Glamorama (4 page)

Zigzagging toward Chemical Bank by the new Gap it’s a Wednesday but outside feels Mondayish and the city looks vaguely unreal, there’s a sky like from October 1973 or something hanging over it and right now at 5:30 this is Manhattan as Loud Place: jackhammers, horns, sirens, breaking glass, recycling trucks, whistles, booming bass from the new Ice Cube, unwanted sound trailing behind me as I wheel my Vespa into the bank, joining the line at the automated teller, most of it made up of Orientals glaring at me as they move aside, a couple of them leaning forward, whispering to each other.

“What’s the story with the moped?” some jerk asks.

“Hey, what’s the story with those pants? Listen, the bike doesn’t have a card, it’s not taking out any cash, so chill out. Jesus.”

Only one out of ten cash machines seems to have any cash in it, so while waiting I have to look up at my reflection in the panel of steel mirrors lining the columns above the automated tellers: high cheekbones, ivory skin, jet-black hair, semi-Asian eyes, a perfect nose, huge lips, defined jawline, ripped knees in jeans, T-shirt under a long-collar shirt, red vest, velvet jacket, and I’m slouching, Rollerblades slung over my shoulder, suddenly remembering I forgot where I’m supposed to
meet Chloe tonight, and that’s when the beeper goes off. It’s Beau. I snap open the Panasonic EBH 70 and call him back at the club.

“I hope Bongo’s not having a fit.”

“It’s the RSVPs, Victor.
Damien’s
having a fit. He just called, furious—”

“Did you tell him where I was?”

“How could I do that when
I
don’t even know where you are?” Pause. “Where are you? Damien was in a helicopter. Actually stepping out of a helicopter.”

“
I
don’t even know where I am, Beau. How’s that for an answer?” The line moves up slowly. “Is he in the city?”

“No. I said he was in a helicopter. I said that he—was—in—a—heli-cop-ter.”

“But where
was
the heli-cop-ter?”

“Damien thinks things are getting totally fucked up. We have about forty for dinner who have
not
RSVP’d, so our seating list might be interpreted as meaningless.”

“Beau, that depends on how you define meaningless.”

A long pause. “Don’t tell me it means a bunch of different things, Victor. For example, here’s how the
O
situation is shaping up: Tatum O’Neal, Chris O’Donnell, Sinead O’Connor and Conan O’Brien all yes but nothing from Todd Oldham, who I hear is being stalked and really freaking out, or Carré Otis or Oribe—”

“Relax,” I whisper. “That’s because they’re all doing the shows. I’ll talk to Todd tomorrow—I’ll see him at the show—but I mean
what is going on
, Beau? Conan O’Brien
is
coming but Todd Oldham and Carré Otis
might not?
That just isn’t an acceptable scenario, baby, but I’m in an automated teller right now with my Vespa and I can’t really speak—hey, what are
you
looking at?—but I don’t want Chris O’Donnell anywhere at my table for dinner. Chloe thinks he’s too fucking cute and I just don’t need that kind of awful shit tomorrow night.”

“Uh-huh. Right, no Chris O’Donnell, okay, got that. Now, Victor, first thing tomorrow we’ve got to go over the big ones, the Ms and the Ss—”

“We can pull it together. Don’t weep, Beau. You sound sad. It is now my turn to get some cash. I must go and—”

“Wait! Rande Gerber’s in town—”

“Put him under
G
but
not
for the dinner unless he’s coming with Cindy Crawford then he
is
invited to the dinner and you then know which consonant, baby.”

“Victor, you try dealing with Cindy’s publicist. You try getting an honest answer out of Antonio Sabato, Jr.’s publicist—”

I click off, finally push in my card, punch in the code (
COOLGUY
) and wait, thinking about the seating arrangements at tables 1 and 3, and then green words on a black screen tell me that there is no cash left in this account (a balance of minus $143) and so therefore it won’t give me any money and I blew my last cash on a glass-door refrigerator because
Elle Decor
did a piece on my place that never ran so I slam my fist against the machine, moan “Spare me” and since it’s totally useless to try this again I rustle through my pockets for a Xanax until someone pushes me away and I roll the moped back outside, bummed.

