“Why? Because you didn’t have any?”
“No. Because I knew if I answered him he’d laugh.”
“I just remember hearing about you being sent home for refusing to remove your sunglasses in algebra class.”
“Dad, I’m opening this club. I’m doing some modeling.” I sit up alittle for emphasis. “Hey—and I’m waiting to hear if I have a part in Flatliners II.”
“This is a movie?” he asks dubiously.
“No—it’s a sandwich,” I say, stunned.
“I mean, my god,” he sighs. “Victor, you’re twenty-seven and you’re only a model?”
“Only a model?” I say, still stunned. “Only a model? I’d rethink the way you phrased that, Dad.”
“I’m thinking about you working hard at something that—”
“Yeah, Dad, I’ve really grown up in an environment where hard work is the way people get rich. Right.”
“Just don’t tell me you’re looking for, um, artistic and personal growth through—let me get this straight—modeling?”
“Dad, a top male model can get eleven thousand dollars a day.”
“Are you a top male model?”
“No, I’m not a top male model, but that’s not my point.”
“I lose a lot of sleep, Victor, trying to figure just what your point is.”
“I’m a loser, baby,” I sigh, slumping back into the booth. “So why don’t you kill me?”
“You’re not a loser, Victor,” Dad sighs back. “You just need to, er, find yourself.” He sighs again. “Find—I don’t know—a new you?”
“‘A new you’?” I gasp. “Oh my god, Dad, you do a great job of making me feel useless.”
“And opening this club tonight makes you feel what?”
“Dad, I know, I know—”
“Victor, I just want—”
“I just want to do something where it’s all mine,” I stress. “Where I’m not … replaceable.”
“So do I.” Dad flinches. “I want that for you too.”
“A model … modeling is … I’m replaceable,” I sigh. “There are a thousand guys who’ve got pouty lips and nice symmetry. But opening something, a club, it’s …” My voice trails off.
After a longish silence Dad says, “A photo of you in People magazine last week was brought to my attention.”
“What issue? I didn’t see this. Who was on the cover?”
“I don’t know,” he says, glaring. “Someone on my staff brought it to my attention.”
“Goddamnit!” I slam my hand down on the table. “This is why I need a publicist.”
“The point being, Victor, that you were at a fairly lavish hotel somewhere—”
“A fairly lavish hotel somewhere?”
“Yes. In Miami.”
“I was at a hotel? Somewhere in Miami?”
“Yes. A hotel. In Miami. Wearing—barely—a bathing suit made of white linen and very, very wet—”
“Did I look good?”
“Sunglasses. Smoking what I can only hope was a cigarette, your arms around two nubile well-oiled Penthouse Playmates—”
“I really need to see this, Dad.”
“When were you in Miami?”
“I haven’t been to Miami in months,” I stress. “This is so sad—mistaking your own flesh and blood, your own son, a—”
“Victor,” my father says calmly, “your name was in the caption below the photo.”
“I don’t think that was me, dude.”
“Well,” he starts lightly, “if it wasn’t you, Victor, then who was it?”
“I will have to check this out, baby.”
“And what’s with your last name?” he asks. “You’re still sticking with Ward?”
“I thought changing my last name was your idea, bro.”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he murmurs, delicately opening a folder containing press clippings, faxes of press clippings, photos of me.
“This is a quote from”—my father turns a blurry fax over—“from the New York Times Styles section, actually. A smallish article about you, and this pull quote: ‘In the uterus of love we are all blind cave fish.’ Is this true, Victor? Could you please explain the term ‘uterus’ in the context of that sentence? And also if blind cave fish actually exist?”
“Oh boy—a two-parter. Dude, this is so bogus,” I sigh. “The press always distorts what I say.”
“Well, what are you saying?”
“Why are you so literal-minded?”
“A CK One ad. Here it looks as if there are two guys—though what the hell do I know, it could be two gals—and yes, they’re kissing each other and you’re looking on with your hands down the front of your pants. Why are your hands down the front of your pants? Is this gesture supposed to tell us that CK One is a reliable product?”
