waterpig
Senior Member
- Joined
- Oct 31, 2007
- Messages
- 293
- Reaction score
- 1
"The shoes I'm wearing are crocodile loafers by A. Testoni. Grabbing my raincoat out of the closet in the entranceway, I find a Burberry scarf and matching coat with a whale embroidered on it (something a little kid might wear) and its covered with what looks like dried chocolate syrup crisscrossed over the front, darkening the lapels. I take the elevator downstairs to the lobby, rewinding my Rolex by gently shaking my wrist. I say good morning to the doorman, step outside and hail a cab, heading downtown toward Wall Street."
"Harry Price and I walk down Hanover Street in the darkest moments of twilight and, as if guided by radar, move silently toward Harry's. Timothy hasn't said anything since we left P & P. He doesn't even comment on the ugly bum that crouches beneath a dumpster off Stone Street, though he does manage a grim wolf whistle toward a woman ********, blond, *********, high heels heading toward Water Street. Price seems nervous and edgy and I have no desire to ask him whats wrong. He's wearing a linen suit by Canali Milano, a cotton shirt by Ike Behar, a silk tie by Bill Blass and capÂtoed leather laceÂups from Brooks Brothers. I'm wearing a lightweight linen suit with pleated trousers, a cotton shirt, a dotted silk tie, all by Valentino Couture, and perforated capÂtoe leather shoes by Allen ÂEdmonds. Once inside Harry's we spot David Van Patten and Craig McDermott at a table up front. Van Patten is wearing a double Âbreasted wool and silk sport coat, buttonÂfly wool and silk trousers with inverted pleats by Mario Valentino, a cotton shirt by Gitman Brothers, a polkaÂdot silk tie by Bill Blass and leather shoes from Brooks Brothers. McDermott is wearing a woven Âlinen suit with pleated trousers, a button Âdown cotton and linen shirt by Basile, a silk tie by Joseph Abboud and ostrich loafers from Susan Bennis Warren Edwards."
"I screech and while backing away I bump into a fruit stand at a Korean deli, collapsing stacks of apples and oranges and lemons, that go rolling onto the sidewalk, over the curb and into the street where they're splattered by cabs and cars and buses and trucks and I'm apologizing, delirious, offering a screaming Korean my platinum AmEx accidentally, then a twenty, which he immediately takes, but still he grabs me by the lapels of the stained, wrinkled jacket I've forced myself back into and when I look up into his slantyÂeyed round face he suddenly bursts into the chorus of Lou Christies "Lightnin' Strikes." I pull away, horrified, stumbling uptown, toward home, but people, places, stores keep interrupting me, a drug, dealer on Thirteenth Street who offers me crack and blindly I wave a fifty at him and he says "Oh, man" gratefully and shakes my hand, pressing five vials into my palm which I proceed to eat whole and the crack dealer stares at me, trying to mask his deep disturbance with an amused glare, and I grab him by the neck and croak out, my breath reeking, "The best engine is in the BMW 750iL," and then I move on to a phone booth, where I babble gibberish at the operator until I finally spit out my credit card number and then I'm speaking to the front office of Xclusive, where I cancel a massage appointment that I never made. I'm able to compose myself by simply staring at my feet, actually at the A. Testoni loafers, kicking pigeons aside, and without even noticing, I enter a shabby delicatessen on Second Avenue and I'm still confused, mixed up, sweaty, and I walk over to a short, fat Jewish woman, old and hideously dressed. "Listen," I say. "I have a reservation. Bateman. Wheres the maÃ
tre d? I know Jackie Mason," and she sighs, "I can seat you. Dont need a reservation," as she reaches for a menu."
"Harry Price and I walk down Hanover Street in the darkest moments of twilight and, as if guided by radar, move silently toward Harry's. Timothy hasn't said anything since we left P & P. He doesn't even comment on the ugly bum that crouches beneath a dumpster off Stone Street, though he does manage a grim wolf whistle toward a woman ********, blond, *********, high heels heading toward Water Street. Price seems nervous and edgy and I have no desire to ask him whats wrong. He's wearing a linen suit by Canali Milano, a cotton shirt by Ike Behar, a silk tie by Bill Blass and capÂtoed leather laceÂups from Brooks Brothers. I'm wearing a lightweight linen suit with pleated trousers, a cotton shirt, a dotted silk tie, all by Valentino Couture, and perforated capÂtoe leather shoes by Allen ÂEdmonds. Once inside Harry's we spot David Van Patten and Craig McDermott at a table up front. Van Patten is wearing a double Âbreasted wool and silk sport coat, buttonÂfly wool and silk trousers with inverted pleats by Mario Valentino, a cotton shirt by Gitman Brothers, a polkaÂdot silk tie by Bill Blass and leather shoes from Brooks Brothers. McDermott is wearing a woven Âlinen suit with pleated trousers, a button Âdown cotton and linen shirt by Basile, a silk tie by Joseph Abboud and ostrich loafers from Susan Bennis Warren Edwards."
"I screech and while backing away I bump into a fruit stand at a Korean deli, collapsing stacks of apples and oranges and lemons, that go rolling onto the sidewalk, over the curb and into the street where they're splattered by cabs and cars and buses and trucks and I'm apologizing, delirious, offering a screaming Korean my platinum AmEx accidentally, then a twenty, which he immediately takes, but still he grabs me by the lapels of the stained, wrinkled jacket I've forced myself back into and when I look up into his slantyÂeyed round face he suddenly bursts into the chorus of Lou Christies "Lightnin' Strikes." I pull away, horrified, stumbling uptown, toward home, but people, places, stores keep interrupting me, a drug, dealer on Thirteenth Street who offers me crack and blindly I wave a fifty at him and he says "Oh, man" gratefully and shakes my hand, pressing five vials into my palm which I proceed to eat whole and the crack dealer stares at me, trying to mask his deep disturbance with an amused glare, and I grab him by the neck and croak out, my breath reeking, "The best engine is in the BMW 750iL," and then I move on to a phone booth, where I babble gibberish at the operator until I finally spit out my credit card number and then I'm speaking to the front office of Xclusive, where I cancel a massage appointment that I never made. I'm able to compose myself by simply staring at my feet, actually at the A. Testoni loafers, kicking pigeons aside, and without even noticing, I enter a shabby delicatessen on Second Avenue and I'm still confused, mixed up, sweaty, and I walk over to a short, fat Jewish woman, old and hideously dressed. "Listen," I say. "I have a reservation. Bateman. Wheres the maÃ
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