American Psycho

by Bret Easton Ellis

  “You seem distant,” she says.

  “What?” I ask, blinking.

  “I said you seem distant,” she says.

  “No,” I sigh. “I’m still my same kooky self.”

  “That’s good.” She smiles—am I dreaming this?—relieved.

  “So listen,” I say, trying to focus in on her, “what do you really want to do with your life?” Then, remembering how she was droning on about a career in merchant banking, I add, “Just briefly, you know, summarize.” Then I add, “And don’t tell me you enjoy working with children, okay?”

  “Well, I’d like to travel,” she says. “And maybe go back to school, but I really don’t know.…” She pauses thoughtfully and announces, sincerely, “I’m at a point in my life where there seems to be a lot of possibilities, but I’m so … I don’t know … unsure.”

  “I think it’s also important for people to realize their limitations.” Then, out of the blue I ask, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  She smiles shyly, blushes, and then says, “No. Not really.”

  “Interesting,” I murmur. I’ve opened my menu and I’m studying tonight’s prix fixe dinner.

  “Are you seeing anyone?” she ventures timidly. “I mean, seriously?”

  I decide on the pilot fish with tulips and cinnamon, evading the question by sighing, “I just want to have a meaningful relationship with someone special,” and before she’s allowed to respond I ask her what she’s going to order.

  “I think the mahi-mahi,” she says and then, squinting at the menu, “with ginger.”

  “I’m having the pilot fish,” I say. “I’m developing a taste for them. For … pilot fish,” I say, nodding.

  Later, after a mediocre dinner, a bottle of expensive California cabernet sauvignon and a crème brûlée that we share, I order a glass of fifty-dollar port and Jean sips a decaffeinated espresso and when she asks where the restaurant got its name, I tell her, and I don’t make anything ridiculous up—though I’m tempted, just to see if she’d believe it anyway. Sitting across from Jean right now in the darkness of Arcadia, it’s very easy to believe that she would swallow any kind of misinformation I push her way—the crush she has on me rendering her powerless—and I find this lack of defense oddly unerotic. I could even explain my pro-apartheid stance and have her find reasons why she too should share them and invest large sums of money in racist corporations tha—

  “Arcadia was an ancient region in Peloponnesus, Greece, which was founded in 370 B.C., and it was completely surrounded by mountains. Its chief city was … Megalopolis, which was also the center of political activity and the capital of the Arcadian confederacy.…” I take a sip of the port, which is thick, strong, expensive. “It was destroyed during the Greek war of independence.…” I pause again. “Pan was worshiped originally in Arcadia. Do you know who Pan was?”

  Never taking her eyes off me, she nods.

  “His revels were very similar to those of Bacchus,” I tell her. “He frolicked with nymphs at night but he also liked to … frighten travelers during the day.… Hence the word pan-ic.”

  Blah blah blah. I’m amused that I’ve retained this knowledge and I look up from the port I’ve been staring thoughtfully into and smile at her. She’s silent for a long time, confused, unsure of how to respond, but eventually she looks deeply into my eyes and says, haltingly, leaning across the table, “That’s … so … interesting,” which is all that comes out of her mouth, is all she has to say.

  Eleven thirty-four. We stand on the sidewalk in front of Jean’s apartment on the Upper East Side. Her doorman eyes us warily and fills me with a nameless dread, his gaze piercing me from the lobby. A curtain of stars, miles of them, are scattered, glowing, across the sky and their multitude humbles me, which I have a hard time tolerating. She shrugs and nods after I say something about forms of anxiety. It’s as if her mind is having a hard time communicating with her mouth, as if she is searching for a rational analysis of who I am, which is, of course, an impossibility: there … is … no … key.

  “Dinner was wonderful,” she says. “Thank you very much.”

  “Actually, the food was mediocre, but you’re welcome.” I shrug.

