Free Lunar Park by Bret Easton Ellis Page A

have some juice?’ ‘Okay, honey, you want some juice?’ ‘No, it’s okay, I’ll just have some water.’ It’s like some fucking Beckett play that we’re rehearsing constantly.”
    Jay just stared at me, grim-faced.
    “Hey, but I bought a book,” I said flippantly. “
Fatherhood for Dummies,
and it is helping immensely. If only
my
father—”
    “Okay, I can see what sort of evening this is turning into.”
    “Hey, how was the reading?” I asked, switching gears.
    “I like your little town” was his noncommittal answer, and I realized that the reading had probably been a bust. Not high, I would have wanted to pursue this, but wasted I did not.
    I opened the door and ushered Jay into the garage and then peered back down the hallway to see if we’d been followed. I closed and locked the door and flicked on the fluorescent lights. The four-car garage contained my Porsche, Jayne’s Range Rover and a motorcycle I’d just purchased with unexpected Swedish royalties. And, I just noticed, a miserable golden retriever that lay waiting for us in the corner, curled up against Robby’s bike. But Jay aroused so little interest that Victor barely looked up.
    “Ignore that dog,” I told him.
    “Ah yes, your intimacy problems with animals. I forgot.”
    “Hey, I dated Patty O’Brien for three months.” And then: “Ready for a little
acción
?”
    “Indeed.” Jay rubbed his hands together eagerly.
    “I have brought us some very pure Bolivian Marching Powder,” I said, rummaging through my pockets.
    “Ooh—the Devil’s Dandruff.”
    I quickly located the stash and handed Jay a packet. He opened it, inspected the coke and then put it down on the hood of the Porsche and started rolling a twenty into a tight green straw.
    After I did two huge bumps from my own gram I wanted to show off my new bike.
    “Hey, Jayster—check it out. The Yamaha Y2F-RI. A hundred and fifty-two horsepower. Top speed: a hairsbreadth under a hundred and seventy miles per hour,” I purred.
    “How much?”
    “Only ten grand.”
    “Well spent. What happened to the Ducati?”
    “Had to sell it. Jayne thought it was giving Robby bad ideas. And my argument that the kid doesn’t care about anything proved totally useless.”
    “Like father, like—”
    “Start panting with eagerness and just do the fucking coke.”
    Jay did a bump and then paused, grimacing. A moment passed.
    “What’s the matter?” I asked.
    “Actually, this baking powder is cut with
way
too much laxative.”
    “Oops, wrong stuff.” I took the heavily cut junk from Jay, refolded the packet and handed him a proper gram.
    “Where’s your guy, your dealer?” he asked, still grimacing, licking his lips.
    “Um, back at the college. Why?” I asked. “And please don’t take a dump in our garage.”
    “So your refund for that shit is unlikely?” he asked, opening the fresh packet. “Suck-ah!”
    “That crap’s for wastoids who can’t tell the difference—I just gave you the real stuff.”
    “You’re so cheap,” he muttered. He did two bumps and flung his head back and then smiled slowly and said, “Now, that’s much better.”
    “Anything for a bud.”
    “So, really, how is married life?” he asked, lighting a Marlboro and easing into coke chat. “The wife, the kids, the posh suburbs?”
    “Yeah, the tragedy’s complete, huh?” I laughed hollowly.
    “No, really.” Jay seemed mildly interested.
    “Marriage is great,” I said, opening my own packet again. “Unlimited sex. Laughs. Oh yeah, and continuous companionship. I think I’ve got this down to a science.”
    “And the ubiquitous student in the bathroom?”
    “Just part of the package here at Casa Ellis.” I did another bump and then bummed a cigarette.
    “No, seriously—who is she?” he asked, lighting it. “I hear today’s college women are ‘prodigious.’ ”
    “Prodigious? Is that really what you heard?”
    “Well, I read it in a magazine. It was something I wanted to