"Er, good question," I say, stammering. "Uh, h-hold on."
I dial Cindy's number after finding it in my Rolodex. She answers after screening the call.
"Hello, Patrick," she says.
"Cindy," I say. "I need a favor."
"Hamlin's not coming to dinner with you guys," she says. "He tried calling back but your lines were all busy. Don't you guys have call waiting?"
"Of course we have call waiting," I say. "What do you think we are, barbarians?"
"Hamlin's not coming," she says again, flatly.
"What's he doing instead?" I ask. "Oiling his Top-Siders?"
"He's going out with me, Mr. Bateman."
"But what about your, uh, bush benefit?" I ask.
"Hamlin got it mixed up," she says.
"Pumpkin," I start.
"Yes?" she asks.
"Pumpkin, you're dating an ass**le," I say sweetly.
"Thanks, Patrick. That's nice."
"Pumpkin," I warn, "you're dating the biggest dickweed in New York."
"You're telling me like I don't know this." She yawns.
"Pumpkin, you're dating a tumbling, tumbling dickweed."
"Do you know that Hamlin owns six television sets and seven VCRs?"
"Does he ever use that rowing machine I got him?" I actually wonder.
"Unused," she says. "Totally unused."
"Pumpkin, he's a dickweed."
"Will you stop calling me pumpkin," she asks, annoyed.
"Listen, Cindy, if you had a choice to read WWD or..." I stop, unsure of what I was going to say. "Listen, is there anything going on tonight?" I ask. "Something not too... boisterous?"
"What do you want, Patrick?" she sighs.
"I just want peace, love, friendship, understanding," I say dispassionately.
"What-do-you-want?" she repeats.
"Why don't the two of you come with us?"
"We have other plans."
"Hamlin made the goddamn reservations," I cry, outraged.
"Well,you guys use them."
"Why don't you come?" I ask lasciviously. "Dump dickweed off at Juanita's or something."
"I think I'm passing on dinner," she says. "Apologize to 'the guys' for me."
"But we're going to Kaktus, uh, I mean Zeus Bar," I say, then, confused, add, "No, Kaktus."
"Are you guys really going there? " she asks.
"Why?"
"Conventional wisdom has it that it is no longer the 'in' place to dine," she says.
"But Hamlin made the f**king reservation!" I cry out.
"Did he make reservations there? " she asks, bemused.
"Centuries ago!" I shout.
"Listen," she says, "I'm getting dressed."
"I'm not at all happy about this," I say.
"Don't worry," she says, and then hangs up.
I get back on the other line.
"Bateman, I know this sounds like an impossibility," McDermott says. "But the void is actually widening."
"I am not into Mexican," Van Patten states.
"But wait, we're not having Mexican, are we?" I say. "Am I confused? Aren't we going to Zeus Bar?"
"No, moron," McDermott spits. "We couldn't get into Zeus Bar. Kaktus. Kaktus at nine."
"But I don't want Mexican," Van Patten says.
"But you, Van Patten, made the reservation," McDermott hollers.
"I don't either," I say suddenly. "Why Mexican?"
"It's not Mexican Mexican," McDermott says, exasperated "It's something called nouvelle Mexicana, tapas or some other south of the border thing. Something like that. Hold on. My call waiting."
He clicks off, leaving Van Patten and myself on the line.
"Bateman," Van Patten sighs, "my euphoria is quickly subsiding."
"What are you talking about?" I'm actually trying to remember where I told Jeanette and Evelyn to meet us.
"Let's change the reservation," he suggests.
I think about it, then suspiciously ask, "Where to?"
"1969, " he says, tempting me. "Hmmm? 1969?"
"I would like to go there," I admit.
"What should we do?" he asks.
I think about it. "Make a reservation. Quick."
