Monday night at eight o'clock. I'm in my once attempting yesterday's New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle, listening torap music on the stereo, trying to fathom its popularity, since alittle blonde hardbody I met at Au Bar two nights ago told methat rap is all she listens to, and though later I beat the living shitout of her at someone's apartment in the Dakota (she was almostdecapitated; hardly a strange experience for me), earlier thismorning her taste in music haunted my memory and I had to stopat Tower Records on the Upper West Side and buy ninety dollars'worth of rap CDs but, as expected, I'm at a loss: niggerish voicesuttering ugly words like digit, pudding, chunk. Jean sits at herdesk, which is piled high with reams of documents that I wanther to go over. Today has not been bad: I worked out for twohours before the oɽce; the new Robison Hirsch restaurant calledFinna opened in Chelsea; Evelyn left two messages on myanswering machine and another with Jean, letting me know thatshe'll be in Boston for most of the week; and best of all, The PattyWinters Show this morning was in two parts. The ɹrst was anexclusive interview with Donald Trump, the second was a reporton women who've been tortured. I'm supposed to have dinnerwith Madison Grey and David Campion at Café Luxembourg, butat eight-ɹfteen I ɹnd out that Luis Carruthers is going to bedining with us so I call up Campion, the dumb bastard, andcancel, then spend minutes debating about what I should do withthe rest of the evening. Looking out my window, I realize thatwithin moments the sky above this city will be completely dark.Jean peers into my oɽce, knocking gently on the half-opendoor. I pretend not to acknowledge her presence, though I'm notsure why, since I'm kind of lonely. She moves up to the desk. I'mstill staring at the crossword puzzle with my Wayfarers on,stunned but for no real reason.She places a ɹle on top of the desk before asking, "Doin' thecrossword?" dropping the g in "doing"—a pathetic gesture ofintimacy, an irritating stab at forced friendliness. I gag inwardly,then nod without looking up at her."Need help?" she asks, moving cautiously around the desk towhere I sit, and she leans over my shoulder to oʃer assistance.I've already ɹlled in every space with either the word meat orbone and she emits only a slight gasp when noticing this, andwhen she sees the pile of No. 2 pencils I've snapped in half lyingon my desk she dutifully picks them up and walks out of theroom."Jean?" I call."Yes, Patrick?" She reenters the oɽce trying to downplay hereagerness."Would you like to accompany me to dinner?" I ask, stillstaring at the crossword, gingerly erasing the m in one of themany meats I've ɹlled the puzzle with. "That is, if you're not ...doing anything.""Oh no," she answers too quickly and then, I think, realizingthis quickness, says, "I have no plans.""Well, isn't this a coincidence," I ask, looking up, lowering myWayfarers.She laughs lightly but there's a real urgency in it, somethinguncomfortable, and this does little in the way of making me feelless sick."I guess," she shrugs."I also have tickets to a ... a Milla Vanilla concert, if you'd liketo go," I tell her casually.Confused, she asks, "Really? Who?""Milla ... Vanilla," I repeat slowly."Milla ... Vanilla?" she asks uncomfortably."Milla ... Vanilla," I say. "I think that's what their name is."She says, "I'm not sure.""About going?""No ... of the name." She concentrates, then says, "I thinkthey're called ... Milli Vanilli."I pause for a long time before saying, "Oh."She stands there, nods once."It doesn't matter," I say—I don't have any tickets to it anyway."It's months from now.""Oh," she says, nodding again. "Okay.""Listen, where should we go?" I lean back and pull my Zagatfrom the desk's top drawer.She pauses, afraid of what to say, taking my question as a testshe needs to pass, and then, unsure she's chosen the right answer,oʃers, "Anywhere you want?""No, no, no." I smile, leaɹng through the booklet. "How aboutanywhere you want?""Oh Patrick," she sighs. "I can't make this decision.""No, come on," I urge. "Anywhere you want.""Oh I can't." Helplessly, she sighs again. "I don't know.""Come on," I urge her, "where do you want to go? Anywhereyou want. Just say it. I can get us in anywhere."She thinks about it for a long time and then, sensing her time isrunning out, timidly asks, trying to impress me, "What about ...Dorsia?"I stop looking through the Zagat guide and without glancingup, smiling tightly, stomach dropping, I silently ask myself, Do Ireally want to say no? Do I really want to say I can't possibly getus in? Is that what I'm really prepared to do? Is that what I reallywant to do?"So-o-o-o," I say, placing the book down, then nervouslyopening it up again to ɹnd the number. "Dorsia is where Jeanwants to go....""Oh I don't know," she says, confused. "No, we'll go anywhereyou want.""Dorsia is ... ɹne," I say casually, picking up the phone, andwith a trembling ɹnger very quickly dial the seven