“Because we’re here,” the driver sighed.
“We’re here?” I looked out the window. “Oh.”
“Yeah, that’ll be one forty,” he grumbled. He was right.
“I guess I forgot it was … so, um, close,” I said.
“Uh-huh,” the driver says. “Whatever.”
“I hurt my foot. Sorry,” I pushed two singles at him and tripped in the rain getting out of the cab and I just know Sean’s going to fuck someone at the party tonight and I’m in the lobby now, soaked, and this just better be good.
He doesn’t know it but I had seen Him over the summer. Last summer. I spent my summer vacation on Long Island, in the Hamptons with my poor drunken father. Southampton, Easthampton, Hampton Bays—wandering the island with other Gucci-clad nomads. I stayed with my brother one night and visited a recently widowed aunt on Shelter Island and I stayed in tons of motels, motels that were pink and gray and green and that glowed in the Hamptons light. I stayed in these havens of shelter since I could not bear anymore to look at my father’s new girlfriends. But that is another story.
I saw Him first at Coast Grill on the South Shore and then at this oh-so-trendy Bar-B-Que place whose delightful name eludes me at the moment. He was eating undercooked chicken and trying not to sneeze. He was with a female (a wench, definitely) who looked anorexic. Fag bartenders stood around them, looking bored, and I would order Slow Comfortable Screws to bother and tease them. “That’s made with rum?” they’d lisp, and I’d lisp back Yes because you can’t lisp No. Mouth-breathing waitresses came on to You, You, who were bronzed like a God, a GQ man, Your hair slicked back. I heard Your name called—a phone call. Bateman. They’d mispronounce it—Dateman. I was sitting, shrouded in darkness at the long sleek bar and I had just found out oh-so-discreetly that I had failed three out of four classes last term. Unfortunately I had forgotten to hand in, to even complete, the prerequisite “Some Papers,” before I left for Arizona and hit the Hamptons. And there You sat. The last time I had seen You was at a Midnight Breakfast; You hurled a balled-up pancake at a table of Drama majors. Now You lit a cigarette. You did not bother to light the wench’s. I followed You to the phone booth.
“Hey dude, like, didn’t you speak to the dean and like, uh, tell them how unwrapped I am?”
I assumed it was Your psychiatrist.
You yawned and said, “I am concerned.”
There was an indefinite pause and then You said, “Just refill the Librium.”
Another pause. You looked around, didn’t recognize me from school. Me, sunburned and stiff and trying to drink but oh-so-sober. “I’m all set,” You said.
You hung up. I watched as You nonchalantly threw bills on the table and walked out of the restaurant before the wench. The door closed on her, but she followed you anyway. You both sped away in a bright red Alfa Romeo and I got drunk and waited for Tonight.
Tonight. I’ve spent all afternoon in a bath full of scented water, preparing, cleansing, soaping, shaving, oiling myself for You. I have not eaten in two days. I wait. I am good at that. I listen to old soon-to-be-forgotten songs and wait for Tonight and for You. Wait for that final moment. A moment so filled with such expectance and longing that I almost do not want to witness its occurrence. But I’m ready. One fine day you’ll want me for your girl, my radio cries. That’s right. Tonight.
PAUL I walk up to the register desk and stand there, the urge to flee, to go back to Camden, just walk the two blocks, in the rain, to the terminal, just get on the bus, and intercept Sean at The Dressed To Get Screwed party, overwhelms me and I just stand there staring blankly at the snotty, well-dressed men behind the desk until one glides over and says, “Yes, sir?” I’m tempted to leave, split, do it.
“Yes, sir?” he asks again.
I snap out of it. I looked at him. It was too late. It was all too late.
“I think my mother made reservations for the weekend. The name’s Denton.”
“Denton, very good,” the clerk said, looking me over dubiously before he checked the files. I looked down at myself, confused, then back at the clerk.
“Yes, Denton. Three days. That’s two rooms, right?” the clerk asked.
I guess.
“Could you please sign this?” The clerk handed me something.
I filled in the address of Camden but I didn’t know why. My hands were still wet. They stained the card.
“Will your mother be paying cash or with VISA, Mr. Denton?” the clerk asked.
