enjoyment of the grieving mothers, and it wasn't until the show was almost over that I figured out what it was: the crack above my David Onica that I had asked the doorman to tell the superintendent to fix. On my way out this morning I stopped at the front desk, about to complain to the doorman, when I was confronted with a new new doorman, my age but balding and homely and doorman, my age but balding and homely and fat. fat. Three glazed jelly doughnuts Three glazed jelly doughnuts and and two steaming cups of extradark two steaming cups of extradark hot chocolate hot chocolate lay on the desk in front of him beside a copy of the lay on the desk in front of him beside a copy of the Post Post opened to the comics and it struck me that I was infinitely betterlooking, more successful and richer than this poor bastard would ever be and so with a passing rush of sympathy I smiled and nodded a curt though not impolite good morning without lodging a complaint. "Oh really?" I find myself saying loudly, completely uninterested, to Armstrong. opened to the comics and it struck me that I was infinitely betterlooking, more successful and richer than this poor bastard would ever be and so with a passing rush of sympathy I smiled and nodded a curt though not impolite good morning without lodging a complaint. "Oh really?" I find myself saying loudly, completely uninterested, to Armstrong.

"Like the United States it celebrates the summer months with festivals and special events including music concerts, art exhibits, street fairs and sporting tournaments, and because of the vast number of people traveling elsewhere, the islands are less crowded, allowing for better service and no lines when waiting to use that sailboat or dine in that restaurant. I mean I think most people go to sample the culture, the food, the history..."

On the way to Wall Street this morning, due to gridlock I had to get out of the company car and was walking down Fifth Avenue to find a subway station when I passed what I thought was a Halloween parade, which was disorienting since I was fairly sure this was May. When I stopped on the corner of Sixteenth Street and made a closer inspection it turned out to be something called a "Gay Pride Parade," which made my stomach turn. Homosexuals proudly marched down Fifth Avenue, pink triangles emblazoned on pastelcolored windbreakers, some even holding hands, most singing "Somewhere" out of key and in unison. I stood in front of Paul Smith and watched with a certain traumatized fascination, my mind reeling with the concept that a human being, a man, man, could feel pride over sodomizing another man, but when I began to receive fey catcalls from aging, overmuscled beachboys with walruslike mustaches in between the lines could feel pride over sodomizing another man, but when I began to receive fey catcalls from aging, overmuscled beachboys with walruslike mustaches in between the lines "There's a place for us, Somewhere a place for us," "There's a place for us, Somewhere a place for us," I sprinted over to Sixth Avenue, decided to be late for the office and took a cab back to my apartment where I put on a new suit (by Cerruti 1881), gave myself a pedicure and tortured to death a small dog I had bought earlier this week in a pet store on Lexington. Armstrong drones on. I sprinted over to Sixth Avenue, decided to be late for the office and took a cab back to my apartment where I put on a new suit (by Cerruti 1881), gave myself a pedicure and tortured to death a small dog I had bought earlier this week in a pet store on Lexington. Armstrong drones on.

"Water sports are of course the leading attraction. But golf courses and tennis courts are in excellent condition and the pros at many of the resorts are made more available during the summer. Many of the courts are lit for night playing as well..."

Fuck... yourself... Armstrong, I'm thinking while staring out the window at the gridlock and pacing bums on Church Street. Appetizers arrive: sundriedtomato brioche for Armstrong. Poblano chilies with an oniony orangepurple marmalade on the side for me. I hope Armstrong doesn't want to pay because I need to show the dimwitted bastard that I in fact do do own a platinum American Express card. I feel very sad at this moment for some reason, listening to Armstrong, and a lump forms in my throat but I swallow and take a sip from my Corona and the emotion passes and during a pause while he's chewing, I ask, "The food? How's the food?" almost involuntarily, thinking about anything but. own a platinum American Express card. I feel very sad at this moment for some reason, listening to Armstrong, and a lump forms in my throat but I swallow and take a sip from my Corona and the emotion passes and during a pause while he's chewing, I ask, "The food? How's the food?" almost involuntarily, thinking about anything but.

"Good question. As for dining out, the Caribbean has become more attractive as the island cuisine has mixed well with the European culture. Many of the restaurants are owned and managed by Americans, British, French, Italian, even Dutch expatriates.. ." Mercifully, he pauses, taking a bite out of his brioche, which looks like a sponge drenched in blood his brioche looks like a big bloody sponge his brioche looks like a big bloody sponge and he washes it down with a sip from his Corona. My turn. and he washes it down with a sip from his Corona. My turn.

