"Dorsia," someone answers, sex not easily identifiable, made androgynous by the wallofsound noise in the background. "Please hold."

It sounds slightly less noisy than a packed football stadium and it takes every ounce of courage I can muster to stay on the line and not hang up. I'm on hold for five minutes, my palm sweaty, sore from clenching the cordless phone so tightly, a fraction of me realizing the futility of this effort, another part hopeful, another fraction pissed off that I didn't make the reservations earlier or get Jean to. The voice comes back on the lire and says grufliy, "Dorsia."

I clear my throat. "Um, yes, I know it's a little late but is it possible to reserve a table for two at eightthirty or nine perhaps?" I'm asking this with both eyes shut tight.

There is a pause the crowd in the background a surging, deafening mass and with real hope coursing through me I open my eyes, realizing that the maitre d', god love him, is probably looking through the reservation book for a cancellation but then he starts giggling, low at first but it builds to a highpitched crescendo of laughter which is abruptly cut off when he slams down the receiver.

Stunned, feverish, feeling empty, I contemplate the next move, the only sound the dial tone buzzing noisily from the receiver. Gather my bearings, count to six, reopen the Zagat guide and steadily regain my concentration against the almost overwhelming panic about securing an eightthirty reservation somewhere if not as trendy as Dorsia then at least in the next-best league. I eventually get a reservation at Barcadia for two at nine, and that only only because of a cancellation, and though Patricia will probably be disappointed she might actually like Barcadia the tables are well spaced, the lighting is dim and flattering, the food Nouvelle Southwestern and if she doesn't, what is the bitch going to do, because of a cancellation, and though Patricia will probably be disappointed she might actually like Barcadia the tables are well spaced, the lighting is dim and flattering, the food Nouvelle Southwestern and if she doesn't, what is the bitch going to do, sue me sue me?

I worked out heavily at the gym after leaving the office today but the tension has returned, so I do ninety abdominal crunches, a hundred and fifty pushups, and then I run in place for twenty minutes while listening to the new Huey Lewis CD. I take a hot shower and afterwards use a new facial scrub by CaswellMassey and a body wash by Greune, then a body moisturizer by Lubriderm and a Neutrogena facial cream. I debate between two outfits. One is a woolcrepe suit by Bill Robinson I bought at Saks with this cotton jacquard shirt from Charivari and an Armani tie. Or a wool and cashmere sport coat with blue plaid a cotton shirt and pleated wool trousers by Alexander Julian, with a polkadot silk tie by Bill Blass. The Julian might be a little too warm for May but if Patricia's wearing this outfit by Karl Lagerfeld that I think think she's going to, then maybe I she's going to, then maybe I will will go with the Julian, because it would go well with go with the Julian, because it would go well with her her suit. The shoes are crocodile loafers by A. Testoni. suit. The shoes are crocodile loafers by A. Testoni.

A bottle of Scharffenberger is on ice in a Spiros spunaluminum bowl which is in a Christine Van der Hurd etchedglass champagne cooler which sits on a Cristofle silverplated bar tray. The Scharffenberger isn't bad it's not Cristal, but why waste Cristal on this bimbo? She probably wouldn't be able to tell the difference anyway. I have a glass of it while waiting for her, occasionally rearranging the Steuben animals on the glasstop coffee table by Turchin, or sometimes I flip through the last hardcover book I bought, something by Garrison Keillor. Patricia is late.

While waiting on the couch in the living room, the Wurlitzer jukebox playing "Cherish" by the Lovin Spoonful, I come to the conclusion that Patricia is safe tonight, that I am not going to unexpectedly pull a knife out and use it on her just for the sake of doing so, that I am not going to get any pleasure watching her bleed from slits I've made by cutting her throat or slicing her neck open or gouging her eyes out. She's lucky, even though there is no real reasoning behind the luck. It could be that she's safe because her wealth, her family's family's wealth, protects her tonight, or it could be that it's simply wealth, protects her tonight, or it could be that it's simply my my choice. Maybe the glass of Scharffenberger has deadened my impulse or maybe it's simply that I don't want to ruin this particular Alexander Julian suit by having the bitch spray her blood all over it. Whatever happens, the useless fact remains: Patricia will stay alive, and this victory requires no skill, no leaps of the imagination, no ingenuity on anyone's part. This is simply how the world, my world, moves. choice. Maybe the glass of Scharffenberger has deadened my impulse or maybe it's simply that I don't want to ruin this particular Alexander Julian suit by having the bitch spray her blood all over it. Whatever happens, the useless fact remains: Patricia will stay alive, and this victory requires no skill, no leaps of the imagination, no ingenuity on anyone's part. This is simply how the world, my world, moves.