I could have paid with my American Express but why the hell should I have done that? That would have been stupid; this whole thing was stupid. “VISA, I guess.”
“Fine, Mr. Denton.”
“I guess the rest of them are coming later.” And don’t call me Mister Denton. My name’s Paul, you fools, Paul!
“Fine, Mr. Denton. Is that the only baggage you have?”
I was standing there wet, my life ruined. It was over with Sean. Another one bites the dust.
“Sir?” the clerk persisted.
“What?” I blink.
“I’ll have someone take it up right away,” he said.
I didn’t even hear him, just “Thanks” and unbutton my coat and someone handed me a key and in a daze I walk into an open elevator and pushed a button for the ninth floor, no, someone else pushed it for me and some person walked me down a hallway and helped me find the two rooms.
I laid on the bed for a long time before I decided to get up. I open the doors that connected the suites and ponder which room looked better. I laid on one of the double beds in the other room and decide that the first room was more comfortable. I look at the other double bed, where Richard would sleep. I wondered if we’d fool around, since we had in high school, back in Chicago. I had almost gone to Sarah Lawrence because of him. He had almost gone to Camden, but then opted out and told me, “There’s no fucking way I’m doing time in New Hampshire,” and I had told him “I’d rather go to college in Las Vegas than Bronxville.” Richard was definitely very good-looking, but getting together was a bad idea and, except for leaving Sean, was my main reservation about Boston. I turned the TV on and laid down again and then took a shower, the phone kept ringing, I kept hanging it up, got dressed, watched more TV, smoked more cigarettes, waited.
LAUREN I’m dreaming about Victor. It’s a Camden relocation dream. People from school are milling about a salad bar on a beach. Judy is standing by the sea. The sea behind her is sometimes white, sometimes red, sometimes black. When I ask her where Victor is, she says, “Dead.” I wake up. For a long, painful moment, between the point at which I have the nightmare, and the moment at which, hopefully, it is forgotten, I lie there, thinking about Victor. A very common morning.
I look around the room. Franklin is gone. The things around me depress me, seem to define my pitiful existence, everything is so boring: my typewriter—no cartridges; my easel—no canvas; my bookshelf—no books; a check from Dad; an airline ticket to St. Tropez someone crammed in my box; a note about Parents’ Weekend being cancelled; the new poems I’m writing, crumpled by the bed; the new story Franklin has left me called “Saturn Has Eyes”; the half-empty bottle of red wine (Franklin bought it; Jordan, too sweet) we drank last night; the ashtrays; the cigarettes in the ashtrays; the Bob Marley tape unwound—it all depresses me immensely. I attempt to return to the nightmare. I can’t. Look over at the wine bottles standing on the floor, the empty pack of Gauloises (Franklin smokes them; how pretentious). I can’t decide whether to reach for the wine or the cigarettes or turn on the radio. Thoroughly confused I stumble into the hallway, Reggae music coming thump thump from the living room downstairs. It’s supposed to be light out, but then I realize it’s four-thirty in the afternoon.
I’m leaving Franklin. I told him last night, before we went to bed.
“Are you kidding?” he asked.
“I’m not,” I said.
“Are you high?” he asked.
“Beside the point,” I said. Then we had
sex.
PAUL I was thinking about taking another shower, styling my hair or calling Sean or jerking off or doing any number of things, when I heard someone trying to get into the room. I stood next to the door and heard my mother and Mrs. Jared babbling about something.
“Oh Mimi, help me with this damn lock.” It was my mother bitching.
“Jesus, Eve,” I heard Mrs. Jared’s whiny voice answer back. “Where’s the bellboy?”
I ran over to the bed and flung myself upon it and placed a pillow over my head, trying to look casual. I looked ridiculous and stood up, tentatively.
“Damnit, Mimi, this is the wrong key. Try the other room,” I heard, muffled, a complaint.
My mother knocked on the door, asking “Paul? Paul, are you in there?”
I didn’t know if I should say anything, then realized that I had to and said, “Yes? Who is it, please?”
“It’s your mother, for God’s sake,” she said, sounding exasperated. “Who do you think it is?”
“Oh,” I said. “Hi.”
“Could you please help me open this door?” she pleaded.
I walked over to the door and turned the knob, trying to pull it open, but my mother had screwed it up somehow and had locked it from the outside.
