morosely, picking at a plate of cilantro.
“Who’s Baxter Priestly?” I pull out some excellent weed and a package of rolling papers. “Who the fuck is Baxter Priestly?”
“He’s in the new Darren Star show and plays bass in the band Hey That’s My Shoe,” she says, lighting another cigarette.
“Baxter Priestly? What the fuck kind of name is that?” I mutter, spotting seeds that cry out for removal.
“You
’re
complaining about someone’s name?
You
hang out with Plez and Fetish and a person whose parents actually named him Tomato—”
“They conceded it might have been a mistake.”
“—and you do business with people named Benny Benny and Damien Nutchs Ross? And you haven’t apologized for being an hour late? I had to wait upstairs in Eric’s office.”
“Oh god, I bet he loved that,” I moan, concentrating on the pot.“Hell, baby, I thought I’d let you entertain the paparazzi.” Pause. “And that’s Kenny Kenny, honey.”
“I did that all day,” she sighs.
“Baxter Priestly? Why am I drawing a blank?” I ask earnestly, waving down Cliff the maître d’ for a drink but it’s too late: Eric has already sent over a complimentary bottle of Cristal 1985.
“I guess I’m used to your oblivion, Victor,” she says.
“Chloe.
You
do fur ads
and
donate money to Greenpeace.
You’re
what’s known as a bundle of contradictions, baby, not this guy.”
“Baxter used to date Lauren Hynde.” She stubs her cigarette out, smiles thankfully at the very good-looking busboy pouring the champagne into flutes.
“Baxter used to date Lauren Hynde?”
“Right.”
“Who’s Lauren Hynde?”
“Lauren Hynde, Victor,” she stresses as if the name means something. “You
dated
her.”
“I did? I
did?
Yeah? Hmm.”
“Good night, Victor.”
“I just don’t remember Lauren Hynde, baby. Solly Cholly.”
“Lauren Hynde?” she asks in disbelief. “You don’t remember dating her? My god, what are you going to say about me?”
“Nothing, baby,” I tell her, finally done deseeding. “We’re gonna get married and grow old together. How did the shows go? Look—there’s Scott Bakula. Hey, peace, man. Richard’s looking for you, bud.”
“Lauren Hynde, Victor.”
“That’s so cool. Hey Alfonse—great tattoo, guy.” I turn back to Chloe. “Did you know Damien wears a hairpiece? He’s some kind of demented wig addict.”
“Who told you this?”
“One of the guys at the club,” I say without pausing.
“Lauren Hynde, Victor. Lauren Hynde.”
“Who’s
dat
?” I say, making a crazy face, leaning over, kissing her neck noisily. Suddenly Patrick McMullan glides by, politely asks for a photo, complimenting Chloe on the shows today. We move in close together, look up, smile, the flash goes off. “Hey, crop the pot,” I warn as he spots Patrick Kelly and scampers off.
“Do you think he heard me?”
“Lauren Hynde’s one of my best friends, Victor.”
“I don’t know her, but hey, if she’s a friend of yours, well, need I say anything but
automatically
?” I start rolling the joint.
“Victor, you went to school with her.”
“I didn’t go to school with her, baby,” I murmur, waving over at Ross Bleckner and his new boyfriend, Mrs. Ross Bleckner, a guy who used to work at a club in Amagansett called Salamanders and was recently profiled in
Bikini
.
“Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but you went to Camden with Lauren Hynde.” She lights another cigarette, finally sips the champagne.
“Of course. I did,” I say, trying to calm her. “Oh. Yeah.”
“Did you go to college, Victor?”
“Literally or figuratively?”
“Is there a difference with you?” she asks. “How can you be so dense?”
“I don’t know, baby. It’s some kind of gene displacement.”
“I can’t listen to this. You complain about Baxter Priestly’s
name
and yet you know people named Huggy and Pidgeon and Na Na.”
“Hey,” I finally snap, “and you slept with Charlie Sheen.
