Glamorama (15 page)

“I assume this photo was taken with Mr. Ross’s and Miss Byrnes’ permission and approval, you nonethical little bastard.”

“
Me
nonethical?” I choke. “Whoa—wait a minute.
You
peddled Robert Maxwell’s autopsy photos, you scumbag.
You
had fucking Polaroids of Kurt Cobain’s blown-apart skull.
You
had shots of River Phoenix convulsing on Sunset.
You—”

“I also gave you your first break in the media, you ungrateful little shit.”

“And you’re totally, totally right. Listen, I wasn’t putting you down. I meant to say I was impressed.”

“Victor, you get written about, mainly by me, for doing nothing.”

“No, man, I mean it, take it to the limit, that’s
my
motto, so y’know—”

“Successful sucking up requires talent. Or at least a species of charm that you simply do not possess.”

“Bottom line: what can I give you in exchange for the photo?”

“What have you got? And let’s make this fast. I’m about to be interviewed by ‘A Current Affair.’”

“Well, um, what do you want to, like, know?”

“Is Chloe dating Baxter Priestly and are you all involved in some kind of hot sicko threesome?”

“Oh shit, man—
no
. For the last time—
no,”
I groan. And then, after Buddy’s suspicious pause, “And I’m
not
dating Stephen Dorff.”

“Why is Chloe doing so much runway work this season?”

“Oh, that’s easy: it’s her last year as a runway model. It’s her big farewell, so to speak,” I sigh, relieved.

“Why is Baxter Priestly at all her shows?”

I suddenly sit up and shout into the phone, “Who
is
this little shit?” Trying to relax, I shift modes. “Hey Buddy—what about, um, Winona?”

“What about Winona?”

“She’s, um, y’know, coming to the opening tonight.”

“Well, that’s an auspicious start, Victor. Oh sorry, my ass just yawned. Who’s she with?” he sighs.

“Dave Pirner and the Wrigley’s Doublemint gum heiress and the bassist from Falafel Mafia.”

“Doing what? Where?”

“At the Four Seasons, discussing why
Reality Bites
didn’t open bigger.”

“My ass is yawning again.”

I pause, staring hard out the window. “Hurley Thompson,” I finally say, hoping he’ll let it pass.

“Now I’m vaguely enthralled.”

“Um, oh shit, Buddy …” I stop. “This is
totally
not from me.”

“I never reveal my sources, so please just tell your master what’s going on.”

“Just that, y’know, Hurley’s, like, in town.”

Pause. “I’m getting a little hot.” The sound of computer keys clicking, and then, “Where?”

Pause. “Paramount.”

“You’re stroking my boner,” Buddy says. “Why isn’t he in Phoenix shooting
Sun City 3
with the rest of the cast?”

Pause. “Um, Sherry Gibson …”

“I’m getting hot. You’re getting me very very hot, Victor.”

“She … dumped him …”

“I’m rock hard. Continue.”

“Because of … a freebasing problem. His.”

“You’re gonna make me come.”

“And he, um, beat … Sherry up.”

“I’m coming, Victor—”

“And so Sherry had to drop out of ‘Baywatch Nights’—”

“I’m shooting my load—”

“Because her face is all messed up—”

“I’m coming I’m coming I’m—”

“And he is now looking for a rehab clinic in the Poconos—”

“Oh god, I’ve shot my load—”

“And Sherry resembles a, um, oh yeah, ‘weepy raccoon.’”

“I’ve shot my load. Can you hear me panting?”

“You motherfucker,” I whisper.

“This is cosmic.”

“Buddy, I feel like we’ve become very close.”

“Where’s Hurley’s brother? Curley?”

“He hung himself.”

“Who was at the funeral?”

“Julia Roberts, Erica Kane, Melissa Etheridge, Lauren Holly and, um, Salma Hayek.”

“Didn’t she date his dad?”

“Yeah.”

“So he was in and out of the picture?”

“So no photo, Buddy?”

“The photo of you and Alison Poole has vanished.”

“For the record, what was it of?”

“For the record? You don’t want to know.”

“You know, Buddy, Alison just lost the role in the film version of
The Real Thing,”
I add, “for what it’s worth.”

“Which is nada. Thank you, Victor. ‘A Current Affair’ has arrived.”

“No—thank
you
, Buddy. And please, this was
not
from me.” I pause, then realize something and shout, “Don’t say it, don’t—”

“Trust me.” Buddy clicks off.

21

Nobu before noon and I’m biting off half a Xanax while passing what’s got to be Dad’s limo parked out front, and inside: various executives from MTV, a new maître d’ being interviewed by “The CBS Morning News,” Helena Christensen, Milla Jovovich and the French shoe designer Christian Louboutin at one table, and at another Tracee Ross, Samantha Kluge, Robbie Kravitz and Cosima Von Bulow, and Dad is the thin Waspish dude wearing the navy-blue Ralph Lauren suit sitting in the second booth from the front doodling notes on a yellow legal pad, a folder lying thick and suspicious next to a bowl of sunomono. Two of his aides have the front booth. He should look middle-aged but with the not-too-recent facelift and since according to my sister he’s been on Prozac since April (a secret), everything is vaguely cool. For relaxation: hunting deer, an astrologer to deal with those planetary vibes, squash. And his nutritionist has stressed raw fish, brown rice,
no
tempura but hijiki is okay and I’m basically here for some toro sashimi, some jokey conversation
and a charming inquiry about some cash. He smiles, bright caps.

“Sorry, Dad, I got lost.”

“You look thin.”

“It’s all those drugs, Dad,” I sigh, sliding into the booth.

“That’s not funny, Victor,” he says wearily.

“Dad, I don’t do drugs. I’m in great shape.”

“No, really. How are you, Victor?”

