"Okay, okay, okay," Van Patten says. "This is my my question. A twoparter..." He pauses dramatically. "Now are rounded collars too dressy or too casual? Part two, which tie knot looks best with them?" question. A twoparter..." He pauses dramatically. "Now are rounded collars too dressy or too casual? Part two, which tie knot looks best with them?"

A distracted Price, his voice still tense, answers quickly with an exact, clear enunciation that can be heard over the din in Harry's. "It's a very versatile look and it can go with both suits and and sport coats. It should be starched for dressy occasions and a collar pin should be worn if it's particularly formal." He pauses, sighs; it looks as if he's spotted somebody. I turn around to see who it is. Price continues, "If it's worn with a blazer then the collar should look soft and it can be worn either pinned or unpinned. Since it's a traditional, preppy look it's best if balanced by a relatively small fourinhand knot." He sips his martini, recrossing his legs. "Next question?" sport coats. It should be starched for dressy occasions and a collar pin should be worn if it's particularly formal." He pauses, sighs; it looks as if he's spotted somebody. I turn around to see who it is. Price continues, "If it's worn with a blazer then the collar should look soft and it can be worn either pinned or unpinned. Since it's a traditional, preppy look it's best if balanced by a relatively small fourinhand knot." He sips his martini, recrossing his legs. "Next question?"

"Buy the man a drink," McDermott says, obviously impressed.

"Price?" Van Patten says.

"Yes?" Price says, casing the room.

"You're priceless."

"Listen," I ask, "where are we having dinner?"

"I brought the trusty Mr. Zagat," Van Patten says, pulling the long crimson booklet out of his pocket and waving it at Timothy.

"Hooray," Price says dryly.

"What do we want to eat?" Me.

"Something blond with big tits." Price.

"How about that Salvadorian bistro?" McDermott.

"Listen, we're stopping by Tunnel afterwards so somewhere near there." Van Patten.

"Oh shit," McDermott begins. "We're going to Tunnel? Last week I picked up this Vassar chick"

"Oh god, not again again," Van Patten groans.

"What's your prob problem?" McDermott snaps back.

"I was there there. I don't need to hear this story again again," Van Patten says.

"But I never told you what happened afterwards, " McDermott says, arching his eyebrows. " McDermott says, arching his eyebrows.

"Hey, when were you guys there?" I ask. "Why wasn't I I invited?" invited?"

"You were on that fucking cruise cruise thing. Now shut up and listen. So okay I picked up this Vassar chick at Tunnel hot number, big tits, great legs, this chick was a little hardbody and so I buy her a couple of champagne kirs and she's in the city on spring break and she's practically blowing me in the Chandelier Room and so I take her back to my place" thing. Now shut up and listen. So okay I picked up this Vassar chick at Tunnel hot number, big tits, great legs, this chick was a little hardbody and so I buy her a couple of champagne kirs and she's in the city on spring break and she's practically blowing me in the Chandelier Room and so I take her back to my place"

"Whoa, wait," I interrupt. "May I ask where Pamela Pamela is during all of this?" is during all of this?"

Craig winces. "Oh fuck fuck you. I want a blow job, Bate you. I want a blow job, Bateman. I want a chick who's gonna let me"

"I don't want to hear this," Van Patten says, clamping his hands over his ears. "He's going to say something disgusting."

"You prude," McDermott sneers. "Listen, we're not gonna invest in a coop together or jet down to Saint Bart's. I just want some chick whose face I can sit on for thirty, forty minutes." together or jet down to Saint Bart's. I just want some chick whose face I can sit on for thirty, forty minutes."

I throw my swizzle stick at him.

"Anyway, so we're back at my place and listen to this." He moves in closer to the table. "She's had enough champagne by now to get a fucking rhino tipsy, and get this"

"She let you fuck her without a condom?" one of us asks.

McDermott rolls his eyes up. "This is a Vassar Vassar girl. She's not from girl. She's not from Queens Queens."

Price taps me on the shoulder. "What does that that mean?" mean?"

"Anyway, listen," McDermott says. "She would... are you ready?" He pauses dramatically. "She would only give me a hand job, and get this... she kept her glove glove on." He sits back in his chair and sips his drink in a smug, satisfied sort of way. on." He sits back in his chair and sips his drink in a smug, satisfied sort of way.

We all take this in solemnly. No one makes fun of McDermott's revelatory statement or of his inability to react more aggressively with this chick. No one says anything but we are all thinking the same thought: Never Never pick up a Vassar girl. pick up a Vassar girl.

"What you need is a chick from Camden Camden," Van Patten says, after recovering from McDermott's statement.

