Chapter 21 - Video Store then D'Agostino's

I'm wandering around VideoVisions, the video rental store nearmy apartment on the Upper West Side, sipping from a can of DietPepsi, the new Christopher Cross tape blaring from the earphonesof my Sony Walkman. After the oɽce I played racquetball withMontgomery, then had a shiatsu massage and met Jesse Lloyd,Jamie Conway and Kevin Forrest for drinks at Rusty's on Seventythird Street. Tonight I'm wearing a new wool topcoat by UngaroUomo Paris and carrying a Bottega Veneta briefcase and anumbrella by Georges Gaspar.The video store is more crowded than usual. There are toomany couples in line for me to rent She-Male Reformatory orGinger's Cunt without some sense of awkwardness or discomfort,plus I've already bumped into Robert Ailes from First Boston inthe Horror aisle, or at least I think it was Robert Ailes. Hemumbled "Hello, McDonald" as he passed me by, holding Fridaythe 13th: Part 7 and a documentary on abortions in what I noticedwere nicely manicured hands marred only by what looked to melike an imitation-gold Rolex.Since pornography seems out of the question I browse throughLight Comedy and, feeling ripped oʃ, settle for a Woody Allenmovie but I'm still not satisɹed. I want something else. I passthrough the Rock Musical section—nothing—then ɹnd myself inHorror Comedy—ditto—and suddenly I'm seized by a minoranxiety attack. There are too many fucking movies to choose from. Iduck behind a promotional cardboard display for the new DanAykroyd comedy and take two ɹve-milligram Valiums, washingthem down with the Diet Pepsi. Then, almost by rote, as if I'vebeen programmed, I reach for Body Double—a movie I haverented thirty-seven times—and walk up to the counter where Iwait for twenty minutes to be checked out by a dumpy girl (ɹvepounds overweight, dry frizzy hair). She's actually wearing abaggy, nondescript sweater—deɹnitely not designer—probably tohide the fact that she has no tits, and even though she has niceeyes: so fucking what? Finally it's my turn. I hand her the emptyboxes."Is this it?" she asks, taking my membership card from me. I'mwearing Mario Valentino Persian-black gloves. My VideoVisionsmembership costs only two hundred and ɹfty dollars annually."Do you have any Jami Gertz movies?" I ask her, trying tomake direct eye contact."What?" she asks, distracted."Any movies that Jami Gertz is in?""Who?" She enters something into the computer and then sayswithout looking at me, "How many nights?""Three," I say. "Don't you know who Jami Gertz is?""I don't think so." She actually sighs."Jami Gertz," I say. "She's an actress.""I don't think I know who you mean," she says in a tone thatsuggests I'm harassing her, but hey, she works in a video rentalstore and since it's such a demanding high-powered professionher bitchy behavior is completely reasonable, right? The things Icould do to this girl's body with a hammer, the words I couldcarve into her with an ice pick. She hands the guy behind her myboxes—and I pretend to ignore his horriɹed reaction as herecognizes me after he looks at the Body Double box—but hedutifully walks into some kind of vault in the back of the store toget the movies."Yeah. Sure you do," I say good-naturedly. "She's in those DietCoke commercials. You know the ones.""I really don't think so," she says in a monotone that almostcuts me oʃ. She types the names of the movies and then mymembership number into the computer."I like the part in Body Double where the woman ... gets drilledby the ... power driller in the movie ... the best," I say, almostgasping. It seems very hot in the video store right now all of asudden and after murmuring "oh my god" under my breath Iplace a gloved hand on the counter to settle it from shaking. "Andthe blood starts pouring out of the ceiling." I take a deep breathand while I'm saying this my head starts nodding of its ownaccord and I keep swallowing, thinking I have to see her shoes, andso as inconspicuously as possible I try to peer over the counter tocheck out what kind of shoes she's wearing, but maddeninglythey're only sneakers—not K-Swiss, not Tretorn, not Adidas, notReebok, just cheap ones."Sign here." She hands me the tapes without even looking atme, refusing to recognize who I am; and breathing in hard andexhaling, she motions for the next in line, a couple with a baby.On the way back to my apartment I stop at D'Agostino's, wherefor dinner I buy two large bottles of Perrier, a six-pack of CokeClassic, a head of arugula, ɹve medium-sized kiwis, a bottle oftarragon balsamic vinegar, a tin of crème fraîche, a carton ofmicrowave tapas, a box of tofu and a white-chocolate candy bar Ipick up at the checkout counter.Once outside, ignoring the bum lounging below the LesMisérables poster and holding a sign that reads: I'VE LOST MY JOB I AMHUNGRY I HAVE NO MONEY PLEASE HELP, whose eyes tear after I pull thetease-the-bum-with-a-dollar trick and tell him, "Jesus, will youget a fucking shave, please," my eyes almost like they were guidedby radar, focus in on a red Lamborghini Countach parked at thecurb, gleaming beneath the streetlamps, and I have to stopmoving, the Valium shockingly, unexpectedly kicking in,everything else becomes obliterated: the crying bum, the blackkids on crack rapping along to the blaring beatbox, the clouds ofpigeons ɻying overhead looking for space to roost, the ambulancesirens, the honking taxis, the decent-looking babe in the BetseyJohnson dress, all of that fades and in what seems like time-lapsephotography—but in slow motion, like a movie—the sun goesdown, the city gets darker and all I can see is the redLamborghini and all I can hear is my own even, steady panting.I'm still standing, drooling, in front of the store, staring, minuteslater (I don't know how many).