American Psycho (11 page)

I used to have a personal trainer whom Luis Carruthers had recommended but he came on to me last fall and I decided to develop my own fitness program which incorporates both aerobic exercises and training. With weights I alternate between free weights and weight machines that use hydraulic, pneumatic or electromechanical resistance. Most of the machines are very efficient since computerized keypads allow one to make adjustments in weight resistance without getting up. The positive aspects of the machines include minimizing muscle soreness and reducing any chance of injury. But I also like the versatility and freedom that free weights offer and the many variations in lifting that I can’t get on the machines.

On the leg machines I do five sets of ten repetitions. For the back I also do five sets of ten repetitions. On the stomach crunch machine I’ve gotten so I can do six sets of fifteen and on the biceps curl machine I do seven sets of ten. Before moving to the free weights I spend twenty minutes on the exercise bike while reading the new issue of
Money
magazine. Over at the free weights I do three sets of fifteen repetitions of leg extensions, leg curls and leg presses, then three sets and twenty repetitions of barbell curls, then three sets and twenty repetitions of bent-over lateral raises for the rear deltoids and three sets and twenty repetitions of latissimus pulldowns, pulley rows, dead lifts and bent-over barbell rows. For the chest I do three sets and twenty reps of incline-bench presses. For the front deltoids I also do three sets of lateral raises and seated dumbbell presses. Finally, for the triceps I do three sets and twenty reps of cable pushdowns and close-grip bench presses. After more stretching exercises to cool down I take a quick hot shower and then head to the video store where I return two tapes I rented on Monday,
She-Male Reformatory
and
Body Double
, but I rerent
Body Double
because I want to watch it again tonight even though I know I won’t have enough time to masturbate over the scene where the woman is getting drilled to death by a power drill since I have a date with Courtney at seven-thirty at Café Luxembourg.

Heading home from working out at Xclusive, and after an intense shiatsu massage, I stop at a newsstand near my building, scanning the Adults Only rack with my Walkman still on, the soothing strains of Pachelbel’s Canon somehow complementing the harshly lit, laminated photographs in the magazines I flip through. I buy
Lesbian Vibrator Bitches
and
Cunt on Cunt
along with the current
Sports Illustrated
and the new issue of
Esquire
, even though I subscribe to them and both have already arrived in the mail. I wait until the stand is empty to make my purchase. The vendor says something, motions toward his hook nose, while handing me the magazines along with my change. I lower the volume and lift one of the Walkman’s earphones up and ask, “What?” He touches his nose again and in a thick, nearly impenetrable accent says, I think, “Nose uise bleding.” I put my Bottega Veneta briefcase down and lift a finger up to my face. It comes away red, wet with blood. I reach into my Hugo Boss overcoat and bring out a Polo handkerchief and wipe the blood away, nod my thanks, slip my Wayfarer aviator sunglasses back on and leave. Fucking Iranian.

In the lobby of my building I stop at the front desk and try to get the attention of a black Hispanic doorman I don’t recognize. He’s on the phone to his wife or his dealer or some crack addict and stares at me as he nods, the phone cradled in the premature folds of his neck. When it dawns on him that I want to ask something, he sighs, rolls his eyes up and tells whoever is on the line to hold on. “Yeah whatchooneed?” he mumbles.

“Yes,” I begin, my tone as gentle and polite as I can possibly muster. “Could you please tell the superintendent that I have a crack in my ceiling and …” I stop.

He’s looking at me as if I have overstepped some kind of unspoken boundary and I’m beginning to wonder what word confused him: certainly not
crack
, so what was it?
Superintendent? Ceiling?
Maybe even
please?

“Whatchoomean?” He sighs thickly, slumped back, still staring at me.

I look down at the marble floor and also sigh and tell him, “Look. I don’t know. Just tell the superintendent it’s Bateman … in Ten I.” When I bring my head back up to see if any of this has registered I’m greeted by the expressionless mask of the doorman’s heavy, stupid face. I am a ghost to this man, I’m thinking. I am something unreal, something not quite tangible, yet still an obstacle of sorts and he nods, gets back on the phone, resumes speaking in a dialect totally alien to me.