She arrives thirty minutes late and I tell the doorman to let her up even though I meet her outside my door while I'm locking it. She isn't wearing the Karl Lagerfeld suit I expected, but she looks pretty decent anyway: a silk gazar blouse with rhinestone cuff links by Louis Dell'Olio and a pair of embroidered velvet pants from Saks, crystal earrings by Wendy Gell for Anne Klein and gold slingback pumps. I wait until we're in the cab heading midtown to tell her about not going to Dorsia and then I apologize profusely, mention something about disconnected phone lines, a fire, a vengeful maitre d'. She gives a little gasp when I drop the news, ignores the apologies and turns away from me to glare out the window. I try to placate her by describing how trendy, how luxurious luxurious the restaurant we're going to is, explaining its pasta with fennel and banana, its the restaurant we're going to is, explaining its pasta with fennel and banana, its sorbets sorbets, but she only shakes her head and then I'm reduced to telling her, oh Christ, about how Barcadia has gotten much more expensive even than Dorsia, but she is relentless. Her eyes, I swear, intermittently tear.

She doesn't say anything until we're seated at a mediocre table near the back section of the main dining room and that's only to order a Bellini. For dinner I order the shadroe ravioli with apple compote as an appetizer and the meat loaf with chevre and quailstock sauce for an entree. She orders the red snapper with violets and pine nuts and for an appetizer a peanut butter soup with smoked duck and mashed squash which sounds strange but is actually quite good. New York New York magazine called it a "playful but mysterious little dish" and I repeat this to Patricia, who lights a cigarette while ignoring my lit match, sulkily slumped in her seat, exhaling smoke directly into my face, occasionally shooting furious looks at me which I politely ignore, being the gentleman that I can be. Once our plates arrive I just stare at my dinner the meat loaf dark red triangles topped by chevre which has been tinted pink by pomegranate juice, squiggles of thick tan quail stock circling the beef, and mango slices dotting the rim of the wide black plate for a long time, a little confused, before deciding to eat it, hesitantly picking up my fork. magazine called it a "playful but mysterious little dish" and I repeat this to Patricia, who lights a cigarette while ignoring my lit match, sulkily slumped in her seat, exhaling smoke directly into my face, occasionally shooting furious looks at me which I politely ignore, being the gentleman that I can be. Once our plates arrive I just stare at my dinner the meat loaf dark red triangles topped by chevre which has been tinted pink by pomegranate juice, squiggles of thick tan quail stock circling the beef, and mango slices dotting the rim of the wide black plate for a long time, a little confused, before deciding to eat it, hesitantly picking up my fork.

Even though dinner lasts only ninety minutes it feels as if we have been sitting in Barcadia for a week, and though I have no desire to visit Tunnel afterwards it seems appropriate punishment for Patricia's behavior. The bill comes to $320 less than I expected, actually and I put it on my platinum AmEx. In the cab heading downtown, my eyes locked on the meter, our driver tries to make conversation with Patricia who completely ignores him while checking her makeup in a Gucci compact, adding lipstick to an already heavily colored mouth. There was a baseball game on tonight that I think I forgot to videotape so I won't be able to watch it when I get home but I remember that I bought two magazines after work today and I can always spend an hour or so poring over those. I check my Rolex and realize that if we have one drink, maybe two, I'll get home in time for Late Night with David Letterman. Late Night with David Letterman. Though physically Patricia is appealing and I wouldn't mind having sex with her body, the idea of treating her gently, of being a kind date, of apologizing for this evening, for not being able to get into Dorsia (even though Barcadia is Though physically Patricia is appealing and I wouldn't mind having sex with her body, the idea of treating her gently, of being a kind date, of apologizing for this evening, for not being able to get into Dorsia (even though Barcadia is twice twice as expensive for Christ sakes), rubs me the wrong way. The bitch is probably pissed we don't have a limo. as expensive for Christ sakes), rubs me the wrong way. The bitch is probably pissed we don't have a limo.