  “Do you want to come up for a drink?” she asks too casually, and even though I’m critical of her approach it doesn’t necessarily mean that I don’t want to go up—but something stops me, something quells the bloodlust: the doorman? the way the lobby is lit? her lipstick? Plus I’m beginning to think that pornography is so much less complicated than actual sex, and because of this lack of complication, so much more pleasurable.

  “Do you have any peyote?” I ask.

  She pauses, confused. “What?”

  “Just a joke,” I say, then, “Listen, I want to watch David Letterman so …” I pause, unsure as to why I’m lingering. “I should go.”

  “You can watch it …” She stops, then suggests, “at my place.”

  I pause before asking, “Do you have cable?”

  “Yes.” She nods. “I have cable.”

  Stuck, I pause again, then pretend to mull it over. “No, it’s okay. I like to watch it … without cable.”

  She offers a sad, perplexed glance. “What?”

  “I have to return some videotapes,” I explain in a rush.

  She pauses. “Now? It’s”—she checks her watch—“almost midnight.”

  “Well, yeah,” I say, considerably detached.

  “Well, I guess … it’s good night then,” she says.

  What kind of books does Jean read? Titles race through my mind: How to Make a Man Fall in Love with You. How to Keep a Man in Love with You Forever. How to Close a Deal: Get Married. How to Be Married One Year from Today. Supplicant. In my overcoat pocket I finger the ostrich condom case from Luc Benoit I bought last week but, er, no.

  After awkwardly shaking hands she asks, still holding mine, “Really? You don’t have cable?”

  And though it has been in no way a romantic evening, she embraces me and this time emanates a warmth I’m not familiar with. I am so used to imagining everything happening the way it occurs in movies, visualizing things falling somehow into the shape of events on a screen, that I almost hear the swelling of an orchestra, can almost hallucinate the camera panning low around us, fireworks bursting in slow motion overhead, the seventy-millimeter image of her lips parting and the subsequent murmur of “I want you” in Dolby sound. But my embrace is frozen and I realize, at first distantly and then with greater clarity, that the havoc raging inside me is gradually subsiding and she is kissing me on the mouth and this jars me back into some kind of reality and I lightly push her away. She glances up at me fearfully.

  “Listen, I’ve got to go,” I say, checking my Rolex. “I don’t want to miss … Stupid Pet Tricks.”

  “Okay,” she says, composing herself. “Bye.”

  “Night,” I say.

  We both head off in our separate directions, but suddenly she calls out something.

  I turn around.

  “Don’t forget you have a breakfast meeting with Frederick Bennet and Charles Rust at ‘21,’” she says from the door, which the doorman is holding open for her.

  “Thanks,” I call out, waving. “It slipped my mind completely.”

  She waves back, disappearing into the lobby.

  On my way over to Park Avenue to find a cab I pass an ugly, homeless bum—a member of the genetic underclass—and when he softly pleads for change, for “anything,” I notice the Barnes & Noble book bag that sits next to him on the steps of the church he’s begging on and I can’t help but smirk, out loud, “Oh right, like you read …,” and then, in the back of the cab on the way across town to my apartment, I imagine running around Central Park on a cool spring afternoon with Jean, laughing, holding hands. We buy balloons, we let them go.

  Detective

  May slides into June which slides into July which creeps toward August. Because of the heat I’ve had intense dreams the last four nights about vi
visection and I’m doing nothing now, vegetating in my office with a sickening headache and a Walkman with a soothing Kenny G CD playing in it, but the bright midmorning sunlight floods the room, piercing my skull, causing my hangover to throb, and because of this, there’s no workout this morning. Listening to the music I notice the second light on my phone blinking off and on, which means that Jean is buzzing me. I sigh and carefully remove the Walkman.

  “What is it?” I ask in monotone.

  “Um, Patrick?” she begins.

  “Ye-es, Je-an?” I ask condescendingly, spacing the two words out.

  “Patrick, a Mr. Donald Kimball is here to see you,” she says nervously.

  “Who?” I snap, distracted.