Cruising up Madison, stopping at a light in front of Barneys, and Bill Cunningham snaps my picture, yelling out, “Is that a Vespa?” and I give him thumbs-up and he’s standing next to Holly, a curvy blonde who looks like Patsy Kensit, and when we smoked heroin together last week she told me she might be a lesbian, which in some circles is pretty good news, and she waves me over wearing velvet hot pants, red-and-white-striped platform boots, a silver peace symbol and she’s ultra-thin, on the cover of
Mademoiselle
this month, and after a day of doing shows at Bryant Park she’s looking kind of frantic but in a cool way.

“Hey Victor!” She keeps motioning even when I’ve pulled the Vespa up to the curb.

“Hey Holly.”

“It’s Anjanette, Victor.”

“Hey Anjanette, what’s up pussycat? You’re looking very Uma-ish. Love the outfit.”

“It’s retro-gone-wacko. I did six shows today. I’m exhausted,” she says, signing an autograph. “I saw you at the Calvin Klein show giving Chloe moral support. Which was so cool of you.”

“Baby, I wasn’t at the Calvin Klein show but you’re still looking very Uma-ish.”

“Victor, I’m positive you were at the Calvin Klein show. I saw you in the second row next to Stephen Dorff and David Salle and Roy Liebenthal. I saw you pose for a photo on 42nd Street, then get into a black scary car.”

Pause, while I consider this scenario, then: “The
second
fucking row? No way, baby. You haven’t started your ignition yet. Will I see you tomorrow night, baby?”

“I’m coming with Jason Priestley.”

“Why aren’t you coming with me? Am I the only one who thinks Jason Priestley looks like a little caterpillar?”

“Victor, that’s not nice,” she pouts. “What would Chloe think?”

“She thinks Jason Priestley looks like a little caterpillar too,” I murmur, lost in thought. “The fucking
second
row?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Anjanette says. “What would Chloe think of—”

“Spare me, baby, but you’re supergreat.” I start the Vespa up again. “Take your passion and make it happen.”

“I’ve heard you’ve been naughty anyway, so I’m not surprised,” she says, tiredly wagging her finger at me, which Scooter, the bodyguard who looks like Marcellus from
Pulp Fiction
, interprets as “move closer.”

“What do you mean by that, pussycat?” I ask. “What have you heard?”

Scooter whispers something, pointing at his watch, while Anjanette lights a cigarette. “There’s always a car waiting. There’s always a Steven Meisel photo shoot. Jesus, how do we do it, Victor? How do we survive this mess?” A gleaming black sedan rolls forward and Scooter opens the door.

“See you, baby.” I hand her a French tulip I just happen to be holding and start pulling away from the curb.

“Oh Victor,” she calls out, handing Scooter the French tulip. “I got the job! I got the contract.”

“Great, baby. I gotta run. What job, you crazy chick?”

“Guess?.”

“Matsuda? Gap?” I grin, limousines honking behind me. “Baby, listen, see you tomorrow night.”

“No.
Guess?.”

“Baby, I already did. You’re mind-tripping me.”

“
Guess?
, Victor,” she’s shouting as I pull away.

“Baby, you’re great,” I shout back. “Call me. Leave a message. But only at the club. Peace.”

“
Guess?
, Victor!” she calls out.

“Baby, you’re a face to watch,” I say, already putting a Walkman on, already on 61st. “A star of tomorrow,” I call out, waving. “Let’s have drinks at Monkey Bar after the shows are over on Sunday!” I’m speaking to myself now and moving toward Alison’s place. Passing a newsstand by the new Gap, I notice I’m still on the cover of the current issue of
YouthQuake
, looking pretty cool—the headline
27 AND HIP
in bold purple letters above my smiling, expressionless face, and I’ve just got to buy another copy, but since I don’t have any cash there’s no way.

