American Psycho

by Bret Easton Ellis

  She turns around. “What are you talking about?”

  “Why,” I ask, “is Laurence Tisch passing around a tray of canapes?”

  “Oh god, Patrick, that’s not Laurence Tisch,” she says. “That’s one of the Christmas elves.”

  “One of the what? You mean the midgets.”

  “They’re elves,” she stresses. “Santa’s helpers. God, what a sourpuss. Look at them. They’re adorable. That one over there is Rudolph, the one passing out candy canes is Blitzen. The other one is Donner—”

  “Wait a minute, Evelyn, wait,” I say, closing my eyes, holding up the hand with the Waldorf salad in it. I’m sweating, déjà vu, but why? Have I met these elves somewhere? Forget about it. “I … those are the names of reindeer. Not elves. Blitzen was a reindeer.”

  “The only Jewish one,” Petersen reminds us.

  “Oh …” Evelyn seems bewildered by this information and she looks over at Petersen to confirm this. “Is this true?”

  He shrugs, thinks about it and looks confused. “Hey, baby—reindeer, elves, Grinches, brokers … Hell, what’s the difference long as the Cristal flows, hey?” He chuckles, nudging me in the ribs. “Ain’t that right, Mr. Grinch?”

  “Don’t you think it’s Christmasy?” she asks hopefully.

  “Oh yes, Evelyn,” I tell her. “It’s very Christmasy and I’m truthful, not lying.”

  “But Mr. Sourpuss was late,” she pouts, shaking that damn piece of mistletoe at me accusingly. “And not a word about the Waldorf salad.”

  “You know, Evelyn, there were a lot of other Xmas parties in this metropolis that I could have attended tonight yet I chose yours. Why? you might ask. Why? I asked myself. I didn’t come up with a feasible answer, yet I’m here, so be, you know, grateful, babe,” I say.

  “Oh, so this is my Christmas present?” she asks, sarcastic. “How sweet, Patrick, how thoughtful.”

  “No, this is.” I give her a noodle I just noticed was stuck on my shirt cuff. “Here.”

  “Oh Patrick, I’m going to cry,” she says, dangling the noodle up to candlelight. “It’s gorgeous. Can I put it on now?”

  “No. Feed it to one of the elves. That one over there looks pretty hungry. Excuse me but I need another drink.”

  I hand Evelyn the plate of Waldorf salad and tweak one of Petersen’s antlers and head toward the bar humming “Silent Night,” vaguely depressed by what most of the women are wearing—pullover cashmere sweaters, blazers, long wool skirts, corduroy dresses, turtlenecks. Cold weather. No hardbodies.

  Paul Owen is standing near the bar holding a champagne flute, studying his antique silver pocket watch (from Hammacher Schlemmer, no doubt), and I’m about to walk over and mention something about that damned Fisher account when Humphrey Rhinebeck bumps into me trying to avoid stepping on one of the elves and he’s still wearing a cashmere chesterfield overcoat by Crombie from Lord & Taylor, a peak-lapeled double-breasted wool tuxedo, a cotton shirt by Perry Ellis, a bow tie from Hugo Boss and paper antlers in a way that suggests he’s completely unaware, and as if by rote the twerp says, “Hey Bateman, last week I brought a new herringbone tweed jacket to my tailor for alterations.”

  “Well, uh, congratulations seem in order,” I say, shaking his hand. “That’s … nifty.”

  “Thanks.” He blushes, looking down. “Anyway, he noticed that the retailer had removed the original label and replaced it with one of his own. Now what I want to know is, is this legal?”

  “It’s confusing, I know,” I say, still moving through the crowd. “Once a line of clothing has been purchased from its manufacturer, it’s perfectly legal for the retailer to replace the original label with his own. However, it’s not legal to replace it with another retailer’s label.”

  “But wait, why is that?” he asks, trying to sip from his martini glass while attempting to follow me.

  “Because details regarding fiber content and country of origin or the manufacturer’s registration number must remain intact. Label tampering is very hard to detect and rarely reported,” I shout over my shoulder. Courtney is kissing Paul Owen on the cheek, their hands already firmly clasped. I stiffen up and stop walking. Rhinebeck bumps into me. But she moves on, waving to someone across the room.

  “So what’s the best solution?” Rhinebeck calls out behind me.