dreadednumbers, trying to remain cool. Instead of the busy signal I'mexpecting, the phone actually rings at Dorsia and after two ringsthe same harassed voice I've grown accustomed to for the pastthree months answers, shouting out, "Dorsia, yes?" the roombehind the voice a deafening hum."Yes, can you take two tonight, oh, let's say, in around twentyminutes?" I ask, checking my Rolex, oʃering Jean a wink. Sheseems impressed."We are totally booked," the maître d' shouts out smugly."Oh, really?" I say, trying to look pleased, on the verge ofvomiting. "That's great.""I said we are totally booked," he shouts."Two at nine?" I say. "Perfect.""There are no tables available tonight," the maître d',unɻappable, drones. "The waiting list is also totally booked." Hehangs up."See you then." I hang up too, and with a smile that tries itsbest to express pleasure at her choice, I ɹnd myself ɹghting forbreath, every muscle tensed sharply. Jean is wearing a wooljersey and ɻannel dress by Calvin Klein, an alligator belt with asilver buckle by Barry Kieselstein Cord, silver earrings and clearstockings also by Calvin Klein. She stands there in front of thedesk, confused."Yes?" I ask, walking over to the coatrack. "You're dressed ...okay."She pauses. "You didn't give them a name," she says softly.I think about this while putting on my Armani jacket and whilereknotting my Armani silk tie, and without stammering I tell her,"They ... know me."While the maître d' seats a couple who I'm pretty sure are KateSpencer and Jason Lauder, Jean and I move up to his podium,where the reservation book lies open, names absurdly legible, andleaning over it casually I spot the only name for two at ninewithout a line drawn through it, which happens to be—oh Jesus—Schrawtz. I sigh, and tapping my foot, my mind racing, I try toconcoct some kind of feasible plan. Suddenly I turn to Jean andsay, "Why don't you go to the women's room."She's looking around the restaurant, taking it in. Chaos. Peopleare waiting ten deep at the bar. The maître d' seats the couple ata table in the middle of the room. Sylvester Stallone and a bimbosit in the front booth that Sean and I sat in just weeks before,much to my sickened amazement, and his bodyguards are piledinto the booth next to that, and the owner of Petty's, NormanPrager, lounges in the third. Jean turns her head to me andshouts "What?" over the din."Don't you want to use the ladies' room?" I ask. The maître d'nears us, picking his way through the packed restaurant,unsmiling."Why? I mean ... do I?" she asks, totally confused."Just ... go," I hiss, desperately squeezing her arm."But I don't need to go, Patrick," she protests."Oh Christ," I mutter. Now it's too late anyway.The maître d' walks up to the podium and inspects the book,takes a phone call, hangs up in a matter of seconds, then looks usover, not exactly displeased. The maître d' is at least ɹfty and hasa ponytail. I clear my throat twice to get his full attention, makesome kind of lame eye contact."Yes?" he asks, as if harassed.I give him a digniɹed expression before sighing inside."Reservations at nine ..." I gulp. "For two.""Ye-e-es?" he asks suspiciously, drawing the word out."Name?" he says, then turns to a passing waiter, eighteen andmodel handsome, who'd asked, "Where's da ice?" He's glaringand shouting, "Not ... now. Okay? How many times do you needto be told?" The waiter shrugs, humbly, and then the maître d'points oʃ toward the bar, "Da ice is over dere!" He turns back tous and I am genuinely frightened."Name," he commands.And I'm thinking: Of all the fucking names, why this one? "Um,Schrawtz"—oh god—"Mr. and Mrs. Schrawtz." My face, I'm sure,is ashen and I say the name mechanically, but the maître d' is toobusy to not buy it and I don't even bother to face Jean, who I'msure is totally bewildered by my behavior as we're led to theSchrawtzes' table, which I'm sure probably sucks though I'mrelieved anyway.Menus already lie on the table but I'm so nervous the wordsand even the prices look like hieroglyphics and I'm completely ata loss. A waiter takes our drink order—the same one whocouldn't locate the ice—and I ɹnd myself saying things, withoutlistening to Jean, like "Protecting the ozone layer is a really coolidea" and telling knock-knock jokes. I smile, ɹxing it on my face,in another country, and it takes no time at all—minutes, really,the waiter doesn't even get a chance to tell us about the specials—for me to notice the tall, handsome couple by the podiumconferring with the maître d', and after sighing very deeply, lightheaded, stammering, I mention to Jean, "Something bad ishappening."She looks up from the menu and puts down the iceless drinkshe's been sipping. "Why? What's wrong?"The maître d' is glaring over at us, at me, from across the roomas he leads the couple toward our table. If the couple had beenshort, dumpy, excessively Jewish, I could've kept this table, evenwithout the aid of a ɹfty, but this couple looks like they've juststrolled out of a Ralph Lauren ad, and though Jean and I do too(and