Glamorama

by Bret Easton Ellis

  “That sucks pretty majorly if you ask me,” I say, stunned.

  “Does it?”

  “I wouldn’t be sitting here now if I knew this earlier.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Where the fuck is she?”

  “In Beirut, at the opening of a new Planet Hollywood.”

  “This is seriously demeaning.”

  “Tough shit, you big baby.”

  “That—gosh, Mutt—that really shocks me,” I say, tears welling up. “That really shocks me that you would talk that way to me.”

  “Uh-huh.” Mutt closes his eyes, holds a viewfinder up to his ear.

  “Okay.”

  “Wait a minute, so wait .…” I look over at the VJ on his cell phone underneath a giant Nan Goldin that Chloe gave me for a Christmas present. “That pederast over there’s going to do it?” I’m asking, appalled. “That fag pederast?”

  “Hey, what’s your life? A G-rated movie?”

  “I don’t want to be interviewed by someone who is known in this business as a big fag pederast.”

  “You ever sleep with a guy, Victor?”

  Remembering MTV’s new all-consuming the-entire-world-is-full-of-homos mentality, I smirk and semi-nod and choke out “Maybe” and then compose myself to add, “But now I am a strict heterosexual.” Long pause. “Devout, in fact.”

  “I’ll alert the media.”

  “You are the media, Mutt,” I exclaim. “You and the fag pederast VJ are the media.”

  “Ever sleep with a fifteen-year-old?” Mutt asks tiredly.

  “Girl?” Pause. “Maybe.”

  “So?”

  Trying to decipher what Mutt’s getting at, I pause, squinting, then yelp out, “What the fuck does that mean, bozo? Are you trying to make a point? Because it’s like, um, eluding me.”

  The VJ comes over, all boyish smiles and Versace.

  “He dates Chloe Byrnes,” Mutt says. “That’s all you really need to know.”

  “Super,” the VJ says. “Can we work it in?”

  “You will work it in,” I answer for Mutt. “And no questions about my father.”

  “You’re shooting from the hip,” the VJ says. “And I like it.”

  “And I’m camera ready.”

  MTV: “So how does it feel to be the It Boy of the moment?”

  ME: “Fame has a price tag but reality’s still a friend of mine.”

  MTV: “How do you think other people perceive you?”

  ME: “I’m a bad boy. I’m a legend. But in reality everything’s a big world party and there are no VIP rooms.”

  MTV (pause, confusion): “But aren’t there three VIP rooms at your new club?”

  ME: “Um … cut. Cut. Cut.”

  Everyone huddles together and I explain the game plan—that I want to discuss my personal relationships with Robert Downey, Jr., Jennifer Aniston, Matt Dillon, Madonna, Latouse LaTrek and Dodi Fayed—and people finally nod, satisfied. Life moves on with a few soft-lob inquiries and a chance to be fashionably rude, which I grab.

  MTV: “How was it guest-starring on ‘Beverly Hills 90210’?”

  ME: “A classic cliché. Luke Perry looks like a little Nosferatu and Jason Priestley is a caterpillar.”

  MTV: “Do you see yourself as a symbol of a new generation in America?”

  ME: “Well, I represent a pretty big pie-wedge of the new generation. I’m maybe a symbol.” Pause. “An icon? No.” Longer pause. “Not yet.” Long pause. “Have I mentioned that I’m a Capricorn? Oh yeah, and I’m also for regaining the incentive to get this generation more involved in environmental issues.”

  MTV: “That’s so cool.”

  ME: “No, you’re so cool, dude.”

  MTV: “But what do you picture when you envision your generation?”

  ME: “At its worst? Two hundred dead-ass kids dressed like extras from The Crow dancing to C+C Music Factory.”

  MTV: “And what do you think about this?”

  ME (genuinely moved to be asked): “It stresses me out.”

  MTV: “But aren’t the 1980s over? Don’t you think opening a club like this is a throwback to an era most people want to forget? Don’t kids want less opulence?”

  ME: “Hey, this is a personal vision, man.” Pause. “No matter how commercial it, y’know, feels. And”—finally realizing something—“I just want to give something back to the community.” Pause. “I do it for the people.” Pause. “Man.”

  MTV: “What are your thoughts on fashion?”

