look around and titter nervously. At last the elevator grinds to a halt, and the doors open onto a vast, open loft space, ringed with windows and filled with musicand bodies and the burbling of voices. Gabe and I exchange glances.
“What a meat market,” he tells me solemnly. “Don’t be cowed by it, though.”
I laugh, take Gabe’s hand, and together we plunge into the chattering crowd. The contrast between the street below and this shiny, flawless white space with its gleaming hardwood floors is fantastic; waiting at the bar I overhear someone telling someone else that it’s a photography studio.
“Gabe, look.” I point to the windows. “You can see the river.”
“And New Jersey.” Gabe guides me up to the bar and waves at a server. “But what the hell is that?” Against one wall are two giant screens, filled with scenes of parties that aren’t this one.
“They’re videoconferencing San Francisco and Seattle,” the bartender says bitterly. “Friends who couldn’t make it out here for the happy occasion.” He hands us glasses of champagne. “There are computers set up over there, if you want to join the live chat. Though there seem to be quite a few people in line ahead of you.” He sneers in the direction of one corner, where a crowd clusters around glowing monitors set up on pedestals.
“Do you suppose I could check e-mail?” Gabe clinks his glass against mine.
“Can I disapprove of a tradition and its perversion at the same time?” I ask him.
“Hello, children.” Joan’s face appears inches from mine. She kisses my cheek. “You made it at last! We’d given you up for dead.”
“Hullo, Joy! Hullo, Gabriel!” Bickford St. James delivers a hearty smack to the small of Gabriel’s back, and the latter chokes on his drink. Bix reminds me of something I read once about a mark of the aristocracy being their carelessnessof dress. Tonight he is wearing what looks to be a very fine and expensive suit that’s been crumpled in the dusty back corner of a closet for several months. His sky-blue silk tie, which dangles loosely from his unbuttoned collar, has a cigarette burn at the bottom edge, and his pale brown hair sticks up in all directions, but his eyes are wide and bright, his skin as flushed and pure as a child’s. He’s already drunk. He wrings Gabe’s hand in a long handshake, and turns to kiss me.
“Joy, you look stunning this evening. How are you? Good, good.” He turns to Joan. “A drink, dearest?”
“Several, please, dearest.”
Bix elbows his way toward the bar, and Joan slips one arm around me and the other around Gabe.
“So,” she says, “it sounds like you two were discussing the happy couple’s very modern arrangement?”
“We were discussing their hardware, if that’s what you mean,” I answer.
“No, dear, I was talking about their software.” Joan smirks. “They have an open relationship. They’re going to have an open marriage.”
I blink at her, but before I can say anything, noisy clinking on glasses draws the attention of the crowd to one end of the room.
“Let’s get started,” a man standing on a chair exhorts the crowd. “Grab your seats!”
The guests bump around against one another and herd toward the round tables that line the room. Joan hails Bix and the four of us find a table and sit down. Across the room, at another table, I see Pete and Tulley waving to me. On the video screens, the ghostly distant crowds cluster close, waiting with us.
“That’s the CEO of Joe’s company.” Joan indicates thedreadlocked, goateed white boy standing between the two computer-topped pedestals. “He got a marriage license on the Internet so he could perform the ceremony.”
Bix reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of old-style 3-D glasses, paper frames with red and green plastic lenses. He puts them on and turns to us.
“I want the full effect,” he says.
“Hush,” Joan hisses. “It’s starting.”
The room dims and fills
“What a meat market,” he tells me solemnly. “Don’t be cowed by it, though.”
I laugh, take Gabe’s hand, and together we plunge into the chattering crowd. The contrast between the street below and this shiny, flawless white space with its gleaming hardwood floors is fantastic; waiting at the bar I overhear someone telling someone else that it’s a photography studio.
“Gabe, look.” I point to the windows. “You can see the river.”
“And New Jersey.” Gabe guides me up to the bar and waves at a server. “But what the hell is that?” Against one wall are two giant screens, filled with scenes of parties that aren’t this one.
“They’re videoconferencing San Francisco and Seattle,” the bartender says bitterly. “Friends who couldn’t make it out here for the happy occasion.” He hands us glasses of champagne. “There are computers set up over there, if you want to join the live chat. Though there seem to be quite a few people in line ahead of you.” He sneers in the direction of one corner, where a crowd clusters around glowing monitors set up on pedestals.
“Do you suppose I could check e-mail?” Gabe clinks his glass against mine.
“Can I disapprove of a tradition and its perversion at the same time?” I ask him.
“Hello, children.” Joan’s face appears inches from mine. She kisses my cheek. “You made it at last! We’d given you up for dead.”
“Hullo, Joy! Hullo, Gabriel!” Bickford St. James delivers a hearty smack to the small of Gabriel’s back, and the latter chokes on his drink. Bix reminds me of something I read once about a mark of the aristocracy being their carelessnessof dress. Tonight he is wearing what looks to be a very fine and expensive suit that’s been crumpled in the dusty back corner of a closet for several months. His sky-blue silk tie, which dangles loosely from his unbuttoned collar, has a cigarette burn at the bottom edge, and his pale brown hair sticks up in all directions, but his eyes are wide and bright, his skin as flushed and pure as a child’s. He’s already drunk. He wrings Gabe’s hand in a long handshake, and turns to kiss me.
“Joy, you look stunning this evening. How are you? Good, good.” He turns to Joan. “A drink, dearest?”
“Several, please, dearest.”
Bix elbows his way toward the bar, and Joan slips one arm around me and the other around Gabe.
“So,” she says, “it sounds like you two were discussing the happy couple’s very modern arrangement?”
“We were discussing their hardware, if that’s what you mean,” I answer.
“No, dear, I was talking about their software.” Joan smirks. “They have an open relationship. They’re going to have an open marriage.”
I blink at her, but before I can say anything, noisy clinking on glasses draws the attention of the crowd to one end of the room.
“Let’s get started,” a man standing on a chair exhorts the crowd. “Grab your seats!”
The guests bump around against one another and herd toward the round tables that line the room. Joan hails Bix and the four of us find a table and sit down. Across the room, at another table, I see Pete and Tulley waving to me. On the video screens, the ghostly distant crowds cluster close, waiting with us.
“That’s the CEO of Joe’s company.” Joan indicates thedreadlocked, goateed white boy standing between the two computer-topped pedestals. “He got a marriage license on the Internet so he could perform the ceremony.”
Bix reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of old-style 3-D glasses, paper frames with red and green plastic lenses. He puts them on and turns to us.
“I want the full effect,” he says.
“Hush,” Joan hisses. “It’s starting.”
The room dims and fills
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