so does the rest of the whole goddamn restaurant), the manis wearing a tuxedo and the girl—a totally fuckable babe—iscovered with jewels. This is reality, and as my loathsome brotherSean would say, I have to deal with it. The maître d' now standsat the table, hands clasped behind his back, unamused, and aftera long pause asks, "Mr. and Mrs. ... Schrawtz?""Yes?" I play it cool.He just stares. This is accompanied by an abnormal silence. Hisponytail, gray and oily, hangs like some kind of malignancybelow his collar."You know," I ɹnally say, somewhat suavely, "I happen toknow the chef."He continues staring. So, no doubt, does the couple behindhim.After another long pause, for no real reason, I ask, "Is he ... inAspen?"This is getting nowhere. I sigh and turn to Jean, who lookscompletely mystiɹed. "Let's go, okay?" She nods dumbly.Humiliated, I take Jean's hand and we get up—she slower than I—brushing past the maître d' and the couple, and make our wayback through the crowded restaurant and then we're outside andI'm utterly devastated and murmuring robotically to myself "Ishould have known better I should have known better I should,"but Jean skips down the street laughing, pulling me along, andwhen I ɹnally notice her unexpected mirth, between giggles shelets out "That was so funny" and then, squeezing my clenchedɹst, she lets me know "Your sense of humor is so spontaneous."Shaken, walking stiʀy by her side, ignoring her, I ask myself"Where ... to ... now?" and in seconds come up with an answer—Arcadia, toward which I ɹnd myself guiding us.After someone who I think is Hamilton Conway mistakes mefor someone named Ted Owen and asks if I can get him intoPetty's tonight—I tell him, "I'll see what I can do," then turnwhat's left of my attention to Jean, who sits across from me in thenear-empty dining room of Arcadia—after he leaves, only ɹve ofthe restaurant's tables have people at them. I've ordered a J&B onthe rocks. Jean's sipping a glass of white wine and talking abouthow what she really wants to do is "get into merchant banking"and I'm thinking: Dare to dream. Someone else, Frederick Dibble,stops by and congratulates me on the Larson account and thenhas the nerve to say, "Talk to you later, Saul." But I'm in a daze,millions of miles away, and Jean doesn't notice; she's talkingabout a new novel she's been reading by some young author—itscover, I've seen, slathered with neon; its subject, lofty suʃering.Accidentally I think she's talking about something else and I ɹndmyself saying, without really looking over at her, "You need atough skin to survive in this city." She ɻushes, seems embarrassedand takes another sip of the wine, which is a nice sauvignonblanc."You seem distant," she says."What?" I ask, blinking."I said you seem distant," she says."No," I sigh. "I'm still my same kooky self.""That's good." She smiles—am I dreaming this?—relieved."So listen," I say, trying to focus in on her, "what do you reallywant to do with your life?" Then, remembering how she wasdroning on about a career in merchant banking, I add, "Justbrieɻy, you know, summarize." Then I add, "And don't tell meyou enjoy working with children, okay?""Well, I'd like to travel," she says. "And maybe go back toschool, but I really don't know...." She pauses thoughtfully andannounces, sincerely, "I'm at a point in my life where there seemsto be a lot of possibilities, but I'm so ... I don't know ... unsure.""I think it's also important for people to realize theirlimitations." Then, out of the blue I ask, "Do you have aboyfriend?"She smiles shyly, blushes, and then says, "No. Not really.""Interesting," I murmur. I've opened my menu and I'm studyingtonight's prix ɹxe dinner."Are you seeing anyone?" she ventures timidly. "I mean,seriously?"I decide on the pilot ɹsh with tulips and cinnamon, evading thequestion by sighing, "I just want to have a meaningfulrelationship with someone special," and before she's allowed torespond I ask her what she's going to order."I think the mahi-mahi," she says and then, squinting at themenu, "with ginger.""I'm having the pilot ɹsh," I say. "I'm developing a taste forthem. For ... pilot ɹsh," I say, nodding.Later, after a mediocre dinner, a bottle of expensive Californiacabernet sauvignon and a crème brûlée that we share, I order aglass of ɹfty-dollar port and Jean sips a decaʃeinated espressoand when she asks where the restaurant got its name, I tell her,and I don't make anything ridiculous up—though I'm tempted,just to see if she'd believe it anyway. Sitting across from Jeanright now in the darkness of Arcadia, it's very easy to believe thatshe would swallow any kind of misinformation I push her way—the crush she has on me rendering her powerless—and I ɹnd thislack of defense oddly unerotic. I could even explain my proapartheid stance and have her ɹnd reasons why she too shouldshare them and invest large sums of money in racist corporationstha—"Arcadia was an ancient region in Peloponnesus, Greece, whichwas founded in 370 B.C., and it was completely surrounded