  ME: “Fashion may be about insecurity but fashion is a good way to relieve tension.”

  MTV (pause): “Really?”

  ME: “I’m completely absorbed by fashion. I seek it. I crave it. Seven days a week, twenty-eight hours a day. Did I mention that I’m a Capricorn? Oh, and yeah—being the best at only one thing is counterproductive.”

  MTV (long pause, mild confusion): “You and Chloe Byrnes have been together how long now?”

  ME: “Time is meaningless when it comes down to Chloe. She defies time, man. I hope she has a long-term career as an actress-slash-model. She’s gorgeous and, er, is my … best friend.”

  (Sounds of Details reporter laughing.)

  MTV: “There have been rumors that—”

  ME: “Hey, maintaining a relationship is one of the difficulties of my job, babe.”

  MTV: “Where did you meet?”

  ME: “At a pre-Grammy dinner.”

  MTV: “What did you say when you met?”

  ME: “I said ‘Hey pussycat’ and then that I was—and still am—an aspiring male model of the year.”

  MTV (after longish pause): “I can tell that you were in a, um, reflective mood that evening.”

  ME: “Hey, success is loving yourself, and anyone who doesn’t think so can fuck off.”

  MTV: “How old are you?”

  ME: “Twentysomething.”

  MTV: “No, really. Exact.”

  ME: “Twen-ty-something.”

  MTV: “What really pisses Victor Ward off?”

  ME: “The fact that David Byrne named his new album after a ‘tea from Sri Lanka that’s sold in Britain.’ I swear to God I heard that somewhere and it drove me nuts.”

  MTV (after polite laughter): “No. What really makes you mad? What really gets you angry?”

  ME (long pause, thinking): “Well, recently, missing DJs, badly behaved bartenders, certain gossipy male models, the media’s treatment of celebs … um …”

  MTV: “We were thinking more along the lines of the war in Bosnia or the AIDS epidemic or domestic terrorism. How about the current political situation?”

  ME (long pause, tiny voice): “Sloppy Rollerbladers? … The words ‘dot com’? …”

  MTV (long pause): “Anything else?”

  ME (realizing something, relieved): “A mulatto, an albino, a mosquito, my libido.”

  MTV (long pause): “Did you … understand the question?”

  ME: “What do you mean by that?”

  MTV: “Aren’t there things going on—”

  ME (pissed): “Maybe you’ve misunderstood my answers.”

  MTV: “Okay, forget it, um—”

  ME: “Just move to the next question.”

  MTV: “Oh, okay—”

  ME: “Shoot.”

  MTV (really long pause, then): “Have you ever wished that you could disappear from all this?”

  8

  Having no idea where my keys are I rush up to Chloe’s realizing we’re running late (also thinking, That’s cool) and Lauren Hynde opens the door and we stare at each other blankly until I say “You look … wonderful tonight” and she suddenly looks like she’s shot through with something like pain or maybe something else like maybe something by Versace and she opens the door wider so I can enter Chloe’s apartment where grunged-out Baxter Priestly’s sitting on the island in the kitchen with a mullet haircut and Oakley eyewear and he’s rolling a joint laced with Xanax and the Sci-Fi Channel is on in the background with the so
und turned down and swanky dreampop coming from two ten-thousand-dollar speakers plays over it and Chloe’s standing next to Baxter eating a peppermint patty in the Todd Oldham dress and listening to Baxter say things like “I saw a bum with really great abs today” and thirteen bottles of mineral water are in various stages of emptiness on a marble countertop next to faxes sent that say I KNOW WHO YOU ARE AND I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING and the dozen French white tulips that I supposedly sent Chloe are in a giant crystal vase that someone named Susan Sontag gave her.

  “You possess repartee in abundance, my friend,” I mutter, slapping Baxter’s shoulder, startling him out of his inanity, leaning in to kiss Chloe in the same movement, waiting for someone to comment on how chic I look. Behind me Lauren Hynde lingers by the door and Chloe says something like “The limo’s waiting on the street” and I nod okay and move sullenly into our bedroom, making sure Chloe catches the scowl I hurl at Baxter while he continues deseeding.