I collect my mail—Polo catalog, American Express bill, June
Playboy
, invitation to an office party at a new club called Bedlam—then walk to the elevator, step in while inspecting the Ralph Lauren brochure and press the button for my floor and then the Close Door button, but someone gets in right before the doors shut and instinctively I turn to say hello. It’s the actor Tom Cruise, who lives in the penthouse, and as a courtesy, without asking him, I press the PH button and he nods thank you and keeps his eyes fixed on the numbers lighting up above the door in rapid succession. He is much shorter in person and he’s wearing the same pair of black Wayfarers I have on. He’s dressed in blue jeans, a white T-shirt, an Armani jacket.

To break the noticeably uncomfortable silence, I clear my throat and say, “I thought you were very fine in
Bartender.
I thought it was quite a good movie, and
Top Gun
too. I really thought that was good.”

He looks away from the numbers and then straight at me. “It was called
Cocktail
,” he says softly.

“Pardon?” I say, confused.

He clears his throat and says, “
Cocktail.
Not
Bartender.
The film was called
Cocktail.
”

A long pause follows; just the sound of cables moving the elevator up higher into the building competes with the silence, obvious and heavy between us.

“Oh yeah … Right,” I say, as if the title just dawned on me. “
Cocktail.
Oh yeah, that’s right,” I say. “Great, Bateman, what are you thinking about?” I shake my head as if to clear it and then, to patch things up, hold out my hand. “Hi. Pat Bateman.”

Cruise tentatively shakes it.

“So,” I go. “You like living in this building?”

He waits a long time before answering, “I guess.”

“It’s great,” I say. “Isn’t it?”

He nods, not looking at me, and I press the button for my floor again, an almost involuntary reaction. We stand there in silence.

“So …
Cocktail
,” I say, after a while. “That’s the name.”

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even nod, but now he’s looking at me strangely and he lowers his sunglasses and says, with a slight grimace, “Uh … your nose is bleeding.”

I stand there rock still for a moment, before understanding that I have to do something about this, so I pretend to be suitably embarrassed, quizzically touch my nose then bring out my Polo handkerchief—already spotted brown—and wipe the blood away from my nostrils, overall handling it sort of well. “Must be the altitude.” I laugh. “We’re up so high.”

He nods, says nothing, looks up at the numbers.

The elevator stops at my floor and when the doors open I tell Tom, “I’m a big fan. It’s really good to finally meet you.”

“Oh yeah, right.” Cruise smiles that famous grin and jabs at the Close Door button.

The girl I’m going out with tonight, Patricia Worrell—blond, model, dropped out of Sweet Briar recently after only one semester—has left two messages on the answering machine, letting me know how incredibly important it is that I call her. While loosening my Matisse-inspired blue silk tie from Bill Robinson I dial her number and walk across the apartment, cordless phone in hand, to flip on the air-conditioning.

She answers on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Patricia. Hi. It’s Pat Bateman.”

“Oh hi,” she says. “Listen, I’m on the other line. Can I call you back?”

“Well …,” I say.

“Look, it’s my health club,” she says. “They’ve screwed up my account. I’ll call you back in a sec.”

“Yeah,” I say and hang up.

I go into the bedroom and take off what I was wearing today: a herringbone wool suit with pleated trousers by Giorgio Correggiari, a cotton oxford shirt by Ralph Lauren, a knit tie from Paul Stuart and suede shoes from Cole-Haan. I slip on a
pair of sixty-dollar boxer shorts I bought at Barney’s and do some stretching exercises, holding the phone, waiting for Patricia to call back. After ten minutes of stretching, the phone rings and I wait six rings to answer it.

“Hi,” she says. “It’s me, Patricia.”

“Could you hold on? I’ve got another call.”

