American Psycho

by Bret Easton Ellis

  “I mean I doubt Stash makes the society pages of W, which I thought was your criterion for choosing friends,” Price says, staring back, grinning at her in his wolfish, lewd way. I concentrate on the Absolut and cranberry I’m holding and it looks like a glassful of thin, watery blood with ice and a lemon wedge in it.

  “What’s going on with Courtney and Luis?” I ask, hoping to break their gaze.

  “Oh god,” Evelyn moans, turning back to the mirror. “The really dreadful thing about Courtney is not that she doesn’t like Luis anymore. It’s that—”

  “They canceled her charge at Bergdorf’s?” Price asks. I laugh. We slap each other high-five.

  “No,” Evelyn continues, also amused. “It’s that she’s really in love with her real estate broker. Some little twerp over at The Feathered Nest.”

  “Courtney might have her problems,” Tim says, inspecting his recent manicure, “but my god, what is a … Vanden?”

  “Oh don’t bring this up,” Evelyn whines and starts brushing her hair.

  “Vanden is a cross between … The Limited and … used Benetton,” Price says, holding up his hands, his eyes closed.

  “No.” I smile, trying to integrate myself into the conversation. “Used Fiorucci.”

  “Yeah,” Tim says. “I guess.” His eyes, now open, zone in on Evelyn.

  “Timothy, lay off,” Evelyn says. “She’s a Camden girl. What do you expect?”

  “Oh god,” Timothy moans. “I am so sick of hearing Camden-girl problems. Oh my boyfriend, I love him but he loves someone else and oh how I longed for him and he ignored me and blahblah blahblahblah—god, how boring. College kids. It matters, you know? It’s sad, right Bateman?”

  “Yeah. Matters. Sad.”

  “See, Bateman agrees with me,” Price says smugly.

  “Oh he does not,” With a Kleenex Evelyn wipes off whatever she rubbed on. “Patrick is not a cynic, Timothy. He’s the boy next door, aren’t you honey?”

  “No I’m not,” I whisper to myself. “I’m a fucking evil psychopath.”

  “Oh so what,” Evelyn sighs. “She’s not the brightest girl in the world.”

  “Hah! Understatement of the century!” Price cries out. “But Stash isn’t the brightest guy either. Perfect couple. Did they meet on Love Connection or something?”

  “Leave them alone,” Evelyn says. “Stash is talented and I’m sure we’re underestimating Vanden.”

  “This is a girl …” Price turns to me. “Listen, Bateman, this is a girl—Evelyn told me this—this is a girl who rented High Noon because she thought it was a movie about”—he gulps—“marijuana farmers.”

  “It just hit me,” I say. “But have we deciphered what Stash—I assume he has a last name but don’t tell me, I don’t want to know, Evelyn—does for a living?”

  “First of all he’s perfectly decent and nice,” Evelyn says in his defense.

  “The man asked for chocolate chip sorbet for Christ sakes!” Timothy wails, disbelieving. “What are you talking about?”

  Evelyn ignores this, pulls off her Tina Chow earrings. “He’s a sculptor,” she says tersely.

  “Oh bullshit,” Timothy says. “I remember talking to him at Odeon.” He turns to me again. “This was when he ordered the tuna cappuccino and I’m sure if left unattended would have ordered the salmon au lait, and he told me he did parties, so that technically makes him—I don’t know, correct me if I’m wrong, Evelyn—a caterer. He’s a caterer!” Price cries out. “Not a fucking sculptor!”

  “Oh gosh calm down,” Evelyn says, rubbing more cream into her face.

  “That’s like saying you’re a poet.” Timothy is drunk and I’m beginning to wonder when he will vacate the premises.

  “Well,” Evelyn begins, “I’ve been known to—”

  “You’re a fucking word processor!” Tim blurts out. He walks over to Evelyn and bows next to her, checking out his reflection in the mirror.

  “Have you been gaining weight, Tim?” Evelyn asks thoughtfully. She studies Tim’s head in the mirror and says, “Your face looks … rounder.”

  Timothy, in retaliation, smells Evelyn’s neck and says, “What is that fascinating … odor?”

  “Obsession.” Evelyn smiles flirtatiously, gently pushing Timothy away. “It’s Obsession. Patrick, get your friend away from me.”

