“Oh, don’t be so flippant,” she moans.
“Alison,” I say, sitting up a little. “They also want to protect fruits and vegetables, okay?”
“What’s wrong with that?” she asks. “It’s eco-friendly.”
“Baby, peaches don’t have mothers.”
“They have skin, Victor, and they have flesh.”
“I just think you’re reality-challenged.”
“Who isn’t?” She waves me away. “Animals need as much love and respect and care as we give people.”
I consider this. I think about all the things I’ve seen and done, and I consider this.
“I think they’re better off without that, baby,” I say. “In fact I think they’re doing okay.”
I’m hard again and I roll on top of her.
Later, afterwards, Alison asks me something.
“Did Europe change you, Victor?”
“Why?” I ask sleepily.
“Because you seem different,” she says softly. “Did it?”
“I guess,” I say after a long pause.
“How?” she asks.
“I’m less …” I stop. “I’m less … I don’t know.”
“What happened over there, Victor?”
Carefully, I ask her, “What do you mean?”
She whispers back, “What happened over there?”
I’m silent, contemplating an answer, petting the chows. One licks my hand.
“What happened to Chloe over there, Victor?” Alison whispers.
6
At Industria for the George magazine photo shoot I can’t fathom why the press is making such a big deal about this. Simple before-and-after shots. Before: I’m holding a Bass Ale, wearing Prada, a goatee pasted on my face, a grungy expression, eyes slits. After: I’m carrying a stack of lawbooks and wearing a Brooks Brothers seersucker suit, a bottle of Diet Coke in my left hand, Oliver Peoples wireframes. THE TRANSFORMATION OF VICTOR WARD (UH, WE MEAN JOHNSON) is the headline on the cover for the January issue. The photo shoot was supposed to be outside St. Albans in Washington, D.C.—a school I had sampled briefly before being expelled—but Dad nixed it. He has that kind of clout. The Dalai Lama shows up at Industria, and I’m shaking hands with Chris Rock, and one of Harrison Ford’s sons—an intern at George—is milling about, along with various people who resigned from the Clinton administration, and MTV’s covering the shoot for “The Week in Rock” and a VJ’s asking me questions about the Impersonators’ new huge contract with DreamWorks and how I feel about not being in the band anymore and I give a cute sound bite by saying, “Law school’s easier than being in that band,” and it’s all very Eyes of Laura Mars but it’s also faux-subdued because everyone’s very respectful of what happened to Chloe.
John F. Kennedy, Jr., who’s really just another gorgeous goon, is shaking my hand and he’s saying things like “I’m a big fan of your dad’s” and I’m saying “Yeah?” and though I’m basically calm and amused, there’s one awkward moment when someone who went to Camden accosts me and I simply can’t place him. But I’m vague enough that he can’t become suspicious and then he simply slouches away, giving up.
“Hey!” An assistant with a cell phone rushes over to where I’m standing. “Someone wants to talk to you.”
“Yeah?” I ask.
“Chelsea Clinton wants to say hi,” the assistant pants.
I take the phone from the assistant. Over static I hear Chelsea ask, “Is it really you?”
“Yeah.” I’m grinning “sheepishly.” I’m blushing, “red-faced.”
A Eureka moment handled suavely.
I find it a little difficult to relax once the photo session starts.
The photographer says, “Hey, don’t worry—it’s hard to be yourself.”
I start smiling secretly, thinking secret things.
“That’s it!” the photographer shouts.
Flashes of light keep going off as I stand perfectly still.
On my way out I’m handed an invitation by a nervous groupie to a party for PETA tomorrow night that the Gap is sponsoring at a new restaurant in Morgan’s Hotel.
“I don’t know if I can make it,” I tell a supermodel who’s standing nearby.
“You’re the outgoing type,” the supermodel says. I read recently that she just broke up with her boyfriend, an ex-model who runs a new and very fashionable club called Ecch! She smiles flirtatiously as I start heading out.
“Yeah?” I ask, flirting back. “How do you know?”
“I can tell.” She shrugs, then invites me to a strip-poker game at someone named Mr. Leisure’s house.
