'"That's why I hate hate Japanese food," he screams back. "Sashimi. California roll. Oh Japanese food," he screams back. "Sashimi. California roll. Oh Jesus Jesus." He makes a gagging motion, with one finger going down his throat.

"Carruthers..." I stop, still looking at him, studying his face closely, slightly freaked out, unable to remember what I wanted to say.

"What, Bateman?" Carruthers asks, leaning in.

"Listen, I can't believe this shit," I scream. "I can't believe you didn't make the reservations for later later. We're going to have to wait wait."

"What?" he screams, cupping his ear, as if it makes a difference.

"We are going to have to wait wait!" I scream louder.

"This is not a problem," he shouts.

The lead singer reaches out to us from the stage, his hand outstretched, and I wave him away. "It's okay? It's okay okay? No, Luis. You're wrong wrong. It's not okay okay." I look over at Paul Owen, who seems equally bored, his hands clamped over both ears, but still managing to confer with Courtney about something.

"We won't have to wait," Luis screams. "I promise."

"Promise nothing nothing, you geek," I scream, then, "Is Paul Owen still handling the Fisher account?"

"I don't want you to be mad at me, Patrick," Luis screams desperately. "It'll be all all right." right."

"Oh Jesus, forget it," I scream. "Now listen to me: is Paul Owen still handling the Fisher account?"

Carruthers looks over at him and then back at me. "Yeah, I guess. I heard Ashley has chlamydia."

"I'm going to talk to him," I shout, getting up, taking the empty seat next to Owen.

But when I sit down something strange on the stage catches my eye. Bono has now moved across the stage, following me to my seat, and he's staring into my eyes, kneeling at the edge of the stage, wearing black jeans (maybe Gitano), sandals, a leather vest with no shirt beneath it. His body is white, covered with sweat, and it's not worked out enough, there's no muscle tone and what definition there might be is covered beneath a paltry amount of chest hair. He has a cowboy hat on and his hair is pulled back into a ponytail and he's moaning some dirge I catch the lyric "A hero is an insect in this world" and he has a faint, barely noticeable but nonetheless intense smirk on his face and it grows, spreading across it confidently, and while his eyes blaze, the backdrop of the stage turns red and suddenly I get this tremendous surge of feeling, this rush of knowledge and my own heart beats faster because of this and it's not impossible to believe that an invisible cord attached to Bono has now encircled me and now the audience disappears and the music slows down, gets softer, and it's just Bono onstage the stadium's deserted, the band fades away...

And then everyone, the audience, the band, reappears and the music slowly swells up and Bono turns away and I'm left tingling, my face flushed, an aching erection pulsing against my thigh, my hands clenched in fists of tension. But suddenly everything stops, as if a switch has been turned off, the backdrop flashes back to white. Bono is on the other side of the stage now and everything, the feeling in my heart, the sensation combing my brain, vanishes and now more than ever I need to know about the Fisher account that Owen is handling and this information seems vital, more pertinent than the bond I feel I have with Bono, who is now dissolving and remote. I turn to Paul Owen.

"Hey," I shout. "How's it going?"

"Those guys over there..." He motions toward a group of stagehands standing by the edge of the far side of the front row, peering into the crowd, conferring with one another. "They were pointing over here at Evelyn and Courtney and Ashley."

"Who are they?" I shout. "Are they from Oppenheimer?"

"No," Owen shouts back. "I think they're roadies who look for chicks to go backstage and have sex with the band."

"Oh," I scream. "I thought maybe they worked at Barney's."

"No," he shouts. "They're called trim trim coordinators." coordinators."

"How do you know that that?"

"I have a cousin who manages All We Need of Hell," he shouts.

"It's irritating that you know this," I say.

"What?" he shouts.

"Are you still handling the Fisher account?" I shout back.

"Yeah," he screams. "Lucked out, huh, Marcus?"

"You sure did," I scream. "How did you get it?"