“Mother?” Be patient, patient.
“Yes, Paul?”
“You locked it.”
Pause.
“I did?”
“You did.”
“Oh my.”
“Why don’t you unlock it?” I suggested.
“Oh.” There was a silence. “Mimi, get over here. My son tells me that I should unlock the door.”
“Hello, Paul dear,” Mrs. Jared said through the door.
“Hi, Mrs. Jared,” I called back.
“It appears that this door is locked,” she commented.
I pulled on it again but the door wouldn’t open.
“Mother?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Is the key in the lock?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Why don’t you turn it to the, let’s say … left? Okay?”
“To the left?”
“Oh, why not.”
“Try it Eve,” Mrs. Jared urged.
I stopped pulling the door. There was a click. The door opened.
“Darling,” my mother screamed, looking wigged out of her mind, coming toward me, her arms outstretched. She looked quite pretty, actually. Perhaps too much make-up, but thinner, and she’s dressed to the hilt, her jewelry’s clanking all over the place, but it was all in an elegant way, not tacky. Her hair, brunette, darker than I remembered, had been stylishly cut and it gave her the appearance of looking much younger. Or maybe it was that eye job, or the eye tuck, she had last summer, before we went to Europe, that gave me this impression.
“Mother,” I said, standing still.
She hugged me and said, “Oh, it’s been so long.”
“Five weeks?”
“Oh that’s a long time, dear,” she said.
“Not really.”
“Say hello to Mrs. Jared,” she said.
“Oh Paul, you look so cute.” Mrs. Jared said and hugged me also.
“Mrs. Jared,” I said.
“So big and away at college. We’re so proud of you.”
“He’s so handsome,” my mother said, walking over to the window and opening it, waving the smell of cigarette smoke out.
“And tall,” Mrs. Jared said. Yeah and I’ve fucked your son, I was thinking.
I sat down on the bed, refrained from lighting a cigarette and crossed my legs.
My mother rushed to the bathroom and immediately started to brush her hair.
Mrs. Jared took her shoes off and sat down opposite from me and asked, “Tell me Paul, why are you wearing so much black?”
STUART After dinner and a shower, I had some friends over for wine and we all had a hair-dyeing party. While they were monopolizing the bathroom and washing their hair in the sinks, I walked across the hall to Paul Denton’s room. I stood there for a long time, too nervous to knock. I read the notes that people had left on his door, then I ran my hand over it. I was going to invite him over and I was stoned enough to get up the nerve to do so. I knocked softly at first, and when there was no answer I knocked with more force. When no one opened the door I walked away, confused and relieved. I told myself I would talk to him at the party tonight; that was when I would make my move. I came back to my room and Dennis was sitting on my bed. His hair was wet and freshly dyed red and he was looking through the new Voice and playing my Bryan Ferry tape. I spent last night with him. I don’t say anything. He tells me, “Paul Denton will never ever sleep with you.” I don’t say anything. Just get more drunk, turn the music up and dress to get screwed.
PAUL “How was the flight?” I asked them.
“Oh lurid, lurid,” Mrs. Jared said. “Your mother met this absolutely gorgeous doctor from the North Shore in first class who was going to Parents’ Weekend at Brown and you know what your mother did?” Mrs. Jared was smiling now, like a naughty little girl.
“No.” Oh, I couldn’t wait.
“Oh Mimi,” my mother moaned, coming out of the bathroom.
“She told him that she was single,” Mrs. Jared exclaimed and got up and took my mother’s place in the bathroom and closed the door.
There mustn’t be any silence so my mother asked me, “Did I tell you about the car?”
“Yes.” I could hear Mrs. Jared urinating. Embarrassed, I spoke louder, “Yes. Yes, you did. I think you did tell me about the car.”
“Typical. It’s all so typical. I was seeing Dr. Vanderpool and the two of us were going to lunch at The 95th and—”
“Wait. Dr. Vanderpool? Your shrink?” I asked.
She started brushing her hair again and asked, “Shrink?”
“Sorry,” I said. “Doctor.”
“Yes. My doctor.” My mother gave me a strange look.
“Going out to lunch?” I reminded her.
“Yes,” she said. I had thrown her off balance. She stood there, stumped.