5
On the phone with Dad.
“When will you be down here?” he asks.
“In two days,” I say. “I’ll call.”
“Yes. Okay.”
“Has the money been transferred?” I ask.
“Yes. It has.”
Pause. “Are you okay?” I ask.
Pause. “Yes, yes. I’m just … distracted.”
“Don’t be. You need to focus,” I say.
“Yes, yes. Of course.”
“Someone will let you know when I’m there.”
A long pause.
“Hello?” I ask.
“I—I don’t know,” he says, breathing in.
“You’re unraveling,” I warn. “Don’t,” I warn.
“We really don’t need to see each other while you’re here,” he says. “I mean, do we?”
“No. Not really,” I say. “Only if you want.” Pause. “Are there any parties you want to show me off at?”
“Hey—” he snaps.
“Watch it,” I warn.
It takes him forty-three seconds to compose himself.
“I’m glad you’ll be here,” he finally says.
Pause. I let it resonate. “Are you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad I’ll be there too.”
“Really?” He breathes in, trembling.
“Anything to help the cause,” I say.
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“No.” Pause. “You figure it out.” I sigh. “Do you even really care?”
Pause. “If there’s anything you need …” He trails off.
“Don’t you trust me?” I ask.
It takes a long time for him to say, “I think I do.”
I’m smiling to myself. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
4
I meet Damien for drinks at the Independent, not far from the club he and I are supposed to open a month from now in TriBeCa. Damien’s smoking a cigar and nursing a Stoli Kafya, which personally I find disgusting. He’s wearing a Gucci tie. I want to make this quick. Bittersweet folk rock plays in the background.
“Did you see this?” Damien asks as I swing up onto a stool.
“What?” I ask.
He slides a copy of today’s New York Post across the bar, open to “Page Six.” Gossip about the women Victor Johnson has been involved with since Chloe Byrnes’ unfortunate death in a Paris hotel room. Peta Wilson. A Spice Girl. Alyssa Milano. Garcelle Beauvais. Carmen Electra. Another Spice Girl.
“For mature audiences only, right?” Damien says, nudging me, arching his eyebrows up.
There’s a little hug between the two of us, not much else.
I relax, order a Coke, which causes Damien to shake his head and mutter “Oh, man” too aggressively.
“I guess you know why I’m here,” I say.
“Victor, Victor, Victor,” Damien sighs, shaking his head.
I pause, confused. “So … you do know?”
“I forgive you entirely,” he says, acting casual. “Come on, you know that.”
“I just want out, man,” I say. “I’m older. I’ve got school.”
“How is law school?” Damien asks. “I mean, this isn’t a rumor, right? You’re really doing this?”
“Yeah.” I laugh. “I am.” I sip my Coke
. “It’s a lot of work but …”
He studies me. “Yeah? But?”
“But I’m adapting,” I finally answer.
“That’s great,” Damien says.
“Is it?” I ask seriously. “I mean, really. Is it?”
“Victor,” Damien starts, grasping my forearm.
“Yeah, man?” I gulp, but I’m really not afraid of him.
“I am constantly thinking about human happiness,” he admits.
“Whoa.”
“Yeah,” he says, tenderly sipping his vodka. “Whoa.”
“Is everything going to be cool?” I ask. “I’m really not leaving you in a lurch?”
Damien shrugs. “It’ll be cool. Japanese investors. Things will work out.”
I smile, showing my appreciation. But I’m still very cool about the situation, so I move on to other topics. “How’s Lauren?” I ask.
“Ooh—ouch,” Damien says. “No, no, man,” I say. “I’m just asking.”
Damien hits me lightly on the shoulder. “I know, man. I’m just goofing off. I’m just playing around.”
“That’s good,” I say. “I can deal.”
“She’s great,” he says. “She’s very cool.”
Damien stops smiling, motions to the bartender for another drink. “How’s Alison?”
“She’s fine,” I say evenly. “She’s really into PETA. This People for the Ethical Treatment of … oh shit, whatever.”
