American Psycho (36 page)

I stop tapping my foot and slowly scan the restaurant, the
bistro
, wondering how my hair really looks, and suddenly I wish I
had
switched mousses because since I last saw my hair, seconds ago, it feels different, as if its shape was somehow altered on the walk from bar to table. A pang of nausea that I’m unable to stifle washes warmly over me, but since I’m really dreaming all this I’m able to ask, “So you say there’s
no
nonsmoking section? Is this correct?”

“Yes sir.” The maître d’, younger than myself, faggy, innocent, an
actor
no doubt, adds, “I’m sorry.”

“Well, this is … very interesting. I can accept this.” I reach into my back pocket for my gazelleskin wallet and press a twenty into the maître d’s uncertain fist. He looks at the bill, confused, then murmurs “Thank you” and walks away as if in a daze.

“No. Thank
you
,” I call out and take my seat across from Bethany, nodding courteously to the couple next to us, and though I try to ignore her for as long as etiquette allows, I can’t. Bethany looks absolutely stunning,
just like a model.
Everything’s murky. I’m on edge. Feverish, romantic notions—

“Didn’t you smoke at Harvard?” is the first thing she says.

“Cigars,” I say. “Only cigars.”

“Oh,” she says.

“But I quit that,” I lie, breathing in hard, squeezing my hands together.

“That’s good.” She nods.

“Listen, did you have any trouble getting reservations?” I ask, and
I am fucking shaking.
I put my hands on the table like a fool, hoping that under her watchful gaze they will stop trembling.

“You don’t need reservations here, Patrick,” she says soothingly, reaching out a hand, covering one of mine with hers. “Calm down. You look like a wild man.”

“I’m clam, I mean calm,” I say, breathing in hard, trying to smile, and then, involuntarily, unable to stop myself, ask, “How’s my hair?”

“Your hair is fine,” she says. “Shhh. It’s okay.”

“All right. I am all right.” I try to smile again but I’m sure it looks just like a grimace.

After a short pause she comments, “That’s a nice suit. Henry Stuart?”

“No,” I say, insulted, touching its lapel. “Garrick Anderson.”

“It’s very nice,” she says and then, genuinely concerned, “Are you okay, Patrick? You just … twitched.”

“Listen. I’m frazzled. I just got back from Washington. I took the Trump shuttle this morning,” I tell her, unable to make eye contact, all in a rush. “It was delightful. The service—really fabulous. I need a drink.”

She smiles, amused, studying me in a shrewd way. “Was it?” she asks, not totally, I sense, without smugness.

“Yes.” I can’t really look at her and it takes immense effort to unfold the napkin, lay it across my lap, reposition it correctly, busy myself with the wineglass, praying for a waiter, the ensuing silence causing the loudest possible sound. “So did you watch
The Patty Winters Show
this morning?”

“No, I was out jogging,” she says, leaning in. “It was about Michael J. Fox, right?”

“No,” I correct her. “It was about Patrick Swayze.”

“Oh really?” she asks, then, “It’s hard to keep track. You’re sure?”

“Yes. Patrick Swayze. I’m positive.”

“How was it?”

“Well, it was very interesting,” I tell her, breathing in air. “It was almost like a debate, about whether he’s gotten cynical or not.”

“Do you think he has?” she asks, still smiling.

“Well, no, I’m not sure,” I start nervously. “It’s an interesting question. It wasn’t explored fully enough. I mean after
Dirty Dancing
I wouldn’t think so, but with
Tiger Warsaw
I don’t know. I might be crazy, but I thought I detected
some
bitterness. I’m not sure.”

She stares at me, her expression unchanged.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” I say, reaching into my pocket. “I wrote you a poem.” I hand her the slip of paper. “Here.” I feel sick and broken, tortured, really on the brink.

“Oh Patrick.” She smiles. “How sweet.”

“Well, you know,” I say, looking down shyly.

Bethany takes the slip of paper and unfolds it.

“Read it,” I urge enthusiastically.

She looks it over quizzically, puzzled, squinting, then she turns the page over to see if there’s anything on the back. Something in her understands it’s short and she looks back at the words written, scrawled in red, on the front of the page.

“It’s like haiku, you know?” I say. “Read it. Go on.”

She clears her throat and hesitantly begins reading, slowly, stopping often. “‘The poor nigger on the wall. Look at him.’” She pauses and squints again at the paper, then hesitantly resumes. “‘Look at the poor nigger. Look at the poor nigger … on … the … wall.’” She stops again, faltering, looks at me, confused, then back at the paper.