  She emits a small sigh of worry, then, as if asking, lowers her voice. “Detective Donald Kimball?”

  I pause, staring out the window into sky, then at my monitor, then at the headless woman I’ve been doodling on the back cover of this week’s Sports Illustrated, and I run my hand over the glossy finish of the magazine once, twice, before tearing the cover off and crumpling it up. Finally I start. “Tell him …” Then, mulling it over, rethinking my options, I stop and begin again. “Tell him I’m at lunch.”

  Jean pauses, then whispers. “Patrick … I think he knows you’re here.” During my protracted silence, she adds, still hushed, “It’s ten-thirty.”

  I sigh, stalling again, and in a contained panic tell Jean, “Send him in, I guess.”

  I stand up, walk over to the Jodi mirror that hangs next to the George Stubbs painting and check my hair, running an oxhorn comb through it, then, calmly, I pick up one of my cordless phones and, preparing myself for a tense scene, pretend to be talking with John Akers, and I start enunciating clearly into the phone before the detective enters the office.

  “Now, John …” I clear my throat. “You’ve got to wear clothes in proportion to your physique,” I begin, talking to nobody. “There are definitely dos and don’ts, good buddy, of wearing a bold-striped shirt. A bold-striped shirt calls for solid-colored or discreetly patterned suits and ties.…”

  The door to the office opens and I wave in the detective, who is surprisingly young, maybe my age, wearing a linen Armani suit not unlike mine, though his is slightly disheveled in a hip way, which worries me. I offer a reassuring smile.

  “And a shirt with a high yarn count means it’s more durable than one that doesn’t … Yes, I know.… But to determine this you’ve got to examine the material’s weave.…” I point to the Mark Schrager chrome and teak chair on the opposite side of my desk, silently urging him to sit.

  “Tightly woven fabric is created not only by using a lot of yarn but by using yarn of high-quality fibers, both long and thin, which … yes … which are … which fabricate a close weave as opposed to short and stubbly fibers, like those found in tweed. And loosely woven fabrics such as knits are extremely delicate and should be treated with great care.…” Because of the detective’s arrival, it seems unlikely that this will be a good day and I eye him warily as he takes the seat and crosses his legs in a way that fills me with a nameless dread. I realize I’ve been quiet too long when he turns around to see if I’m off the phone.

  “Right, and … yes, John, right. And … yes, always tip the stylist fifteen percent.…” I pause. “No, the owner of the salon shouldn’t be tipped.…” I shrug at the detective hopelessly, rolling my eyes. He nods, smiles understandingly and recrosses his legs. Nice socks. Jesus. “The girl who washes the hair? It depends. I’d say a dollar or two.…” I laugh. “Depends on what she looks like.…” I laugh harder. “And yeah, what else she washes.…” I pause again, then say, “Listen, John, I’ve got to go. T. Boone Pickens just walked in.…” I pause, grinning like an idiot, then laugh. “Just joking …” Another pause. “No, don’t tip the owner of the salon.” I laugh once more, then, finally, “Okay, John … right, got it.” I hang up the phone, push its antenna down and then, uselessly stressing my normality, say, “Sorry about that.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” he says, genuinely apologetic. “I should’ve made an appointment.” Gesturing toward the cordless phone I’m placing back in its recharging cradle, he asks, “Was that, uh, anything important?”

  “Oh that?” I ask, moving toward my desk, sinking into my chair. “Just mulling over business problems. Examining opportunities … Exchanging rumors … Spreading gossip.” We both laugh. The ice breaks.

  “Hi,” he says, sitting up, holding out his hand. “I’m Donald Kimball.”

  “Hi. Pat Bateman.” I take it, squeezing it firmly. “Nice to meet you.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, “to barge in on you like this, but I was supposed to talk to Luis Carruthers and he wasn’t in and … well, you’re here, so …” He smiles, shrugs. “I know how busy you guys can get.” He averts his eyes from the three copies of Sports Illustrated that lie open atop my desk, covering it, along with the Walkman. I notice them too, then close all three issues and slip them into the desk’s top drawer along with the still-running Walkman.

