American Psycho

I should probably be stretching first but if I do that I’ll have to wait in line—already some faggot is behind me, probably checking out my back, ass, leg muscles. No hardbodies at the gym today. Only faggots from the West Side, probably unemployed actors, waiters by night, and Muldwyn Butner of Sachs, who I went to Exeter with, over at the biceps curl machine. Butner is wearing a pair of knee-length nylon and Lycra shorts with checkerboard inserts and a cotton and Lycra tank top and leather Reeboks. I finish twenty minutes on the Stairmaster and let the overmuscled, bleached-blond, middle-aged faggot behind me use it and I commence with stretching exercises. While I stretch, The Patty Winters Show I watched this morning comes back to me. The topic was Big Breasts and there was a woman on it who had a breastreduction since she thought her tits were too big—the dumb bitch. I immediately called McDermott who was also watching it and we both ridiculed the woman through the rest of the segment. I do about fifteen minutes of stretching before heading off to the Nautilus machines.

I used to have a personal trainer whom Luis Carruthers had recommended but he came on to me last fall and I decided to develop my own fitness program which incorporates both aerobic exercises and training. With weights I alternate between free weights and weight machines that use hydraulic, pneumatic or electromechanical resistance. Most of the machines are very efficient since computerized keypads allow one to make adjustments in weight resistance without getting up. The positive aspects of the machines include minimizing muscle soreness and reducing any chance of injury. But I also like the versatility and freedom that free weights offer and the many variations in lifting that I can’t get on the machines.

On the leg machines I do five sets of ten repetitions. For the back I also do five sets of ten repetitions. On the stomach crunch machine I’ve gotten so I can do six sets of fifteen and on the biceps curl machine I do seven sets of ten. Before moving to the free weights I spend twenty minutes on the exercise bike while reading the new issue of Money magazine. Over at the free weights I do three sets of fifteen repetitions of leg extensions, leg curls and leg presses, then three sets and twenty repetitions of barbell curls, then three sets and twenty repetitions of bentover lateral raises for the rear deltoids and three sets and twenty repetitions of latissimus pulldowns, pulley rows, dead lifts and bent-over barbell rows. For the chest I do three sets and twenty reps of incline-bench presses. For the front deltoids I also do three sets of lateral raises and seated dumbbell presses. Finally, for the triceps I do three sets and twenty reps of cable pushdowns and close-grip bench presses. After more stretching exercises to cool down I take a quick hot shower and then head to the video store where I return two tapes I rented on Monday, She-Male Reformatory and Body Double, but I rerent Body Double because I want to watch it again tonight even though I know I won’t have enough time to masturbate over the scene where the woman is getting drilled to death by a power drill since I have a date with Courtney at seven-thirty at Café Luxembourg.

Date

Heading home from working out at Xclusive, and after an intense shiatsu massage, I stop at a newsstand near my building, sca

In the lobby of my building I stop at the front desk and try to get the attention of a black Hispanic doorman I don’t recognize. He’s on the phone to his wife or his dealer of some crack addict and stares at me as he nods, the phone cradled in the premature folds of his neck. When it dawns on him that I want to ask something, he sighs, rolls his eyes up and tells whoever is on the line to hold on. “Yeah whatchooneed?” he mumbles.

“Yes,” I begin, my tone as gentle and polite as I can possibly muster. “Could you please tell the superintendent that I have a crack in my ceiling and…” I stop.

He’s looking at me as if I have overstepped some kind of unspoken boundary and I’m begi

“Whatchoomean?” He sighs thickly, slumped back, still staring at me.

I look down at the marble floor and also sigh and tell him, “Look. I don’t know. Just tell the superintendent it’s Bateman… in Ten I.” When I bring my head back up to see if any of this has registered I’m greeted by the expressionless mask of the doorman’s heavy, stupid face. I am a ghost to this man, I’m thinking. I am something unreal, something not quite tangible, yet still an obstacle of sorts and he nods, gets back on the phone, resumes speaking in a dialect totally alien to me.

I collect my mail—Polo catalog, American Express bill, June Playboy, invitation to an office party at a new club called Bedlam—then walk to the elevator, step in while inspecting the Ralph Lauren brochure and press the button for my floor and then the Close Door button, but someone gets in right before the doors shut and instinctively I turn to say hello. It’s the actor Tom Cruise, who lives in the penthouse, and as a courtesy, without asking him, I press the PH button and he nods thank you and keeps his eyes fixed on the numbers lighting up above the door in rapid succession. He is much shorter in person and he’s wearing the same pair of black Wayfarers I have on. He’s dressed in blue jeans, a white T-shirt, an Armani jacket.

To break the noticeably uncomfortable silence, I clear my throat and say, “I thought you were very fine in Bartender. I thought it was quite a good movie, and Top Gun too. I really thought that was good.”

He looks away from the numbers and then straight at me. “It was called Cocktail,” he says softly.

“Pardon?” I say, confused.

He clears his throat and says, “Cocktail. Not Bartender. The film was called Cocktail.”

A long pause follows; just the sound of cables moving the elevator up higher into the building competes with the silence, obvious and heavy between us.

“Oh yeah… Right,” I say, as if the title just dawned on me. “Cocktail. Oh yeah, that’s right,” I say. “Great, Bateman, what are you thinking about?” I shake my head as if to clear it and then, to patch things up, hold out my hand. “Hi. Pat Bateman.”

Cruise tentatively shakes it.

“So,” I go. “You like living in this building?”

He waits a long time before answering, “I guess.”

“It’s great,” I say. “Isn’t it?”

He nods, not looking at me, and I press the button for my floor again, an almost involuntary reaction. We stand there in silence.

“So… Cocktail,” I say, after a while. “That’s the name.”