Free Glamorama by Bret Easton Ellis Page A

who
hadn’t
seen the 600SEL, who
couldn’t
tell Versace from the Gap, who didn’t even
glance
at the Patek Philippe—” He turns to the goons, one who keeps eyeing me in a fucked-up way. “That’s a watch
you
might never own. Anyway,
she’s
the only one who would talk to me, just some dumpy chick who came on to me in Chemical Bank, and I motioned sadly to her that I was
mute
, you know,
tongue
less, that I simply couldn’t
speak
, what have you. But get this—she knew sign language.”
    After Damien stares at me, I say, “Ah.”
    “I tell you, Victor,” Damien continues, “the world is full of surprises. Most of them not that interesting but surprising nonetheless. Needless to say, it was a mildly scary, humiliating moment. It actually bordered on the horrific, but I moved through it.” He sips his latte. “Could I actually not be in vogue? I panicked, man. I felt …
old.”
    “Oh man, you’re only twenty-eight.” I nod to Beau, letting him know that he can slink back upstairs.
    “Twenty-eight, yeah.” Damien takes this in, but instead of dealing he just waves at the stacks of papers on the table. “Everything going as planned? Or are there any imminent disasters I should be apprised of?”
    “Here are the invites.” I hand him one. “I don’t think you ever had the time to see these.”
    “Nice, or as my friend Diane Von Furstenberg likes to say—
nass.”
    “Yeah, they were printed on recycled paper with boy-based—Imean
soy
-based ink.” I close my eyes, shake my head, clear it. “Sorry, those little mos upstairs are getting to me.”
    “Opening this club, Victor, is tantamount to making a political statement,” Damien says. “I hope you know that.”
    I’m thinking, Spare me, but say, “Yeah, man?”
    “We’re selling myths.”
    “Mitts?”
    “No,
myths
. M-y-t-h-s. Like if a fag was gonna introduce you to Miss America, what would he say?”
    “
Myth
… America?”
    “Right on, babe.” Damien stretches, then slouches back into the booth. “I can’t help it, Victor,” he says blankly. “I sense sex when I walk around the club. I feel …
compelled.”
    “Man, I’m so with you.”
    “It’s not a club, Victor. It’s an aphrodisiac.”
    “Here is the, um, seating arrangements for the dinner and then the list of press invited to the cocktail party beforehand.” I hand him a sheaf of papers, which Damien hands to one of his goons, who stares at it, like duh.
    “I just want to know who’s at my table,” Damien says vacantly.
    “Um, here …” I reach over to grab the papers back, and for an instant the goon glares at me suspiciously before gradually releasing his grip. “Um, table one is you and Alison and Alec Baldwin and Kim Basinger and Tim Hutton and Uma Thurman and Jimmy and Jane Buffett and Ted Field and Christy Turlington and David Geffen and Calvin and Kelly Klein and Julian Schnabel and Ian Schrager and Russell Simmons, along with assorted dates and wives.”
    “I’m between Uma Thurman and Christy Turlington, right?”
    “Well, Alison and Kelly—”
    “No no no no. I’m between Christy and Uma,” Damien says, pointing a finger at me.
    “I don’t know how that is going to”—I clear my throat—“fly with Alison.”
    “What’s she gonna do?
Pinch
me?”
    “Cool cool cool.” I nod. “JD, you know what to do.”
    “After tonight no one should get in for free. Oh yeah—except very good-looking lesbians. Anyone dressed like Garth Brooks is purged. We want a clientele that will
up
the class quotient.”
    “Up the class quotient. Yeah, yeah.” Suddenly I cannot tear my eyes off Damien’s head.
    “Ground Control to Major Tom,” Damien says, snapping his fingers.
    “Huh?”
    “What in the fuck are you looking at?” I hear him ask.
    “Nothing. Go ahead.”
    “What are you looking at?”
    “Nothing. Just spacing. Go ahead.”
    After a brief, scary pause Damien continues icily. “If I see anyone and I mean
anyone
un
hip
wandering around