“How unpredictable she is,” Damien says. “How, er, slippery,” he adds. “I guess people really do change, huh?”
After a careful pause, I venture, “What do you mean?”
“Well, you’ve become quite the clean-cut, athletic go-getter.”
“Not really,” I say. “You’re just looking at the surface.”
“There’s something else?” he asks. “Just kidding,” he adds desultorily.
“There’s no swimsuit competition, dude,” I warn.
“And I just got a bikini wax?” He lifts his arms, sarcastic. Finally.
“No hard feelings?” I ask genuinely.
“No feelings at all, man.”
I stare at Damien with admiration.
“I’m going to the Fuji Rock Festival,” Damien says when I start listening again. “I’ll be back next week.”
“Will you call me?”
“What do you think?”
I don’t bother answering.
“Hey, who’s this Mr. Leisure everyone’s talking about?” Damien asks.
3
Bill, an agent from CAA, calls to let me know that I have “won” the role of Ohman in the movie Flatliners II. I’m in a new apartment, wearing a conservative Prada suit, on my way out to make an appearance at a party that I have no desire to attend, and I lock onto a certain tone of jadedness that Bill seems to feed off of.
“Tell me what else is going on, Bill,” I say. “While I’m brushing my hair.”
“I’m trying to develop interest in a script about a Jewish boy who makes a valiant attempt to celebrate his bar mitzvah under an oppressive Nazi regime.”
“Your thoughts on the script?” I sigh.
“My thoughts? No third act. My thoughts? Too much farting.” Silence while I continue slicking my hair back.
“So Victor,” Bill starts slyly. “What do you think?”
“About what?”
“Flatliners II,” he screams, and then, after catching his breath, adds in a very small voice, “I’m sorry.”
“Far out,” I’m saying. “Baby, that’s so cool,” I’m saying. “This whole new look, Victor, is really paying off.”
“People tell me it’s exceedingly hip,” I concede. “You must have really studied all those old Madonna videos.”
“In order.”
“I think you are controlling the zeitgeist,” Bill says. “I think you are in the driver’s seat.”
“People have commented that I’m near the wheel, Bill.”
“People are paying attention, that’s why,” Bill says. “People love repentance.”
A small pause as I study myself in a mirror.
“Is that what I’m doing, Bill?” I ask. “Repenting?”
“You’re pulling a Bowie,” Bill says. “And certain people are responding. It’s called reinventing yourself. It’s a word. It’s in the dictionary.”
“What are you trying to say to me, Bill?”
“I am fielding offers for Victor Johnson,” Bill says. “And I am proud to be fielding offers for Victor Johnson.”
A pause. “Bill … I don’t think …” I stop, figure out a way to break the news. “I’m not … That’s not me.”
“What do you mean? Who am I talking to?” Bill asks in a rush, and then, in a low, whispery voice, he asks, “This isn’t Dagby, is it?” I can almost hear him shuddering over the line.
“Dagby?” I ask. “No, this isn’t Dagby. Bill, listen, I’m going to school now and—”
“But that’s just a publicity stunt, I assume,” Bill yawns. “Hmm?”
Pause. “Uh, no, Bill. It’s not a publicity stunt.”
“Stop, in the name of love, before you break my heart,” Bill says. “Just give me a high-pitched warning scream when you read lines like that to me again.”
“It’s not a line, Bill,” I say. “I’m in law school now and I don’t want to do the movie.”
“You’ve been offered the role of an astronaut who helps save the world in Space Cadets—which is going to be directed by Mr. Will Smith, thank you very much. You will have four Hasbro action-figure dolls coming out by next Christmas and I will make sure that they are totally intact, genitalia-wise.” Bill veers into an endless spasm of coughing and then he croaks, “If you know what I mean.”
“That sounds a little too commercial for me right now.”
“What are you saying? That Space Cadets doesn’t rock your world?” I hear Bill tapping his headset. “Hello? Who am I speaking to?” Pause. “This isn’t Dagby, is it?”
“What else could I do?” I’m sighing, checking my face for blemishes, but I’m blemish-free tonight.
