“I’m not sure, but Scott is supposed to be some kind of phantom-android obsessed with curry—the spice—and we have a fight about whatever people who look like us have fights about and I throw a cube, some kind of—oh, I don’t know—a cube at him and then, according to the script, he ‘flees.’”
“Yeah, that’s right,” I say. “I remember the script.”
“And then the bad phantom-android—”
“Baby,” I interrupt gently. “The synopsis can wait.”
“We’re waiting,” Chloe says. “Scott forgot his dialogue.”
“Baby, I read the shooting script,” I say. “He only has one line. Singular.”
The seventeen-year-old director moves over to the booth holding a walkie-talkie and he’s wearing DKNY silver jeans and sunglasses and it’s all kind of a glam combo. “Chloe, we’ve decided to shoot the first shot last.”
“Taylor, I’m desperately needed somewhere in less than an hour,” Chloe pleads. “It’s a matter of life or death. Taylor, this is Victor.”
“Hey,” Taylor says. “We met at Pravda last week.”
“I wasn’t at Pravda last week but oh what the hell, forget it—how’s it going?”
“The extras are cool kids but we want to portray a lifestyle that people can relate to,” Taylor explains. I’m nodding deeply. “My vision is to create the opposite of whatever smuggling Pervitin back from Prague in a rented Toyota means.” An interruption, static from the walkie-talkie, garbled screams from across the room. “That’s just Lars, the runner.” Taylor winks.
“Taylor—” Chloe starts.
“Baby, you will be whisked out of this room in less than thirty, I promise.” Taylor moves back to the group surrounding the egg.
“God, my nerves are fraught,” she says.
“What does that mean?”
“It means it has taken a week to shoot this and we’re three weeks behind schedule.”
Pause. “No, what does ‘fraught’ mean?”
“It means I’m tense. It means I’m very tense.”
Finally: “Baby, we gotta talk about something.”
“Victor, I’ve told you that if you need any money—”
“No, no.” Pause. “Well, actually that too, but …”
“What?” She looks up at me, waiting. “What is it, Victor?”
“Baby, it’s just that I’m getting really, um, I’m getting really nervous opening up magazines and reading about who your ideal man is.”
“Why is that, Victor?” She turns back to the mirror.
“Well, I guess the main reason is that”—I glance over at La Tosh and lower my voice—“it’s like the total opposite of me?”
“Oh, so what?” She shrugs. “I said I liked blonds.”
“But baby, I’m really a brunette.”
“Victor, you read this in a magazine, for god’s sake.”
“Jesus, and all this shit about having kids.” I’m moving around now. “Spare me, baby. What’s the story? What’s the megillah?”
“You’ll forgive me, Victor, if I have no idea what ‘megillah’ means.”
“Baby, I’m your best friend, so why don’t—”
“A mirror’s your best friend, Victor.”
“Baby, it’s just that …” I trail off hopelessly. “I … care about us and …”
“Victor, what’s wrong? What is it? Why are you doing this now?”
I recover slightly. “Nothing, nothing. It’s nothing.” I’m shaking my head, clearing it.
“I’ve been holding an ice cube all day,” Chloe says.
“Your fingers are turning blue and you’ve been rolling around with Scott Benoit all day. Is that what you’re saying?”
Music from a boom box, something British, Radiohead maybe, a ballad, lush and sad, plays over the scene.
“Victor, all I want to do, in the following order, is Todd’s show, your opening and then collapse into bed, and I don’t even wanna do two of those.”
“Who’s Baxter Priestly?” I blurt out.
“He’s a friend, Victor. A friend. My friend,” she says. “You should get to know some of them.”
I’m about to take her hand but think better of it. “I ran into one today. Lauren Hynde.” I wait for a reaction but there isn’t one. “Yeah, I saw her before band practice when I was buying CDs at Tower Records. She seemed like really hostile.”
“Buying CDs at Tower? Band practice? These are the essentials? You were swamped? What else did you do today? Visit a petting zoo? Take glass-blowing lessons?”
“Hey baby, chill out. I met a friend of yours. That should soothe you—”
“I’m dating an imbecile and I should be soothed by this?”
