Tuesday morning and I'm standing by my desk in the livingroom on the phone with my lawyer, alternately keeping my eyeon The Patty Winters Show and the maid as she waxes the ɻoor,wipes blood smears oʃ the walls, throws away gore-soakednewspapers without a word. Faintly it hits me that she too is lostin a world of shit, completely drowning in it, and this somehowsets oʃ my remembering that the piano tuner will be stopping bythis afternoon and that I should leave a note with the doorman tolet him in. Not that the Yamaha has ever been played; it's justthat one of the girls fell against it and some strings (which I usedlater) were pulled out, snapped or something. Into the phone I'msaying, "I need more tax breaks." Patty Winters is on the TVscreen asking a child, eight or nine, "But isn't that just anotherterm for an orgy?" The timer buzzes on the microwave. I'mheating up a souʀé.There's no use in denying it: this has been a bad week. I'vestarted drinking my own urine. I laugh spontaneously at nothing.Sometimes I sleep under my futon. I'm ɻossing my teethconstantly until my gums are aching and my mouth tastes likeblood. Before dinner last night at 1500 with Reed Goodrich andJason Rust I was almost caught at a Federal Express in TimesSquare trying to send the mother of one of the girls I killed lastweek what might be a dried-up, brown heart. And to Evelyn Isuccessfully Federal Expressed, through the oɽce, a small box ofɻies along with a note, typed by Jean, saying that I never, everwanted to see her face again and, though she doesn't really needone, to go on a fucking diet. But there are also things that theaverage person would think are nice that I've done to celebratethe holiday, items I've bought Jean and had delivered to herapartment this morning: Castellini cotton napkins from Bendel's,a wicker chair from Jenny B. Goode, a taʃeta table throw fromBarney's, a vintage chain-mail-vent purse and a vintage sterlingsilver dresser set from Macy's, a white pine whatnot fromConran's, an Edwardian nine-carat-gold "gate" bracelet fromBergdorf's and hundreds upon hundreds of pink and white roses.The oɽce. Lyrics to Madonna songs keep intruding, burstinginto my head, announcing themselves in tiring, familiar ways,and I stare into space, my eyes lazily lit up while I try to forgetabout the day looming before me, but then a phrase that ɹlls mewith a nameless dread keeps interrupting the Madonna songs—isolated farmhouse constantly returns to me, over and over.Someone I've been avoiding for the last year, a nerd from Fortunewho wants to write an article about me, calls again this morningand I end up calling the reporter back to arrange an interview.Craig McDermott is having some kind of fax frenzy and won'ttake any of my phone calls, preferring to communicate by faxonly. The Post this morning says the remains of three bodies thatdisappeared aboard a yacht last March have been recovered,frozen in ice, hacked up and bloated, in the East River; somemaniac is going around the city poisoning one-liter bottles ofEvian water, seventeen dead already; talk of zombies, the publicmood, increasing randomness, vast chasms of misunderstanding.And, for the sake of form, Tim Price resurfaces, or at least I'mpretty sure he does. While I'm at my desk simultaneously crossingout the days in my calendar that have already passed and readinga new best seller about oɽce management called Why It Works toBe a Jerk, Jean buzzes in, announcing that Tim Price wants totalk, and fearfully I say, "Send him ... in." Price strolls into theoɽce wearing a wool suit by Canali Milano, a cotton shirt by IkeBehar, a silk tie by Bill Blass, cap-toed leather lace-ups fromBrooks Brothers. I'm pretending to be on the phone. He sits down,across from me, on the other side of the Palazzetti glass-top desk.There's a smudge on his forehead or at least that's what I think Isee. Aside from that he looks remarkably ɹt. Our conversationprobably resembles something like this but is actually briefer."Price," I say, shaking his hand. "Where have you been?""Oh, just making the rounds." He smiles. "But hey, I'm back.""Far out." I shrug, confused. "How was ... it?""It was ... surprising." He shrugs too. "It was ... depressing.""I thought I saw you in Aspen," I murmur."Hey, how are you, Bateman?" he asks."I'm okay," I tell him, swallowing. "Just ... existing.""And Evelyn?" he asks. "How is she?""Well, we broke up." I smile."That's too bad." He takes this in, remembers something."Courtney?""She married Luis.""Grassgreen?""No. Carruthers."He takes this in too. "Do you have her number?"While writing it down for him, I mention, "You've been gone,like, forever, Tim. What's the story?" I ask, again noticing thesmudge on his forehead, though I get the feeling that if I askedsomeone else if it was truly there, he (or she) would just say no.He stands up, takes the card. "I've been back. You just probablymissed me. Lost track. Because of the move." He pauses,teasingly. "I'm working for Robinson. Right-hand man, youknow?""Almond?" I ask, oʃering one, a futile eʃort on my part tomask my dismay at his smugness.He pats my back, says, "You're a madman, Bateman. Ananimal. A total animal.""I can't disagree." I laugh weakly, walking him to the door. Ashe leaves I'm wondering and not wondering what happens in theworld of Tim Price, which is really the world of most of us: bigideas, guy stuʃ, boy meets the world, boy gets it.