  “No, no, wait,” Timothy says, sniffing loudly. “It’s not Obsession. It’s … it’s …” and then, with a face twisted in mock horror, “It’s … oh my god, it’s Q.T. Instatan!”

  Evelyn pauses and considers her options. She inspects Price’s head one more time. “Are you losing your hair?”

  “Evelyn,” Tim says. “Don’t change the subject but …” And then, genuinely worried, “Now that you mention it … too much gel?” Concerned, he runs a hand over it.

  “Maybe,” Evelyn says. “Now make yourself useful and do sit down.”

  “Well, at least it’s not green and I haven’t tried to cut it with a butter knife,” Tim says, referring to Vanden’s dye job and Stash’s admittedly cheap, bad haircut. A haircut that’s bad because it’s cheap.

  “Are you gaining weight?” Evelyn asks, more seriously this time.

  “Jesus,” Tim says, about to turn away, offended. “No, Evelyn.”

  “Your face definitely looks … rounder,” Evelyn says. “Less … chiseled.”

  “I don’t believe this.” Tim again.

  He looks deep into the mirror. She continues brushing her hair but the strokes are less definite because she’s looking at Tim. He notices this and then smells her neck and I think he licks at it quickly and grins.

  “Is that Q.T.?” he asks. “Come on, you can tell me. I smell it.”

  “No,” Evelyn says, unsmiling. “You use that.”

  “No. As a matter of fact I don’t. I go to a tanning salon. I’m quite honest about that,” he says. “You’re using Q.T.”

  “You’re projecting,” she says lamely.

  “I told you,” Tim says. “I go to a tanning salon. I mean I know it’s expensive but …” Price blanches. “Still, Q.T.?”

  “Oh how brave to admit you go to a tanning salon,” she says.

  “Q.T.” He chuckles.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Evelyn says and resumes brushing her hair. “Patrick, escort your friend out of here.”

  Now Price is on his knees and he smells and sniffs at Evelyn’s bare legs and she’s laughing. I tense up.

  “Oh god,” she moans loudly. “Get out of here.”

  “You are orange.” He laughs, on his knees, his head in her lap. “You look orange.”

  “I am not,” she says, her voice a low prolonged growl of pain, ecstasy. “Jerk.”

  I lie on the bed watching the two of them. Timothy is in her lap trying to push his head under the Ralph Lauren robe. Evelyn’s head is thrown back with pleasure and she is trying to push him away, but playfully, and hitting him only lightly on his back with her Jan Hové brush. I am fairly sure that Timothy and Evelyn are having an affair. Timothy is the only interesting person I know.

  “You should go,” she says finally, panting. She has stopped struggling with him.

  He looks up at her, flashing a toothy, good-looking smile, and says, “Anything the lady requests.”

  “Thank you,” she says in a voice that sounds to me tinged with disappointment.

  He stands up. “Dinner? Tomorrow?”

  “I’ll have to ask my boyfriend,” she says, smiling at me in the mirror.

  “Will you wear that sexy black Anne Klein dress?” he asks, his hands on her shoulders, whispering this into her ear, as he smells it. “Bateman’s not welcome.”

  I laugh good-naturedly while getting up from the bed, escorting him out of the room.

  “Wait! My espresso!” he calls out.

  Evelyn laughs, then claps as if delighted by Timothy’s reluctance to vacate.

  “Come on fella,” I say as I push him roughly out of the bedroo
m. “Beddy-bye time.”

  He still manages to blow her a kiss before I get him out and away. He is completely silent as I walk him out of the brownstone.

  After he leaves I pour myself a brandy and drink it from a checkered Italian tumbler and when I come back to the bedroom I find Evelyn lying in bed watching the Home Shopping Club. I lie down next to her and loosen my Armani tie. Finally I ask something without looking at her.

  “Why don’t you just go for Price?”

  “Oh god, Patrick,” she says, her eyes shut. “Why Price? Price?” And she says this in a way that makes me think she has had sex with him.

  “He’s rich,” I say.

  “Everybody’s rich,” she says, concentrating on the TV screen.

  “He’s good-looking,” I tell her.

  “Everybody’s good-looking, Patrick,” she says remotely.

  “He has a great body,” I say.

  “Everybody has a great body now,” she says.

