Authors: Jay McInerney
That’s a very crude way of putting it, he says.
Am I wrong? I go.
I don’t really mind that he’s not the guy I thought he was or that he has more hair on the back of his hands than on his head or even that he’s wearing this big tacky Rolex President, but there isn’t a bed in the world that’s big enough for me and his ego both.
You liked me in L.A., he says.
But I’m sober now, I go.
He pins me back against the door. I know you want me, he says.
I’m like, I don’t believe this shit.
You want me, I can tell.
This is great, it’s like, so typical, girls always think they’re less attractive than they actually are and guys always think they’re more attractive. I didn’t want to say anything before, but really, this Bradley is a toad. He’d have to be really rich or really powerful or really famous to look even halfway decent. And even then . . .
Come on, I know you want to, he’s going.
How can you tell? I go. I’m dying to know.
I know women, he says. I go, right, like I know Swahili. He’s got me pinned against the door and then he latches on to me with his horrible bony little mouth, I mean you could get paper cuts from this guy’s lips and I don’t even want to mention his tongue, we’re talking reptile, it reminds me of this diagram I saw once in a magazine about these lamprey eels that glom on to salmon and suck their insides out. Meanwhile he’s trying
to force my legs apart with his knee. I can’t believe the nerve of this guy, it would almost be funny if it wasn’t so disgusting, but luckily I’ve still got Jeannie’s brooch in my hand. I open it up and sink the pin into Bradley’s butt. He screams and jumps back like I’m on fire and while he’s trying to figure out what happened I slip in the door and run upstairs.
I call Dean and get his machine.
I know how I’m going to get rich, I’m going to invent a device that will destroy answering machines over the phone—you just push a button and boom, the thing blows up.
I vaguely remember hearing Jeannie come and go early in the morning. A little after noon she calls me up from Hilton Head.
Sure enough, she walked in on Frank and some bimbo in bed. Everything that wasn’t nailed down she threw at them. Then she went after them with a tennis racket. When Frank’s new honey ran out into the hall naked Jeannie put her clothes in the trash compactor and compacted them into all the beer cans and watermelon rinds. This nice little Ralph Lauren ensemble, right? There was a champagne bottle next to the bed left over from Frank’s big romantic evening and Jeannie clubbed him over the head with it. He was bleeding pretty nicely when she left and now she’s at the airport coming back home. I get her flight information and tell her I’ll meet her at the airport.
Before I leave I call up Dean and he answers. I explain about Jeannie and tell him I’ll have to cancel. She’s going to need me tonight, I go.
Hey, I understand, he says.
She’s really hurt, I go, she’s been screwed over. I know it’s not rational but it’s like I’m blaming Dean, maybe because he’s a man, maybe because he was out when I called last night.
Give her a hug for me, he says.
And I’m like, what’s that supposed to mean, honey pie?
And he goes, just a friendly sympathetic kind of hug. On second thought, he says, why don’t you make that a nasty, frigid kind of hug.
So how was your night last night? I go.
Group sex and intravenous drugs, he says. Nothing special.
Special enough to keep you out past two-thirty, I think, because that was the last time I called before I finally fell asleep, but for a change I decide to keep my mouth shut. Right now my main concern is Jeannie. I want to be there for her because she’ll be there for me when Dean and his replacement and the guy after that are all history. Ancient history.
I’m supposed to be on a beach again, imagining intense heat and sunlight. St. Bart’s or maybe Southampton. The smell of salt and cocoa butter, the gritty feeling of a sandy towel. A really great method actress, I suppose, could get a tan this way, projecting herself into a memory of a beach. Then you’d know you were pretty good, I guess. But I can’t even work up a sweat right now, at this particular moment. It’s a Friday afternoon and I’m in class, trying to do sense-memory. My concentration’s shot. I’m thinking about Dean. I’m heavy in lust.
Last night we finally got to do it. We went to a movie, then dinner. Couldn’t keep my hands off him.
For some reason I was afraid it wouldn’t be very good. I mean, I hate these big dramatic buildups, they usually let you down. Patience has never been my middle name, I mean I got my first credit card when I was about twelve, and if I can’t have something right away I generally forget about it. But this, I don’t know . . .