“Go on,” I say, looking around for a waiter. “Finish it.”

She clears her throat and staring steadily at the paper tries to read the rest of it in a voice below a whisper. “‘Fuck him … Fuck the nigger on the wall …’” She falters again, then reads the last sentence, sighing. “‘Black man … is … de … debil?’”

The couple at the next table have slowly turned to gaze
over at us. The man looks aghast, the woman has an equally horrified expression on her face. I stare her down, glaring, until she looks back at her fucking salad.

“Well, Patrick,” Bethany says, clearing her throat, trying to smile, handing the paper back to me.

“Yes?” I ask. “Well?”

“I can see that”—she stops, thinking—“that your sense of … social injustice is”—she clears her throat again and looks down—“still intact.”

I take the paper back from her and slip it in my pocket and smile, still trying to keep a straight face, holding my body upright so she won’t suspect me of cringing. Our waiter comes over to the table and I ask him what kinds of beer they serve.

“Heineken, Budweiser, Amstel Light,” he recites.

“Yes?” I ask, staring at Bethany, gesturing for him to continue.

“That’s, um, all, sir,” he says.

“No Corona? No Kirin? No Grolsch? No Morretti?” I ask, confused, irate.

“I’m sorry, sir, but no,” he says cautiously. “Only Heineken, Budweiser, Amstel Light.”

“That’s crazy,” I sigh. “I’ll have a J&B on the rocks. No, an Absolut martini. No, a J&B straight up.”

“And I’ll have another San Pellegrino,” Bethany says.

“I’ll have the same thing,” I quickly add, my leg jerking up then down uncontrollably beneath the table.

“Okay. Would you like to hear the specials?” he asks.

“By all means,” I spit out, then, calming down, smile reassuringly at Bethany.

“You’re sure?” He laughs.

“
Please
,” I say, unamused, studying the menu.

“For appetizers I have the sun-dried tomatoes and golden caviar with poblano chilies and I also have a fresh endive soup—”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I say, holding up a hand, stopping him. “Hold on a minute.”

“Yes sir?” the waiter asks, confused.

“
You
have? You mean the
restaurant
has,” I correct him. “
You
don’t have any sun-dried tomatoes. The restaurant does.
You
don’t have the poblano chilies. The restaurant does. Just, you know, clarify.”

The waiter, stunned, looks at Bethany, who handles the situation deftly by asking him, “So how is the endive soup served?”

“Er … cold,” the waiter says, not fully recovered from my outburst, sensing he’s dealing with someone very, very on edge. He stops again, uncertain.

“Go on,” I urge. “Please go on.”

“It’s served cold,” he starts again. “And for entrées we have monkfish with mango slices and red snapper sandwich on brioche with maple syrup and”—he checks his pad again—“cotton.”

“Mmmm, sounds delicious. Cotton, mmmm,” I say, rubbing my hands together eagerly. “Bethany?”

“I’ll have the ceviche with leeks and sorrel,” Bethany says. “And the endive with … walnut dressing.”

“Sir?” the waiter asks tentatively.

“I’ll have …” I stop, scan the menu quickly. “I’ll have the squid with pine nuts and can I have a slice of goat cheese, of
chèvre
”—I glance over at Bethany to see if she flinches at my mispronunciation—“with that and some … oh, some salsa on the side.”

The waiter nods, leaves, we’re left alone.

“Well.” She smiles, then notices the table slightly shaking. “What’s … wrong with your leg?”

“My leg? Oh.” I look down at it, then back at her. “It’s … the music. I like the music a lot. The music that’s playing.”

“What is it?” she asks, tilting her head, trying to catch a refrain of the New Age Muzak coming from the speakers hooked to the ceiling over the bar.

“It’s … I think it’s Belinda Carlisle,” I guess. “I’m not sure.”

“But …” she starts, then stops. “Oh, forget it.”

“But what?”

“But I don’t hear any singing.” She smiles, looks down demurely.

I hold my leg still and pretend to listen. “But it’s one of her songs,” I say, then lamely add, “I think it’s called ‘Heaven Is a Place on Earth.’ You know it.”

“Listen,” she says, “have you gone to any concerts lately?”

“No,” I say, wishing she hadn’t brought this, of all topics, up. “I don’t like live music.”

“
Live
music?” she asks, intrigued, sipping San Pellegrino water.

“Yeah. You know. Like a band,” I explain, sensing from her expression that I’m saying totally the wrong things. “Oh, I forgot. I did see U2.”