The cab stops outside Tunnel. I pay the fare and leave the driver a decent tip and hold the door open for Patricia who ignores my hand when I try to help her step out of the cab. No one stands outside the ropes tonight. In fact the only person on Twentyfourth Street is a bum who sits by a Dumpster, writhing in pain, moaning for change or food, and we pass quickly by him as one of the three doormen who stand behind the ropes lets us in, another one patting me on the back saying, "How are you, Mr. McCullough?" I nod, opening the door for Patricia, and before following her in say, "Fine, uh, Jim," and I shake his hand.

Once inside, after paying fifty dollars for the two of us, I head immediately to the bar without really caring if Patricia follows. I order a J&B on the rocks. She wants a Perrier, no lime, and orders this herself. After I down half the drink, leaning against the bar and checking the hardbody waitress out, something suddenly seems out of place; it's not the lighting or INXS singing "New Sensation" or the hardbody behind the bar. It's something else. When I slowly turn around to take in the rest of the club I'm confronted by space that is completely deserted. Patricia and myself are the only two customers in the entire club. We are, except for the occasional hardbody, literally the only two people in Tunnel. only two people in Tunnel. "New Sensation" becomes "The Devil Inside" and the music is full blast but it feels less loud because there isn't a crowd reacting to it, and the dance floor looks vast when empty. "New Sensation" becomes "The Devil Inside" and the music is full blast but it feels less loud because there isn't a crowd reacting to it, and the dance floor looks vast when empty.

I move away from the bar and decide to check out the club's other areas, expecting Patricia to follow but she doesn't. No one guards the stairs that lead to the basement and as I step down them the music from upstairs changes, melds itself into Belinda Carlisle singing "I Feel Free." The basement has one couple in it who look like Sam and Ilene Sanford but it's darker down here, warmer, warmer, and I could be wrong. I move past them as they stand by the bar drinking champagne and head over toward this extremely welldressed Mexicanlooking guy sitting on a couch. He's wearing a doublebreasted wool jacket and matching trousers by Mario Valentino, a cotton Tshirt by Agnes B. and leather slipons (no socks) by Susan Bennis Warren Edwards, and he's with a goodlooking muscular Eurotrash chick dirty blond, big tits, tan, no makeup, smoking Merit Ultra Lights who has on a cotton gown with a zebra print by Patrick Kelly and silk and rhinestone highheeled pumps. and I could be wrong. I move past them as they stand by the bar drinking champagne and head over toward this extremely welldressed Mexicanlooking guy sitting on a couch. He's wearing a doublebreasted wool jacket and matching trousers by Mario Valentino, a cotton Tshirt by Agnes B. and leather slipons (no socks) by Susan Bennis Warren Edwards, and he's with a goodlooking muscular Eurotrash chick dirty blond, big tits, tan, no makeup, smoking Merit Ultra Lights who has on a cotton gown with a zebra print by Patrick Kelly and silk and rhinestone highheeled pumps.

I ask the guy if his name is Ricardo.

He nods. "Sure."

I ask for a gram, tell him Madison sent me. I pull my wallet out and hand over a fifty and two twenties. He asks the Eurotrash chick for her purse. She hands him a velvet bag by Anne Moore. Ricardo reaches in and hands me a tiny folded envelope. Before I leave, the Eurotrash girl tells me she likes my gazelleskin wallet. I tell her I would like to titfuck her and then maybe cut her arms off, but the music, George Michael singing "Faith," is too loud and she can't hear me.

Back upstairs I find Patricia where I left her, alone at the bar, nursing a Perrier.

"Listen, Patrick," she says, her attitude relenting. "I just want you to know that I'm"

"A bitch? Listen, do you want to do some coke?" I shout, cutting her line off.

"Uh, yeah... Sure." She's wildly confused.

"Come on," I yell, taking her hand.