"Well, I had the Ransom account and things just fell into place." He shrugs helplessly, the smooth bastard. "You know?"

"Wow," I shout.

"Yeah," he shouts back, then turns around in his seat and shouts at two dumblooking fat girls from New Jersey passing an oversize joint between them, one of the cows wrapped in what I'm guessing is the Irish flag. "Will you please put your skunkweed skunkweed away it away it reeks reeks."

"I want it," I shout, staring at his perfect, even part; even his scalp is tan.

"You want what what?" he shouts back. "Marijuana?"

"No. Nothing," I scream, my throat raw, and I slump back into my seat, stare emptily at the stage, biting my thumbnail, ruining yesterday's manicure.

We leave after Evelyn and Ashley return and later, in the limousine racing back toward Manhattan to make the reservation at Brussels, another bottle of Cristal opened, Reagan still on the television set, Evelyn and Ashley tell us that two bouncers accosted them near the ladies' room and demanded they come backstage. I explain who they were and what purpose they serve.

"My god god," Evelyn gasps. "Are you telling me I've been... trim trimcoordinated?"

"I bet Bono has a small dick," Owen says, staring out the tinted window. "Irish, you know."

"Do you think they had an automated teller back there?" Luis asks.

"Ashley," Evelyn shouts. "Did you hear that? We've been trim trimcoordinated!"

"How does my hair look?" I ask.

"More Cristal?" Courtney asks Luis.

