and it's midafternoon and I ɹnd myself standing at a phonebooth on a corner somewhere downtown, I don't know where,but I'm sweaty and a pounding migraine thumps dully in myhead and I'm experiencing a major-league anxiety attack,searching my pockets for Valium, Xanax, a leftover Halcion,anything, and all I ɹnd are three faded Nuprin in a Gucci pillbox,so I pop all three into my mouth and swallow them down with aDiet Pepsi and I couldn't tell you where it came from if my lifedepended on it. I've forgotten who I had lunch with earlier and,even more important, where. Was it Robert Ailes at Beats? Or wasit Todd Hendricks at Ursula's, the new Philip Duncan Holmesbistro in Tribeca? Or was it Ricky Worrall and were we atDecember's? Or would it have been Kevin Weber at Contra inNoHo? Did I order the partridge sandwich on brioche with greentomatoes, or a big plate of endive with clam sauce? "Oh god, Ican't remember," I moan, my clothes—a linen and silk sport coat,a cotton shirt, pleated linen khaki trousers, all by Matsuda, a silktie with a Matsuda insignia, with a belt from Coach Leatherware—drenched with sweat, and I take oʃ the jacket and wipe myface with it. The phone keeps ringing but I don't know who I'vecalled and I just stand on the corner, Ray-Bans balanced on myforehead at what feels like an odd, crooked angle, and then I heara faint familiar sound coming through the wires—Jean's softvoice competing with the endless gridlock stuck on Broadway.The Patty Winters Show this morning was Aspirin: Can It SaveYour Life? "Jean?" I cry out. "Hello? Jean?" "Patrick? Is thatyou?" she calls back. "Hello?" "Jean, I need help," I shout."Patrick?" "What?" "Jesse Forrest called," Jean says. "He has areservation at Melrose tonight at eight, and Ted Madison andJamie Conway want to meet you for drinks at Harry's. Patrick?"Jean asks. "Where are you?" "Jean?" I sigh, wiping my nose. "I'mnot—" "Oh, and Todd Lauder called," Jean says, "no, I meanChris—oh no, it was Todd Lauder. Yeah, Todd Lauder." "Oh god,"I moan, loosening my tie, the August sun beating down on me,"what do you say, you dumb bitch?" "Not Bice, Patrick. Thereservation is at Melrose. Not Bice." "What am I doing?" I cry out."Where are you?" and then, "Patrick? What's wrong?" "I'm notgoing to make it, Jean," I say, then choke out, "to the oɽce thisafternoon." "Why?" She sounds depressed or maybe it's justsimple confusion. "Just ... say ... no ...," I scream. "What is it,Patrick? Are you all right?" she asks. "Stop sounding so fucking... sad. Jesus," I shout. "Patrick. I'm sorry. I mean I meant to sayJust say no, but—" I hang up on her and lunge away from thephone booth and the Walkman around my neck suddenly feelslike a boulder strapped around my throat (and the sounds blaringfrom it—early Dizzy Gillespie—deeply irritate) and I have tothrow the Walkman, a cheap one, into the nearest trash can Istumble into and then I hang on to the rim of the can, breathingheavily, the cheap Matsuda jacket tied around my waist, staringat the still-functioning Walkman, the sun melting the mousse onmy head and it mingles with the sweat pouring down my faceand I can taste it when I lick my lips and it starts tasting good andI'm suddenly ravenous and I run my hand through my hair andlick greedily at the palm while moving up Broadway, ignoring theold ladies passing out ɻiers, past jeans stores, music blasting frominside, pouring out onto the streets, people's movementsmatching the beat of the song, a Madonna single, Madonnacrying out, "life is a mystery, everyone must stand alone ...," bikemessengers whiz by and I'm standing on a corner scowling atthem, but people pass, oblivious, no one pays attention, theydon't even pretend to not pay attention, and this fact sobers meup long enough that I walk toward a nearby Conran's to buy ateapot, but just when I assume my normalcy has returned and I'mall straightened out, my stomach tightens and the cramps are sointense that I hobble into the nearest doorway and clutch mywaist, doubling over with pain, and as suddenly as it appears itfades long enough for me to stand up straight and rush into thenext hardware store I come across, and once inside I buy a set ofbutcher knives, an ax, a bottle of hydrochloric acid, and then, atthe pet store down the block, a Habitrail and two white rats that Iplan to torture with the knives and acid, but somewhere, later inthe afternoon, I leave the package with the rats in it at thePottery Barn while shopping for candles or did I ɹnally buy theteapot? Now I'm lunging up Lafayette, sweating and moaning andpushing people out of my way, foam pouring out of my mouth,stomach contracting with horrendous abdominal cramps—theymight be caused by the steroids but that's doubtful—and I calmmyself down enough to walk into a Gristede's, rush up and downthe aisles and shoplift a canned ham that I calmly walk out of thestore with, hidden under the Matsuda jacket, and down the block,where I try to hide