"Oh great great," I say. "Some chick who thinks it's okay to fuck her brother."

"Yeah, but they think AIDS is a new band from England," Price points out.

"Where's dinner?" Van Patten asks, absently studying the question scrawled on his napkin. "Where the fuck are we going?"

"It's really funny that girls think guys are concerned with that, with diseases and stuff," Van Patten says, shaking his head.

"I'm not gonna wear a fucking condom," McDermott announces.

"I have read this article I've Xeroxed," Van Patten says, "and it says our chances of catching that are like zero zero zero zero point half a decimal percentage or something, and this no matter what kind of scumbag, slutbucket, horndog chick we end up boffing."

"Guys just cannot cannot get it." get it."

"Well, not white white guys." guys."

"This girl was wearing a fucking glove?" Price asks, still shocked. "A glove? glove? Jesus, why didn't Jesus, why didn't you you just jerk off instead?" just jerk off instead?"

"Listen, the dick also rises," Van Patten says. "Faulkner."

"Where did you go to college?" Price asks. "Pine Manor?"

"Men," I announce: "Look who approaches."

"Who?" Price won't turn his head.

"Hint," I say. "Biggest weasel at Drexel Burnham Lambert."

"Connolly?" Price guesses.

"Hello, Preston," I say, shaking Preston's hand.

"Fellows," Preston says, standing over the table, nodding to everyone. "I'm sorry about not making dinner with you guys tonight." Preston is wearing a doublebreasted wool suit by Alexander Julian, a cotton shirt and a silk Perry Ellis tie. He bends down, balancing himself by putting a hand on the back of my chair. "I feel really bad about canceling, but commitments, you know."

Price gives me an accusatory look and mouths "Was he invited?"

I shrug and finish what's left of the J&B.

"What did you do last night?" McDermott asks, and then, "Nice threads."

"Who did he do last night?" Van Patten corrects. did he do last night?" Van Patten corrects.

"No, no," Preston says. "Very respectable, decent evening. No babes, no blow, no brew. Went to The Russian Tea Room with Alexandra and her parents. She calls her father get this Billy. But I'm so fucking tired and only one S one Stoli." He takes off his glasses (Oliver Peoples, of course) and yawns, wiping them clean with an Armani handkerchief. "I'm not sure, but I think our like weird Orthodox waiter dropped some acid in the borscht. I'm so fucking tired."

"What are you doing instead?" Price asks, clearly uninterested.

"Have to return these videos, Vietnamese with Alexandra, a musical, Broadway, something British," Preston says, scanning the room.

"Hey Preston," Van Patten says. "We're gonna send in the GQ GQ questions. You got one?" questions. You got one?"

"Oh yeah, I've got one," Preston says. "Okay, so when wearing a tuxedo how do you keep the front of your shirt from riding up?"

Van Patten and McDermott sit silently for a minute before Craig, concerned and his brow creased in thought, says, 'That's a good one."

"Hey Price," Preston says. "Do you have one?"

"Yeah," Price sighs. "If all of your friends are morons is it a felony, a misdemeanor or an act of God if you blow their fucking heads off with a thirtyeight magnum?"

"Not GQ GQ material," McDermott says. "Try material," McDermott says. "Try Soldier of Fortune Soldier of Fortune."

"Or Vanity Fair Vanity Fair." Van Patten.

"Who is is that?" Price asks, staring over at the bar. "Is that that?" Price asks, staring over at the bar. "Is that Reed Reed Robison? And by the way, Preston, you simply have a tab with a buttonhole sewn into the front of the shirt, which can then be attached by a button to your trousers; and make sure that the stiff pleated front of the shirt doesn't extend below the waistband of your trousers or it will rise up when you sit down Robison? And by the way, Preston, you simply have a tab with a buttonhole sewn into the front of the shirt, which can then be attached by a button to your trousers; and make sure that the stiff pleated front of the shirt doesn't extend below the waistband of your trousers or it will rise up when you sit down now is that jerk Reed Robison? now is that jerk Reed Robison? It looks a It looks a hell helluva lot like him."

Stunned by Price's remarks, Preston slowly turns around, still on his haunches, and after he puts his glasses back on, squints over at the bar. "No, that's Nigel Morrison."

"Ah," Price exclaims. "One of those young British faggots serving internship at...?"

"How do you know he's a faggot?" I ask him.

"They're all faggots." Price shrugs. "The British."

"How would you you know, Timothy?" Van Patten grins. know, Timothy?" Van Patten grins.