A Glimpse of a Thursday Afternoon

and it's midafternoon and I find myself standing at a phone booth on a corner somewhere downtown, I don't know where, but I'm sweaty and a pounding migraine thumps dully in my head and I'm experiencing a majorleague anxiety attack, searching my pockets for Valium, Xanax, a leftover Halcion, anything, and all I find are three faded Nuprin in a Gucci pillbox, so I pop all three into my mouth and swallow them down with a Diet Pepsi and I couldn't tell you where it came from if my life depended on it. I've forgotten who I had lunch with earlier and, even more important, where. where. Was it Robert Ailes at Beats? Or was it Todd Hendricks at Ursula's, the new Philip Duncan Holmes bistro in Tribeca? Or was it Ricky Worrall and were we at December's? Or would it have been Kevin Weber at Contra in NoHo? Did I order the partridge sandwich on brioche with green tomatoes, or a big plate of endive with clam sauce? "Oh god, Was it Robert Ailes at Beats? Or was it Todd Hendricks at Ursula's, the new Philip Duncan Holmes bistro in Tribeca? Or was it Ricky Worrall and were we at December's? Or would it have been Kevin Weber at Contra in NoHo? Did I order the partridge sandwich on brioche with green tomatoes, or a big plate of endive with clam sauce? "Oh god, I can't remember I can't remember," I moan, my clothes a linen and silk sport coat, a cotton shirt, pleated linen khald trousers, all by Matsuda, a silk tie with a Matsuda insignia, with a belt from Coach Leatherware drenched with sweat, and I take off the jacket and wipe my face with it. The phone keeps ringing but I don't know who I've called and I just stand on the corner, RayBans balanced on my forehead at what feels like an odd, crooked angle, and then I hear a faint familiar sound coming through the wires Jean's soft voice competing with the endless gridlock stuck on Broadway. The Patty Winters Show The Patty Winters Show this morning was Aspirin: Can It Save Your Life? "Jean?" I cry out. "Hello? this morning was Aspirin: Can It Save Your Life? "Jean?" I cry out. "Hello? Jean? Jean?" "Patrick? Is that you?" she calls back. "Hello?" "Jean, I need I need help help," I shout. "Patrick?" "What?" "Jesse Forrest called," Jean says. "He has a reservation at Melrose tonight at eight, and Ted Madison and Jamie Conway want to meet you for drinks at Harry's. Patrick?" Jean asks. "Where are you?" "Jean?" I sigh, wiping my nose. "I'm not" "Oh, and Todd Lauder called," Jean says, "no, I mean Chris oh no, it was Todd Lauder. Yeah, Todd Lauder." "Oh god," I moan, loosening my tie, the August sun beating down on me, "what do you say, you dumb bitch?" "Not Bice, Bice, Patrick. The reservation is at Patrick. The reservation is at Melrose. Melrose. Not Bice." "What am I Not Bice." "What am I doing doing?" I cry out. "Where are you?" and then, "Patrick? What's wrong?" "I'm not going to make it, Jean," I say, then choke out, "to the office this afternoon." "Why?" She sounds depressed or maybe it's just simple confusion. "Just... say... no...," I scream. "What is it, Patrick? Are you all right?" she asks. "Stop sounding so fucking... sad. Jesus Jesus," I shout. "Patrick I'm sorry. I mean I meant to say just say no, but" I hang up on her and lunge away from the phone booth and the Walkman around my neck suddenly feels like a boulder strapped around my throat (and the sounds blaring from it early Dizzy Gillespie deeply irritate) and I have to throw the Walkman, a cheap one, into the nearest trash can I stumble into and then I hang on to the rim of the can, breathing heavily, the cheap Matsuda jacket tied around my waist, staring at the stillfunctioning Walkman, the sun melting the mousse on my head and it mingles with the sweat pouring down my face and I can taste it when I lick my lips and it starts tasting good and I'm suddenly ravenous and I run my hand through my hair and lick greedily at the palm while moving up Broadway, ignoring the old ladies passing out fliers, past jeans stores, music blasting from inside, pouring out onto the streets, people's movements matching the beat of the song, a Madonna single, Madonna crying out, "life is a mystery, everyone must stand alone...," bike messengers whiz by and I'm standing on a corner scowling at them, but people pass, oblivious, no one pays attention, they don't even pretend to not not pay attention, and this fact sobers me up long enough that I walk toward a nearby Conran's to buy a teapot, but just when I assume my normalcy has returned and I'm all straightened out, my stomach tightens and the cramps are so intense that I hobble into the nearest doorway and clutch my waist, doubling over with pain, and as suddenly as it appears it fades long enough for me to