The Rules of Attraction

SEAN After dinner at Jams, me and Robert go to Trader Vic’s. I’m wearing a paisley smoking jacket and a bowtie I found in my father’s closet at The Carlyle. Robert, who has just gotten back from Monte Carlo, is wearing a blue Fifties sports jacket and a green cummerbund given to him by his near-perfect girlfriend, Holly. He’s also wearing a bowtie he bought today when we went shopping but I don’t remember where it was he bought it. It could have been Paul Stewart or Brooks Brothers or Barney’s or Charivari or Armani — somewhere. Holly’s not back in town yet and we’re both horny and on the prowl. I fucked Holly once, while she was seeing Robert. I don’t think he knows. That, and both of us fucking Cornelia, are really the only things Robert and I have in common.

I went by the house in Larchmont late last night. It was for sale. Harold still lives in back. My MG was still mercifully kept in one of the garages, but my room upstairs was empty, and most of the furniture from the house had been removed and taken someplace I forgot to ask about. The house itself was locked up and I had to break in through one of the French windows in back. The house still seems enormous, even larger to me now than when I was growing up in it. But there hadn’t been much time spent in the house. School was at Andover, holidays were usually spent elsewhere. The house brought back few, almost no memories to me, the ones I had weirdly enough included Patrick. Playing in the snow with him on the front lawn, which seemed to stretch out for miles. Getting high and playing Ping-Pong with him in the rec room. There was the pool no one was allowed to swim in, and the rules about no noise. That was all I could dredge up, since that place was a transient’s home for me. I found the keys to the MG in a panel in one of the garages, and I started the car hoping Harold wouldn’t hear me. But he was standing there at the end of the drive, in the middle of a cold, snowy November night, and he opened the gate for me, dutiful to the end. I put a finger to my lips — sshhh — as I drove past him.

Robert and I are sharing a scorpion bowl and smoking Camels. We’ve been staring at a table in back with four girls sitting at it — all very hot, all very blond.

“Riverdale,” I say.

“Nope. Dalton,” he says.

“Maybe Choate?” I suggest.

“Definitely Dalton,” Robert says.

“I bet you it’s Vassar,” I say, positive.

Robert’s working on Wall Street now and doesn’t seem to mind. Robert and I went to boarding school together. He went to Yale, and that’s where he met Holly. After I beat him at squash today at The Seaport, while we were drinking beers, he told me he’s dumping her, but I got the feeling that Holly dumped him in Monte Carlo and that’s why she’s not back.

We used to go to the Village, I vaguely remember now, sitting in Trader Vic’s, sniffing at the flower at the bottom of the barrel.

“Let’s do the coke,” Robert suggests.

“I’m okay,” I say, still on a rum high, trying to make eye contact with at least one of the girls.

“I’ll be in the bathroom,” he says, getting up. “Order me a St. Pauli Girl.”

He leaves. I smoke another cigarette. The four girls are now looking over at me. I order another one of these scorpion bowls. They suddenly all burst out laughing. The Polynesian bartender gives me a dirty look. I flash him a gold American Express card. He makes the drink.

I cross my legs and the girl I was making eye contact with doesn’t come over. But one of her friends does.

“Hi,” she says and giggles. “What’s your name?”

“Blaine,” I say. “Hi.”

“What’s going on, Blaine?” she asks.

“Not too much,” Blaine says.

“Great,” she says.

“Where have you been?” Blaine asks.

“Nowhere. Palladium,” she says. “How about you and your friend?”

“Just hanging,” I say. The bartender places the fresh new drink on the bar. I nod.

“This is going to sound really stupid,” she says.

“Go ahead.” I bet it is.

“But, is your friend Michael J. Fox?” she asks.

“Uh, no,” I say.

“Are you two gay or anything?” she asks, steadying herself.

“No,” I say. “Are you and your friends dykes?”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

Blaine thinks: forget this girl, even though he wouldn’t mind sleeping with her, but she smokes menthol cigarettes and looks a little overweight.

Michael J. Fox comes back and gives the girl a fuck-off look and he whispers something in my ear and hands me the vial. I tell him to deal with this girl and whisper back to him, “She thinks you’re Michael J. Fox.” I leave, head for the bathroom. “So, did you see Back to the Future?” he asks.

In the men’s room I sit in a stall and flush the toilet whenever I do a hit. I come out of the stall feeling better, actually feeling pretty good and I go over to the sink to wash my hands, make sure my nose is clean. I can hear someone throwing up in one of the other stalls as I stare at myself in the mirror carefully, wipe whatever residue there was under my nose off. I go back to the bar.

Michael J. Fox has talked the girls into coming out with us. So we take them to Palladium where we leave them on the dance floor and split for the Mike Todd Room where we hang out and get even more wasted. Somewhere along the line I lose my Concord quartz watch, make a rude comment about Bianca Jagger’s breasts to her face, and end up with some bimbo back at my father’s place at The Carlyle. Robert’s in the next room with some other bimbo, some Camden drop-out named Janey Fields, who I think he had an affair with. It always ends up this way. No Big Surprise.