I'm asking Juliette Lewis how her new dalmatian, Seymour, is doing and Juliette says "So-so" and moves on.
I can feel Alison trying to push Lauren's hand off but Lauren's hand has clutched the left cheek and will not let go and I look at her nervously, spilling my drink on the cuff of the Comme des Garcons tuxedo, but she's talking to someone from the Nation of Islam and Traci Lords, her jaw set tightly, smiling and nodding, though Traci Lords senses something's wrong and tells me I looked great slouching in the seat next to Dennis Rodman at the Donna Karan show and leaves it at that.
A curvy blonde staggers over with a girl in an African headdress and this Indian dude, and the curvy blonde kisses me on the mouth and stares dreamily into my face until I have to clear my throat and nod at her friends.
"This is Yanni," the curvy blonde says, gesturing at the girl. "And this is Mudpie."
"Hey Mudpie. Yanni?" I ask the black girl. "Really? What does Yanni mean?"
"It means 'vagina,'" Yanni says in a very high voice, bowing.
"Hey honey," I say to Alison, nudging her. "This is Mudpie and Yanni. Yanni means 'vagina.'"
"Great," Alison says, touching her hair, really drunk. "That's really, really great." She hooks her arm through mine and starts pulling me away from Lauren, and Lauren, seeing Chloe approaching, lets go of my ass and finishes whatever she's drinking and Alison's tugging me away and I try to keep my footing to talk to Chloe, who grabs my other arm.
"Victor, what's Alison doing?" Chloe calls out. "Why is she wearing that dress?"
"I'm going to find that out now-"
"Victor, why didn't you want me to wear this dress tonight?" Chloe's asking me. "Where are you going, goddamnit?"
"Honey, I'm checking for specks," I tell her, shrugging helplessly, Alison pulling my shoulder out of its socket. "I've seen none and am gratefully, er, relieved but there might be some upstairs-"
"Victor, wait-" Chloe says, holding on to my other arm.
" 'Allo, my leetle fashion plate." Andre Leon Talley and the massive-titted Glorinda greet Chloe with impossibly wettish airkisses, causing Chloe to let go of my arm, which causes me to collide with Alison, who, unfazed, just drags me up the stairs.
We'll slide down the surface of things...
Alison slams the bathroom door, locks it, then moves over to the toilet and lifts up her skirt, pulls her stockings down and falls onto the white porcelain seat, muttering to herself.
"Baby, this is not a good idea," I'm saying, pacing back and forth in front of her. "Baby, this is definitely not a good idea."
"Oh my god," she's moaning. "That tuna has been giving me total shark-eye all night. Did she actually come with you, Victor? How in the f**k did she weasel in here? Did you see the f**king look she gave me when I first made eye contact?" Alison wipes herself and, still sitting there, immediately begins to rummage through a Prada handbag. "That bitch actually told Chris O'Donnell that I run a quote-unquote highly profitable fat-substitute emporium."
"I think your meeting could definitely be construed as an uh-oh moment."
"And if you keep ignoring me you're gonna have a whole night chock-full of them." In the Prada handbag Alison finds two vials and stands up, her voice brimming with acid. "Oh, but I forgot, you don't want to see me anymore. You want to break up. You need your space. You, Victor, are a major loser." She tries to compose herself, fails. "I think I'm gonna be sick. I'm gonna be sick all over you. How could you do this to me? And of all nights!" She's hissing to herself, unscrewing the top of one vial, doing two, three, six huge bumps of coke, then suddenly she stops, inspects the vial, then says "Wrong vial" and unscrews the other one and does four bumps from that. "You're not going to get away with this. You're not. Oh my god." She grabs her head. "I think I have sickle-cell anemia." Then, snapping her head up, she shrieks, "And why in the hell is your girlfriend-sorry, ex-girlfriend-wearing the same f**king dress I am?"
"Why?" I shout out. "Does it bother you?"
"Let's just say-" Alison starts coughing, her face crumples up and between huge sobs she wails, "it was mildly horrifying?" She immediately recovers, slaps my face, grabs my shoulders and screams, "You're not getting away with this!"
"With what?" I shout, grabbing a vial away from her, scooping out two huge capfuls for myself. "What am I not getting away with?"