“How were they?” she asks. “I liked the new CD a lot.”

“They were great, just totally great. Just totally …” I pause, unsure of what to say. Bethany raises her eyebrows quizzically, wanting to know more. “Just totally … Irish.”

“I’ve heard they’re quite good live,” she says, and her own voice has a light, musical lilt to it. “Who else do you like?”

“Oh you know,” I say, completely stuck. “The, Kingsmen. ‘Louie, Louie.’ That sort of stuff.”

“Gosh, Patrick,” she says, looking at every part of my face.

“What?” I panic, immediately touching my hair. “Too much mousse? You don’t like the Kingsmen?”

“No.” She laughs. “I just don’t remember you being so tan back at school.”

“I had a tan then, didn’t I?” I ask. “I mean I wasn’t Casper the Ghost or anything, was I?” I put my elbow on the table and flex my biceps, asking her to squeeze the muscle. After she touches it, reluctantly, I resume my questions. “Was I really not that tan at Harvard?” I ask mock-worriedly, but worriedly.

“No, no.” She laughs. “You were definitely the George Hamilton of the class of eighty-four.”

“Thanks,” I say, pleased.

The waiter brings our drinks—two bottles of San Pellegrino water. Scene Two.

“So you’re at Mill … on the water? Taffeta? What is it?” I ask. Her body, her skin tone, seem firm and rosy.

“Milbank Tweed,” she says. “That’s where I am.”

“Well,” I say, squeezing a lime into my glass. “That’s just wonderful. Law school really paid off.”

“And you’re at … P & P?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say.

She nods, pauses, wants to say something, debates whether
she should, then asks, all in a matter of seconds: “But doesn’t your family own—”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” I say, cutting her off. “But yes, Bethany. Yes.”

“And you still work at P & P?” she asks. Each syllable is spaced so that it bursts, booming sonically, into my head.

“Yes,” I say, looking furtively around the room.

“But—” She’s confused. “Didn’t your father—”

“Yes, of course,” I say, interrupting. “Have you had the focaccia at Pooncakes?”

“
Patrick.
”

“Yes?”

“What’s wrong?”

“I just don’t want to talk about …” I stop. “About work.”

“Why not?”

“Because I hate it,” I say. “Now listen, have you tried Pooncakes yet? I think Miller underrated it.”

“Patrick,” she says slowly. “If you’re so uptight about work, why don’t you just quit? You don’t have to work.”

“Because,” I say, staring directly at her, “I … want … to … fit … in.”

After a long pause, she smiles. “I see.” There’s another pause.

This one I break. “Just look at it as, well, a new approach to business,” I say.

“How”—she stalls—“sensible.” She stalls again. “How, um, practical.”

Lunch is alternately a burden, a puzzle that needs to be solved, an obstacle, and then it floats effortlessly into the realm of relief and I’m able to give a skillful performance—my overriding intelligence tunes in and lets me know that it can sense how much she wants me, but I hold back, uncommitted. She’s also holding back, but flirting nonetheless. She has made a promise by asking me to lunch and I panic, once the squid is served, certain that I will never recover unless it’s fulfilled. Other men notice her as they pass by our table. Sometimes I coolly bring my voice down to a whisper. I’m hearing things—noise, mysterious sounds, inside my head; her mouth opens, closes, swallows liquid, smiles, takes me in like a magnet covered
with lipstick, mentions something involving fax machines, twice. I finally order a J&B on the rocks, then a cognac. She has mint-coconut sorbet. I touch, hold her hand across the table, more than a friend. Sun pours into Vanities, the restaurant empties out, it nears three. She orders a glass of chardonnay, then another, then the check. She has relaxed but something happens. My heartbeat rises and falls, momentarily stabilizes. I listen carefully. Possibilities once imagined plummet. She lowers her eyes and when she looks back at me I lower mine.

“So,” she asks. “Are you seeing anyone?”

“My life is essentially uncomplicated,” I say thoughtfully, caught off guard.

“What does
that
mean?” she asks.

I take a sip of cognac and smile secretly to myself, teasing her, dashing her hopes, her dreams of being reunited.

“Are you seeing anyone, Patrick?” she asks. “Come on, tell me.”

Thinking of Evelyn, I murmur to myself, “Yes.”

“Who?” I hear her ask.

“A very large bottle of Desyrel,” I say in a faraway voice, suddenly very sad.

“
What
?” she asks, smiling, but then she realizes something and shakes her head. “I shouldn’t be drinking.”