“Oh, you could play someone nicknamed ‘The Traitor’ who gets his ass beaten in a parking lot in an indie movie called The Sellout that is being directed by a recently rehabbed Italian known only as ‘Vivvy,’ and your per diem would be twenty Burger King vouchers and there would not be a wrap party.” Bill pauses to let this sink in. “It’s your decision. It’s Victor Johnson’s decision.”
“I’ll let you know,” I say. “I have a party to go to. I’ve gotta split.”
“Listen, stop playing hard to get.”
“I’m not.”
“Not to be crass, but the dead-girlfriend thing—an inspired touch, by the way—is going to fade in approximately a week.” Bill pauses. “You have to strike now.”
I laugh good-naturedly. “Bill, I’ll call you later.”
He laughs too. “No, stay on the line with me.”
“Bill, I gotta go.” I can’t stop giggling. “My visage is wanted elsewhere.”
2
A party for the blind that Bacardi rum is sponsoring somewhere in mid-town that my newly acquired publicists at Rogers and Cowan demanded I show up at. Among the VIPs: Bono, Kal Ruttenstein, Kevin Bacon, Demi Moore, Fiona Apple, Courtney Love, Claire Danes, Ed Burns, Jennifer Aniston and Tate Donovan, Shaquille O’Neal and a surprisingly swishy Tiger Woods. Some seem to know me, some don’t. I’m having a Coke with someone named Ben Affleck while Jamiroquai plays over the sound system in the cavernous club we’re all lost in and Gabé Doppelt just has to introduce me to Bjork and I have to pose with Giorgio Armani and he’s hugging me as if we go a long way back and he’s wearing a navy-blue crew-neck T-shirt, a navy cashmere sweater, navy corduroy jeans and a giant Jaeger-Le Coultre Reverso wristwatch. And there are so many apologies about Chloe, almost as if it was her fault that she died on me (my information is “massive hemorrhaging due to the ingestion of fatal quantities of mifepristone—also known a
s RU 486”). Mark Wahlberg, fire-eaters and a lot of blabbing about generational malaise, and everything smells like caviar.
Just so much gibberish and so chicly presented. Typical conversations revolve around serial killers and rehab stints and the amount of “very dry” pussy going around as opposed to just “dry” and the spectacularly self-destructive behavior of an idiotic model. I’m so uncomfortable I resort to sound bites such as: “I’m basically a law-abiding citizen.” The phrase “back to school”—employed every time a reporter’s microphone is pushed into my face—becomes an overwhelming drag and I have to excuse myself, asking directions to the nearest rest room.
In the men’s room two fags in the stall next to mine are comparing notes on how to live in a plotless universe and I’m just on my cell phone checking messages, taking a breather. Finally they leave and it becomes quiet, almost hushed, in the rest room and I can listen to messages without holding a hand against my ear.
I’m muttering to myself—Damien again, Alison, my publicist, certain cast members from a TV show I’ve never seen—but then I have to stop because I realize that the men’s room isn’t empty.
Someone’s in here and he’s whistling.
Clicking the cell phone off, I cock my head because it’s a tune that seems familiar.
I peer carefully over the stall door but can’t see anyone.
The whistling echoes, and then a voice that’s deep and masculine but also ghostly and from another world sings, haltingly, “on the … sunny side of the street .…”
I yank open the stall door, my cell phone dropping onto the tiles.
I walk over to the row of sinks beneath a wall-length mirror so I can survey the entire bathroom.
There’s no one in here.
The bathroom is empty.
I wash my hands and check every stall and then I leave, merging back into the party.
1
Back at the new apartment Dad bought me on the Upper East Side. The walls in the living room are blue and Nile green and the curtains draped over the windows looking out onto 72nd Street are hand-painted silk taffeta. There are antique coffee tables. There are beveled French mirrors in the foyer. There are Noguchi lamps and scruffed-up armchairs situated in pleasant positions. Paisley pillows line a couch. There is a ceiling fan. There are paintings by Donald Baechler. I actually have a library.
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