A long pause, then, “Baby, I’m not an imbecile. You’re very cool.”
She turns away from the mirror. “Victor, you don’t know how many times in a day I come within inches of slapping you. You just don’t know.”
“Whoa, baby. I don’t think I want to. Makes me nervous.” I smile, shivering.
The runner comes by the booth. “Chloe, your limo’s here and Taylor needs you in about five minutes.”
Chloe just nods. When it becomes clear that I’ve got nothing else to say she fills the silence by murmuring, “I just want to finish this thing,” and since I don’t know what thing she’s really talking about I start to babble. “Baby, why are you even doing this? I thought it was strictly features for Chloe Byrnes. You turned down that MTV thing.”
“You didn’t want me to do that MTV thing, Victor.”
“Yeah, but only when I found out what your per diem was.”
“No. You said no when you found out that you didn’t have one.”
“Might as well face it,” I say. “You’re addicted to love.”
“Chloe,” Taylor calls from the egg. “We’re ready. And please hurry. Mr. Benoit might forget his line again.”
“I’ll see you later, Victor.” She slides out of the booth.
“Okay,” I say simply. “Bye, baby.”
“Oh Victor, before I forget.”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for the flowers.”
She kisses me lightly, moves on.
“Yeah. Sure. Forget about it.”
15
4:00. From my third-floor vantage the club hasn’t been this bustling since its inception and tables are being set by handpicked busboys who just skateboarded in, waiters brandishing glasses and tablecloths and candles also set chairs around the tables and the carpets are being vacuumed by guys with shag haircuts and a couple of waitresses who arrived early are being photographed by shadowy clumps of people while dancers rehearse amid technicians and security teams and guest-list people and three gorgeous coat-check girls chew gum and flaunt their midriffs and pierced belly buttons and bars are being stocked and giant flower displays are in the process of being strategically lit and Matthew Sweet’s “We’re the Same” is blaring and the metal detectors sit in place at the entrance waiting to be entered and I’m taking it all in blankly, considering fleetingly what it all means and also that being semi-famous is in itself difficult but since it’s so cold in the club it’s hard to stay still so I rush up two flights to the offices more relieved than I should be that everything’s finally falling into place.
“Where was Beau? I called him four times today,” I ask JD the second I enter.
“Acting class, then an audition for the new big vampire movie,” JD says.
“What’s it called?” I throw a clump of invites on my desk. “Fagula?”
“Now he’s interviewing DJs in the VIP room in case we don’t get DJ X tonight,” JD says, a fey warning.
“You know, JD, that outfit would look really good on a girl.”
“Here, Victor,” JD says, grimly handing me a fax.
I KNOW WHO YOU ARE AND I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING is scrawled on the fax addressed to me that JD basically stuffs into my hands, looking vaguely panicked.
“What is this?” I ask, st
aring at the words.
“Seven of them have arrived since you left for lunch.”
“Seven of them?” I ask. “What the fuck does it mean?”
“I think they’re coming from the Paramount Hotel,” JD says, finding another one. “Someone has made sure that the logo was erased on top of the fax sheets but Beau and I caught half the number on the second one and it matched.”
“The Paramount?” I ask. “What does this mean?”
“Victor, I don’t want to know what it means,” JD says, shivering. “Just make the bad man go away.”
“Jesus, it could apply to anything,” I mutter. “So ultimately it’s like meaningless.” I crumple it up. “Would you please eat this? Chew carefully.”
“Victor, you need to make an appearance in front of the DJs upstairs,” JD says carefully.
“Do you think I’m actually being stalked?” I ask. “Wait—how cool.”
“And the Details reporter is hanging out with the DJs and—”
I start to move out of the office, JD trailing behind.
“—here are more late RSVPs.” JD hands me another fax as we head toward the VIP room.
“Dan Cortese?” I’m asking. “A brave man. He bungee jumps, he sky surfs, he’s a Burger King spokesperson, but he needs a nose job and I want Dan Cortese unplugged.”
“Richard Gere is coming, Victor,” JD says, keeping up. “And Ethan Hawke, Bill Gates, Tupac Shakur, Billy Idol’s brother Dilly, Ben Stiller and Martin Davis are also coming.”