"How about sightseeing?" I ask disinterestedly, concentrating on the blackened chilies, the yellowish marmalade circling the plate in an artful octagon, cilantro leaves circling the marmalade, chili seeds circling the cilantro leaves.

"Sightseeing is highlighted by the European culture which established many of the islands as regional fortresses in the seventeen hundreds. Visitors can see the various spots where Columbus landed and as we near the three hundredth anniversary of his first sailing in 1590 there is a heightened awareness in the islands as to the history and culture that is an integral part of island life..."

Armstrong: you are an... asshole. "Uhhuh." I nod. "Well..." Paisley ties, plaid suits, my aerobics class, returning videotapes, spices to pick up from Zabar's, beggars, whitechocolate truffles... The sickening scent of Drakkar Noir, which is what Christopher is wearing, floats over near my face, mingling with the scent of the marmalade and cilantro, the onions and the blackened chilies. "Uhhuh," I say, repeat. "Uhhuh." I nod. "Well..." Paisley ties, plaid suits, my aerobics class, returning videotapes, spices to pick up from Zabar's, beggars, whitechocolate truffles... The sickening scent of Drakkar Noir, which is what Christopher is wearing, floats over near my face, mingling with the scent of the marmalade and cilantro, the onions and the blackened chilies. "Uhhuh," I say, repeat.

"And for the active vacationer there is mountain climbing, cave exploring, sailing, horseback riding and whitewater river rafting, and for the gamblers there are casinos on many of the islands..."

Fleetingly I imagine pulling out my knife, slicing a wrist, one of mine, aiming the spurting vein at Armstrong's head or better yet his suit, wondering if he would still continue to talk. I consider getting up without excusing myself, taking a cab to another restaurant, somewhere in SoHo, maybe farther uptown, having a drink, using the rest room, maybe even making a phone call to Evelyn, coming back to Duplex, and every molecule that makes up my body tells me that Armstrong would still be talking about not only his vacation but what seems like the world's vacation in the fucking Bahamas. Somewhere along the line the waiter removes halfeaten appetizers, brings fresh Coronas, freerange chicken with raspberry vinegar and guacamole, calf's liver with shad roe and leeks, and though I'm not sure who ordered what it doesn't really matter since both plates look exactly the same. I end up with the freerange chicken with extra tomatillo sauce, I think.

"Visitors to the Caribbean don't need a passport just proof of U.S. citizenship and even better, Taylor, is that language language is no barrier. English is spoken is no barrier. English is spoken everywhere, everywhere, even on those islands where the local language is French or Spanish. Most of the islands are former British..." even on those islands where the local language is French or Spanish. Most of the islands are former British..."

"My life is a living hell," I mention off the cuff, while casually moving leeks around on my plate, which by the way is a porcelain triangle. "And there are many more people I, uh, want to... want to, well, I guess murder murder." I say this emphasizing the last word, staring straight into Armstrong's face.

"Service has improved to the islands as both American Airlines and Eastern Airlines have created hubs in San Juan where they have set up connecting flights to those islands they don't serve with direct flights. With additional service from BWIA, Pan Am, ALM, Air Jamaica, Bahamas Air and Cayman Airways, most islands are easy to reach. There are additional connections within the islands from LIAT and BWIA, which provide a series of scheduled islandhopping flights..."

Someone who I think is Charles Fletcher walks over while Armstrong keeps talking and he pats me on the shoulder and says "Hey Simpson" and "See you at Fluties" and then at the door meets up with a very attractive woman big tits, blond, tight dress, not his secretary, not his wife and they leave Duplex together in a black limousine. Armstrong is still eating, cutting into the perfectly square slices of calf's liver, and he keeps talking while I become increasingly mournful.