“I thought this happened at Neiman’s,” I said, amused, but, oh shit, who cares?
“No. Why?” she asked, still brushing her hair.
“Forget it.” I’ve forgotten I shouldn’t be amused by things like that anymore. I mean, I’ve only been away, what, three years, right? The toilet flushed and I flinched, looking back at the TV, pretending that Mrs. Jared didn’t even take a piss.
“Well…” My mother was looking at me like I was a real weirdo. A real KooKoo.
“Go on,” I urged. “Go on.”
“Well,” she continued. “I came out of his office and it was gone. Completely gone. Can you believe it?” she was asking me.
“Typical,” I told her. Just pretend she’s not crazy and things will go smoothly.
“Yes.” She stopped brushing her hair, but continued gazing into the mirror.
The bellboys brought the bags up-all eight of them. That’s right. Of course, a weekend in Boston, eight bags for two people, sure. There were eight pieces of luggage: four pieces of Louis Vuitton, my mother’s; and four pieces of Gucci, Mrs. Jared’s.
“How’s school?” my mother asked after she tipped the bellboys (who were not sexy, contrary to Mrs. Jared’s allusions that they were).
“Fine,” I said.
“Classes,” she reminded herself. “How are your classes?”
“All right.”
“What are you taking?” she asked.
I must have told her this, given her a list over the phone, at least five times. “Classes. Just classes. Acting. Improv. Scene Design. Classes. Drama.”
“How is that lovely friend of yours? Michael? Monty? What?” she asked, unzipping one of the bags and looking through it.
I couldn’t believe she did shit like that. She damn well knew his goddamn name but I couldn’t even get angry, so I laid back and sighed his name. “Mitchell. His name was Mitchell.”
“Yes. Mitchell. That’s it.”
“How is he?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Fine.” I started to worry about Sean again. Sean at the party. Sean fucking someone. Who? That girl leaving notes in his box? Or worse … what if he went home with Raymond or Harry or Donald? What am I doing here?
“When is Richard coming in?” I asked, changing the subject.
“I don’t know,” my mother whispered, suddenly concerned. “Mimi?”
“I’d say sixish,” Mrs. Jared said. “I told him that we had dinner reservations downstairs at nine, so he knows when to be here.”
What am I doing here? My mother wants to speak to me about nothing. It’s only a ploy to get me here so she can complain about the way I dress and eat and smoke and live and god only knows what else. My mother and Mrs. Jared move to the other room. “We’ll leave this room to you boys so you can talk and whatever….” It sounds ominous and suspicious and what am I doing here? I look over at the copy of The Fountainhead on top of the TV set, a reminder of Michael? Monty? I watch a cartoon. My mother and Mrs. Jared split a Seconal or whatever and start to worry about what they’re going to wear tonight. I watch more cartoons and curse Sean and order room service. I decide to get drunk early.
SEAN After I got drunk this afternoon I looked for Lauren at dinner tonight. She wasn’t there. I looked for her after Getch and Tony and Tim and I fixed up Wooley. I looked for her after I put my toga on. (Since I’m on Wreck Committee I’ve got to wear a toga but I put my leather jacket on over it so it looked hip.) I even looked for her room, walking around campus in the dark, trying to remember which house she lived in. But it was too cold to look, so I stopped and watched TV in Commons, and drank some beer instead. I didn’t know what I was going to say to her once I found her. It was just that I wanted to see her. And thinking about her like that, searching all over the place for her, I went back to my room and jerked off, fantasizing about her. It was something completely spontaneous, something I couldn’t help doing. It was like walking past a beautiful girl on the street, someone you can’t help but look at, someone you can’t suppress whistling at, someone who gets you that excited, that horny. That’s how I was feeling about Lauren, my toga raised above me, touching myself feverishly in the darkness. What does she like, I was thinking. Questions raced through my mind—does she go wild during sex, does she come easily, does she freak out about oral sex, does she mind a guy coming in her mouth? Then I realized I won’t go to bed with a girl if she won’t do that. I also won’t go to bed with a girl if she can’t or won’t have an orgasm because then, what’s the point? If you can’t make a girl come why even bother? That always seemed to me to be like writing questions in a letter.
The Rules of Attraction Page 12