  “Shop for familiar labels from retailers you know and take those fucking antlers off your head, Rhinebeck. You look like a retard. Excuse me.” I walk off but not before Humphrey reaches up and feels the headpiece. “Oh my god.”

  “Owen!” I exclaim, merrily holding out a hand, the other hand grabbing a martini off a passing elf tray.

  “Marcus! Merry Christmas,” Owen says, shaking my hand. “How’ve you been? Workaholic, I suppose.”

  “Haven’t seen you in a while,” I say, then wink. “Workaholic, huh?”

  “Well, we just got back from the Knickerbocker Club,” he says and then greets someone who bumps into him—“Hey Kinsley”—then back to me. “We’re going to Nell’s. Limo’s out front.”

  “We should have lunch,” I say, trying to figure out a way to bring up the Fisher account without being tacky about it.

  “Yes, that would be great,” he says. “Maybe you could bring …”

  “Cecelia?” I guess.

  “Yes. Cecelia,” he says.

  “Oh, Cecelia would … adore it,” I say.

  “Well, let’s do it.” He smiles.

  “Yes. We could go to … Le Bernardin,” I say, then after pausing, “for some … seafood perhaps? Hmmm?”

  “Le Bernardin is in Zagat’s top ten this year.” He nods. “You know that?”

  “We could have some …” I pause again, staring at him, then more deliberately, “fish there. No?”

  “Sea urchins,” Owen says, scanning the room. “Meredith loves the sea urchins there.”

  “Oh does she?” I ask, nodding.

  “Meredith,” he calls out, motioning for someone behind me. “Come here.”

  “She’s here?” I ask.

  “She’s talking to Cecilia over there,” he says. “Meredith,” he calls out, waving. I turn around. Meredith and Evelyn make their way over to us.

  I whirl around back to Owen.

  Meredith walks over with Evelyn. Meredith is wearing a beaded wool gabardine dress and bolero by Geoffrey Beene from Barney’s, diamond and gold earrings by James Savitt ($13,000), gloves by Geoffrey Beene for Portolano Products, and she says, “Yes boys? What are you two talking about? Making up Christmas lists?”

  “The sea urchins at Le Bernardin, darling,” Owen says.

  “My favorite topic.” Meredith drapes an arm over my shoulder, while she confides to me as an aside, “They’re fabulous.”

  “Delectable.” I cough nervously.

  “What does everyone think of the Waldorf salad?” Evelyn asks. “Did you like it?”

  “Cecelia, darling, I haven’t tried it yet,” Owen says, recognizing someone across the room. “But I’d like to know why Laurence Tisch is serving the eggnog.”

  “That’s not Laurence Tisch,” Evelyn whines, genuinely upset. “That’s a Christmas elf. Patrick, what did you tell him?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “Cecelia!”

  “Besides, Patrick, you’re the Grinch.”

  At the mentions of my name I immediately start blabbering, hoping that Owen didn’t notice. “Well, Cecelia, I told him I thought it was a, you know, a mixture of the two, like a …” I stop, briefly look at them before lamely spitting out, “a Christmas Tisch.” Then, nervously, I lift a sprig of parsley off a slice of pheasant pâté that a passing elf is carrying, and hold it over Evelyn’s head before she can say anything. “Mistletoe alert!” I shout, and people around us are suddenly ducking, and then I kiss her on the lips while looking at Owen and Meredith, both of them staring at me strangely, and out of the corner of my eye I catch Courtney, who is talking to Rhinebeck, gazing at me hatefully, outraged.

  “Oh Patrick
—” Evelyn starts.

  “Cecelia! Come here at once.” I pull her arm, then tell Owen and Meredith, “Excuse us. We have to talk to that elf and get this all straightened out.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she says to the two of them, shrugging helplessly as I drag her away. “Patrick, what is going on?”

  I maneuver her into the kitchen.

  “Patrick?” she asks. “What are we doing in the kitchen?”

  “Listen,” I tell her, grabbing her shoulders, facing her. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Oh Patrick,” she sighs. “I can’t just leave. Aren’t you having a good time?”

  “Why can’t you leave?” I ask. “Is it so unreasonable? You’ve been here long enough.”

  “Patrick, this is my Christmas party,” she says. “Besides, the elves are going to sing ‘O Tannenbaum’ any minute now.”

  “Come on, Evelyn. Let’s just get out of here.” I’m on the verge of hysteria, panicked that Paul Owen or, worse, Marcus Halberstam is going to walk into the kitchen. “I want to take you away from all this.”

