Glamorama

Alison reaches over and slaps the controls out of my hand and turns on a Green Day video and dances over to the Vivienne Tam-designed mirror, studying herself holding the dress in it, and then completes a halfhearted swirl, looking very happy but also very stressed.

I check my nails. It's so cold in this apartment that frost accumulates on the windows. "Is it just me or am I getting chilly in here?"

Alison holds the dress up one more time, squeals maniacally and rushes back into the closet. "What did you say, baby?"

"Did you know vitamins strengthen your nails?"

"Who told you that, baby?" she calls out.

"Chloe did," I mutter, biting at a hangnail.

"That poor baby. Oh my god, she's so stupid."

"She just got back from the MTV awards. She had a nervous breakdown before it, y'know, so be reasonable."

"Ma-jor," Alison calls out. "Her smack days are behind her, I take it."

"Just be patient. She's very unstable," I say. "And yes, her smack days are behind her."

"No help from you, I'm sure."

"Hey, she got a huge amount of help from me," I say, sitting up, paying more attention now. "If it wasn't for me she might be dead, Alison."

"If it wasn't for you, pea brain, she might not have shot up the junk in the first f**king place."

"She didn't `shoot' anything," I stress. "It was a purely nasal habit." Pause, check my fingernails again. "She's just very unstable right now."

"What? She gets a blackhead and wants to kill herself?"

"Hey, who wouldn't?" I sit up a little more.

"No Vacancy. No Vacancy. No Vac-"

"Axl Rose and Prince both wrote songs about her, may I remind you."

"Yeah, `Welcome to the Jungle' and `Let's Go Crazy.'" Alison walks out of the closet wrapped in a black towel and waves me off. "I know, I know, Chloe was born to model."

"Do you think your jealousy's giving me a hard-on?"

"No, only my boyfriend does that."

"Hey, no way do I want to get it on with Damien."

"Jesus. As usual, you're so literal-minded."

"Oh god, your boyfriend's a total crook. A blowhard."

"My boyfriend is the only reason, my little himbo, that you are in business."

"That's bullshit," I shout. "I'm on the cover of YouthQuake magazine this month."

"Exactly." Alison suddenly relents and moves over to the bed and sits down next to me, gently taking my hand. "Victor, you auditioned for all three `Real World's, and MTV rejected you all three times." She pauses sincerely. "What does that tell you?"

"Yeah, but I'm one f**king phone call away from Lorne Michaels."

Alison studies my face, my hand still in hers, and smiling, she says, "Poor Victor, you should see just how handsome and dissatisfied you look right now."

"A hip combo," I mutter sullenly.

"It's nice that you think so," she says vacantly.

"Looking like some deformed schmuck and suicidal's better?" I tell her. "Christ, Alison, get your f**king priorities straightened out."

"My priorities straightened out?" she asks, stunned, letting go of my hand and placing her own to her chest. "My priorities straightened out?" She laughs like a teenager.

"Don't you understand?" I get up from the bed, lighting a cigarette, pacing. "Shit."

"Victor, tell me what you're so worried about."

"You really want to know?"

"Not really but yes." She walks over to the armoire and pulls out a coconut, which I totally take in stride.

"My f**king DJ's disappeared. That's what." I inhale so hard on the Marlboro I have to put it out. "No one knows where the hell my DJ is."

"Mica's gone?" Alison asks. "Are you sure she's not in rehab?"

"I'm not sure of anything," I mutter.

"That's for sure, baby," she says faux-soothingly, falling onto the bed, looking for something, then her voice changes and she yells, "And you lie! Why didn't you tell me you were in South Beach last weekend?"

"I wasn't in South Beach last weekend, and I wasn't at the f**king Calvin Klein show either." Finally the time has come: "Alison, we've got to talk about something-"

"Don't say it." She drops the coconut into her lap and holds up both hands, then notices the joint on her nightstand and grabs it. "I know, I know," she intones dramatically. "There is a compromising photo of you with a girl"-she bats her eyes cartoonishly-"supposedly moi, yada yada yada, that's going to f**k up your relationship with that dunce you date, but it will also"-and now, mock-sadly, lighting the joint-"fuck up the relationship with the dunce I date too. So"-she claps her hands-"rumor is it's running in either the Post, the Trib or the News tomorrow. I'm working on it. I have people all over it. This is my A-number-one priority. So don't worry"-she inhales, exhales-"that beautiful excuse for a head of yours about it." She spots what she was looking for, lost in the comforter, and grabs it: a screwdriver.