31

From 72nd and Madison I called Alison’s doorman, who has verified that outside her place on 80th and Park Damien’s goons are not waiting in a black Jeep, so when I get there I can pull up to the entrance and roll my Vespa into the lobby, where Juan—who’s a pretty decent-looking guy, about twenty-four—is hanging out in uniform. As I give him the peace sign, wheeling the moped into the elevator, Juan comes out from behind the front desk.

“Hey Victor, did you talk to Joel Wilkenfeld yet?” Juan’s asking, following me. “I mean, last week you said you would and—”

“Hey baby, it’s cool, Juan, it’s cool,” I say, inserting the key, unlocking the elevator, pressing the button for the top floor.

Juan presses another button, to keep the door open. “But man, you said he’d see me and also set up a meeting with—”

“I’m setting it up, buddy, it’s cool,” I stress, pressing again for the top floor. “You’re the next Markus Schenkenberg. You’re the white Tyson.” I reach over and push his hand away.

“Hey man, I’m Hispanic—” He keeps pressing the Door Open button.

“You’re the next Hispanic Markus Schenkenberg. You’re the, um, Hispanic Tyson.” I reach over and push his hand away again. “You’re a star, man. Any day of the week.”

“I just don’t want this to be like an afterthought—”

“Hey man, spare me.” I grin. “‘Afterthought’ isn’t in this guy’s vocabulary,” I say, pointing at myself.

“Okay, man,” Juan says, letting go of the Door Open button and offering a shaky thumbs-up. “I, like, trust you.”

The elevator zips up to the top floor, where it opens into Alison’s penthouse. I peer down the front hallway, don’t see or hear the dogs, then quietly wheel the Vespa inside and lean it against a wall in the foyer next to a Vivienne Tam sofa bed.

I tiptoe silently toward the kitchen but stop when I hear the hoarse breathing of the two chows, who have been intently watching me from the other end of the hallway, quietly growling, audible only now. I turn around and offer them a weak smile.

I can barely say “Oh shit” before they both break out into major scampering and rush at their target: me.

The two chows—one chocolate, one cinnamon—leap up, baring their teeth, nipping at my knees, pawing at my calves, barking furiously.

“Alison! Alison!” I call out, trying desperately to bat them away.

Hearing her name, they both stop barking. Then they glance down the hallway to see if she’s coming. After a pause, when they hear no sign of her—we’re frozen in position, red chow standing on back legs, its paws in my groin, black chow down on its front paws with Gucci boot in mouth—they immediately go to work on me again, growling and basically freaking out like they always do.

“Alison!” I scream. “Jesus Christ!”

Gauging the distance from where I’m at to the kitchen door, I decide to make a run for it, and when I bolt, the chows scamper after me, yelping, biting at my ankles.

I finally make it into the kitchen and slam the door, hear both of them skidding across the marble floor into the door with two large
thumps
, hear them fall over, then scamper up and attack the door. Shaken, I open a Snapple, down half of it, then light a cigarette, check for bites. I hear Alison clapping her hands, and then she walks into the kitchen, naked beneath an open Aerosmith tour robe, a cell phone cradled in her neck, an unlit joint in her mouth. “Mr. Chow, Mrs. Chow, down, down, goddamnit,
down.”

She hurls the dogs into the pantry, pulls a handful of colored biscuits from the robe and throws them at the dogs before slamming the pantry door shut, the sounds of the dogs fighting over the biscuits cut mercifully short.

“Okay, uh-huh, right, Malcolm McLaren … Yeah, no, Frederic
Fekkai. Yeah. Everybody’s hung over, babe.” She scrunches up her face. “Andrew Shue and Leonardo DiCaprio? … What? … Oh baby, no-o-o way.” Alison winks at me. “You’re not at a window table at Mortimer’s right now. Wake up! Oh boy … Ciao, ciao.” She clicks off the cellular and carefully places the joint on the counter and says, “That was a three-way with Dr. Dre, Yasmine Bleeth and Jared Leto.”