Free Lunar Park by Bret Easton Ellis

werewolf. “Hey,” I called out. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” And I continued to stare until it became apparent she was not going to look back.
    Knocking me out of my reverie, Jay gestured at the cat with the nachos. “I take it the thought of food is the furthest thing from your mind?”
    “Want a bump?” I whispered into his ear involuntarily.
    “Even though you’re sounding like a parrot, there is really no other reason to be here.” He looked around the darkened living room as a man dressed as Anna Nicole Smith pushed past us to use the bathroom. “But is there someplace more private?”
    “Follow me,” I said, and when I noticed him taking another nacho I snapped, “And stop flirting with the help.”
    But we were trapped. Jay and I were huddled on the periphery of the party, and I was strategizing how to get to my office without Jayne seeing us; back inside, she was introducing David Duchovny to the Allens, our neighbors and truly tiresome bores, and my plans had become increasingly urgent since I desperately needed another line—the garage, I suddenly realized, the
garage
—when I felt someone tugging at my guitar. I looked down: it was Sarah. “Daddy?” she said, her face a frown of concern. She was wearing a little T-shirt with the word BABE on it.
    “And who is this?” Jay asked sweetly, kneeling beside her.
    “Daddy,” Sarah said again, ignoring him.
    “She calls you ‘Daddy’?” Jay asked, sounding worried.
    “We’re working on it,” I said. “Honey, what is it?”
    I noticed Marta on the outskirts of the living room, craning her neck.
    “Daddy, Terby’s mad,” Sarah said, pouting.
    Terby was the bird doll I had bought Sarah in August for her birthday. It was a monstrous-looking but very popular toy that she’d wanted badly yet the thing was so misconceived and grotesque—black and crimson feathers, bulging eyes, a sharp yellow beak with which it continuously gurgled—that both Jayne and I balked at buying her one until Sarah’s pleas drowned out all reasoning. Since the awful thing was sold out everywhere I’d resorted to using Kentucky Pete—who was very adept at obtaining contraband—to secure one that according to him had been smuggled in from Mexico.
    “Terby’s mad,” Sarah whined again.
    “Well, calm him down,” I said, glancing around. “Bring him up some nachos. Maybe he’s hungry.”
    “Terby says it’s too loud and Terby’s mad.” Her arms were crossed in a parody of an upset child.
    “Okay, baby, we’ll take care of it.” I stood on my tiptoes and waved at Marta, then pointed down and mouthed,
She’s here.
Relieved, Marta started pushing toward us through the mass of bodies.
    And suddenly Sarah was surrounded. Adorable children, I’d begun to notice, had that effect on people. Put them in a room full of adults and they were always the star attraction. Girls from my workshop and some of the cat-woman caterers were now leaning in and asking her questions in baby-doll voices, and Sarah soon seemed to forget all about Terby as I slowly pulled McInerney away. The cute little BABE basked in everybody’s attention even as “Don’t Fear the Reaper” roared through the house—an unsettling moment, but also my chance to escape.
    As I led Jay down a long hallway toward the door that opened into the garage, he said, “You took care of that so well.”
    “Jay, she’s six years old and thinks her bird doll’s alive,” I said, exasperated. “Now, do you want me to stand there and deal with that, or do you want to shut up and do a line with me?”
    “You really don’t know how to do this, do you?”
    “Do what? Throw a kick-ass party?”
    “No. Be married. Be the dad.”
    “Well, being married’s okay—but the dad thing’s a little tougher,” I said. “ ‘Daddy, can I have some juice?’ ‘How about some water, honey?’ ‘Daddy?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Can I have some juice?’ ‘How about some water instead, honey?’ ‘Daddy, can I