She puts her drink down on the bar and follows me through the deserted club, up the stairs toward the rest rooms. There's really no reason why we couldn't do it downstairs but that seems tacky and so we do most of it in one of the men's room stalls. Back outside the men's room I sit on a couch and smoke one of her cigarettes while she goes downstairs to get us drinks.

She comes back apologizing for her behavior earlier this evening. "I mean I loved Barcadia, the food was outstanding and that mango sorbet, ohmygod I was in heaven. Listen, it's okay that we didn't go to Dorsia. We can always go some other night and I know that you probably tried to get us in but it's just so hot right now. But, oh yeah, I really loved the food at Barcadia. How long has it been open? I think it's been three, four months. I read a great review in New York New York or maybe it was or maybe it was Gourmet Gourmet... But anyway, do you want to come with me to this band tomorrow night, or maybe we can go to Dorsia and then see Wallace's band or maybe go to Dorsia after, but maybe it's not even open that late. Patrick, I'm serious: you should really see them. Avatar is such a great lead singer and I actually thought I was in love with him once well, actually I was in lust, not love. I really liked Wallace then but he was into this whole investment banking thing and he couldn't handle the routine and he broke down, it was the acid not the cocaine that did it. I mean I know know but so when that all fell apart I knew that it would be, like, best to just hang out and not deal with but so when that all fell apart I knew that it would be, like, best to just hang out and not deal with J&B I am thinking. Glass of J&B in my right hand I am thinking. Hand I am thinking. Charivari. Shirt from Charivari. Fusilli I am thinking. Jami Gertz I am thinking. I would like to fuck Jami Gertz I am thinking. Porsche 911. A sharpei I am thinking. I would like to own a sharpei. I am twentysix years old I am thinking. I will be twentyseven next year. A Valium. I would like a Valium. No, two two Valium I am thinking. Cellular phone I am thinking. Valium I am thinking. Cellular phone I am thinking.

Dry Cleaners

The Chinese dry cleaners I usually send my bloody clothes to delivered back to me yesterday a Soprani jacket, two white Brooks Brothers shirts and a tie from Agnes B. still covered with flecks of someone's blood. I have a lunch appointment at noon in forty minutes and beforehand I decide to stop by the cleaners and complain. In addition to the Soprani jacket, the shirts and tie, I bring along a bag of bloodstained sheets that also need cleaning. The Chinese dry cleaners is located twenty blocks up from my apartment on the West Side, almost by Columbia, and since I've never actually been there before the distance shocks me (previously my clothes were always picked up after a phone call from my apartment and then were delivered back within twentyfour hours). Because of this excursion I have no time for a morning workout, and since I overslept, owing to a latenightpredawn coke binge with Charles Griffin and Hilton Ashbury that started innocently enough at a magazine party none of us were invited to at M.K. and ended at my automated teller sometime around five, I've missed The Patty Winters Show The Patty Winters Show which actually was a repeat of an interview with the President, so it doesn't really matter, I guess. which actually was a repeat of an interview with the President, so it doesn't really matter, I guess.

I'm tense, my hair is slicked back, Wayfarers on, my skull is aching, I have a cigar unlit clenched between my teeth, am wearing a black Armani suit, a white cotton Armani shirt and a silk tie, also by Armani. I look sharp but my stomach is doing flipflops, my brain is churning. On my way into the Chinese cleaners I brush past a crying bum, an old man, forty or fifty, fat and grizzled, and just as I'm opening the door I notice, to top it off, that he's also blind blind and I step on his foot, which is actually a stump, causing him to drop his cup, scattering change all over the sidewalk. Did I do this on purpose? What do you think? Or did I do this accidentally? and I step on his foot, which is actually a stump, causing him to drop his cup, scattering change all over the sidewalk. Did I do this on purpose? What do you think? Or did I do this accidentally?

Then for ten minutes I point out the stains to the tiny old Chinese woman who, I'm supposing, runs the cleaners and she's even brought her husband out from the back of the shop since I can't understand a word she's saying. But the husband remains utterly mute and doesn't bother to translate. The old woman keeps jabbering in what I guess is Chinese and finally I have to interrupt.

