Glamorama

Jeep talking into a cell phone, so I split. Bailey brings me another decaf frappuccino and it's freezing in Florent and I keep blowing confetti off my table but whenever I'm not paying attention it reappears and I glare over at the set designer and continuity girl who stare back and restaurant music's playing and each minute seems like an hour.

"How's it hanging, Victor?" Bailey's asking.

"Hey baby, what's the story?" I mutter tiredly.

"You doing okay?" he asks. "You look busted up."

I ponder this before asking, "Have you ever been chased by a chow, man?"

"What's a chow man?"

"A chow, a chow-chow. It's like a big fluffy dog," I try to explain. "They're mean as shit and they were used to guard palaces in like China and shit."

"Have I ever been chased by a chow?" Bailey asks, confused. "Like the last time I was... trying to... break into a palace?" His face is all scrunched up.

Pause. "I just want some muesli and juice right now, 'kay?"

"You look busted up, man."

"I'm thinking... Miami," I croak, squinting up at him.

"Great! Sunshine, deco, seashells, Bacardi, crashing waves"-Bailey makes surfing motions with his arms-"fashion shoots, and Victor making a new splash. Right on, man."

I'm watching the early-morning traffic cruise by on 14th Street and then I clear my throat. "Er... maybe Detroit."

"I'm telling you, baby," he says. "The world is a jungle. Wherever you go it's still the same."

"I just want some muesli and juice right now, okay, man?"

"You need to utilize your potential, man."

"There's a snag in your advice, man," I point out.

"Yeah?"

"You're-a-waiter."

I finish reading an article about new mascaras (Shattered and Roach are the season's most popular) and hip lipsticks (Frostbite, Asphyxia, Bruise) and glam nail polish (Plaque, Mildew) and I'm thinking, genuinely, Wow, progress, and some girl behind me with a floppy beach hat on and a bandeau bra top and saucer eyes is listening to a guy wearing a suit made of sixteenth-century armor saying "um um um" while snapping his fingers until he remembers-"Ewan McGregor!"-and then they both fall silent and the director leans in to me and warns, "You're not looking worried enough," which is my cue to leave Florent.

Outside, more light, some of it artificial, opens up the city, and the sidewalks on 14th Street are empty, devoid of extras, and above the sounds of faraway jackhammers I can hear someone singing "The Sunny Side of the Street" softly to himself and when I feel someone touch my shoulder I turn around but no one's there. A dog races by going haywire. I call out to it. It stops, looks at me, runs on. "Disarm" by the Smashing Pumpkins starts playing on the sound track and the music overlaps a shot of the club I was going to open in TriBeCa and I walk into that frame, not noticing the black limousine parked across the street, four buildings down, that the cameraman pans to.

5

A door slams shut behind me, two pairs of hands grab my shoulders and I'm shoved into a chair, and under the fuzzy haze of a black light, silhouettes and shadows come into focus: Damien's goons (Duke but not Digby, who was recast after we shot yesterday's breakfast) and Juan, the afternoon doorman at Alison's building on the Upper East Side, and as the lights get brighter Damien appears and he's smoking a Partagas Perfecto cigar and wearing skintight 'cans, a vest with bold optical patterns, a shirt with starburst designs, a long Armani overcoat, motorcycle boots, and his hands-grabbing my sore face, squeezing it-are like ice and kind of soothing until he pushes my head back trying to snap my neck, but one of the goons-maybe Duke-pulls him away and Damien's making noises that sound like chanting and one of the mirror balls that used to hang above the dance floor lies shattered in a corner, confetti scattered around it in tall piles.

"That was a particularly hellish greeting," I say, trying to maintain my composure once Damien lets go.

Damien's not listening. He keeps pacing the room, making the chanting noises, and the room is so freezing that the air coming out of his mouth steams and then he walks back to where I'm sitting, towering over me even though he's not that tall, and looks into my face again, cigar smoke making my eyes water. He studies my blank expression before shaking his head disgustedly and backing away to pace the room without knowing which direction to take.

The goons and Juan just stare vacantly at me, occasionally averting their eyes but mostly not, waiting for some kind of signal from Damien, and I tense up, bracing myself, thinking, just don't touch the face, just anywhere but the face.