"Hey Bateman," Craig says in a voice that suggests this is not his first martini. "Is it proper to wear tasseled loafers with a business suit or not? Don't look at me like I'm insane."
"Oh shit, don't ask Bateman," Van Patten moans, waving a gold Cross pen in front of his face, absently sipping from the martini glass.
"Van Patten?" Craig says.
"Yeah?"
McDermott hesitates, then says "Shut up" in a flat voice.
"What are you screwballs up to?" I spot Luis Carruthers standing at the bar next to Price, who ignores him utterly. Carruthers is not dressed welclass="underline" a four-button double-breasted wool suit, I think by Chaps, a striped cotton shirt and a silk bow tie plus horn-rimmed eyeglasses by Oliver Peoples.
"Bateman: we're sending these questions in to GQ," Van Patten begins.
Luis spots me, smiles weakly, then, if I'm not mistaken, blushes and turns back to the bar. Bartenders always ignore Luis for some reason.
"We have this bet to see which one of us will get in the Question and Answer column first, and so now I expect an answer. What do you think?" McDermott demands.
"About what?" I ask irritably.
"Tasseled loafers, jerk-off," he says.
"Well, guys…" I measure my words carefully. "The tasseled loafer is traditionally a casual shoe…" I glance back at Price, wanting the drink badly. He brushes past Luis, who offers his hand. Price smiles, says something, moves on, strides over to our table. Luis, once more, tries to catch the bartender's attention and once more fails.
"But it's become acceptable just because it's so popular, right?" Craig asks eagerly.
"Yeah." I nod. "As long as it's either black or cordovan it's okay."
"What about brown?" Van Patten asks suspiciously.
I think about this then say, "Too sporty for a business suit."
"What are you fags talking about?" Price asks. He hands me the drink then sits down, crossing his legs.
"Okay, okay, okay," Van Patten says. "This is my question. A two-parter…" He pauses dramatically. "Now are rounded collars too dressy or too casual? Part two, which tie knot looks best with them?"
A distracted Price, his voice still tense, answers quickly with an exact, clear enunciation that can be heard over the din in Harry's. "It's a very versatile look and it can go with both suits and sport coats. It should be starched for dressy occasions and a collar pin should be worn if it's particularly formal." He pauses, sighs; it looks as if he's spotted somebody. I turn around to see who it is. Price continues, "If it's worn with a blazer then the collar should look soft and it can be worn either pinned or unpinned. Since it's a traditional, preppy look it's best if balanced by a relatively small four-in-hand knot." He sips his martini, recrossing his legs. "Next question?"
"Buy the man a drink," McDermott says, obviously impressed.
"Price?" Van Patten says.
"Yes?" Price says, casing the room.
"You're priceless."
"Listen," I ask, "where are we having dinner?"
"I brought the trusty Mr. Zagat," Van Patten says, pulling the long crimson booklet out of his pocket and waving it at Timothy.
"Hoo-ray," Price says dryly.
"What do we want to eat?" Me.
"Something blond with big tits." Price.
"How about that Salvadorian bistro?" McDermott.
"Listen, we're stopping by Tunnel afterwards so somewhere near there." Van Patten.
"Oh shit," McDermott begins. "We're going to Tunnel? Last week I picked up this Vassar chick–"
"Oh god, not again," Van Patten groans.
"What's your problem?" McDermott snaps back.
"I was there. I don't need to hear this story again," Van Patten says.
"But I never told you what happened afterwards, " McDermott says, arching his eyebrows.
"Hey, when were you guys there?" I ask. "Why wasn't I invited?"
"You were on that fucking cruise thing. Now shut up and listen. So okay I picked up this Vassar chick at Tunnel – hot number, big tits, great legs, this chick was a little hardbody – and so I buy her a couple of champagne kirs and she's in the city on spring break and she's practically blowing me in the Chandelier Room and so I take her back to my place–"
"Whoa, wait," I interrupt. "May I ask where Pamela is during all of this?"
Craig winces. "Oh fuck you. I want a blow job, Bateman. I want a chick who's gonna let me–"
"I don't want to hear this," Van Patten says, clamping his hands over his ears. "He's going to say something disgusting."
"You prude," McDermott sneers. "Listen, we're not gonna invest in a co-op together or jet down to Saint Bart's. I just want some chick whose face I can sit on for thirty, forty minutes."
I throw my swizzle stick at him.
"Anyway, so we're back at my place and listen to this." He moves in closer to the table. "She's had enough champagne by now to get a fucking rhino tipsy, and get this–"
"She let you fuck her without a condom?" one of us asks.
McDermott rolls his eyes up. "This is a Vassar girl. She's not from Queens."
Price taps me on the shoulder. "What does that mean?"
"Anyway, listen," McDermott says. "She would… are you ready?" He pauses dramatically. "She would only give me a hand job, and get this… she kept her glove on." He sits back in his chair and sips his drink in a smug, satisfied sort of way.
We all take this in solemnly. No one makes fun of McDermott's revelatory statement or of his inability to react more aggressively with this chick. No one says anything but we are all thinking the same thought: Never pick up a Vassar girl.
"What you need is a chick from Camden," Van Patten says, after recovering from McDermott's statement.
"Oh great," I say. "Some chick who thinks it's okay to fuck her brother."
"Yeah, but they think AIDS is a new band from England," Price points out.
"Where's dinner?" Van Patten asks, absently studying the question scrawled on his napkin. "Where the fuck are we going?"
"It's really funny that girls think guys are concerned with that, with diseases and stuff," Van Patten says, shaking his head.
"I'm not gonna wear a fucking condom," McDermott announces.
"I have read this article I've Xeroxed," Van Patten says, "and it says our chances of catching that are like zero zero zero zero point half a decimal percentage or something, and this no matter what kind of scumbag, slutbucket, horndog chick we end up boffing."
"Guys just cannot get it."
"Well, not white guys."
"This girl was wearing a fucking glove?" Price asks, still shocked. "A glove? Jesus, why didn't you just jerk off instead?"
"Listen, the dick also rises," Van Patten says. "Faulkner."
"Where did you go to college?" Price asks. "Pine Manor?"
"Men," I announce: "Look who approaches."
"Who?" Price won't turn his head.
"Hint," I say. "Biggest weasel at Drexel Burnham Lambert."
"Connolly?" Price guesses.
"Hello, Preston," I say, shaking Preston's hand.
"Fellows," Preston says, standing over the table, nodding to everyone. "I'm sorry about not making dinner with you guys tonight." Preston is wearing a double-breasted wool suit by Alexander Julian, a cotton shirt and a silk Perry Ellis tie. He bends down, balancing himself by putting a hand on the back of my chair. "I feel really bad about canceling, but commitments, you know."