“Who’s Baxter Priestly?” I pull out some excellent weed and a package of rolling papers. “Who the fuck is Baxter Priestly?”
“He’s in the new Darren Star show and plays bass in the band Hey That’s My Shoe,” she says, lighting another cigarette.
“Baxter Priestly? What the fuck kind of name is that?” I mutter, spotting seeds that cry out for removal.
“You
’re
complaining about someone’s name?
You
hang out with Plez and Fetish and a person whose parents actually named him Tomato—”
“They conceded it might have been a mistake.”
“—and you do business with people named Benny Benny and Damien Nutchs Ross? And you haven’t apologized for being an hour late? I had to wait upstairs in Eric’s office.”
“Oh god, I bet he loved that,” I moan, concentrating on the pot.“Hell, baby, I thought I’d let you entertain the paparazzi.” Pause. “And that’s Kenny Kenny, honey.”
“I did that all day,” she sighs.
“Baxter Priestly? Why am I drawing a blank?” I ask earnestly, waving down Cliff the maître d’ for a drink but it’s too late: Eric has already sent over a complimentary bottle of Cristal 1985.
“I guess I’m used to your oblivion, Victor,” she says.
“Chloe.
You
do fur ads
and
donate money to Greenpeace.
You’re
what’s known as a bundle of contradictions, baby, not this guy.”
“Baxter used to date Lauren Hynde.” She stubs her cigarette out, smiles thankfully at the very good-looking busboy pouring the champagne into flutes.
“Baxter used to date Lauren Hynde?”
“Right.”
“Who’s Lauren Hynde?”
“Lauren Hynde, Victor,” she stresses as if the name means something. “You
dated
her.”
“I did? I
did?
Yeah? Hmm.”
“Good night, Victor.”
“I just don’t remember Lauren Hynde, baby. Solly Cholly.”
“Lauren Hynde?” she asks in disbelief. “You don’t remember dating her? My god, what are you going to say about me?”
“Nothing, baby,” I tell her, finally done deseeding. “We’re gonna get married and grow old together. How did the shows go? Look—there’s Scott Bakula. Hey, peace, man. Richard’s looking for you, bud.”
“Lauren Hynde, Victor.”
“That’s so cool. Hey Alfonse—great tattoo, guy.” I turn back to Chloe. “Did you know Damien wears a hairpiece? He’s some kind of demented wig addict.”
“Who told you this?”
“One of the guys at the club,” I say without pausing.
“Lauren Hynde, Victor. Lauren Hynde.”
“Who’s
dat
?” I say, making a crazy face, leaning over, kissing her neck noisily. Suddenly Patrick McMullan glides by, politely asks for a photo, complimenting Chloe on the shows today. We move in close together, look up, smile, the flash goes off. “Hey, crop the pot,” I warn as he spots Patrick Kelly and scampers off.
“Do you think he heard me?”
“Lauren Hynde’s one of my best friends, Victor.”
“I don’t know her, but hey, if she’s a friend of yours, well, need I say anything but
automatically
?” I start rolling the joint.
“Victor, you went to school with her.”
“I didn’t go to school with her, baby,” I murmur, waving over at Ross Bleckner and his new boyfriend, Mrs. Ross Bleckner, a guy who used to work at a club in Amagansett called Salamanders and was recently profiled in
Bikini
.
“Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but you went to Camden with Lauren Hynde.” She lights another cigarette, finally sips the champagne.
“Of course. I did,” I say, trying to calm her. “Oh. Yeah.”
“Did you go to college, Victor?”
“Literally or figuratively?”
“Is there a difference with you?” she asks. “How can you be so dense?”
“I don’t know, baby. It’s some kind of gene displacement.”
“I can’t listen to this. You complain about Baxter Priestly’s
name
and yet you know people named Huggy and Pidgeon and Na Na.”
“Hey,” I finally snap, “and you slept with Charlie Sheen.
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