  “From all what?” she asks, then her eyes narrow. “You didn’t like the Waldorf salad, did you?”

  “I want to take you away from this,” I say, motioning around the kitchen, spastic. “From sushi and elves and … stuff.”

  An elf walks into the kitchen, setting down a tray of dirty plates, and past him, over him, I can see Paul Owen leaning into Meredith, who’s shouting something into his ear over the din of Christmas music, and he scans the room looking for someone, nodding, then Courtney walks into view and I grab Evelyn, bringing her even closer to me.

  “Sushi? Elves? Patrick you’re confusing me,” Evelyn says. “And I don’t appreciate it.”

  “Let’s go.” I’m squeezing her roughly, pulling her toward the back door. “Let’s be daring for once. For just once in your life, Evelyn, be daring.”

  She stops, refusing to be pulled along, and then she starts smiling, considering my offer but only slightly won over.

  “Come on …” I start whining. “Let this be my Christmas present.”

  “Oh no, I was already at Brooks Brothers and—” she starts.

  “Stop it. Come on, I want this,” I say and then in a last, desperate attempt I smile flirtatiously, kissing her lightly on the lips, and add, “Mrs. Bateman?”

  “Oh Patrick,” she sighs, melting. “But what about cleanup?”

  “The midgets’ll do it,” I assure her.

  “But someone has to oversee it, honey.”

  “So choose an elf. Make that one over there the elf overseer,” I say. “But let’s go, now.” I start pulling her toward the back door of the brownstone, her shoes squeaking as they slide across the Muscoli marble tile.

  And then we’re out the door, rushing down the alley adjacent to the brownstone, and I stop and peer around the corner to see if anyone we know is leaving or entering the party. We make a run for a limousine I think is Owen’s, but I don’t want to make Evelyn suspicious so I simply walk up to the closest one, open the door and push her in.

  “Patrick,” she squeals, pleased. “This is so naughty. And a limo—” I close the door on her and walk around the car and knock on the driver’s window. The driver unrolls it.

  “Hi,” I say, holding out a hand. “Pat Bateman.”

  The driver just stares, an unlit cigar clenched in his mouth, first at my outstretched hand, then at my face, then at the top of my head.

  “Pat Bateman,” I repeat. “What, ah, what is it?”

  He keeps looking at me. Tentatively I touch my hair to see if it’s messed up or out of place and to my shock and surprise I feel two pairs of paper antlers. There are four antlers on my fucking head. I mutter, “Oh Jesus, whoa!” and tear them off, staring at them crumpled in my hands, horrified. I throw them on the ground, then turn back to the driver.

  “So. Pat Bateman,” I say, smoothing my hair back into place.

  “Uh, yeah? Sid.” He shrugs.

  “Listen, Sid. Mr. Owen says we can take this car, so …” I stop, my breath steaming in the frozen air.

  “Who’s Mr. Owen?” Sid asks.

  “Paul Owen. You know,” I say. “Your customer.”

  “No. This is Mr. Barker’s limo,” he says. “Nice antlers though.”

  “Shit,” I say, running around the limo to get Evelyn out of there before something bad happens, but it’s too late. The second I open the door, Evelyn sticks her head out and squeals, “Patrick, darling, I love it. Champagne”—she holds up a bottle of Cristal in one hand and a gold box in the other—“and truffles too.”

  I grab her arm and yank her out, mumbling by way of an explanation, under my breath, “Wrong limo, take the truffles,” and we head over to the next limousine. I open the door and guide Evelyn in, then move around to the front and knock on the driver’s window. He unrolls it. He looks exactly like the other driver.

  “Hi. Pat Bateman,” I say, holding out my hand.

  “Yeah? Hi. Donald Trump. My wife Ivana’s in the back,” he says sarcastically, taking it.

  “Hey, watch it,” I warn. “Listen, Mr. Owen says we can take his car. I’m … oh damn. I mean I’m Marcus.”

  “You just said your name was Pat.”

  “No. I was wrong,” I say sternly, staring directly at him. “I was wrong about my name being Pat. My name is Marcus. Marcus Halberstam.”

  “Now you’re sure of this, right?” he asks.

  “Listen, Mr. Owen said I can take his car for the night, so …” I stop. “You know, let’s just get on with it.”

