how he hasn’t met anyone for the past four months who’s over nineteen. “Blows your mind away, huh?” he screams, over the sound of the music.
Lindsay gets up and says that he spots his dealer and has to go talk to her. I sit at the bar alone and light another cigarette, order another drink. There’s a fat girl also sitting alone at the near empty bar, trying to talk to the bartender, who, like the DJ, is also shirtless and dancing by himself, behind the bar, to the music that’s pouring out of the club’s sound system. The fat girl has a lot of makeup on and she’s sipping a Tab with a straw and wearing purple Calvin Klein jeans and matching cowboy boots. The bartender isn’t listening to her and I have this image of her, sitting alone in a room somewhere in the city, waiting for a phone to ring. The fat girl orders another Tab. From downstairs the music stops and the DJ announces that there’ll be a miniskirt beach party at The Florentine Gardens in two weeks.
“It’s really … lively tonight,” the fat girl tells the bartender.
“Where?” the bartender asks.
The girl looks down, embarrassed for a moment, and pays for her drink and I can barely hear her mumble, “Somewhere,” and she gets up and buttons the top button on her jeans and leaves the bar and sometime, later that night, I realize I’m going to be home for two more weeks.
T he psychiatrist I see tells me that he has a new idea for a screenplay. Instead of listening, I sling a leg over the arm of the huge black leather chair in the posh office and light another cigarette, a clove. This guy goes on and on and after every couple of sentences he runs his fingers through his beard and looks at me. I have my sunglasses on and he isn’t too sure if I’m looking at him. I am. The psychiatrist talks some more and soon it really doesn’t matter what he says. He pauses and asks me if I would like to help him write it. I tell him that I’m not interested. The psychiatrist says something like, “You know, Clay, that you and I have been talking about how you should become more active and not so passive and I think it would be a good idea if you would help me write this. At least a treatment.”
I mumble something, blow some of the clove smoke toward him and look out the window.
I park my car in front of Trent’s new apartment, a few blocks from U.C.L.A. in Westwood, the apartment he lives in when he has classes. Rip answers the door since he’s now Trent’s dealer, since Trent hasn’t been able to find Julian.
“Guess who’s here?” Rip asks me.
“Who?”
“Guess.”
“Who?”
“Guess.”
“Tell me, Rip.”
“He’s young, he’s rich, he’s available, he’s Iranian.” Rip pushes me into the living room. “Here’s Atiff.”
Atiff, who I haven’t seen since graduation, is sitting on the couch wearing Gucci loafers and an expensive Italian suit. He’s a freshman at U.S.C. and drives a black 380 SL.
“Ah, Clay, how are you, my friend?” Atiff gets up from the couch and shakes my hand.
“Okay. How about you?”
“Oh, very good, very good. I just got back from Rome.”
Rip walks out of the living room and into Trent’s room and turns MTV on and the sound up.
“Where’s Trent?” I ask, wondering where the bar is.
“In the shower,” Atiff says. “You look great. How was New Hampshire?”
“It was okay,” I say, and smile at Trent’s roommate, Chris, who’s sitting at the table in the kitchen, on the phone. He smiles back and gets up and starts pacing nervously around the kitchen. Atiff is talking about clubs in Venice and how he lost a piece of Louis Vuitton luggage in Florence. He lights a thin Italian cigarette. “I got back two nights ago because I was told classes start soon. I am not sure when they do, but I hear that it is rather soon.” He pauses. “Did you go to Sandra’s party at Spago last night? No? It wasn’t very good.”
I’m nodding and looking over at Chris, who gets off the
Lindsay gets up and says that he spots his dealer and has to go talk to her. I sit at the bar alone and light another cigarette, order another drink. There’s a fat girl also sitting alone at the near empty bar, trying to talk to the bartender, who, like the DJ, is also shirtless and dancing by himself, behind the bar, to the music that’s pouring out of the club’s sound system. The fat girl has a lot of makeup on and she’s sipping a Tab with a straw and wearing purple Calvin Klein jeans and matching cowboy boots. The bartender isn’t listening to her and I have this image of her, sitting alone in a room somewhere in the city, waiting for a phone to ring. The fat girl orders another Tab. From downstairs the music stops and the DJ announces that there’ll be a miniskirt beach party at The Florentine Gardens in two weeks.
“It’s really … lively tonight,” the fat girl tells the bartender.
“Where?” the bartender asks.
The girl looks down, embarrassed for a moment, and pays for her drink and I can barely hear her mumble, “Somewhere,” and she gets up and buttons the top button on her jeans and leaves the bar and sometime, later that night, I realize I’m going to be home for two more weeks.
T he psychiatrist I see tells me that he has a new idea for a screenplay. Instead of listening, I sling a leg over the arm of the huge black leather chair in the posh office and light another cigarette, a clove. This guy goes on and on and after every couple of sentences he runs his fingers through his beard and looks at me. I have my sunglasses on and he isn’t too sure if I’m looking at him. I am. The psychiatrist talks some more and soon it really doesn’t matter what he says. He pauses and asks me if I would like to help him write it. I tell him that I’m not interested. The psychiatrist says something like, “You know, Clay, that you and I have been talking about how you should become more active and not so passive and I think it would be a good idea if you would help me write this. At least a treatment.”
I mumble something, blow some of the clove smoke toward him and look out the window.
I park my car in front of Trent’s new apartment, a few blocks from U.C.L.A. in Westwood, the apartment he lives in when he has classes. Rip answers the door since he’s now Trent’s dealer, since Trent hasn’t been able to find Julian.
“Guess who’s here?” Rip asks me.
“Who?”
“Guess.”
“Who?”
“Guess.”
“Tell me, Rip.”
“He’s young, he’s rich, he’s available, he’s Iranian.” Rip pushes me into the living room. “Here’s Atiff.”
Atiff, who I haven’t seen since graduation, is sitting on the couch wearing Gucci loafers and an expensive Italian suit. He’s a freshman at U.S.C. and drives a black 380 SL.
“Ah, Clay, how are you, my friend?” Atiff gets up from the couch and shakes my hand.
“Okay. How about you?”
“Oh, very good, very good. I just got back from Rome.”
Rip walks out of the living room and into Trent’s room and turns MTV on and the sound up.
“Where’s Trent?” I ask, wondering where the bar is.
“In the shower,” Atiff says. “You look great. How was New Hampshire?”
“It was okay,” I say, and smile at Trent’s roommate, Chris, who’s sitting at the table in the kitchen, on the phone. He smiles back and gets up and starts pacing nervously around the kitchen. Atiff is talking about clubs in Venice and how he lost a piece of Louis Vuitton luggage in Florence. He lights a thin Italian cigarette. “I got back two nights ago because I was told classes start soon. I am not sure when they do, but I hear that it is rather soon.” He pauses. “Did you go to Sandra’s party at Spago last night? No? It wasn’t very good.”
I’m nodding and looking over at Chris, who gets off the
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