  “So,” I start, trying to come off as friendly and conversational as possible. “What’s the topic of discussion?”

  “Well,” he starts. “I’ve been hired by Meredith Powell to investigate the disappearance of Paul Owen.”

  I nod thoughtfully before asking, “You’re not with the FBI or anything, are you?”

  “No, no,” he says. “Nothing like that. I’m just a private investigator.”

  “Ah, I see.… Yes.” I nod again, still not relieved. “Paul’s disappearance … yes.”

  “So it’s nothing that official,” he confides. “I just have some basic questions. About Paul Owen. About yourself—”

  “Coffee?” I ask suddenly.

  As if unsure, he says, “No, I’m okay.”

  “Perrier? San Pellegrino?” I offer.

  “No, I’m okay,” he says again, opening a small black notebook he’s taken out of his pocket along with a gold Cross pen. I buzz Jean.

  “Yes, Patrick?”

  “Jean can you bring Mr. …” I stop, look up.

  He looks up too. “Kimball.”

  “… Mr. Kimball a bottle of San Pelle—”

  “Oh no, I’m okay,” he protests.

  “It’s no problem,” I tell him.

  I get the feeling he’s trying not to stare at me strangely. He turns back to his notebook and writes something down, then crosses something out. Jean walks in almost immediately and she places the bottle of San Pellegrino and a Steuben etched-glass tumbler on my desk in front of Kimball. She gives me a fretful, worried glance, which I scowl at. Kimball looks up, smiles and nods at Jean, who I notice is not wearing a bra today. Innocently, I watch her leave, then return my gaze to Kimball, clasping my hands together, sitting up. “Well, what’s the topic of discussion?” I say again.

  “The disappearance of Paul Owen,” he says, reminding me.

  “Oh right. Well, I haven’t heard anything about the disappearance or anything.…” I pause, then try to laugh. “Not at least.”

  Kimball smiles politely. “I think his family wants this kept quiet.”

  “Understandable.” I nod at the untouched glass and bottle, and then look up at him. “Lime?”

  “No, really,” he says. “I’m okay.”

  “You sure?” I ask. “I can always get you a lime.”

  He pauses briefly, then says, “Just some preliminary questions that I need for my own files, okay?”

  “Shoot,” I say.

  “How old are you?” he asks.

  “Twenty-seven,” I say. “Ill be twenty-eight in October.”

  “Where did you go to school?” He scribbles something in his book.

  “Harvard,” I tell him. “Then Harvard Business School.”

  “Your address?” he asks, looking only at his book.

  “Fifty-five West Eighty-first Street,” I say. “The American Gardens Building.”

  “Nice.” He looks up, impressed. “Very
nice.”

  “Thanks.” I smile, flattered.

  “Doesn’t Tom Cruise live there?” he asks.

  “Yup.” I squeeze the bridge of my nose. Suddenly I have to close my eyes tightly.

  I hear him speak. “Pardon me, but are you okay?”

  Opening my eyes, both of them tearing, I say, “Why do you ask?”

  “You seem … nervous.”

  I reach into a drawer in my desk and bring out a bottle of aspirin.

  “Nuprin?” I offer.

  Kimball looks at the bottle strangely and then back at me before shaking his head. “Uh … no thanks.” He’s taken out a pack of Marlboros and absently lays it next to the San Pellegrino bottle while studying something in the book.

  “Bad habit,” I point out.

  He looks up and, noticing my disapproval, smiles sheepishly. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  I stare at the box.

  “Do you … would you rather I not smoke?” he asks, tentative.

  I continue to stare at the cigarette packet, debating. “No … I guess it’s okay.”

  “You sure?” he asks.

  “No problem.” I buzz Jean.

  “Yes, Patrick?”

  “Bring us an ashtray for Mr. Kimball, please,” I say.