I wanted to crawl inside of him and stay there. I wanted to disappear down his throat. I wanted to take all of him all the way up inside me.
Trouble is, this isn’t doing my acting any good. My instrument is all out of tune here. I keep thinking about Dean running his tongue up and down me, vibrations going right off the Richter scale, instead of about the hot sun on this stupid imaginary beach. If only the assignment called for a sense-memory of outrageously good all-night sex I’d be made in the shade.
I’m not sure why it was so good—we didn’t do anything really special. No video cameras, costumes, equipment or special effects. Just good old-fashioned sex, like the kind Mom used to make.
Rob walks by my chair and says, you’re not giving me anything, Alison. He gave me this assignment because last time I flipped out before I could get into it.
How about if I do something with sex? I say.
He lets out this big sigh and goes, you’re going to make a great porn star someday.
What do you mean, someday? I say.
Alex and I used to make videos of ourselves. It was pretty outrageous, but definitely a turn-on. I don’t know, I suppose some people would think that’s weird. I guess it is. With my luck the tapes will turn up just when I’m about to win the Academy Award or something.
The teacher goes, get back to the beach, Alison. See if you can keep your mind out of the bedroom for just a few hours.
So I make like Annette Funicello. I start with the memory of the smell of Bain de Soleil Number 4, remember the feel of the hot sun, skin getting really hot, hands rubbing Bain de Soleil all over my body. . . .
After class I call Dean.
Hey, big boy, I say.
Hello, beautiful, he goes. I made a terrific trade today.
It must be all that good loving, I say.
I guess you inspired me, he goes. I made two hundred thousand before lunch.
I’m like, do I get half?
Actually I made it for a client, he says.
I go, tell him I deserve a commission at least.
I’ll give you a big commission, he goes.
I’m like, how big?
We’re both driveling idiots. We sort of drool and baby talk for a while, then I tell him I’m going to tan, then shower and dress and he says he’ll pick me up around nine.
When I get home Jeannie says, Alison, I’ve got to tell you something.
I’m like, if it’s bad news I don’t want to hear it. I’m too happy.
You want a line? she says. She’s definitely wired.
No thanks, I say.
Poor Jeannie, she’s really wiped out over this Frank thing. He’s tried to call but she won’t pick up the phone and she won’t let me tell him when she’s here.
So what’s up? I go.
We got an eviction notice, she goes.
I’m like, I thought you said you’d cover me this month.
Yeah, she goes, but we owe three months.
Are you crazy? I go. I gave you my half for the other months.
What are we going to do? Jeannie says.
What do you mean, what are we going to do? What happened to the money?
Jeannie starts to sob. Oh, Alison, she goes. I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me.
Get this, it turns out that Jeannie’s been taking the money I’ve been giving her and her father’s been giving her and spending it before she manages to pass it on to the landlord. There was this Chanel skirt she had to have, it’s only like eighteen hundred bucks, and she’s been flying first class down to South Carolina, and then she reminds me I participated in consuming that quarter ounce she bought a few weeks ago and there have been some eighths here and some grams there since then, just to keep her going. A new set of golf clubs for Frank’s birthday—that was a real good investment. One thing and another.
So get the money from your father, I say.
I can’t, she goes. He’ll kill me. What about Dean? she says.
Right, I say. I’m going to hit up this guy I just met two weeks ago for five thousand dollars? Think again, babe.
What are we going to do? Jeannie says as she bends over the mirror and snorts a big line.
I’m going out to do the town with Dean, I say. Then Dean’s going to do me. The question is, what are
you
going to do?
That sounds harsh, but I mean,
really
.
Dean has tickets for this hot play but first he takes me to Petaluma for a drink. The waiter’s Mike from my acting class, he tells me that Didi showed up at closing time last night, really fucked up.
She was probably just waking up, I say. She’s not really good till after midnight.
Girl has a problem, Dean says.
The play is
Fences
, I’ve been wanting to see it all spring and I’m definitely not disappointed. It’s basically about how a father can screw up the life of his kid and I’m like, absolutely.