“I’m a knockout, Dad. A total knockout. I’m rippin’. Things are happening. I’m in control of all the elements. You are laughing somewhat jaggedly, Dad, but I am in continuous flux.”

“Is that right?”

“I’m staking out new territory, Dad.”

“Which is?”

I stare straight ahead. “The future.”

Dad stares glumly back, gives up, looks around, smiles awkwardly. “You’ve become much more skillful, Victor, at expressing, um, your ambitions.”

“You bet, Dad. I’m streamlined and direct.”

“Thass wonderful.” He motions to Evett, the waiter, for more iced tea. “So where are you coming from?”

“I had a photo shoot.”

“I hope you’re not doing any more of those naked Webster shots or whatever. Jesus.”

“Near
naked. Bruce
Weber
. I’m not trying to freak you out, Dad.”

“Wagging your ass around like—”

“It was an Obsession ad, Dad. You’re acting like it was some kind of porno movie.”

“What’s your point, Victor?”

“Dad, the point is: the—column—blocked—my—crotch.”

He’s already flipping through his menu. “Before I forget, thank you for the, um, Patti Lupone CD you sent me for my birthday, Victor. It was a thoughtful gift.”

I scan the menu too. “No sweat, dude.”

Dad keeps glancing uneasily over at the MTV table, some of the executives probably making wisecracks. I resist waving.

Dad asks, “Why are they staring over here like that?”

“Maybe because you have ‘lost white guy’ written all over you?” I ask. “Christ, I need a glass of bottled water. Or a dry beer.”

Evett comes over with the iced tea and silently takes our order, then moves uncertainly toward the back of the restaurant.

“Nice-looking girl,” my dad says, admiringly.

“Dad,” I start.

“What?”

I can’t really look at him. “That’s a guy, but whatever.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, that is a guy. He has that whole, y’know, boy-girl thing going.”

“You’ve forgotten to take off your sunglasses.”

“I haven’t forgotten.” I take them off, blinking a couple of times. “So what’s the story, morning glory?”

“Well, I’ve been keeping tabs on you.” He taps the folder ominously. “And whenever I think about my only son, my thoughts drift back to that conversation we had last summer about perhaps returning to school?”

“Oh shit, Dad,” I groan. “I went to
Camden
. I barely graduated from Camden. I don’t even know what I majored in.”

“Experimental Orchestra, as I recall,” Dad says dryly.

“Hey, don’t forget Design Analysis.”

My father’s gritting his teeth, dying for a drink, his eyes roaming the room. “Victor, I have contacts at Georgetown, at Columbia, at NYU for Christ sakes. It’s not as difficult as you might think.”

“Oh shit, Dad, have I
ever
used you?”

“I’m concerned about your career and—”

“You know, Dad,” I interrupt, “the question that I always dreaded most at Horace Mann was whenever my counselor would ask me about my career plans.”

“Why? Because you didn’t have any?”

“No. Because I knew if I answered him he’d laugh.”

“I just remember hearing about you being sent home for refusing to remove your sunglasses in algebra class.”

“Dad, I’m opening this club. I’m doing some modeling.” I sit up alittle for emphasis. “Hey—and I’m waiting to hear if I have a part in
Flatliners
II.”

“This is a movie?” he asks dubiously.

“No—it’s a sandwich,” I say, stunned.

“I mean, my god,” he sighs. “Victor, you’re twenty-seven and you’re only a model?”

“
Only
a model?” I say, still stunned.
“Only
a
model?
I’d rethink the way you phrased that, Dad.”

“I’m
think
ing about you working hard at something that—”

“Yeah, Dad, I’ve really grown up in an environment where hard work is the way people get rich. Right.”

“Just don’t tell me you’re looking for, um, artistic and personal growth through—let me get this straight—modeling?”

“Dad, a top male model can get eleven thousand dollars a day.”

“Are you a top male model?”

“No, I’m not a top male model, but that’s not my point.”

“I lose a lot of sleep, Victor, trying to figure just what your point is.”

“I’m a loser, baby,” I sigh, slumping back into the booth. “So why don’t you kill me?”

“You’re not a loser, Victor,” Dad sighs back. “You just need to, er, find yourself.” He sighs again. “Find—I don’t know—a new you?”

“‘A new you’?” I gasp. “Oh my god, Dad, you do a great job of making me feel useless.”

“And opening this club tonight makes you feel what?”

“Dad, I know, I know—”

“Victor, I just want—”

“
I
just want to do something where it’s all mine,” I stress. “Where I’m not … replaceable.”

“So do I.” Dad flinches. “I want that for you too.”

“A model … modeling is … I’m replaceable,” I sigh. “There are a thousand guys who’ve got pouty lips and nice symmetry. But opening something, a club, it’s …” My voice trails off.

After a longish silence Dad says, “A photo of you in
People
magazine last week was brought to my attention.”

“What issue? I didn’t see this. Who was on the cover?”

“I don’t know,” he says, glaring. “Someone on my staff brought it to my attention.”

“Goddamnit!” I slam my hand down on the table. “
This
is why I need a publicist.”

“The point being, Victor, that you were at a fairly lavish hotel somewhere—”

“A fairly lavish hotel somewhere?”

“Yes. In Miami.”

“I was at a hotel? Somewhere in Miami?”

“Yes. A hotel. In Miami. Wearing—
barely
—a bathing suit made of white linen and very, very wet—”

“Did I look good?”

“Sunglasses. Smoking what I can only hope was a cigarette, your arms around two nubile well-oiled
Penthouse
Playmates—”

“I really need to see this, Dad.”

“When were you in Miami?”

“I haven’t been to Miami in
months,”
I stress. “This is so sad—mistaking your own flesh and blood, your own son, a—”