  “I think I should talk to Mr. Owen first,” the driver says, amused, toying with me.

  “No, wait!” I say, then calming down, “Listen, I’m … it’s fine, really.” I start chuckling to myself. “Mr. Owen is in a very, very bad mood.”

  “I’m not supposed to do this,” the driver says without looking up at me. “It’s totally illegal. No way. Give it up.”

  “Oh come on, man,” I say.

  “It’s totally against company regulations,” he says.

  “Fuck company regulations,” I bark out at him.

  “Fuck company regulations?” he asks, nodding, smiling.

  “Mr. Owen says it’s okay,” I say. “Maybe you’re not listening.”

  “Nope. No can do.” He shakes his head.

  I pause, stand up straight, run a hand over my face, breathe in and then lean back down. “Listen to me …” I breathe in again. “They’ve got midgets in there.” I point with a thumb back at the brownstone. “Midgets who are about to sing ‘O Tannenbaum’ …” I look at him imploringly, begging for sympathy, at the same time looking appropriately frightened. “Do you know how scary that is? Elves”—I gulp—“harmonizing?” I pause, then quickly ask, “Think about it.”

  “Listen, mister—”

  “Marcus,” I remind him.

  “Marcus. Whatever. I’m not gonna break the rules. I can’t do anything about it. It’s company rules. I’m not gonna break ’em.”

  We both lapse into silence. I sigh, look around, considering dragging Evelyn to the third limo, or maybe back to Barker’s limo—he’s a real asshole—but no, goddamnit, I want Owen’s. Meanwhile the driver sighs to himself, “If the midgets want to sing, let them sing.”

  “Shit,” I curse, taking out my gazelleskin wallet. “Here’s a hundred.” I hand him two fifties.

  “Two hundred,” he says.

  “This city sucks,” I mutter, handing the money over.

  “Where do you want to go?” he asks, taking the bills with a sigh, as he starts the limousine.

  “Club Chernoble,” I say, rushing to the back and opening the door.

  “Yes sir,” he shouts.

  I hop in, shutting the door just as the driver peels away from Evelyn’s brownstone toward Riverside Drive. Evelyn’s sitting next to me while I’m catching my breath, wiping cold sweat off my brow with an Armani handkerchief. When I look over at her, she’s on the verge o
f tears, her lips trembling, silent for once.

  “You’re startling me. What happened?” I am alarmed. “What … what did I do? The Waldorf salad was good. What else?”

  “Oh Patrick,” she sighs. “It’s … lovely. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Well …” I pause carefully. “I don’t … either.”

  “This,” she says, presenting me with a diamond necklace from Tiffany’s, Meredith’s present from Owen. “Well, help me put it on, darling. You’re not the Grinch, honey.”

  “Uh, Evelyn,” I say, then curse under my breath as she turns her back toward me so I can clasp it around her neck. The limousine lurches forward and she falls against me, laughing, then kisses my cheek. “It’s lovely, oh I love it.… Oops, must have truffle breath. Sorry, honey. Find me some champagne and pour me a glass.”

  “But …” I stare helplessly at the glittering necklace. “That’s not it.”

  “What?” Evelyn asks, looking around the limo. “Are there glasses in here? What’s not it, honey?”

  “That’s not it.” I’m speaking in monotone.

  “Oh, honey.” She smiles. “You have something else for me?”

  “No, I mean—”

  “Come on, you devil,” she says, playfully grabbing at my coat pocket. “Come on, what is it?”

  “What is what?” I ask calmly, annoyed.

  “You’ve got something else. Let me guess. A ring to match?” she guesses. “A matching bracelet? A brooch? So that’s it!” She claps her hands. “It’s a matching brooch.”

  While I’m trying to push her away from me, holding one of her arms back, the other snakes behind me and grabs something out of my pocket—another fortune cookie I lifted from the dead Chinese boy. She stares at it, puzzled for a moment, and says, “Patrick, you’re so … romantic,” and then, studying the fortune cookie and with less enthusiasm, “so … original.”

  I’m also staring at the fortune cookie. It’s got a lot of blood on it and I shrug and say, as jovially as I can, “Oh, you know me.”

  “But what’s on it?” She holds it up close to her face, peering at it. “What’s this … red stuff?”

  “That’s …” I peer also, pretending to be intrigued by the stains, then I grimace. “That’s sweet ’n’ sour sauce.”