"Listen, wait..." I hold up a hand with the cigar in it, the Soprani jacket draped over my other arm. "You're not... shhh, wait... shhh, you are not not giving me giving me valid valid reasons." reasons."

The Chinese woman keeps squealing something, grabbing at the arms of the jacket with a tiny fist. I brush her hand away and, leaning in, speak very slowly. "What are you you trying to say to trying to say to me me?"

She keeps yipping, wildeyed. The husband holds the two sheets he's taken out of the bag in front of him, both splattered with dried blood, and stares at them dumbly.

"Bleachee?" I ask her. "Are you trying to say bleachee bleachee?" I shake my head, disbelieving. "Bleachee? Oh my god."

She keeps pointing at the sleeves on the Soprani jacket and when she turns to the two sheets behind her, the yipping voice rises another octave.

"Two things," I say, talking over her. "One. You can't bleach a Soprani. Out of the question. Two" and then louder, still over her "two, I can only get these sheets in Santa Fe. These are very expensive sheets and I really really need them clean... . " But she's still talking and I'm nodding as if I understand her gibberish, then I break into a smile and lean right into her face. "If-you-don't-shut-your-fucking-mouth-I-will-kill-you-are-you-understanding-me?" need them clean... . " But she's still talking and I'm nodding as if I understand her gibberish, then I break into a smile and lean right into her face. "If-you-don't-shut-your-fucking-mouth-I-will-kill-you-are-you-understanding-me?"

The Chinese woman's panicked jabbering speeds up incoherently, her eyes still wide. Her face overall, maybe because of the wrinkles, seems oddly expressionless. Pathetically I point at the stains again, but then realize this is useless and lower my hand, straining to understand what she's saying. Then, casually, I cut her off, talking over her again.

"Now listen, I have a very important lunch meeting I check my Rolex "at Hubert's in thirty minutes" then looking back at the woman's flat, slanty eyed face"and I need those... no, wait, twenty twenty minutes. I have a lunch meeting at Hubert's in twenty minutes with Ronald Harrison and I need those sheets cleaned by this after minutes. I have a lunch meeting at Hubert's in twenty minutes with Ronald Harrison and I need those sheets cleaned by this afternoon."

But she's not listening; she keeps blabbering something in the same spastic, foreign tongue. I have never firebombed anything and I start wondering how one goes about it what materials are involved, gasoline, matches... or would it be lighter fluid?

"Listen." I snap out of it, and sincerely, in singsong, leaning into her face her mouth moving chaotically, she turns to her husband, who nods during a rare, brief pause I tell her, "I cannot cannot understand you." understand you."

I'm laughing, appalled at how ridiculous this situation is, and slapping a hand on the counter look around the shop for someone else to talk to, but it's empty, and I mutter, "This is crazy." I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face, and then abruptly stop laughing, suddenly furious. I snarl at her, "You're a fool fool. I can't can't cope with this." cope with this."

She jabbers something back at me.

"What?" I ask spitefully. "You didn't hear me? You want some ham? Is that what you just said? You want... some ham ham?"

She grabs at the arm of the Soprani jacket again. Her husband stands behind the counter, sullen and detached.

"You... are... a... fool!" I bellow.

She jabbers back, undaunted, pointing relentlessly at the stains on the sheets.

"Stupid bitchee? Understand?" I shout, redfaced, on the verge of tears. I'm shaking and I yank the jacket away from her, muttering "Oh Christ."

Behind me the door opens and a bell chimes and I compose myself. Close my eyes, breathe in deeply, remind myself about stopping in at the tanning salon after lunch, maybe Hermes or "Patrick?"

Jolted by the sound of a real voice, I turn around and it's someone I recognize from my building, someone I've seen a number of times lingering in the lobby, staring admiringly at me whenever I run into her. She's older than me, late twenties, okaylooking, a little overweight, wearing a jogging suit from where, Bloomingdale's? I have no idea and she's... beaming. beaming. Taking off her sunglasses she offers a wide smile. "Hi Patrick, I thought it was you." Taking off her sunglasses she offers a wide smile. "Hi Patrick, I thought it was you."