stand up straight and rush into the next hardware store I come across, and once inside I buy a set of butcher knives, an ax, a bottle of hydrochloric acid, and then, at the pet store down the block, a Habitrail and two white rats that I plan to torture with the knives and acid, but somewhere, later in the afternoon, I leave the package with the rats in it at the Pottery Barn while shopping for candles or did I finally buy the teapot? Now I'm lunging up Lafayette, sweating and moaning and pushing people out of my way, foam pouring out of my mouth, stomach contracting with horrendous abdominal cramps they might be caused by the steroids but that's doubtful and I calm myself down enough to walk into a Gristede's, rush up and down the aisles and shoplift a canned ham that I calmly walk out of the store with, hidden under the Matsuda jacket, and down the block, where I try to hide in the lobby of the American Felt Building, breaking the tin open with my keys, ignoring the doorman, who at first seems to recognize me, then, after I start stuffing handfuls of the ham into my mouth, scooping the lukewarm pink meat out of the can, getting it stuck beneath my nails, threatens to call the police. I'm outta there, outside, throwing up all the ham, leaning against a poster for pay attention, and this fact sobers me up long enough that I walk toward a nearby Conran's to buy a teapot, but just when I assume my normalcy has returned and I'm all straightened out, my stomach tightens and the cramps are so intense that I hobble into the nearest doorway and clutch my waist, doubling over with pain, and as suddenly as it appears it fades long enough for me to stand up straight and rush into the next hardware store I come across, and once inside I buy a set of butcher knives, an ax, a bottle of hydrochloric acid, and then, at the pet store down the block, a Habitrail and two white rats that I plan to torture with the knives and acid, but somewhere, later in the afternoon, I leave the package with the rats in it at the Pottery Barn while shopping for candles or did I finally buy the teapot? Now I'm lunging up Lafayette, sweating and moaning and pushing people out of my way, foam pouring out of my mouth, stomach contracting with horrendous abdominal cramps they might be caused by the steroids but that's doubtful and I calm myself down enough to walk into a Gristede's, rush up and down the aisles and shoplift a canned ham that I calmly walk out of the store with, hidden under the Matsuda jacket, and down the block, where I try to hide in the lobby of the American Felt Building, breaking the tin open with my keys, ignoring the doorman, who at first seems to recognize me, then, after I start stuffing handfuls of the ham into my mouth, scooping the lukewarm pink meat out of the can, getting it stuck beneath my nails, threatens to call the police. I'm outta there, outside, throwing up all the ham, leaning against a poster for Les Miserables Les Miserables at a bus stop and I kiss the drawing of Eponine's lovely face, her lips, leaving brown streaks of bile smeared across her soft, unassuming face and the word DYKE scrawled beneath it. Loosening my suspenders, ignoring beggars, beggars ignoring me, sweat-drenched, delirious, I find myself back downtown in Tower Records and I compose myself, muttering over and over to no one, "I've gotta return my videotapes, I've gotta return my videotapes," and I buy two copies of my favorite compact disc, Bruce Willis, at a bus stop and I kiss the drawing of Eponine's lovely face, her lips, leaving brown streaks of bile smeared across her soft, unassuming face and the word DYKE scrawled beneath it. Loosening my suspenders, ignoring beggars, beggars ignoring me, sweat-drenched, delirious, I find myself back downtown in Tower Records and I compose myself, muttering over and over to no one, "I've gotta return my videotapes, I've gotta return my videotapes," and I buy two copies of my favorite compact disc, Bruce Willis, The Return of Bruno, The Return of Bruno, and then I'm stuck in the revolving door for five full spins and I trip out onto the street, bumping into Charles Murphy from Kidder Peabody or it could be Bruce Barker from Morgan Stanley, and then I'm stuck in the revolving door for five full spins and I trip out onto the street, bumping into Charles Murphy from Kidder Peabody or it could be Bruce Barker from Morgan Stanley, whoever, whoever, and he says "Hey, Kinsley" and I belch into his face, my eyes rolling back into my head, greenish bile dripping in strings from my bared fangs, and he suggests, unfazed, "See you at Fluties, okay? Severt too?" I screech and while backing away I bump into a fruit stand at a Korean deli, collapsing stacks of apples and