"Vacationers who can't take a full week away will find the Caribbean an ideal spot for the alternative weekend escape. Eastern Airlines has created its Weekender Club which includes many Caribbean destinations and enables members to visit many places at sharply reduced prices which I know doesn't matter but I still think people are going

Concert

Everyone is very uptight at the concert Carruthers drags us to in New Jersey this evening, an Irish band called U2 who were on the cover of Time Time magazine last week. The tickets were originally for a group of Japanese clients who canceled their trip to New York at the last minute, making it virtually impossible for Carruthers (or so he says) to sell these frontrow seats. So it's Carruthers and Courtney, Paul Owen and Ashley Cromwell, and Evelyn and myself. Earlier, when I found out that Paul Owen was coming, I tried to call Cecilia Wagner, Marcus Halberstam's girlfriend, since Paul Owen seems fairly sure that I'm Marcus, and though she was flattered by my invitation (I always suspected I was one of her crushes) she had to attend a blacktie party for the opening of the new British musical magazine last week. The tickets were originally for a group of Japanese clients who canceled their trip to New York at the last minute, making it virtually impossible for Carruthers (or so he says) to sell these frontrow seats. So it's Carruthers and Courtney, Paul Owen and Ashley Cromwell, and Evelyn and myself. Earlier, when I found out that Paul Owen was coming, I tried to call Cecilia Wagner, Marcus Halberstam's girlfriend, since Paul Owen seems fairly sure that I'm Marcus, and though she was flattered by my invitation (I always suspected I was one of her crushes) she had to attend a blacktie party for the opening of the new British musical Maggie! Maggie! But she did mention something about lunch next week and I told her I would give her a call on Thursday. I was supposed to have dinner with Evelyn tonight, but the thought of sitting alone with her during a twohour meal fills me with a nameless dread and so I call and reluctantly explain the schedule changes and she asks if Tim Price is coming and when I tell her no, there is the briefest hesitation before she accepts and then I cancel the reservation Jean made for us at H But she did mention something about lunch next week and I told her I would give her a call on Thursday. I was supposed to have dinner with Evelyn tonight, but the thought of sitting alone with her during a twohour meal fills me with a nameless dread and so I call and reluctantly explain the schedule changes and she asks if Tim Price is coming and when I tell her no, there is the briefest hesitation before she accepts and then I cancel the reservation Jean made for us at H20, the new Clive Powell restaurant in Chelsea, and leave the office early for a quick aerobics class before the concert.

None of the girls are particularly excited about seeing the band and all have confided in me, separately, that they don't want to be here, and in the limousine heading toward somewhere called the Meadowlands, Carruthers keeps trying to placate everyone by telling us that Donald Trump is a big U2 fan and then, even more desperately, that John Gutfreund also buys their records. A bottle of Cristal is opened, then another. The TV is tuned to a press conference Reagan's giving but there's a lot of static and no one pays attention, except for me. The Patty Winters Show The Patty Winters Show this morning was about Shark Attack Victims. Paul Owen has called me Marcus four times and Evelyn, much to my relief, Cecilia twice, but Evelyn doesn't notice since she's been glaring at Courtney the entire time we've been in the limousine. Anyway, no one has corrected Owen and it's unlikely that anyone will. I even called her Cecilia a couple of times myself when I was sure she wasn't listening, while she was staring hatefully at Courtney. Carruthers keeps telling me how nice I look and complimenting my suit. this morning was about Shark Attack Victims. Paul Owen has called me Marcus four times and Evelyn, much to my relief, Cecilia twice, but Evelyn doesn't notice since she's been glaring at Courtney the entire time we've been in the limousine. Anyway, no one has corrected Owen and it's unlikely that anyone will. I even called her Cecilia a couple of times myself when I was sure she wasn't listening, while she was staring hatefully at Courtney. Carruthers keeps telling me how nice I look and complimenting my suit.

Evelyn and I are by far the bestdressed couple. I'm wearing a lamb's wool topcoat, a wool jacket with wool flannel trousers, a cotton shirt, a cashmere Vneck sweater and a silk tie, all from Armani. Evelyn's wearing a cotton blouse by Dolce do Gabbana, suede shoes by Yves Saint Laurent, a stenciled calf skirt by Adrienne Landau with a suede belt by Jill Stuart, Calvin Klein tights, Venetianglass earrings by Frances Patiky Stein, and clasped in her hand is a single white rose that I bought at a Korean deli before Carruthers' limousine picked me up. Carruthers is wearing a lamb's wool sport coat, a cashmere/vicuna cardigan sweater, cavalry twill trousers, a cotton shirt and a silk tie, all from Hermes. ("How tacky," Evelyn whispered to me; I silently agreed.) Courtney is wearing a triplelayered silk organdy top and a long velvet skirt with a fishtail hem, velvet-ribbon and enamel earrings by Jose and Maria Barrera, gloves by Portolano and shoes from Gucci. Paul and Ashley are, I think, a bit over overdressed, and she has sunglasses on even though the windows in the limo are tinted and it's already dusk. She holds a small bouquet of flowers, daisies, Carruthers gave her, which failed to make Courtney jealous since she seems intent upon clawing Evelyn's face open, which right now, though it's the betterlooking face, seems not a bad idea and one I wouldn't mind watching Courtney carry out. Courtney has a slightly slightly better body, Evelyn nicer tits. better body, Evelyn nicer tits.