  I place the tumbler on the nightstand and roll over on top of her. While I kiss and lick her neck she stares passionlessly at the wide-screen Panasonic remote-control television set and lowers the volume. I pull my Armani shirt up and place her hand on my torso, wanting her to feel how rock-hard, how halved my stomach is, and I flex the muscles, grateful it’s light in the room so she can see how bronzed and defined my abdomen has become.

  “You know,” she says clearly, “Stash tested positive for the AIDS virus. And …” She pauses, something on the screen catching her interest; the volume goes slightly up and then is lowered. “And … I think he will probably sleep with Vanden tonight.”

  “Good,” I say, biting lightly at her neck, one of my hands on a firm, cold breast.

  “You’re evil,” she says, slightly excited, running her hands along my broad, hard shoulder.

  “No,” I sigh. “Just your fiancé.”

  After attempting to have sex with her for around fifteen minutes, I decide not to continue trying.

  She says, “You know, you can always be in better shape.”

  I reach for the tumbler of brandy. I finish it. Evelyn is addicted to Parnate, an antidepressant. I lie there beside her watching the Home Shopping Club—at glass dolls, embroidered throw pillows, lamps shaped like footballs, Lady Zirconia—with the sound turned off. Evelyn starts drifting.

  “Are you using minoxidil?” she asks, after a long time.

  “No. I’m not,” I say. “Why should I?”

  “Your hairline looks like it’s receding,” she murmurs.

  “It’s not,” I find myself saying. It’s hard to tell. My hair is very thick and I can’t tell if I’m losing it. I really doubt it.

  I walk back to my place and say good night to a doorman I don’t recognize (he could be anybody) and then dissolve into my living room high above the city, the sounds of the Tokens singing “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” coming from the glow of the Wurlitzer 1015 jukebox (which is not as good as the hard-to-find Wurlitzer 850) that stands in the corner of the living room. I masturbate, thinking about first Evelyn, then Courtney, then Vanden and then Evelyn again, but right before I come—a weak orgasm—about a near-naked model in a halter top I saw today in a Calvin Klein advertisement.