Having no idea what her name is I sigh a muted "Hello" then very quickly mumble something that resembles a woman's name and then I just stare at her, stumped, drained, trying to control my viciousness, the Chinese woman still screeching behind me. Finally I clap my hands together and say, "Well."

She stands there, confused, until nervously moving toward the counter, ticket in hand. "Isn't it ridiculous? Coming all all the way up the way up here, here, but you know they really but you know they really are are the best." the best."

'Then why can't they get these these stains out?" I ask patiently, still smiling, both eyes closed until the Chinese woman has finally shut up and then I open them. "I mean can you talk to these people or stains out?" I ask patiently, still smiling, both eyes closed until the Chinese woman has finally shut up and then I open them. "I mean can you talk to these people or some something?" I delicately propose. "I'm not getting any anywhere."

She moves toward the sheet the old man holds up. "Oh my, I see," she murmurs. The moment she tentatively touches the sheet the old lady starts jabbering away, and ignoring her, the girl asks me, "What are are those?" She looks at the stains again and says, "Oh my." those?" She looks at the stains again and says, "Oh my."

"Um, well..." I look over at the sheets, which are really quite a mess. "It's, um, cranberry juice, cranapple juice."

She looks at me and nods, as if unsure, then timidly ventures, "It doesn't look like cranberry, I mean cranapple, to me."

I stare at the sheets for a long time before stammering, "Well, I mean, um, it's really... Bosco Bosco. You know, like..." I pause. "Like a Dove Bar. It's a Dove Bar... Hershey's Syrup?"

"Oh yeah." She nods, understanding, maybe a hint of skepticism. "Oh my."

"Listen, if you could talk to them" I reach over, yanking the sheet out of the old man's hand "I would really really appreciate it." I fold the sheet and lay it gently on the counter, then, checking my Rolex again, explain, "I'm really late. I have a lunch appointment at Hubert's in fifteen minutes." I move toward the door of the dry cleaners and the Chinese woman starts yapping again, desperately, shaking a finger at me. I glare at her, forcing myself not to mimic the hand gestures. appreciate it." I fold the sheet and lay it gently on the counter, then, checking my Rolex again, explain, "I'm really late. I have a lunch appointment at Hubert's in fifteen minutes." I move toward the door of the dry cleaners and the Chinese woman starts yapping again, desperately, shaking a finger at me. I glare at her, forcing myself not to mimic the hand gestures.

"Hubert's? Oh really really?" the girl asks, impressed. "It moved uptown, right?"

"Yeah, well, oh boy, listen, I've got to go." I pretend to spot an oncoming cab across the street through the glass door and, faking gratitude, tell her, "Thank you, uh... Samantha."

"It's Victoria."

"Oh right, Victoria." I pause. "Didn't I say that?"

"No. You said Samantha."

"'Well, I'm sorry." I smile. "I'm having problems."

"Maybe we could have lunch one day next week?" she suggests hopefully, moving toward me while I'm backing out of the store. "You know, I'm downtown near Wall Street quite often."

"Oh, I don't know, Victoria." I force an apologetic grin, avert my gaze from her thighs. "I'm at work all the time."

"Well, what about, oh, you know, maybe a Saturday?" Victoria asks, afraid she'll offend.

"Next Saturday?" I ask, checking my Rolex again.

"Yeah." She shrugs timidly.

"Oh. Can't, I'm afraid. Matinee of Les Miserables Les Miserables," I lie. "Listen. I've really really got to go. I'll..." I run a hand over my hair and mutter "Oh Christ" before forcing myself to add, "I'll call you." got to go. I'll..." I run a hand over my hair and mutter "Oh Christ" before forcing myself to add, "I'll call you."

"Okay." She smiles, relieved. "Do."

I glare at the Chinese woman once more and rush the hell out of there, dashing after a nonexistent cab, and then I slow down a block or two up past the cleaners and . suddenly I find myself eyeing a very pretty homeless girl sitting on the steps of a brownstone on Amsterdam, a Styrofoam coffee cup resting on the step below her feet, and as if guided by radar I move toward her, smiling, fishing around in my pocket for change. Her face seems too young and fresh and tan for a homeless person's; it makes her plight all the more heartbreaking. I examine her carefully in the seconds it takes to move from the edge of the sidewalk to the steps leading up to the brownstone where she sits, her head bowed down, staring dumbly into her empty lap. She looks up, unsmiling, after she notices me standing over her. My nastiness vanishes and, wanting to offer something kind, something simple, I lean in, still staring, eyes radiating sympathy into her blank, grave face, and dropping a dollar into the Styrofoam cup I say, "Good luck."