in the lobby of the American Felt Building,breaking the tin open with my keys, ignoring the doorman, whoat ɹrst seems to recognize me, then, after I start stuɽng handfulsof the ham into my mouth, scooping the lukewarm pink meat outof the can, getting it stuck beneath my nails, threatens to call thepolice. I'm outta there, outside, throwing up all the ham, leaningagainst a poster for Les Misérables at a bus stop and I kiss thedrawing of Eponine's lovely face, her lips, leaving brown streaksof bile smeared across her soft, unassuming face and the wordDYKE scrawled beneath it. Loosening my suspenders, ignoringbeggars, beggars ignoring me, sweat-drenched, delirious, I ɹndmyself back downtown in Tower Records and I compose myself,muttering over and over to no one, "I've gotta return myvideotapes, I've gotta return my videotapes," and I buy twocopies of my favorite compact disc, Bruce Willis, The Return ofBruno, and then I'm stuck in the revolving door for ɹve full spinsand I trip out onto the street, bumping into Charles Murphy fromKidder Peabody or it could be Bruce Barker from Morgan Stanley,whoever, and he says "Hey, Kinsley" and I belch into his face, myeyes rolling back into my head, greenish bile dripping in stringsfrom my bared fangs, and he suggests, unfazed, "See you atFluties, okay? Severt too?" I screech and while backing away Ibump into a fruit stand at a Korean deli, collapsing stacks ofapples and oranges and lemons, that go rolling onto the sidewalk,over the curb and into the street where they're splattered by cabsand cars and buses and trucks and I'm apologizing, delirious,oʃering a screaming Korean my platinum AmEx accidentally,then a twenty, which he immediately takes, but still he grabs meby the lapels of the stained, wrinkled jacket I've forced myselfback into and when I look up into his slanty-eyed round face hesuddenly bursts into the chorus of Lou Christie's "Lightnin'Strikes." I pull away, horriɹed, stumbling uptown, toward home,but people, places, stores keep interrupting me, a drug dealer onThirteenth Street who oʃers me crack and blindly I wave a ɹftyat him and he says "Oh, man" gratefully and shakes my hand,pressing ɹve vials into my palm which I proceed to eat whole andthe crack dealer stares at me, trying to mask his deep disturbancewith an amused glare, and I grab him by the neck and croak out,my breath reeking, "The best engine is in the BMW 750iL," andthen I move on to a phone booth, where I babble gibberish at theoperator until I ɹnally spit out my credit card number and thenI'm speaking to the front oɽce of Xclusive, where I cancel amassage appointment that I never made. I'm able to composemyself by simply staring at my feet, actually at the A. Testoniloafers, kicking pigeons aside, and without even noticing, I entera shabby delicatessen on Second Avenue and I'm still confused,mixed up, sweaty, and I walk over to a short, fat Jewish woman,old and hideously dressed. "Listen," I say. "I have a reservation.Bateman. Where's the maître d'? I know Jackie Mason," and shesighs, "I can seat you. Don't need a reservation," as she reachesfor a menu. She leads me to a horrible table in back near the restrooms and I grab the menu away from her and rush to a booth upfront and I'm appalled by the cheapness of the food—"Is this agoddamn joke?"—and sensing a waitress is near I order withoutlooking up. "A cheeseburger. I'd like a cheeseburger and I'd like itmedium rare." "I'm sorry, sir," the waitress says. "No cheese.Kosher," and I have no idea what the fuck she's talking about andI say, "Fine. A kosherburger but with cheese, Monterey Jackperhaps, and—oh god," I moan, sensing more cramps coming on."No cheese, sir," she says. "Kosher ..." "Oh god, is this anightmare, you fucking Jew?" I mutter, and then, "Cottage cheese?Just bring it?" "I'll get the manager," she says. "Whatever. Butbring me a beverage in the meanwhile," I hiss. "Yes?" she asks."A ... vanilla ... milk shake ..." "No milk shakes. Kosher," shesays, then, "I'll get the manager." "No, wait." "Mister I'll get themanager." "What in the fuck is going on?" I ask, seething, myplatinum AmEx already slapped on the greasy table. "No milkshake. Kosher," she says, thick-lipped, just one of billions ofpeople who have passed over this planet. "Then bring me afucking ... vanilla ... malted!" I roar, spraying spit all over myopen menu. She just stares. "Extra thick!" I add. She walks awayto get the manager and when I see him approaching, a baldcarbon copy of the waitress, I get up and scream, "Fuck yourselfyou retarded cocksucking kike," and I run out of the delicatessenand onto the street where this.
AFTERWORD
This is good....since this navel has become way more popular in very quick time...i have descide that am going to write it as a triology...this part will be called....Yuppie Professional.....the next will [mostly be]Rookie....anyway thank you to my dear friend/editor SDK for helping me out
Thank you
BHARATH_SHYAM