“Martin Davis?” I groan. “Jesus, let’s just invite George the Pee Drinker and his good friend Woody the Dancing Amputee.”
“So is Will Smith, Kevin Smith and, um, Sir Mix-a-Lot,” JD says, ignoring me.
“Just apprise me of the crouton situation.” I stop in front of the velvet curtains leading into the VIP room.
“The croutons are in excellent shape and we’re all incredibly relieved,” JD says, bowing.
“Don’t mock me, JD,” I warn. “I will not be mocked.”
“Now wait—before you go in,” JD says. “It’s pretty much a catastrophe, so just, y’know, give your usual winning spiel and get the fuck out of there. They just want to know that you, er, exist.” JD thinks about it. “On second thought—” He’s about to hold me back.
“You’ve got to be sensitive to their needs, JD,” I tell him. “They’re not just DJs. They’re music designers.”
“Before you go in, Jackie Christie and Kris Spirit are also available.”
“Lesbian DJs, man? I don’t know. Is it happening? Is it cool?” I slap on a pair of wraparound green-tinted sunglasses before I slip into the VIP room, where a mix of seven guys and girls hang out in two booths, Beau sitting on a chair in front of them with a clipboard. The loony Details girl reporter, hovering dangerously nearby, waves and JD says “Hey, Beau” in a very professional way and then glumly introduces me. “Hey everybody—here’s Victor Ward.”
“My nom de guerre in clubland,” I faux-gush.
“Victor,” Beau says, standing. “This is Dollfish, Boomerang, Joopy, CC Fenton, Na Na and, um”—he checks his clipboard—“Senator Claiborne Pell.”
“So-o-o,” I ask, pointing at the guy with blond dreadlocks. “What do you play?”
“I play Ninjaman but also a lot of Chic and Thompson Twins, and man, this is all kind of borderline bogus.”
“Beau, take note of that,” I instruct. “How about you?” I ask, pointing at a girl wearing a harlequin outfit and dozens of love beads.
“Anita Sarko taught me everything I know and I also lived with Jonathan Peters,” she says.
“You’re warming this place up, bay-bee,” I say.
“Victor,” JD says, pointing at another DJ, hanging back in the dark. “This is Funkmeister Flex.”
“Hey Funky.” I lower my sunglasses for a wink. “Okay, guys, you got three turntables, a tape deck, a DAT player, two CD players and a reel-to-reel for delay effects to spin your respective magic. How does that sound?”
Muffled cool noises, mindless looks, more cigarettes lit.
“While you’re spinning,” I continue, pacing, “I want you all to sulk. I don’t want to see anyone enjoying themselves. Got it?” I pause to light a cigarette. “There is techno, there is house, there is hard house, there’s Belgian house, there’s gabba house.” I pause again, unsure of where I’m going with this, then decide to segue into “I don’t want to be sweating in an actual warehouse. I want that sweating-in-a-warehouse feeling in a three-million-dollar nightclub with two VIP rooms and four full bars.”
“It should be very chill,” JD adds. “And don’t forget ambient dub—we should have that too.”
“I want instantaneous buzz,” I say, pacing. “It’s not a lot to ask. I just want you to make these people dance.” I pause before adding, “And abortion-clinic violence does not interest me.”
“Um …” Dollfish tentatively raises a hand.
“Dollfish,” I say. “Please speak.”
“Um, Victor, it’s already four-fifteen,” Dollfish says.
“Your point, sistah?” I ask.
“What time do you need one of us?” she asks.
“Beau—please take care of these questions,” I say, bowing, before sweeping out of the room.
JD follows me as I head back up toward Damien’s office.
“Really nice, Victor,” JD says. “You inspired people, as usual.”
“That’s my job,” I say. “Where’s Damien?”
“Damien has instructed me not to have anyone interrupt him right now,” JD says.
“I have got to complain to him about inviting Martin Davis,” I say, heading back up the stairs. “Things are getting horrific.”
“That’s not a good idea, Victor.” JD runs ahead of me. “He was very insistent that there be no interruptions.”