  Morning

  In the early light of a May dawn this is what the living room of my apartment looks like: Over the white marble and granite gas-log fireplace hangs an original David Onica. It’s a six-foot-by-four-foot portrait of a naked woman, mostly done in muted grays and olives, sitting on a chaise longue watching MTV, the backdrop a Martian landscape, a gleaming mauve desert scattered with dead, gutted fish, smashed plates rising like a sunburst above the woman’s yellow head, and the whole thing is framed in black aluminum steel. The painting overlooks a long white down-filled sofa and a thirty-inch digital TV set from Toshiba; it’s a high-contrast highly defined model plus it has a four-corner video stand with a high-tech tube combination from NEC with a picture-in-picture digital effects system (plus freeze-frame); the audio includes built-in MTS and a five-watt-per-channel on-board amp. A Toshiba VCR sits in a glass case beneath the TV set; it’s a super-high-band Beta unit and has built-in editing function including a character generator with eight-page memory, a high-band record and playback, and three-week, eight-event timer. A hurricane halogen lamp is placed in each corner of the living room. Thin white Venetian blinds cover all eight floor-to-ceiling windows. A glass-top coffee table with oak legs by Turchin sits in front of the sofa, with Steuben glass animals placed strategically around expensive crystal ashtrays from Fortunoff, though I don’t smoke. Next to the Wurlitzer jukebox is a black ebony Baldwin concert grand piano. A polished white oak floor runs throughout the apartment. On the other side of the room, next to a desk and a magazine rack by Gio Ponti, is a complete stereo system (CD player, tape deck, tuner, amplifier) by Sansui with six-foot Duntech Sovereign 2001 speakers in Brazilian rosewood. A down-filled futon lies on an oakwood frame in the center of the bedroom. Against the wall is a Panasonic thirty-one-inch set with a direct-view screen and stereo sound and beneath it in a glass case is a Toshiba VCR. I’m not sure if the time on the Sony digital alarm clock is correct so I have to sit up then look down at the time flashing on and off on the VCR, then pick up the Ettore Sottsass push-button phone that rests on the steel and glass nightstand next to the bed and dial the time number. A cream leather, steel and wood chair designed by Eric Marcus is in one corner of the room, a molded plywood chair in the other. A black-dotted beige and white Maud Sienna carpet covers most of the floor. One wall is hidden by four chests of immense bleached mahogany drawers. In bed I’m wearing Ralph Lauren silk pajamas and when I get up I slip on a paisley ancient madder robe and walk to the bathroom. I urinate while trying to make out the puffiness of my reflection in the glass that encases a baseball poster hung above the toilet. After I change into Ralph Lauren monogrammed boxer shorts and a Fair Isle sweater and slide into silk polka-dot Enrico Hidolin slippers I tie a plastic ice pack around my face and commence with the morning’s stretching exercises. Afterwards I stand in front of a chrome and acrylic Washmobile bathroom sink—with soap dish, cup holder, and railings that serve as towel bars, which I bought at Hastings Tile to use while the marble sinks I ordered from Finland are being sanded—and stare at my reflection with the ice pack still on. I pour some Plax antiplaque formula into a stainless-steel tumbler and swish it around my mouth for thirty seconds. Then I squeeze Rembrandt onto a faux-tortoise-shell toothbrush and start brushing my teeth (too hung over to floss properly—but maybe I flossed before bed last night?) and rinse with Listerine. Then I inspect my hands and use a nailbrush. I take the ice-pack mask off and use a deep-pore cleanser lotion, then an herb-mint facial masque which I leave on for ten minutes while I check my toenails. Then I use the Probright tooth polisher and next the Interplak tooth polisher (this in addition to the toothbrush) which has a speed of 4200 rpm and reverses direction forty-six times per second; the larger tufts clean between teeth and massage the gums while the short ones scrub the tooth surfaces. I rinse again, with Cepacol. I wash the facial massage off with a spearmint face scrub. The shower has a universal all-directional shower head that adjusts within a thirty-inch vertical range. It’s made from Australian gold-black brass and covered with a white enamel finish. In the shower I use first a water-activated gel cleanser, then a honey-almond body scrub, and on the face an exfoliating gel scrub. Vidal Sassoon shampoo is especially good at getting rid of the coating of dried perspiration, salts, oils, airborne pollutants and dirt that can weigh down hair and flatten it to the scalp which can make you look older. The conditioner is also good—silicone technology permits conditioning benefits without weighing down the hair which can also make you look older. On weekends or before a date I prefer to use the Greune Natural Revitalizing Shampoo, the conditioner and the Nutrient Complex. These are formulas that contain D-panthenol, a vitamin-B-complex factor; polysorbate 80, a cleansing agent for the scalp; and natural herbs. Over the weekend I plan to go to Bl