“Sex sells, dude.”
“I see.”
“The better you look, the more you see.”
“Here’s an interview from, um, YouthQuake—and by the way, congratulations on making the cover, wearing an eye shadow that’s a lovely shade of brown—”
“It’s terra-cotta,” I sigh. “But whatever.”
“—and they ask you who you would most like to have lunch with, and your answers are: the Foo Fighters, astrologist Patric Walker—who is dead, incidentally—and (this isn’t a misprint, right?) the Unabomber?”
I stare back at him. “So?”
“You want to have lunch with … the Unabomber?” he asks. “Is this valuable information? Do we really need to know this about you?”
“What about my fans?”
“Another quote attributed to you, unless this is another distortion: ‘Washington, D.C., is the stupidest city in the world, with the, like, dumbest people in it.’”
“Oh Dad—”
“I work and live in Washington, D.C., Victor. What you say and do actually affects my life, and because of what my life is like, it can be acutely embarrassing for me.”
“Dad—”
“I just wanted to point this out.”
“Spare me, please.”
“It also says here that you’re in a band called Pussy Beat, which used to be called”—he gulps—“Kitchen Bitch.”
“We’ve changed the name. We’re the Impersonators now.”
“Oh Jesus, Victor. It’s just that whole crowd—”
“Dad, I freaked out when Charlie and Monique tattooed their baby. Jeez—what? You think I’m some kind of delinquent?”
“Add to this that your sister says outtakes of you from that Madonna book are showing up on the Internet—”
“Dad, it’s all under control.”
“How can you say that?” he asks. “It’s just tacky, Victor. Very tacky.”
“Dad, life is tacky.”
“But you don’t need to win first prize.”
“So what you’re saying, basically, is that I’m a mixed bag.”
“No,” he says. “Not exactly.”
“So I guess more cash is out of the question?”
“Victor, don’t do this. We’ve been over that many, many times.”
I pause. “So I guess more cash is out of the question.”
“I think the trust should suffice.”
“Hey, New York’s expensive—”
“Then move.”
“Oh my god, get real.”
“What are you trying to tell me, Victor?”
“Dad.” I breathe in. “Let’s face it. I’m broke.”
“You have a check coming in a couple of days.”
“It’s gone.”
“How can the check be gone if you haven’t even received it yet?”
“Believe me, I find it a total mystery too.”
“Your monthly check is it, Victor,” Dad stresses. “No more. No less. Understood?”
“Well, I guess I’ll just have to max out my Visa.”
“Really smart idea, son.”
Amanda deCadenet stops by the t
able and kisses me hard on the mouth and says she’ll see me tonight and leaves without being introduced to Dad.
“How’s Chloe?” he asks.
20
Lunch was mercifully short and now it’s only 1:10 and I tell the driver to drop me off at Broadway and Fourth so I can stop by Tower Records before band practice to pick up some badly needed new CDs, and inside, the pop group Sheep—the new alternative rock band, whose single “Diet Coke at the Gap” is the buzz clip on MTV this month—is milling around the front of the store blinking into various video cameras as Michael Levine—the Annie Leibovitz of alternative rock—snaps pictures and “Aeon Flux” is on all the monitors and I scan the magazine rack for the new issue of YouthQuake to see if there are any letters about the article on me. In my basket: Trey Lewd, Rancid, Cece Pensiton, Yo La Tengo, Alex Chilton, Machines of Loving Grace, Jellyfish, the 6th’s, Teenage Fanclub. I’ve also snuck my modeling portfolio in and I spot this cute Oriental girl wearing white jeans with a silver chain-link belt, a V-neck jersey tunic and flat black sandals looking at the back of an ELO CD and I “accidentally” drop the portfolio, bathing suit shots scattering around her feet. I pause before I bend down to pick them up, pretending to be mortified, hoping that she’ll check it out, but she just gives me a why-bother? look and walks away and then this cute-as-a-button little gay guy starts helping me. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I keep saying, pulling a thong shot out of his hand, and then I see the hottest-looking girl in Tower Records.