There’s this one incredible scene where James Earl Jones’s son, spits in his face. My acting teacher told us that at rehearsals for the play the guy who was playing the son couldn’t bring himself to spit in James Earl Jones’s face so the director started to insult him and spit in
his
face and tell him that James Earl Jones was nothing special. Right. That guy’s so powerful he’s like the ultimate father where you can’t tell if he’s God or
Satan or what, and when the boy spits in his face you think lightning’s going to come down and zap the kid into ashes. Afterwards Dean keeps talking about the structure and character development and I wish he’d shut up, I’m just thinking about that moment.
After the play we go to Nell’s. I’m looking forward to showing up with Dean, making it sort of official, you know, like—here we are, everybody. Okay, so I’m an exhibitionist. Of course, it could be dangerous. On any given night there could be eight or ten of my old flames slipping around in there.
My friend Whitney is working the door. Whitney was like Phi Beta Kappa at some Ivy League school, she was really straight, studied all the time and then she went to Columbia Law School but one night Francesca introduced her to this guy in Elvis Costello’s band and she disappeared for about two weeks and now she works the door and does some modeling on the side. She has two big guys with her. She points to people and the boys pull back the rope to let them pass. There are about fifty people waiting. I feel bad walking right in, but what can you do? Okay, that’s not true, I feel good. It’s a mean old world, right?
Whitney checks Dean out, winks at me and goes, not bad.
It’s pretty crowded inside, considering it’s only midnight, but we get a table. A guy comes over and gives Dean a big hug and Dean goes, Alison, this is Phil, Didi’s cousin. Phil’s a
big, athletic-looking guy. He’s wearing a black T-shirt so you can see he’s got this great young body but his face looks ten years older than the rest of him, like forty or something. He’s got crow’s-feet, wrinkles, skin that looks like it’s seen a lot of wind from high-speed living.
And Phil goes, so you’re a friend of Didi’s. How is she? I haven’t seen her in ages.
I look at Dean and he looks at me and we’re both like, what do you want, the truth?
So I go, to tell you the truth I’m kind of worried about her.
What’s the matter, Phil says, she looking for AIDS in all the right places?
You know how you don’t like some people right away? Well, I don’t know why but immediately I can’t stand this Phillip.
She’s been doing huge amounts of blow, I say. Every night, all night. She’s got a real problem, I tell him.
Didi? he says, as if he doesn’t believe me. Little Didi? I’ve seen her do a few lines but I can’t imagine she’d really go crazy with it. What exactly are we talking about here? Because you’re talking to somebody who ended up in detox for three months.
I’m like, good for you. I’m really impressed that you were such a major-league fuck-up.
Dean jumps in, he’s such a diplomat, can’t seem to stand unpleasantness between people, that’s one of his big problems, he’d rather be pleasant than honest, I guess he didn’t grow up like me where people were screaming and throwing cutlery
at each other. Anyway, he goes, I’ve got to say I agree with Alison. Didi is pretty strung out.
Well, he goes, I’ll check into it.
Hey, don’t do us any favors. I’m really mad at myself for saying anything to this guy, and if he hadn’t really pissed me off I would’ve made a joke out of it, but now I feel like I’ve betrayed Didi or something.
Phil makes like a tree, which is good because I could feel a major battle coming on. What an asshole, I say. What does he do besides aggravate people?
He’s a stockbroker, Dean says. Relax, he says, and orders a bottle of champagne from the waitress with the soup-bowl haircut. I don’t know, these downtown artsy coifs may get attention, but not necessarily the right kind. I don’t think most guys are too keen on running their fingers through a fashion statement.
Anyway, suddenly I get a little tingle of tornado warning, like the air pressure drops radically around our table and sure enough a familiar voice screams
Alison
from a few yards away, then Francesca drops into the seat next to me, a natural freaking phenomenon—is that the word?—in green sequins and red beads. She’s wearing this button over her tit that says
THE DESSERT CART STOPS HERE
.
I love Francesca, she’s about the only person I know who has a sense of humor about herself.