  In my closet: white jeans, leather belts, leather bomber jacket, black cowboy boots, a couple of black wool crepe suits, a dozen white shirts, a black turtleneck, crumpled silk pajamas, a high-class porno movie I’ve watched hundreds of times starring people who look just like us. I’m pretending to go through stuff until Chloe walks in seconds after I’ve crouched down inspecting a pair of sandals I bought in Barcelona at a Banana Republic.

  “What’s the story?” I finally ask. “Where’s my three-snap blazer?”

  “About what?” she asks back, tightly.

  “Wasn’t he a head in a Mr. Jenkins ad, baby?”

  “I told you he was coming.”

  “What do you think that antifashion look costs?” I ask. “Two thousand bucks? Three thousand bucks?”

  “Forget about it, Victor.” She’s searching for a pair of sunglasses to wear.

  “Far out.”

  “Victor,” she starts. “What are you looking for?”

  “My hair gel.” I walk away from the closet and brush by her into the bathroom where I start gelling my hair, slicking it back. My beeper goes off and I ignore it. When it goes off again I wash my hands and find out it’s Alison and I’m wondering how everything got so fucked up, but checking out my profile calms me down and I take a few deep breaths, complete a couple of seconds of some deep-sea visualization and then: ready to go.

  “The tux looks nice,” Chloe says, standing in the bathroom door, watching me. “Who was that?” Pause. “On the beeper?”

  “Someone at the club.” I just stand there and then I look at my watch and then move back to the bed where I rummage through the Comme des Garçons bag so the clothes can go to Chloe’s dry cleaners. Absently I find the hat Lauren gave me, all scrunched up.

  “What’s that?” I hear Chloe ask.

  “Oops, wrong hat,” I say, tossing it back in the bag, a Bullwinkle impression that used to make her laugh but now she doesn’t get and she’s not really looking at the hat but thinking other thoughts.

  “I really want things to work out,” Chloe says hesitantly. “Between us,” she clarifies.

  “I’m mad about you.” I shrug. “You’re mad about me.” I shrug again.

  “Don’t do this, Victor.”

  “Do what?”

  “I’m happy for you, Victor,” she says, strained, just standing there in front of me, exhausted. “I’m really happy for you about tonight.”

  “You look faux-orgasmic, baby, and nibbling on that giant mint doesn’t really help matters much.” I brush past her again.

  “Is this about Baxter?” she asks.

  “That twerp? Spare me. It’s freezing in this apartment.”

  “Hey Victor, look at me.”

  I stop, sigh, turn around.

  “I don’t want to apologize about how good my boyfriend is at irritating people, okay?”

  I’m just staring at nothing or what I imagine is nothing until I’m finally moved to say, “As a general rule you shouldn’t expect too much from people, darling,” and then I kiss her on the cheek.

  “I just had my makeup done, so you can’t make me cry.”

  7

  We’ll slide down the surface of things … Old U2 on the stereo and gridlock jams the streets two blocks from the club and I’m not really hearing the things that are being said in the back of the limousine, just words—technobeat, slamming, moonscape, Semtex, nirvana, photogenic—and names of people I know—Jade Jagger, Iman, Andy Garcia, Patsy Kensit, the Goo-Goo Dolls, Galliano—and fleeting pieces of subjects I’m usually interested in—Doc Martens, Chapel Hill, the Kids in the Hall, alien abduction, trampolines—because right now I’m fidgeting with an unlit joint, looking up through the limo’s sunroof, spacing on the sweeping patterns spotlights are making on the black buildings above and around us. Baxter and Lauren are sitting across from Chloe and me and I’m undergoing a slow-motion hidden freak-out, focusing on our excruciating progress toward the club while Chloe keeps trying to touch my hand, which I let her do for seconds at a time before I pull away to light one of Baxter’s cigarettes or to rewind the U2 tape or to simply touch my forehead, specifically not looking in the direction of Lauren Hynde or how her legs are slightly spread or the way she’s staring sadly back at her own reflection in the tinted windows. “We all live in a yellow limousine,” Baxter sing-laughs. “A yellow limousine,” Chloe sings too, giggling nervously, looking over at me for approval. I give it by nodding at Baxter, who’s nodding back, and I’m shuddering. We’ll slide down the surface of things …

  Finally we’re at the curb in front of the club and the first thing I hear is someone yelling “Action!” and U2’s “Even Better Than the Real Thing” starts playing somewhere out of the sky as the driver opens the door and Baxter’s checking his hair in Chloe’s compact and I toss him my cummerbund. “Just wrap this around your head and look dreamy,” I mutter. “You’ll be okay.”