She’s standing by a listening station, headphones on, pressing buttons, swaying, wearing a pair of tight melon-colored Capri pants that meld into small black boots and an opened violet-beige Todd Oldham overcoat, and as I move closer I can see she’s holding Blur, Suede, Oasis, Sleeper CDs. I’m right behind her as she pulls the headphones off.
“That’s the coolest record,” I say, pointing at the Oasis CD. “Tracks three, four, five and ten are all excellent.”
She turns around, startled, sees my face, and what can only be described as a strange expression—one-third worried, one-third smiling, maybe one-third something else—creases her features and then she asks, “Do you know me?” but it’s in this teasing way that I’m accustomed to and so I’m able to answer confidently, “Yeah—L.A. or Miami, right?”
“No,” she says, her eyes hardening.
“Did you”—I have a small flash—“go to Camden?”
“You’re getting less cold,” she says simply.
“Wait—are you a model?”
“No,” she sighs. “I’m not.”
“But Camden is near the target?” I ask hopefully.
“Yes, it is.” She sighs again.
“Yeah, yeah, foliage is definitely coming my way.”
“That’s good.” She crosses her arms.
“So you did go to Camden?” I ask and then, to make sure, “The one in New Hampshire?”
“Is there another one?” she says impatiently.
“Hey baby, whoa.”
“Well,” she says, tapping the Oasis CD, “thanks for the record review, Victor.”
“Oh man, you know me?”
She slings a red suede zip-top circular purse over her shoulder and lowers Matsuda sunglasses—blue eyes—and pouts, “Victor Johnson? I mean, that’s if you are Victor Johnson.”
“Well, yeah,” I admit sheepishly. “Actually it’s Victor Ward now but, um, it’s still the same me.”
“Oh, that’s just great,” she says. “So you got married? Who’s the lucky guy?”
“The little pinhead over there with the strawberry strudel on his head.” I point to the gay guy who I’m just noticing has kept one of the bathing suit shots. He smiles, then scampers away. “He’s, uh, shy.”
Finally I realize that I actually know this girl. “Oh man, I’m so bad with names,” I apologize. “I’m sorry.”
“Go ahead,” she says, holding something in, “be a big boy—take a guess.”
“Okay, I’m gonna have a psychic moment.” I bring my hands to my temples and close my eyes. “Karen … Nancy … Jojo … You have a brother named Joe? … I’m seeing a lot of, er, Js …. I’m seeing, I’m seeing a … a … a kitten … a kitten named Cootie?” I open my eyes.
“It’s Lauren.” She looks at me dully.
“Lauren, ri-i-ight.”
“Yeah,” she says in a hard way. “Lauren Hynde? Remember now?”
I pause, freaked. “Gosh. Lauren Hynde. Whoa …”
“Do you know who I am now?” she asks.
“Oh baby, I’m really …” Stumped, I admit, “You know, they say Klonopin causes short-term memory loss, so—”
“Why don’t we start with this: I’m Chloe’s friend.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, trying to get comfortable. “We were just talking about you.”
“Mmm.” She starts moving down an aisle, running her hand along the rim of the CD racks, moving away from me.
I follow. “Yeah, it was a totally nice, um, chat, y’know?”
“What about?”
“Just, y’know, positive things.”
She keeps walking and I hang back, taking my sunglasses off to check out the body beneath the open coat: thin with full breasts, long and shapely legs, short blond hair, everything else—eyes, teeth, lips, whatever—equally nice. I catch up, keep moving with her, casually swinging the basket of CDs at my side.
“So you remember me from Camden?” I ask.
“Oh yeah,” she says half-scornfully. “I remember you.”
“Well, did you act this way at college or am I acting different?”
She stops moving and turns to face me. “You really don’t remember who I am, do you, Victor?”
“Yes I do. You’re Lauren Hynde.” I pause. “But y’know, I was away a lot and Klonopin causes long-term memory loss.”