“Turn the beat around, JD.”
“Um … why?”
“Because I love to hear percussion.”
“Don’t do this now, Victor,” JD pleads. “Damien wants to be left alone.”
“But that’s the way, uh-huh uh-huh, I like it, uh-huh uh-huh.”
“Okay, okay,” JD pants. “Just get that fabulous ass over to Fashion Café, nab DJ X and do not sing ‘Muskrat Love.’”
“‘Muskrat Suzy, Muskrat Sa-a-am … ’”
“Victor, I’ll do whatever you want.”
“London, Paris, New York, Munich, everybody talk about—pop music.” I tweak his nose and march toward Damien’s chamber.
“Please, Victor, let’s go the other way,” JD says. “The better way.”
“But that’s the way, uh-huh uh-huh, I like it.”
“He doesn’t want to be bothered, Victor.”
“Hey, I don’t either, so get away from me, you little mo.”
“Victor, he told me to hold all calls and—”
“Hey—” I stop, turning toward him, pulling my arm out of his grasp. “I’m Victor Ward and I’m opening this club and I am sure that I am—what’s the word? oh yeah—exempt from Mr. Ross’s rules.”
“Victor—”
I don’t even knock, just stride in and begin bitching.
“Damien, I know you didn’t want to be bothered but have you checked the guest list for this thing? We have people like Martin Davis supposedly stopping in and I just think that we have to be careful about who the paparazzi are going to see and who they’re not .…”
Damien’s standing by the windows of his office, a large expanse of glass that overlooks Union Square Park, and he’s wearing a polka-dot shirt and Havana-style jacket and he’s pressed up against a girl wearing an Azzedine Alaïa wrap coat and a pair of Manolo Blahnik high heels, all covered in pink and turquoise, who immediately disengages from him and flops onto a green hop sofa.
Lauren Hynde has changed since I saw her outside Tower Records earlier this afternoon.
“And, um, I, um …” I trail off, then recover and say, “Damien—I love that moneyed beachcom
ber look on you, baby.”
Damien looks down at himself, then back at me, smiles tightly as if nothing’s really wrong, and in the overall context of things maybe it isn’t, then he says, “Hey, I like that unconstructed boxy look you got going.”
Stunned, I look down at my hip-hugger pants, the tight satin shirt, the long leather coat, forcing myself not to glance over at the green hop sofa and the girl lounging on it. A long, chilly silence none of us are able to fill floats around, acts cool, lives.
JD suddenly sticks his head in, the Details girl looking over his shoulder, both of them still stuck in the doorway, as if there’s a dangerous invisible line existing that they are not allowed to cross. “Damien, I’m sorry about the interruption,” he says.
“It’s cool, JD,” Damien says, moving over to the door and closing it in their faces.
Damien moves past me and I’m concentrating on staring out the window at people in the park, squinting to make some of them come into focus, but they’re too far off and anyway Damien enters my view, dominating it, and picks up a cigar on his desk and a book of matches from the Delano. The new issue of Vanity Fair sits by an Hermès lamp, along with various glossy Japanese magazines, CDs, a PowerBook, a bottle of Dom Pérignon 1983 in an ice bucket, two half-empty flutes, a dozen roses, which Lauren will not carry out of this room.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Damien snaps. I flinch. “Why in the fuck is Geena Davis on the cover of goddamn Vanity Fair? Does she have a movie out? No. Is she doing anything new? No. Jesus Christ, the world’s falling apart and no one cares. How do these things happen?”
Not looking over at Lauren Hynde, I just shrug amiably. “Oh, you know how it happens: a shoe ad here, a VJ spot there, a bit part in ‘Baywatch,’ a bad indie film, then boom: Val Kilmer.”
“Maybe she has cancer.” Lauren shrugs. “Maybe she went on a big shopping expedition.”
“Do you guys know each other?” Damien asks. “Lauren Hynde, Victor Ward.”
“Hey, Lauren.” I manage a ghastly little wave, which turns into a peace sign, then back into a ghastly little wave.
“Hi.” She tries to smile without looking at me, concentrating on her fingernails.
Glamorama Page 14