American Psycho

by Bret Easton Ellis

  Yale Club

  “What are the rules for a sweater vest?” Van Patten asks the table.

  “What do you mean?” McDermott furrows his brow, takes a sip of Absolut.

  “Yes,” I say. “Clarify.”

  “Well, is it strictly informal—”

  “Or can it be worn with a suit?” I interrupt, finishing his sentence.

  “Exactly.” He smiles.

  “Well, according to Bruce Boyer—” I begin.

  “Wait.” Van Patten stops me. “Is he with Morgan Stanley?”

  “No.” I smile. “He’s not with Morgan Stanley.”

  “Wasn’t he a serial killer?” McDermott asks suspiciously, then moans. “Don’t tell me he was another serial killer, Bateman. Not another serial killer.”

  “No, McDufus, he wasn’t a serial killer,” I say, turning back to Van Patten, but before continuing turn back to McDermott. “That really pisses me off.”

  “But you always bring them up,” McDermott complains. “And always in this casual, educational sort of way. I mean, I don’t want to know anything about Son of Sam or the fucking Hillside Strangler or Ted Bundy or Featherhead, for god sake.”

  “Featherhead?” Van Patten asks. “Who’s Featherhead? He sounds exceptionally dangerous.”

  “He means Leatherface,” I say, teeth tightly clenched. “Leatherface. He was part of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”

  “Oh.” Van Patten smiles politely. “Of course.”

  “And he was exceptionally dangerous,” I say.

  “And now okay, go on. Bruce Boyer, what did he do?” McDermott demands, releasing a sigh, rolling his eyes up. “Let’s see—skin them alive? Starve them to death? Run them over? Feed them to dogs? What?”

  “You guys,” I say, shaking my head, then teasingly admit, “He did something far worse.”

  “Like what—take them to dinner at McManus’s new restaurant?” McDermott asks.

  “That would do it,” Van Patten agrees. “Did you go? It was grubby, wasn’t it?”

  “Did you have the meat loaf?” McDermott asks.

  “The meat loaf?” Van Patten’s in shock. “What about the interior. What about the fucking tablecloths?”

  “But did you have the meat loaf?” McDermott presses.

  “Of course I had the meat loaf, and the squab, and the marlin,” Van Patten says.

  “Oh god, I forgot about the marlin,” McDermott groans. “The marlin chili.”

  “After reading Miller’s review in the Times, who in their right mind wouldn’t order the meat loaf, or the marlin for that matter?”

  “But Miller got it wrong,” McDermott says. “It was just grubby. The quesadilla with papaya? Usually a good dish, but there, Jesus.” He whistles, shaking his head.

  “And cheap,” Van Patten adds.

  “So cheap.” McDermott is in total agreement. “And the watermelon-brittle tart—”

  “Gentlemen.” I cough. “Ahem. I hate to interrupt, but …”

  “Okay, okay, go on,” McDermott says. “Tell us more about Charles Moyer.”

  “Bruce Boyer,” I correct him. “He was the author of Elegance: A Guide to Quality in Menswear.” Then as an aside, “And no, Craig, he wasn’t a serial killer in his spare time.”

  “What did Brucie baby have to say?” McDermott asks, chewing on ice.

  “You’re a clod. It’s an excellent book. His theory remains we shouldn’t feel restricted from wearing a sweater vest with a suit,” I say. “Did you hear me call you a clod?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But doesn’t he point out that a vest shouldn’t overpower the suit?” Van Patten offers tentatively.

  “Yes …” I’m mildly irritated that Van Patten has done his homework but asks for advice nonetheless. I calmly continue. “With discreet pinstripes you should wear a subdued blue or charcoal gray vest. A plaid suit would call for a bolder vest.”

  “And remember,” McDermott adds, “with a regular vest the last button should be left undone.”

  I glance sharply at McDermott. He smiles, sips his drink and then smacks his lips, satisfied.

  “Why?” Van Patten wants to know.

  “It’s traditional,” I say, still glaring at McDermott. “But it’s also more comfortable.”

  “Will wearing suspenders help the vest sit better?” I hear Van Patten ask.

  “Why?” I ask, turning to face him.

  “Well, since you avoid the …” He stops, stuck, looking for the right word.

  “Encumbrance of—?” I begin.

  “The belt buckle?” McDermott finishes.

  “Sure,” Van Patten says.

  “You have to remember—” Again I’m interrupted by McDermott.

  “Remember that while the vest should be in keeping with the color and the style of the suit, completely avoid matching the vest’s pattern with your socks or tie,” McDermott says, smiling at me, at Van Patten.

  “I thought you hadn’t read this … this book,” I stammer angrily. “You just told me you couldn’t tell the difference between Bruce Boyer and … and John Wayne Gacy.”

  “It came back to me.” He shrugs.

  “Listen.” I turn back to Van Patten, finding McDermott’s one-upmanship totally cheap. “Wearing argyle socks with an argyle vest will look too studied.”

  “You think so?” he asks.

  “You’ll look like you consciously worked for this look,” I say, then, suddenly upset, turn back to McDermott. “Featherhead? How in the hell did you get Featherhead from Leatherface?”

