Glamorama
"Oh god, I've shot my load-"
"And Sherry resembles a, um, oh yeah, `weepy raccoon.'"
"I've shot my load. Can you hear me panting?"
"You motherfucker," I whisper.
"This is cosmic."
"Buddy, I feel like we've become very close."
"Where's Hurley's brother? Curley?"
"He hung himself."
"Who was at the funeral?"
"Julia Roberts, Erica Kane, Melissa Etheridge, Lauren Holly and, um, Salma Hayek."
"Didn't she date his dad?"
"Yeah."
"So no photo, Buddy?"
"The photo of you and Alison Poole has vanished."
"For the record, what was it of?"
"For the record? You don't want to know."
"You know, Buddy, Alison just lost the role in the film version of The Real Thing," I add, "for what it's worth."
"Which is nada. Thank you, Victor. `A Current Affair' has arrived."
"No-thank you, Buddy. And please, this was not from me." I pause, then realize something and shout, "Don't say it, don't-"
"Trust me." Buddy clicks off.
21
Nobu before noon and I'm biting off half a Xanax while passing what's got to be Dad's limo parked out front, and inside: various executives from MTV, a new maitre d' being interviewed by "The CBS Morning News," Helena Christensen, Milla Jovovich and the French shoe designer Christian Louboutin at one table, and at another Tracee Ross, Samantha Kluge, Robbie Kravitz and Cosima Von Bulow, and Dad is the thin Waspish dude wearing the navy-blue Ralph Lauren suit sitting in the second booth from the front doodling notes on a yellow legal pad, a folder lying thick and suspicious next to a bowl of sunomono. Two of his aides have the front booth. He should look middle-aged but with the not-too-recent facelift and since according to my sister he's been on Prozac since April (a secret), everything is vaguely cool. For relaxation: hunting deer, an astrologer to deal with those planetary vibes, squash. And his nutritionist has stressed raw fish, brown rice, no tempura but hijiki is okay and I'm basically here for some toro sashimi, some jokey conversation and a charming inquiry about some cash. He smiles, bright caps.
"Sorry, Dad, I got lost."
"You look thin."
"It's all those drugs, Dad," I sigh, sliding into the booth.
"That's not funny, Victor," he says wearily.
"Dad, I don't do drugs. I'm in great shape."
"No, really. How are you, Victor?"
"I'm a knockout, Dad. A total knockout. I'm rippin'. Things are happening. I'm in control of all the elements. You are laughing somewhat jaggedly, Dad, but I am in continuous flux."
"Is that right?"
"I'm staking out new territory, Dad."
"Which is?"
I stare straight ahead. "The future."
Dad stares glumly back, gives up, looks around, smiles awkwardly. "You've become much more skillful, Victor, at expressing, um, your ambitions."
"You bet, Dad. I'm streamlined and direct."
"That's wonderful." He motions to Evett, the waiter, for more iced tea. "So where are you coming from?"
"I hope you're not doing any more of those naked Webster shots or whatever. Jesus."
"Near naked. Bruce Weber. I'm not trying to freak you out, Dad."
"Wagging your ass around like-"
"It was an Obsession ad, Dad. You're acting like it was some kind of p**n o movie."
"What's your point, Victor?"
"Dad, the point is: the-column-blocked-my-crotch."
He's already flipping through his menu. "Before I forget, thank you for the, um, Patti Lupone CD you sent me for my birthday, Victor. It was a thoughtful gift."
I scan the menu too. "No sweat, dude."
Dad keeps glancing uneasily over at the MTV table, some of the executives probably making wisecracks. I resist waving.
Dad asks, "Why are they staring over here like that?"
"Maybe because you have `lost white guy' written all over you?" I ask. "Christ, I need a glass of bottled water. Or a dry beer."
Evett comes over with the iced tea and silently takes our order, then moves uncertainly toward the back of the restaurant. "Nice-looking girl," my dad says, admiringly.