“Oh sure,” she says.

I put her on hold for two minutes, then get back on the line. “Hi,” I say. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay.”

“So. Dinner,” I say. “Stop by my place around eight?”

“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” she says slowly.

“Oh no,” I moan. “What is it?”

“Well, see, it’s like this,” she begins. “There’s this concert at Radio City and—”

“No, no, no,” I tell her adamantly. “No music.”

“But my ex-boyfriend, this keyboardist from Sarah Lawrence, he’s in the backup band and—” She stops, as if she has already decided to protest my decision.

“No. Uh-uh, Patricia,” I tell her firmly, thinking to myself: Damnit, why
this
problem, why
tonight
?

“Oh Patrick,” she whines into the phone. “It’ll be so much fun.”

I am now fairly sure that the odds of having sex with Patricia this evening are quite good, but not if we attend a concert in which an ex-boyfriend (there is no such thing with Patricia) is in the backup band.

“I don’t like concerts,” I tell her, walking into the kitchen. I open the refrigerator and take out a liter of Evian. “I don’t like concerts,” I say again. “I don’t like ‘live’ music.”

“But this one isn’t like the
others.
” She lamely adds, “We
have
good seats.”

“Listen. There’s no need to argue,” I say. “If you want to go,
go.
”

“But I thought we were going to be to
geth
er,” she says, straining for emotion. “I thought we were going to have dinner,” and then, almost definitely an afterthought, “Be toge
ther.
The
two
of us.”

“I know, I know,” I say. “Listen, we should all be allowed to do exactly what we
want
to do.
I
want you to do what
you
want to do.”

She pauses and tries a new angle. “This music is so beautiful, so … I know it sounds corny, but it’s … gl
orious.
The band is one of the best you’ll ever see. They’re funny and wonderful and the music is so great and, oh gosh, I just want you to see them so badly. We’ll have a great time, I guarantee it,” she says with dripping earnestness.

“No, no, you go,” I say. “You have a good time.”

“Pat
rick
,” she says. “I have
two
tickets.”

“No. I don’t like concerts,” I say. “Live music
bugs
me.”

“Well,” she says and her voice sounds genuinely tinged with maybe real disappointment, “I’ll feel bad that you’re not there with me.”

“I say go and have a good time.” I unscrew the cap off the Evian bottle, timing my next move. “Don’t worry. I’ll just go to Dorsia alone then. It’s okay.”

There is a very long pause that I am able to translate into: Uh-huh, right, now see if you want to go to that lousy fucking concert. I take a large gulp of Evian, waiting for her to tell me what time she’ll be over.

“Dorsia?” she asks and then, suspiciously, “You have reservations there? I mean for us?”

“Yes,” I say. “Eight-thirty.”

“Well …” She emits a little laugh and then, faltering, “It was … well, what I mean is,
I’ve
seen them. I just wanted
you
to see them.”

“Listen. What are you doing?” I ask. “If you’re not coming I have to call someone else. Do you have Emily Hamilton’s number?”

“Oh now now, Patrick, don’t be …
rash.
” She giggles nervously. “They
are
playing two more nights so I
can
see them tomorrow. Listen, calm down, okay?”

“Okay,” I say. “I’m calm.”

“Now what time should I be over?” Restaurant Whore asks.

“I said eight,” I tell her, disgusted.

“That’s fine,” she says and then in a seductive whisper, “See you at eight.” She lingers on the phone as if she expects me to
say something else, as if maybe I should congratulate her for making the correct decision, but I hardly have time to deal with this so I abruptly hang up.

The instant after I hang up on Patricia I dash across the room and grab the Zagat guide and flip through it until I find Dorsia. With trembling fingers I dial the number. Busy. Panicked, I put the phone on Constant Redial and for the next five minutes nothing but a busy signal, faithful and ominous, repeats itself across the line. Finally a ring and in the seconds before there’s an answer I experience that rarest of occurrences—an adrenaline rush.