  “Ah, cheer up, Bateman,” he says, slapping me on the back, then massaging my neck. “What’s the matter? No shiatsu this morning?”

  “Keep touching me like this,” I say, eyes shut tight, entire body wired and ticking, coiled up ready, wanting to spring, “and you’ll draw back a stump.”

  “Whoa, hold on there, little buddy,” McDermott says, backing off in mock fear. The two of them giggle like idiots and give each other high-five, completely unaware that I’d cut his hands off, and much more, with pleasure.

  The three of us, David Van Patten, Craig McDermott and myself, are sitting in the dining room of the Yale Club at lunch. Van Patten is wearing a glen-plaid wool-crepe suit from Krizia Uomo, a Brooks Brothers shirt, a tie from Adirondack and shoes by Cole-Haan. McDermott is wearing a lamb’s wool and cashmere blazer, worsted wool flannel trousers by Ralph Lauren, a shirt and tie also by Ralph Lauren and shoes from Brooks Brothers. I’m wearing a tick-weave wool suit with a windowpane overplaid, a cotton shirt by Luciano Barbera, a tie by Luciano Barbera, shoes from Cole-Haan and nonprescription glasses by Bausch & Lomb. The Patty Winters Show this morning was about Nazis and, inexplicably, I got a real charge out of watching it. Though I wasn’t exactly charmed by their deeds, I didn’t find them unsympathetic either, nor I might add did most of the members of the audience. One of the Nazis, in a rare display of humor, even juggled grapefruits and, delighted, I sat up in bed and clapped.

  Luis Carruthers sits five tables away from this one, dressed as if he’d had some kind of frog attack this morning—he’s wearing an unidentifiable suit from some French tailor; and if I’m not mistaken the bowler hat on the floor beneath his chair also belongs to him—it has Luis written all over it. He smiles but I pretend not to have noticed. I worked out at Xclusive for two hours this morning and since the three of us have taken the rest of the afternoon off, we’re all getting massages. We haven’t ordered yet, in fact we haven’t even seen menus. We’ve just been drinking. A bottle of champagne is what Craig originally wanted, but David shook his head vehemently and said “Out, out, out” when this was suggested and so we ordered drinks instead. I keep watching Luis and whenever he looks over at our table I tip my head back and laugh even if what Van Patten or McDermott’s saying isn’t particularly funny, which is practically always. I’ve perfected my fake response to a degree where it’s so natural-sounding that no one notices. Luis stands up, wipes his mouth with a napkin and glances
over here again before exiting the dining area and, I’m supposing, goes to the men’s room.

  “But there’s a limit,” Van Patten is saying. “The point is, I mean, I don’t want to spend the evening with the Cookie Monster.”

  “But you’re still dating Meredith so, uh, what’s the difference?” I ask. Naturally he doesn’t hear.

  “But ditsy is cute,” McDermott says. “Ditsy is very cute.”

  “Bateman?” Van Patten asks. “Any style opinions on ditsiness?”

  “What?” I ask, getting up.

  “Ditsy? No?” McDermott this time. “Ditsy’s desirable, comprende?”

  “Listen,” I say, pushing my chair in. “I just want everyone to know that I’m pro-family and anti-drug. Excuse me.”

  As I walk away Van Patten grabs a passing waiter and says, his voice fading, “Is this tap water? I don’t drink tap water. Bring me an Evian or something, okay?”

  Would Courtney like me less if Luis was dead? This is the question I have to face, with no clear answer burning back across my mind, as I make my way slowly through the dining room, waving to someone who looks like Vincent Morrison, someone else who I’m fairly sure is someone who looks like Tom Newman. Would Courtney spend more time with me—the time she now spends with Luis—if he was out of the picture, no longer an alternative, if he was perhaps … dead? If Luis were killed would Courtney be upset? Could I genuinely be of comfort without laughing in her face, my own spite doubling back on me, giving everything away? Is the fact that she dates me behind his back what excites her, my body or the size of my dick? Why, for that matter, do I want to please Courtney? If she likes me only for my muscles, the heft of my cock, then she’s a shallow bitch. But a physically superior, near-perfect-looking shallow bitch, and that can override anything, except maybe bad breath or yellow teeth, either of which is a real deal-breaker. Would I ruin things by strangling Luis? If I married Evelyn would she make me buy her Lacroix gowns until we finalized our divorce? Have the South African colonial forces and the Soviet-backed black guerrillas found peace yet in Namibia? Or would the world be a safer, kinder place if Luis was hacked to bits? My world might, so why not? There really is no … other hand. It’s really even too late to be asking these questions since now I’m in the men’s room, staring at myself in the mirror—tan and haircut perfect—checking out my teeth which are completely straight and white and gleaming. Winking at my reflection I breathe in, sliding on a pair of leather Armani gloves, and then make my way toward the stall Luis occupies. The men’s room is deserted. All the stalls are empty except for the one at the end, the door not locked, left slightly ajar, the sound of Luis whistling something from Les Misérables getting almost oppressively louder as I approach.