Her expression changes and because of this I notice the book Sartre in her lap and then the Columbia book bag by her side and finally the tancolored coffee in the cup and my dollar bill floating in it and though this all happens in a matter of seconds it's played out in slow motion and she looks at me, then at the cup, and shouts, "Hey, what's your goddamn problem?" and frozen, hunched over the cup, cringing, I stutter, "I didn't... I didn't know it was... full," and shaken, I walk away, hailing a taxi, and heading toward Hubert's in it I hallucinate the buildings into mountains, into volcanoes, the streets become jungles, the sky freezes into a backdrop, and before stepping out of the cab I have to cross my eyes in order to clear my vision. Lunch at Hubert's becomes a permanent hallucination in which I find myself dreaming while still awake.

Harry's

"You should match the socks with the trousers," Todd Hamlin tells Reeves, who is listening intently, stirring his Beefeater on the rocks with a swizzle stick.

"Who says?" George asks.

"Now listen," Hamlin patiently explains. "If you wear gray gray trousers, you wear trousers, you wear gray gray socks. It's as simple as that." socks. It's as simple as that."

"But wait," I interrupt. "What if the shoes are black? black?"

"That's okay," Hamlin says, sipping his martini. "But then the belt has to match match the shoes." the shoes."

"So what you're saying is that with a gray gray suit you can either wear gray or suit you can either wear gray or black black socks," I ask. socks," I ask.

"Er... yeah," Hamlin says, confused. "I guess. Did I say that?"

"See, Hamlin," I say, "I disagree about the belt since the shoes are so far away from the actual belt belt line. I think you should concentrate on wearing a belt that coordinates with the line. I think you should concentrate on wearing a belt that coordinates with the trousers trousers."

"He has has a point," Reeves says. a point," Reeves says.

The three of us, Todd Hamlin and George Reeves and myself, are sitting in Harry's and it's a little after six. Hamlin is wearing a suit by Lubiam, a greatlooking striped spreadcollar cotton shirt from Burberry, a silk tie by Resikeio and a belt from Ralph Lauren. Reeves is wearing a sixbutton doublebreasted suit by Christian Dior, a cotton shirt, a patterned silk tie by Claiborne, perforated captoe leather laceups by Allen-Edmonds, a cotton handkerchief in his pocket, probably from Brooks Brothers; sunglasses by Lafont Paris lie on a napkin by his drink and a fairly nice attache case from T. Anthony rests on an empty chair by our table. I'm wearing a twobutton singlebreasted chalkstriped woolflannel suit, a multicolored candystriped cotton shirt and a silk pocket square, all by Patrick Aubert, a polkadot silk tie by Bill Blass and clear prescription eyeglasses with frames by Lafont Paris. One of our CD Walkman headsets lies in the middle of the table surrounded by drinks and a calculator. Reeves and Hamlin left the office early today for facials somewhere and they both look good, faces pink but tan, hair short and slicked back. The Patty Winters Show The Patty Winters Show this morning was about RealLife Rambos. this morning was about RealLife Rambos.

"But what about vests?" Reeves asks Todd. "Aren't they... out out?"

"No, George," Hamlin says. "Of course course not." not."

"No," I agree. "Vests have never never been out of fashion." been out of fashion."

"Well, the question really is is how should they be worn?" Hamlin inquires. how should they be worn?" Hamlin inquires.

"They should fit" Reeves and I start simultaneously.

"Oh sorry," Reeves says. "Go ahead."

"No, it's okay," I say. "You go ahead."

"I insist," George says.

"Well, they should fit trimly around the body and cover the waistline," I say. "It should peek just above the waist button of the suit jacket. Now if too much of the vest appears, it'll give the suit a tight, constricted look that you don't want."

"Uhhuh," Reeves says, nearly mute, looking confused. "Right. I knew that."