oranges and lemons, that go rolling onto the sidewalk, over the curb and into the street where they're splattered by cabs and cars and buses and trucks and I'm apologizing, delirious, offering a screaming Korean my platinum AmEx accidentally, then a twenty, which he immediately takes, but still he grabs me by the lapels of the stained, wrinkled jacket I've forced myself back into and when I look up into his slantyeyed round face he suddenly bursts into the chorus of Lou Christie's "Lightnin' Strikes." I pull away, horrified, stumbling uptown, toward home, but people, places, stores keep interrupting me, a drug, dealer on Thirteenth Street who offers me crack and blindly I wave a fifty at him and he says "Oh, man" gratefully and shakes my hand, pressing five vials into my palm which I proceed to and he says "Hey, Kinsley" and I belch into his face, my eyes rolling back into my head, greenish bile dripping in strings from my bared fangs, and he suggests, unfazed, "See you at Fluties, okay? Severt too?" I screech and while backing away I bump into a fruit stand at a Korean deli, collapsing stacks of apples and oranges and lemons, that go rolling onto the sidewalk, over the curb and into the street where they're splattered by cabs and cars and buses and trucks and I'm apologizing, delirious, offering a screaming Korean my platinum AmEx accidentally, then a twenty, which he immediately takes, but still he grabs me by the lapels of the stained, wrinkled jacket I've forced myself back into and when I look up into his slantyeyed round face he suddenly bursts into the chorus of Lou Christie's "Lightnin' Strikes." I pull away, horrified, stumbling uptown, toward home, but people, places, stores keep interrupting me, a drug, dealer on Thirteenth Street who offers me crack and blindly I wave a fifty at him and he says "Oh, man" gratefully and shakes my hand, pressing five vials into my palm which I proceed to eat whole eat whole and the crack dealer stares at me, trying to mask his deep disturbance with an amused glare, and I grab him by the neck and croak out, my breath reeking, " and the crack dealer stares at me, trying to mask his deep disturbance with an amused glare, and I grab him by the neck and croak out, my breath reeking, "The best engine is in the BMW 750iL," and then I move on to a phone booth, where I babble gibberish at the operator until I finally spit out my credit card number and then I'm speaking to the front office of Xclusive, where I cancel a massage appointment that I never made. I'm able to compose myself by simply staring at my feet, actually at the A. Testoni loafers, kicking pigeons aside, and without even noticing, I enter a shabby delicatessen on Second Avenue and I'm still confused, mixed up, sweaty, and I walk over to a short, fat Jewish woman, old and hideously dressed. "Listen," I say. "I have a reservation. Bateman. Where's the maitre d? I know Jackie Mason," and she sighs, "I can seat you. Don't need a reservation," as she reaches for a menu. She leads me to a horrible table in back near the rest rooms and I grab the menu away from her and rush to a booth up front and I'm appalled by the cheapness of the food "Is this a goddamn joke?" and sensing a waitress is near I order without looking up. "A cheeseburger. I'd like a cheeseburger and I'd like it medium rare." "I'm sorry, sir," the waitress says. "No cheese. Kosher," and I have no idea what the fuck she's talking about and I say, "Fine. A kosher kosherburger but with cheese, with cheese, Monterey Jack perhaps, and oh god," I moan, sensing more cramps coming on. "No cheese, sir," she says. " Monterey Jack perhaps, and oh god," I moan, sensing more cramps coming on. "No cheese, sir," she says. "Kosher..." "Oh god, is this a nightmare, nightmare, you fucking you fucking Jew Jew?" I mutter, and then, "Cottage cheese? Just Just bring it bring it?" "I'll get the manager," she says. "Whatever. But bring me a beverage in the meanwhile," I hiss. "Yes?" she asks. "A... vanilla... milk shake..." "No milk shakes. Kosher Kosher," she says, then, "I'll get the manager." "No, wait wait." "Mister I'll get the manager." "What in the fuck is going on?" I ask, seething, my platinum AmEx already slapped on the greasy table. "No milk shake. Kosher Kosher," she says, thickupped, just one of billions of people who have passed over this planet. "Then bring me a fucking... vanilla... malted malted!" I roar, spraying spit all over my open menu. She just stares. "Extra thick!" I add. She walks away to get the manager and when I see him approaching, a bald carbon copy of the waitress, I get up and scream, "Fuck yourself you retarded cocksucking kike," and I run out of the delicatessen and onto the street where this