The concert has been dragging on now for maybe twenty minutes. I hate live music but everyone around us is standing, their screams of approval competing with the racket coming from the towering walls of speakers stacked over us. The only real pleasure I get from being here is seeing Scott and Anne Smiley ten rows behind us, in shittier though probably not less expensive seats. Carruthers changes seats with Evelyn to discuss business with me, but I can't hear a word so I change seats with Evelyn to talk to Courtney.

"Luis is a weasel weasel," I shout. "He suspects nothing."

"The Edge is wearing Armani," she shouts, pointing at the bassist.

"That's not not Armani," I shout back. "It's Em Armani," I shout back. "It's Emporio."

"No," she shouts. "Armani."

"The grays are too muted and so are the taupes and navies. Definite winged lapels, subtle plaids, polka dots and stripes are Armani. Not Not Emporio, " I shout, extremely irritated that she doesn't know this, can't differentiate, both my hands covering both ears. "There's a difference. Which one's The Ledge?" Emporio, " I shout, extremely irritated that she doesn't know this, can't differentiate, both my hands covering both ears. "There's a difference. Which one's The Ledge?"

"The drummer might be The Ledge," she shouts. "I think. I'm not sure. I need a cigarette. Where were you the other night? If you tell me with Evelyn I'm going to hit you."

"The drummer is not wearing anything by Armani," I scream. "Or Emporio for that matter. Nowhere."

"I don't know which one the drummer is," she shouts.

"Ask Ashley," I suggest, screaming.

"Ashley?" she screams, reaching over across Paul and tapping Ashley's leg. "Which one's The Ledge?" Ashley shouts something at her that I can't hear and then Courtney turns back to me, shrugging. "She said she can't believe she's in New Jersey."

Carruthers motions for Courtney to change seats with him. She waves the little twit away and grips my thigh, which I flex rockhard, and her hand lingers admiringly. But Luis persists and she gets up, and screams at me, "I think we need drugs tonight!" I nod. The lead singer, Bono, is screeching out what sounds like "Where the Beat Sounds the Same." Evelyn and Ashley leave to buy cigarettes, use the ladies' room, find refreshments. Luis sits next to me.

"The girls are bored," Luis screams at me.

"Courtney wants us to find her some cocaine tonight," I shout.

"Oh, great great." Luis looks sulky.

"Do we have reservations anywhere?"

"Brussels," he shouts, checking his Rolex. "But it's doubtful doubtful if we'll make it." if we'll make it."

"If we don't don't make it," I warn him, "I'm not going make it," I warn him, "I'm not going any anywhere else. You can drop me at my apartment."

"We'll make make it," he shouts. it," he shouts.

"If we don't don't, what about Japanese?" I suggest, relenting. 'There's a really top sushi bar on the Upper West Side. Blades. Chef used to be at Loito. It got a great great rating in Zagat." rating in Zagat."

"Bateman, I hate hate the Japanese," Carruthers screams at me, one hand placed over an ear. "Little slantyeyed bastards." the Japanese," Carruthers screams at me, one hand placed over an ear. "Little slantyeyed bastards."

"What," I scream, "in the hell are you talking about?"

"Oh I know, I know," he screams, eyes bulging. "They save more than we do and they don't innovate much, but they sure in the fuck know how to take, steal steal, our innovations, improve on them, then ram them down our fucking throats!"

I stare at him, disbelieving for a moment, then look at the stage, at the guitarist running around in circles, Bono's arms outstretched as he runs back and forth across the length of its edge, and then back at Luis whose face is still crimson with fury and he's still staring at me, wideeyed, spittle on his lips, not saying anything.

"What in the hell hell does that have to do with does that have to do with Blades Blades?" I ask finally, genuinely confused. "Wipe your mouth."