"I saw him fuck Bateman up the ass in the men's room at Morgan Stanley," Price says.

I sigh and ask Preston, "Where is is Morrison interning?" Morrison interning?"

"I forget," Preston says, scratching his head. "Lazard?"

"Where?" McDermott presses. "First Boston? Goldman?"

"I'm not sure," Preston says. "Maybe Drexel? Listen, he's just an assistant corporate finance analyst and his ugly, blacktooth girlfriend is in some dinky rat rathole doing leveraged buy buyouts."

.'Where are we eat eating?" I ask, my patience at an alltime low. "We need to make a reservation. I'm not standing at some fucking bar bar."

"What in the fuck is Morrison wearing?" Preston asks himself. "Is that really a glenplaid suit with a checkered checkered shirt?" shirt?"

"That's not not Morrison," Price says. Morrison," Price says.

"Who is it then?" Preston asks, taking his glasses off again.

"That's Paul Owen," Price says.

"That's not Paul Owen," I say. "Paul Owen's on the other side of the bar. Over there."

Owen stands at the bar wearing a doublebreasted wool suit.

"He's handling the Fisher account," someone says.

"Lucky bastard," someone else murmurs.

"Lucky Jew Jew bastard," Preston says. bastard," Preston says.

"Oh Jesus, Preston," I say. "What does that that have to do with anything?" have to do with anything?"

"Listen, I've seen the bastard sitting in his office on the phone with CEOs, spinning a fucking menorah. The bastard brought a Hanukkah bush into the office last December," Preston says suddenly, peculiarly animated.

"You spin a dreidel, Preston," I say calmly, "not a menorah. You spin a dreidel."

"Oh my god, Bateman, do you want me to go over to the bar and ask Freddy to fry you up some fucking potato pancakes?" Preston asks, truly alarmed. "Some... latkes latkes?"

"No," I say. "Just cool it with the antiSemitic remarks."

"The voice of reason." Price leans forward to pat me on the back. "The boy next door."

"Yeah, a boy next door who according to you let a British corporate finance analyst intern sodomize him up the ass," I say ironically.

"I said you were the voice of reason," Price says. "I didn't say you weren't weren't a homosexual." a homosexual."

"Or redundant," Preston adds. redundant," Preston adds.

"Yeah," I say, staring directly at Price. "Ask Meredith if I'm a homosexual. That is, if she'll take the time to pull my dick out of her mouth."

"Meredith's a fag hag fag hag," Price explains, unfazed, "that's why I'm dumping her."

"Oh wait, guys, listen, I got a joke." Preston rubs his hands together.

"Preston," Price says, "you are are a joke. You do know you a joke. You do know you weren't weren't invited to dinner. By the way, nice jacket; nonmatching but complementary." invited to dinner. By the way, nice jacket; nonmatching but complementary."

"Price, you are a bastard, you are so fucking mean mean to me it hurts," Preston says, laughing. "Anyway, so JFK and Pearl Bailey meet at this party and they go back to the Oval Office to have sex and so they fuck and then JFK goes to sleep and..." Preston stops. "Oh gosh, now what happens... Oh yeah, so Pearl Bailey says Mr. President I wanna fuck you again and so he says I'm going to sleep now and in... thirtyno, wait..." Preston pauses again, confused. "Now... no, sixty minutes... no... okay, thirty minutes I'll wake up and we'll do it again but you've got to keep one hand on my cock and the other on my balls and she says okay but why do I have to keep one hand on your dick and one... one hand on your balls... and..." He notices that Van Patten is idly doodling something on the back of a napkin. "Hey Van Patten are you listening to me?" to me it hurts," Preston says, laughing. "Anyway, so JFK and Pearl Bailey meet at this party and they go back to the Oval Office to have sex and so they fuck and then JFK goes to sleep and..." Preston stops. "Oh gosh, now what happens... Oh yeah, so Pearl Bailey says Mr. President I wanna fuck you again and so he says I'm going to sleep now and in... thirtyno, wait..." Preston pauses again, confused. "Now... no, sixty minutes... no... okay, thirty minutes I'll wake up and we'll do it again but you've got to keep one hand on my cock and the other on my balls and she says okay but why do I have to keep one hand on your dick and one... one hand on your balls... and..." He notices that Van Patten is idly doodling something on the back of a napkin. "Hey Van Patten are you listening to me?"

"I'm lis listening," Van Patten says, irritated. "Go ahead. Finish it. One hand on my cock, one hand on my balls, go on."

Luis Carruthers is still standing at the bar waiting for a drink. Now it looks to me like his silk bow tie is by Agnes B. It's all unclear.