bymountains. Its chief city was ... Megalopolis, which was also thecenter of political activity and the capital of the Arcadianconfederacy...." I take a sip of the port, which is thick, strong,expensive. "It was destroyed during the Greek war ofindependence...." I pause again. "Pan was worshiped originally inArcadia. Do you know who Pan was?"Never taking her eyes oʃ me, she nods."His revels were very similar to those of Bacchus," I tell her."He frolicked with nymphs at night but he also liked to ...frighten travelers during the day.... Hence the word pan-ic."Blah blah blah. I'm amused that I've retained this knowledgeand I look up from the port I've been staring thoughtfully intoand smile at her. She's silent for a long time, confused, unsure ofhow to respond, but eventually she looks deeply into my eyes andsays, haltingly, leaning across the table, "That's ... so ...interesting," which is all that comes out of her mouth, is all shehas to say.Eleven thirty-four. We stand on the sidewalk in front of Jean'sapartment on the Upper East Side. Her doorman eyes us warilyand ɹlls me with a nameless dread, his gaze piercing me from thelobby. A curtain of stars, miles of them, are scattered, glowing,across the sky and their multitude humbles me, which I have ahard time tolerating. She shrugs and nods after I say somethingabout forms of anxiety. It's as if her mind is having a hard timecommunicating with her mouth, as if she is searching for arational analysis of who I am, which is, of course, animpossibility: there ... is ... no ... key."Dinner was wonderful," she says. "Thank you very much.""Actually, the food was mediocre, but you're welcome." Ishrug."Do you want to come up for a drink?" she asks too casually,and even though I'm critical of her approach it doesn't necessarilymean that I don't want to go up—but something stops me,something quells the bloodlust: the doorman? the way the lobbyis lit? her lipstick? Plus I'm beginning to think that pornographyis so much less complicated than actual sex, and because of thislack of complication, so much more pleasurable."Do you have any peyote?" I ask.She pauses, confused. "What?""Just a joke," I say, then, "Listen, I want to watch DavidLetterman so ..." I pause, unsure as to why I'm lingering. "I shouldgo.""You can watch it ..." She stops, then suggests, "at my place."I pause before asking, "Do you have cable?""Yes." She nods. "I have cable."Stuck, I pause again, then pretend to mull it over. "No, it'sokay. I like to watch it ... without cable."She oʃers a sad, perplexed glance. "What?""I have to return some videotapes," I explain in a rush.She pauses. "Now? It's"—she checks her watch—"almostmidnight.""Well, yeah," I say, considerably detached."Well, I guess ... it's good night then," she says.What kind of books does Jean read? Titles race through mymind: How to Make a Man Fall in Love with You. How to Keep aMan in Love with You Forever. How to Close a Deal: Get Married.How to Be Married One Year from Today. Supplicant. In myovercoat pocket I ɹnger the ostrich condom case from Luc BenoitI bought last week but, er, no.After awkwardly shaking hands she asks, still holding mine,"Really? You don't have cable?"And though it has been in no way a romantic evening, sheembraces me and this time emanates a warmth I'm not familiarwith. I am so used to imagining everything happening the way itoccurs in movies, visualizing things falling somehow into theshape of events on a screen, that I almost hear the swelling of anorchestra, can almost hallucinate the camera panning low aroundus, ɹreworks bursting in slow motion overhead, the seventymillimeter image of her lips parting and the subsequent murmurof "I want you" in Dolby sound. But my embrace is frozen and Irealize, at ɹrst distantly and then with greater clarity, that thehavoc raging inside me is gradually subsiding and she is kissingme on the mouth and this jars me back into some kind of realityand I lightly push her away. She glances up at me fearfully."Listen, I've got to go," I say, checking my Rolex. "I don't wantto miss ... Stupid Pet Tricks.""Okay," she says, composing herself. "Bye.""Night," I say.We both head oʃ in our separate directions, but suddenly shecalls out something.I turn around."Don't forget you have a breakfast meeting with FrederickBennet and Charles Rust at '21,'" she says from the door, whichthe doorman is holding open for her."Thanks," I call out, waving. "It slipped my mind completely."She waves back, disappearing into the lobby.On my way over to Park Avenue to ɹnd a cab I pass an ugly,homeless bum—a member of the genetic underclass—and whenhe softly pleads for change, for "anything," I notice the Barnes &Noble book bag that sits next to him on the steps of the churchhe's begging on and I can't help but smirk, out loud, "Oh right,like you read ...," and then, in the back of the cab on the wayacross town to my apartment, I imagine running around CentralPark on a cool spring afternoon with Jean, laughing, holdinghands. We buy balloons, we let them go.