Yale Club

"What are the rules for a sweater vest?" Van Patten asks the table.

"What do you mean?" McDermott furrows his brow, takes a sip of Absolut.

"Yes," I say, "Clarify."

"Well, is it strictly informal"

"Or can it be worn with a suit suit?" I interrupt, finishing his sentence.

"Exactly." He smiles.

"Well, according to Bruce Boyer" I begin.

"Wait." Van Patten stops me. "Is he with Morgan Stanley?"

"No." I smile. "He's not with Morgan Stanley."

"Wasn't he a serial killer?" McDermott asks suspiciously, then moans. "Don't tell me he was another serial killer, Bateman. Not Not another serial killer." another serial killer."

"No, McDufus, he wasn't a he wasn't a serial serial killer," I say, turning back to Van Patten, but before continuing turn back to McDermott. 'That really pisses me off." killer," I say, turning back to Van Patten, but before continuing turn back to McDermott. 'That really pisses me off."

"But you always always bring them up," McDermott complains. "And always in this casual, educational sort of way. I mean, I don't want to know anything about Son of Sam or the fucking Hillside Strangler or Ted Bundy or Featherhead, for god sake." bring them up," McDermott complains. "And always in this casual, educational sort of way. I mean, I don't want to know anything about Son of Sam or the fucking Hillside Strangler or Ted Bundy or Featherhead, for god sake."

"Featherhead?" Van Patten asks. "Who's Featherhead? He sounds exceptionally dangerous."

"He means Leatherface," I say, teeth tightly clenched.

"Leatherface. He was part of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre."

"Oh." Van Patten smiles politely. "Of course."

"And he was was exceptionally dangerous," I say. exceptionally dangerous," I say.

"And now okay, go on. Bruce Boyer, what did he he do?" McDermott demands, releasing a sigh, rolling his eyes up. "Let's see skin them alive? Starve them to death? Run them over? Feed them to dogs? What?" do?" McDermott demands, releasing a sigh, rolling his eyes up. "Let's see skin them alive? Starve them to death? Run them over? Feed them to dogs? What?"

"You guys," I say, shaking my head, then teasingly admit, "He did something far far worse." worse."

"Like what take them to dinner at McManus's new restaurant?" McDermott asks.

"That would do it," Van Patter agrees. "Did you go? It was grubby, wasn't it?"

"Did you have the meat loaf?" McDermott asks.

"The meat loaf?" Van Patten's in shock. "What about the interior interior. What about the fucking tablecloths tablecloths?"

"But did you have have the meat loaf?" McDermott presses. the meat loaf?" McDermott presses.

"Of course I had the meat loaf, and and the squab, the squab, and and the marlin," Van Patten says. the marlin," Van Patten says.

"Oh god, I forgot about the marlin," McDermott groans. "The marlin chili."

"After reading Miller's review in the Times Times, who in their right mind wouldn't wouldn't order the meat loaf, or the marlin for that matter?" order the meat loaf, or the marlin for that matter?"

"But Miller got it wrong," McDermott says. "It was just grubby. The quesadilla with papaya? Usually a good dish, but there, there, Jesus." He whistles, shaking his head. Jesus." He whistles, shaking his head.

"And cheap cheap," Van Patten adds.

"So cheap." McDermott is in total agreement. "And the watermelonbrittle tart"

"Gentlemen." I cough. "Ahem. I hate to interrupt, but..."

"Okay, okay, go on," McDermott says. "Tell us more about Charles Moyer."

"Bruce Boyer," I correct him. "He was the author of Elegance. A Guide to Quality in Menswear Elegance. A Guide to Quality in Menswear." Then as an aside, "And no, Craig, he wasn't a serial killer in his spare time."

"What did Brucie baby have to say?" McDermott asks, chewing on ice.

"You're a clod. It's an excellent book. His theory remains we shouldn't feel restricted from wearing a sweater vest with a suit," I say. "Did you hear me call you a clod?"

"Yeah."

"But doesn't he point out that a vest shouldn't overpower the suit?" Van Patten offers tentatively.

"Yes..." I'm mildly irritated that Van Patten has done his homework but asks for advice nonetheless. I calmly continue. "With discreet, pinstripes you should wear a subdued blue or charcoal gray vest. A plaid suit would call for a bolder vest."

"And remember," McDermott adds, "with a regular vest the last button should be left undone."

I glance sharply at McDermott. He smiles, sips his drink and then smacks his lips, satisfied.

"Why?" Van Patten wants to know.

"It's traditional," I say, still glaring at McDermott. "But it's also more comfortable."

"Will wearing suspenders help the vest sit better?" I heapr Van Patten ask.

"Why?" I ask, turning to face him.

"Well, since you avoid the..." He stops, stuck, looking for the right word.

"Encumbrance of?" I begin.

"The belt buckle?" McDermott finishes.