Glamorama by Bret Easton Ellis

chilly silence, Damien points out, “You’re not eating your muesli.”
    “Now I am,” I say, lifting my spoon. “JD, some milk, please.”
    “Alison, oh shit,” Damien groans. “I don’t know whether she’s a sex-pot or a crackpot.”
    A flash: Alison sneering at me while letting Mr. Chow lick her feet, punching open a coconut, listing her favorite male movie stars under twenty-four, including the ones she’s slept with, slugging down Snapple after Snapple after Snapple.
    “Both?” I venture.
    “Ah hell, I love her. She’s like a rainbow. She’s like a flower. Oh god,” he moans. “She’s got that damn navel ring, and the tattoos need serious laser sessions.”
    “I … didn’t know Alison had a, um, navel ring.”
    “How
would
you know that?” he asks.
    “Anywa-a-a-ay—” JD starts.
    “I also hear you’re looking at your own space.” Damien sighs, staring right at me. “Please say I’m hearing abstract, unfortunate rumors.”
    “A
vicious
rumor, my friend. I’m
not
into even contemplating another club, Damien. I’m looking at scripts now.”
    “Well, yeah, Victor, I know. It’s just that we’re getting a lot of press for this and I cannot deny that your name helps—”
    “Thanks, man.”
    “—but I also cannot deny the fact that if you use this as—oh, what’s a good phrase? oh yeah—a
stepping-stone
and will then dump all of usthe minute this place is SRO and then with that
cachet
open up your own place—”
    “Damien, wait a minute, this is a complex question, wait a minute—”
    “—leaving me and several investors along with various orthodontists from Brentwood—one who happens to be part vegetable—who have placed big bucks into this—”
    “Damien, man, where would I get the money to do this?”
    “Japs?” He shrugs. “Some movie star you’ve boned? Some rich faggot who’s after your ass?”
    “This is what’s known as
big news
to me, Damien, and I will ponder who leaked this rumor profusely.”
    “My heartfelt thanks.”
    “I just wanna put a smile back on clubland’s face.”
    “I’ve gotta play golf,” Damien says vacantly, checking his watch. “Then I’m having lunch at Fashion Café with Christy Turlington, who was just voted ‘least likely to sell out’ in the new issue of
Top Model
. There’s a virtual-reality Christy at Fashion Café—you should check it out. It’s called a spokesmannequin. It looks exactly like Christy. She says things like ‘I look forward to seeing you here again soon, perhaps in person,’ and she also quotes Somerset Maugham and discusses Salvadorian politics as well as her Kellogg cereal contract. I know what you’re thinking, but she brings class to it.”
    Damien finally stands up, and the goons follow suit.
    “Are you going to any of the shows today?” I ask. “Or is another Gotti on trial?”
    “What? There’s another one?” Damien realizes something. “Oh, you’re kind of funny. But not really so much.”
    “Thank you.”
    “I’m going to shows. It’s Fashion Week, what else does one do in this world?” Damien sighs. “You’re in one, right?”
    “Yeah. Todd Oldham. It’s just guys who date models escorting them down the runway. Y’know, it’s like a theme: Behind every woman—”
    “There’s a weasel? Ha!” Damien stretches. “Sounds fan-fucking-tastic. So you’re ready for tonight?”
    “Hey man, I am a rock. I am an island.”
    “Who’s gonna dispute that?”
    “That’s me, Damien. All dos, and no don’ts.”
    “Are you down with OPP?”
    “Hey, you know me.”
    “Crazy kid,” he chuckles.
    “Lucidity. Total lucidity, baby.”
    “I wish I knew what that meant, Victor.”
    “Three words, my friend: Prada, Prada, Prada.”
26
    On a small soon-to-be-hip block in TriBeCa and up a flight of not-too-steep stairs and through a dark corridor: a long bar made of granite, walls lined with distressed-metal sconces, a medium-sized dance floor, a dozen video monitors, a small alcove