  “Victor,” Chloe starts.

  A wave of cold wind sweeps over the crowd standing behind the barricades in front of the club and causes the confetti strewn over the plush purple-and-green carpet leading up to the entrance to dance and swirl around the legs of cops guarding the place and behind the velvet ropes stand three cool Irish guys Damien hired, each of them holding a walkie-talkie and a separate guest list, and on either side of the velvet ropes are huge gangs of photographers and then the head publicist—smiling warmly until she sees Chloe’s dress—asks us to wait where we are because Alison, wearing the same Todd Oldham dress Chloe has on, and Damien in a Gucci tuxedo are making their entrance and posing for the paparazzi, but people in the crowd have already noticed Chloe and shout out her name in high, garbled voices. Damien appears unusually tense, his jaw clenching and unclenching itself, and Lauren suddenly grabs my hand and I’m also holding Chloe’s and when I look over at Chloe I notice she’s holding Baxter’s.

  Damien turns around when he hears people shouting out Chloe’s name and he nods at me, then smiles sadly at Lauren, who just mutters something indifferent, and when he sees Chloe’s dress he does a hideous double take and tries valiantly to smile back a humongous gag and then he hurriedly ushers Alison into the club even though she’s in the middle of taking major advantage of the photo ops, obviously pissed at the interruption, and thankfully Chloe’s already too blinded by the flashing cameras to have noticed Alison’s dress and I’m making a significant mental note about what should happen once inside: dim all the lights, sweet darling, or the night will be over with.

  The photographers start shouting out all our names as we move toward the stairs leading up into the club and we linger for the appropriate amount of time—our faces masks, Chloe smiling wanly, Baxter smiling sullenly, Lauren genuinely smiling for the first time tonight, me sufficiently dazed—and above the door in giant ’70s lettering is a warning from MTV (“This Event Is Being Videotaped. By Entering You Consent to the Cablecast and Other Exhibition of Your Name, Voice and Likeness”) and then we’re inside moving through the metal detectors and Chloe whispers something into
my ear that I can’t hear. We’ll slide down the surface of things …

  And U2’s “Even Better Than the Real Thing” bursts out as we enter the main room of the club and someone calls out “Action!” again and there are already hundreds of people here and immediately Chloe is pounced on by a new group of photographers and then the camera crews are pushing their way toward her and I let go of her hand, allowing myself to be repositioned by the crowd over to one of the bars, actively ignoring celebs and fans, Lauren following close behind, and I nab the bartender’s attention and order a glass of Veuve Clicquot for Lauren and a Glenlivet for myself and we just stand there while I’m admiring Patrick Woodroffe’s lighting design and how it plays off all the floor-to-ceiling black velvet and Lauren’s thinking I-don’t-even-know-what as she downs the champagne and motions for another one and glancing over at her I finally have to say “Baby …” and then I lean in and nuzzle her cheek with my lips so briefly it wouldn’t register to anyone except someone standing right behind me and I breathe in and close my eyes and when I open them I look to her for a reaction.

  She’s gripping the champagne flute so tightly her knuckles are white and I’m afraid it will shatter and she’s glaring past me at someone behind my back and when I turn around I almost drop my glass but with my other hand hold the bottom to keep it steady.

  Alison finishes a Stoli martini and asks the bartender for another without looking at him, waiting for a kiss from me.

  I grin boyishly while composing myself and kiss her lightly on the cheek but she’s staring back at Lauren when I do this as if I were invisible, which tonight, for maybe the first time in my life, I sort of wish I was. Harry Connick, Jr., Bruce Hulce and Patrick Kelly jostle by. I look away, then down.

  “So-o-o … another Stoli?” I ask Alison.

  “I am now entering the stolar system,” Alison says, staring at Lauren. Casually, to block her view, I lean into the bar.

  “Welcome to the state of relaxation,” I say “jovially.” “Er, enjoy your, um, stay.”

  “You asshole,” Alison mutters, rolling her eyes, then grabs the drink from the bartender and downs it in one gulp. Coughing lightly, she lifts my arm and uses my jacket sleeve to wipe her mouth.