oomingdale’s or Bergdorf’s and on Evelyn’s advice pick up a Foltene European Supplement and Shampoo for thinning hair which contains complex carbohydrates that penetrate the hair shafts for improved strength and shine. Also the Vivagen Hair Enrichment Treatment, a new Redken product that prevents mineral deposits and prolongs the life cycle of hair. Luis Carruthers recommended the Aramis Nutriplexx system, a nutrient complex that helps increase circulation. Once out of the shower and toweled dry I put the Ralph Lauren boxers back on and before applying the Mousse A Raiser, a shaving cream by Pour Hommes, I press a hot towel against my face for two minutes to soften abrasive beard hair. Then I always slather on a moisturizer (to my taste, Clinique) and let it soak in for a minute. You can rinse it off or keep it on and apply a shaving cream over it—preferably with a brush, which softens the beard as it lifts the whiskers—which I’ve found makes removing the hair easier. It also helps prevent water from evaporating and reduces friction between your skin and the blade. Always wet the razor with warm water before shaving and shave in the direction the beard grows, pressing gently on the skin. Leave the sideburns and chin for last, since these whiskers are tougher and need more time to soften. Rinse the razor and shake off any excess water before starting. Afterwards splash cool water on the face to remove any trace of lather. You should use an aftershave lotion with little or no alcohol. Never use cologne on your face, since the high alcohol content dries your face out and makes you look older. One should use an alcohol-free antibacterial toner with a water-moistened cotton ball to normalize the skin. Applying a moisturizer is the final step. Splash on water before applying an emollient lotion to soften the skin and seal in the moisture. Next apply Gel Appaisant, also made by Pour Hommes, which is an excellent, soothing skin lotion. If the face seems dry and flaky—which makes it look dull and older—use a clarifying lotion that removes flakes and uncovers fine skin (it can also make your tan look darker). Then apply an anti-aging eye balm (Baume Des Yeux) followed by a final moisturizing “protective” lotion. A scalp-programming lotion is used after I towel my hair dry. I also lightly blow-dry the hair to give it body and control (but without stickiness) and then add more of the lotion, shaping it with a Kent natural-bristle brush, and finally slick it back with a wide-tooth comb. I pull the Fair Isle sweater back on and reslip my feet into the polka-dot silk slippers, then head into the living room and put the new Talking Heads in the CD player, but it starts to digitally skip so I take it out and put in a CD laser lens cleaner. The laser lens is very sensitive, and subject to interference from dust or dirt or smoke or pollutants or moisture, and a dirty one can inaccurately read CDs, making for false starts, inaudible passages, digital skipping, speed changes and general distortion; the lens cleaner has a cleaning brush that automatically aligns with the lens then the disk spins to remove residue and particles. When I put the Talking Heads CD back in it plays smoothly. I retrieve the copy of USA Today that lies in front of my door in the hallway and bring it with me into the kitchen where I take two Advil, a multivitamin and a potassium tablet, washing them down with a large bottle of Evian water since the maid, an elderly Chinese woman, forgot to turn the dishwasher on when she left yesterday, and then I have to pour the grapefruit-lemon juice into a St. Rémy wineglass I got from Baccarat. I check the neon clock that hangs over the refrigerator to make sure I have enough time to eat breakfast unhurriedly. Standing at the island in the kitchen I eat kiwifruit and a sliced Japanese apple-pear (they cost four dollars each at Gristede’s) out of aluminum storage boxes that were designed in West Germany. I take a bran muffin, a decaffeinated herbal tea bag and a box of oat-bran cereal from one of the large glass-front cabinets that make up most of an entire wall in the kitchen; complete with stainless-steel shelves and sandblasted wire glass, it is framed in a metallic dark gray-blue. I eat half of the bran muffin after it’s been microwaved and lightly covered with a small helping of apple butter. A bowl of oat-bran cereal with wheat germ and soy milk follows; another bottle of Evian water and a small cup of decaf tea after that. Next to the Panasonic bread baker and the Salton Pop-Up coffee maker is the Cremina sterling silver espresso maker (which is, oddly, still warm) that I got at Hammacher Schlemmer (the thermal-insulated stainless-steel espresso cup and the saucer and spoon are sitting by the sink, stained) and the Sharp Model R-1810A Carousel II microwave oven with revolving turntable which I use when I heat up the other half of the bran muffin. Next to the Salton Sonata toaster and the Cuisinart Little Pro food processor and the Acme Supreme Juicerator and the Cordially Yours liqueur maker stands the heavy-gauge stainless-steel two-and-one-half-quart teakettle, which whistles “Tea for Two” when the water is boiling, and with it I make another small cup of the decaffeinated apple-cinnamon tea. For what seems like a long time I stare at the Black & Decker Handy Knife that lies on the counter next to the sink, plugged into the wall: it’s a slicer/peeler with several attachments, a serrated blade, a scalloped blade and a rechargeable handle. The suit I wear today is from Alan Flusser. It’s an eighties drape suit, which is an updated version of the thirties style. The favored version has extended natural shoulders, a full chest and a bladed back. The soft-rolled lapels should be about four inches wide with the peak finishing three quarters of the way across the shoulders. Properly used on double-breasted suits, peaked lapels are considered more elegant than notched ones. Low-slung pockets have a flapped double-besom design—above the flap there’s a slit trimmed on either side with a flat narrow strip of cloth. Four buttons form a low-slung square; above it, about where the lapels cross, there are two more buttons. The trousers are deeply pleated and cut full in order to continue the flow of the wide jacket. An extended waist is cut slightly higher in the front. Tabs make the suspenders fit well at the center back. The tie is a dotted silk design by Valentino Couture. The shoes are crocodile loafers by A. Testoni. While I’m dressing the TV is kept on to The Patty Winters Show. Today’s guests are women with multiple personalities. A nondescript overweight older woman is on the screen and Patty’s voice is heard asking, “Well, is it schizophrenia or what’s the deal? Tell us.”