“I thought it caused short-term memory loss.”
“See—I already can’t remember.”
“Oh god, forget it.”
She’s about to turn away when I ask, “Am I the same?”
She looks me over carefully. “Pretty much, I guess.” She focuses on my head, scanning my face. “Well, I don’t think you had those sideburns.”
An opening that I leap into. “Learn to love the sideburns, baby. They’re your best friends. Pet the sideburns.” I lean in, offer my profile, purring.
She just looks at me like I’ve lost it.
“What? What is it?” I ask. “Pet the sideburns, baby.”
“Pet the sideburns?”
“People worship the sideburns, baby.”
“You know people who worship hair?” she asks, semi-appalled. “You know people who want to look twenty forever?”
I wave a fly away. I move into another mode.
“So what’s going on, Lauren Hynde? God you look great. What’s the story? Where’ve you been?” Maybe I ask this with the wrong tone, because she segues into the inevitable.
“I ran into Chloe at Patricia Field’s last week,” she says.
“Patricia Field’s apartment?” I ask, impressed.
“No,” she says, looking at me strangely. “Her store, dummy.”
“Oh. That’s cool.”
A long pause, during which various girls pass by. A couple of them say hi to me but I casually ignore them. Lauren eyes them skeptically, troubled, which is a good sign.
“Um, I’m unsure of what we were talking about—”
My beeper goes off. I check the number: Alison.
“Who’s that?” Lauren asks.
“Oh, y’know, probably just another call about unionizing male models.” I shrug, then add, after a pause, “I’m a model.”
“Unionizing male models?” She starts walking away again, which only makes me want to follow her more.
“You say that like it’s a joke.”
“I think you need committed people to form a union, Victor.”
“Hey, no dark sarcasm in the classroom.”
“This is ridiculo
us,” she says. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Why?”
“I’m having lunch with someone.” Her hand is actually trembling as she runs it through her hair.
“Who?” I ask.
“Why?” she asks back.
“A guy?”
“Victor.”
“Aw, come on.”
“Baxter Priestly, actually, if you must know.”
“Oh great,” I groan. “Who is this little shit? I mean, spare me, baby.”
“Victor, Chloe and I are friends. I assume you know this,” she says, staring straight at me. “At least you’re supposed to know this.”
“Why am I supposed to know this?” I smile.
“Because she’s your girlfriend?” she asks, her mouth hanging open.
“That’s an excuse?”
“No, Victor. A reason. You’re making it an excuse.”
“You’re losing me, baby. This is getting kinda trippy.”
“Well, steady yourself.”
“Hey, what about a cappuccino?”
“Don’t you know who your girlfriend’s acquaintances are? Don’t you talk to her?” Lauren is losing it. “What’s with you—oh god, why am I asking? I know, I know. I’ve gotta go.”
“Wait, wait—I want to get these.” I gesture toward the basket of CDs I’m holding. “Come with me and I’ll walk you out. I’ve got band practice but I can squeeze in a latte.”
She hesitates, then moves with me toward the registers. Once there, my AmEx card doesn’t go through. I moan “Spare me” but Lauren actually smiles—a smile that causes a major déjà vu—and puts it on her card when she pays for her CDs and she doesn’t even say anything about paying her back.
It’s so cold in Tower that everything—the air, the sounds revolving around us, the racks of CDs—feels white, snowed in. People pass by, moving on to the next register, and the high-set fluorescent lighting that renders everyone flat and pale and washed out doesn’t affect Lauren’s skin, which looks like ivory that’s tan, and her presence—just the mere gesture of her signing the receipt—touches me in a way I can’t shrug off, and the music rising above us—“Wonderwall”—makes me feel doped and far away from my life. Lust is something I really haven’t come across in a long time and I follow it now in Tower Records and it’s getting hard to shake off the thought that Lauren Hynde is part of my future. Outside, I put my hand on the small of her back, guiding her through the sidewalk crowd to the curb on Broadway. She turns around and looks at me for a long time and I let her.
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