"It's called California classic cuisine," Scott is telling me.
"Why don't we all go to Zeus Bar next week?" Anne suggests to Scott. "You think we'd have a problem getting a table on Friday?" Scott is wearing a red and purple and black striped cashmere intarsia sweater from Paul Stuart, baggy Ralph Lauren corduroys and Cole-Haan leather moccasins.
"Well… maybe," he says.
"That's a good idea. I like it a lot," Anne says, picking up a small violet off her plate and sniffing the flower before placing it carefully on her tongue. She's wearing a red, purple and black hand-knitted mohair and wool sweater from Koos Van Den Akker Couture and slacks from Anne Klein, with suede open-toe pumps.
A waiter, though not the hardbody, strides over to take another drink order.
"J&B. Straight," I say before anyone else orders.
Courtney orders a champagne on the rocks, which secretly appalls me. "Oh," she says as if reminded by something, "can I have that with a twist?"
"A twist of what?" I ask irritably, unable to stop myself. "Let me guess. Melon?" And I'm thinking oh my god why didn't you return those goddamn videos Bateman you dumb son-of-a-bitch.
"You mean lemon, miss," the waiter says, giving me an icy stare.
"Yes, of course. Lemon." Courtney nods, seeming lost in some kind of dream but enjoying it, oblivious to it.
"I'll have a glass of the… oh gosh, I guess the Acacia," Scott says and then addresses the table: "Do I want a white? Do I really want a chardonnay? We can eat the redfish with a cabernet."
"Go for it," Anne says cheerily.
"Okay, I'll have the… oh jeez, the sauvignon blanc," Scott says.
The waiter smiles, confused.
"Scottie," Anne shrieks. "The sauvignon blanc?"
"Just teasing," he snickers. "I'll have the chardonnay. The Acacia."
"You complete jerk." Anne smiles, relieved. "You're funny."
"I'm having the chardonnay," Scott tells the waiter.
"That's nice," Courtney says, patting Scott's hand.
"I'll just have…" Anne stalls, deliberating. "Oh, I'll just have a Diet Coke."
Scott looks up from a piece of corn bread he was dipping into a small tin of olive oil. "You're not drinking tonight?"
"No," Anne says, smiling naughtily. Who knows why? And who fucking cares? "I'm not in the mood."
"Not even for a glass of the chardonnay?" Scott asks. "How about a sauvignon blanc?"
"I have this aerobics class at nine," she says, slipping, losing control. "I really shouldn't."
"Well then, I don't want anything," Scott says, disappointed. "I mean I have one at eight at Xclusive."
"Does anyone want to guess where I won't be tomorrow morning at eight?" I ask.
"No, honey. I know how much you like the Acacia." Anne reaches out and squeezes Scott's hand.
"No, babe. I'll stick to the Pellegrino," Scott says, pointing.
I'm tapping my fingers very loudly on the tabletop, whispering "shit, shit, shit, shit" to myself. Courtney's eyes are half closed and she's breathing deeply.
"Listen. I'll be daring," Anne says finally. "I'll have a Diet Coke with rum."
Scott sighs, then smiles, beaming really. "Good."
"That's a caffeine-fine Diet Coke, right?" Anne asks the waiter.
"You know," I interrupt, "you should have it with Diet Pepsi. It's much better."
"Really?" Anne asks. "What do you mean?"
"You should have the Diet Pepsi instead of the Diet Coke," I say. "It's much better. It's fizzier. It has a cleaner taste. It mixes better with rum and has a lower sodium content."
The waiter, Scott, Anne, and even Courtney – they all stare at me as if I've offered some kind of diabolical, apocalyptic observation, as if I were shattering a myth highly held, or destroying an oath that was solemnly regarded, and it suddenly seems almost hushed in Deck Chairs. Last night I rented a movie called Inside Lydia's Ass and while on two Halcion and in fact sipping a Diet Pepsi, I watched as Lydia – a totally tan bleached-blonde hardbody with a perfect ass and great full tits – while on all fours gave head to this guy with a huge cock while another gorgeous blonde little hardbody with a perfectly trimmed blond pussy knelt behind Lydia and after eating her ass out and sucking on her cunt started to push a long, greased silver vibrator into Lydia's ass and fucked her with it while she continued to eat her pussy and the guy with the huge cock came all over Lydia's face as she sucked his balls and then Lydia bucked to an authentic-looking, fairly strong orgasm and then the girl behind Lydia crawled around and licked the come from Lydia's face and then made Lydia suck on the vibrator. The new Stephen Bishop came out last Tuesday and at Tower Records yesterday I bought the compact disc, the cassette and the album because I wanted to own all three formats.
"Listen," I say, my voice trembling with emotion, "have whatever you want but I'm telling you I recommend the Diet Pepsi." I look down at my lap, at the blue cloth napkin, the words Deck Chairs sewn into the napkin's edge, and for a moment think I'm going to cry; my chin trembles and I can't swallow.
Courtney reaches over and touches my wrist gently, stroking my Rolex. "It's okay Patrick. It really is.…"
A sharp pain near my liver overcomes the surge of emotion and I sit up in my chair, startled, confused, and the waiter leaves and then Anne asks if we've seen the recent David Onica exhibit and I'm feeling calmer.
It turns out we haven't seen the show but I don't want to be tacky enough to bring up the fact I own one, so I lightly kick Courtney under the table. This raises her out of the lithium-induced stupor and she says robotically, "Patrick owns an Onica. He really does."
I smile, pleased; sip my J&B.
"Oh that's fantastic, Patrick," Anne says.
"Really? An Onica?" Scott asks. "Isn't he quite expensive?"
"Well, let's just say…" I sip my drink, suddenly confused: say… say what? "Nothing."
Courtney sighs, anticipating another kick. "Patrick's cost twenty thousand dollars." She seems bored out of her mind, picking at a flat, warm piece of corn bread.
I give her a sharp look and try not to hiss. "Uh, no, Courtney, it was really fifty."
She slowly looks up from the corn bread she's mashing between her fingers and even in her lithium haze manages a stare so malicious that it automatically humbles me, but not enough to tell Scott and Anne the truth: that the Onica cost only twelve grand. But Courtney's frightening gaze – though I might be overreacting; she might be staring disapprovingly at the patterns on the columns, the venetian blinds on the skylight, the Montigo vases full of purple tulips lining the bar – scares me enough to not elaborate on the procedure of purchasing an Onica. It's a stare that I can interpret fairly easily. It warns: Kick me again and no pussy, do you understand?