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Patrick Bateman — April 10th, 1986
Pierce & Pierce, conference room B, the one with the light gray paneling and a Danish wooden table no one's supposed to put coffee on.
I'm wearing a suit from Principe by Marzotto. Specifically, it's a two-piece Italian chalk-striped, wool worsted suit. Single-breasted with peak lapels—about three and three-quarter inches wide (my single-breasted suit, with peak lapels about four inches, also from Principe by Marzotto, is at the dry cleaners). It has subtle roped shoulders, lightly padded. The jacket has a two button closure, along with a low-set flapped pockets and a welted chest pocket. The trousers are flat-fronted with a slight, high-rise taper with no breaks, slightly exposing my grey Armani socks. My fly is a zip, not buttoned.
The tie is a silk jacquard in a brown and olive green tone from Countess Mara. Paisley. Tasteful. The pattern is floral. It's knotted in a half-Windsor. The pocket square is in a similar color and pattern, its cotton. It's folded presidential, it's not puffed. I am not a magician. It peaks out exactly three-eights of an inch.
I am wearing suspenders. I don't need to though. The trousers hold because they were tailored to do so. My shoes are brown leather crocodile cap-toe Oxfords by Ferragamo. I polished them the day before with an electric shoe polisher. I used Saphir Médaille d'Or wax.
"... And I'm telling you, Van Patten, she practically dismantled Letterman live on-air. Totally. I don't care what you say, the Who Asked For It segment is ahead of its time—Bateman agrees with me." Timothy Price was ranting before I even sat down. He was waving his Evian water in one hand like a prop, the other dragging his thumb along the seam of a folded New York magazine in front of him. I think he's been looping the same three talking points for the last ten minutes. "Lois was wearing this—what was it? Some retro shoulder-padded thing. Very Heartburn, but slutty."
I'm only half-listening. I'm half-focused on the starch line in Price's Canali Milano dress shirt, wondering if his collar has been repressed mid-week, or if the dry cleaner on 101st finally figured out how to handle one hundred percent cotton. Or broadcloth.
Timothy Price is wearing a two-piece suit, a black and grey houndstooth—the pattern is miniaturized. Likely tailored through, if it isn't, it's definitely off a high-end rack. The lapels are notched and broad. It's also a two-button closure. He's only fastened the top one (I fastened both of mine).
I'm unable to make out a vent in his sports jacket, I'd have to see the back. His trousers are full and double-pleated. Well-fitted. To the point, that despite sitting down, they fit him perfectly. His brown leather belt was barely visible due to his open coat and extended waistband. Leaving it understated but obviously expensive.
He had on black suede Oxford loafers.
I'm positive that it's all by Gianni Versace. I'm certain of it. It matches with a set from their summer of '86 collection.
However, what's particularly interesting is the tie. That catches my eye.
It's Gianni Versace as well. A checkered patterned silk tie. I think it's intentional, with it having a deep navy and teal coloring while also being geometrically similar to his jacket, but ultimately unmatching.
I'm almost certain that a model, likely David Williamson, wore it in the July GQ spread—or, at least, a tie indistinguishable from it. I can't tell. The tie has never been listed in my copy. I checked twice.
It hangs perfectly. A full Windsor knot. Tight but not strangling.
Again, it plays against his jacket, it shouldn't work.
But it does.
It works.
It poised. Obnoxiously, poised.
It's better than mine.
I wonder, idly, if he'd trade. Probably not.
Price has that look in his eye. That, 'I know I'm wearing something you don't own... and can't find' look.
"Van... Patten," Price said slowly, squinting now at what Van Patten was holding. His lips curled downward. "... Is that Vanity Fair?"
Van Patten lounged back in his brown leather executive chair by Stow & Davis—upholstered with a high back and armrests. It's different from both Price's and mine because it's a swivel chair and not the standard stationary. Instead of four wooden legs, his had a five-star wooden base along with caster wheels. I'm fairly sure that he had it brought in from his office by his secretary, which I find both petty and pointless—though, admittedly, I wish I had thought of it first.
His magazine was held wide open in both hands like one would a scripture. "Yeah?" He says disinterestedly, not even looking up.
"And you're reading that here? In the conference room?"
"Yeah. What's so wrong with that?"
Price stares at him, stunned. There's a sound, I think Price is grinding his teeth.
"Oh. I don't know... Maybe the page you're on is giving everyone an eyeful of Roxanne Pulitzer! Christ's sake!"
Van Patten grins, totally unbothered. "There is an article. About Harvey Keitel. It's good."
"She's all over the stationary," Price hisses, gesturing at it as if he could physically tear the page away. "You can't even tell if it's her chest touching the paper or if it's resting under a blouse—if she's even wearing one. And here you are, sitting there thumbing through it like you're at home with a scented candle."
Van Patten shrugs. "I like Keitel. Mean Streets was very... formative? Very street-hard."
Price sneers. "But you're not reading that part, are you?"
The door opens and Luis Carruthers steps in.
Luis looked first at me, then at Price, then at Van Patten, before settling onto the magazine.
His face became flushed and blotchy. He has this glassy-eyed look like he's uncomfortable. Price sees this too. "And look at Luis! He's completely red in the face!" He snaps. Luis mutters something about the humidity while fumbling with his collar.
"It's sixty-eight degrees in here," I murmur, not looking up from my day planner placed in front of me.
Luis chuckles awkwardly, then stops when no one else does.
Van Patten, even after being ridiculed in front of both Luis and me, doesn't seem to care.
Price turns away, muttering something about needing a smoke.
"It's Page 48," Van Patten says idly to no one, tapping the page. "She's writing a letter, I think. Looks very sincere."
No one responds to that.
Luis Carruthers slides into the seat adjacent to me, smelling faintly of either cologne or perfume. If it's the former, I'd guess it was Aramis 900. It's sickening. I feel my throat close just slightly.
"Patrick." Luis Carruthers says.
I say nothing. I'm watching the fingerprint smear on the crystal water pitcher. I'm watching the way the light reflects off of it and into one of the table's edges. I'm watching as the fluorescent light almost catches the edge of my Rolex. I'm tempted to adjust my wrist enough so it does.
Carruthers clears his throat before leaning towards me. "Patrick." He said again, this time forcing my hand to engage him.
I glance at him.
"How's Jean?" he asks, eyes wide with some kind of cloying interest. My skin crawls for some reason. "She wasn't at her desk this morning."
I blink. Jean? Right, Jean, my secretary who's madly in love with me. "Oh. Right," I mutter, grabbing a pen before stirring it in between my fingers. "She's... out. Family emergency."
I genuinely cannot remember what I told Jean when she left.
I think I said something. I must've. Probably something consoling—"Take care," or "Keep me updated," just something that sounds better than nothing. She is a great secretary. I wouldn't have said nothing.
At the time, I was reading the April issue of Vogue—the one featuring both Monika Schnarre and Christy Turlington. I was on Page Seven when Jean had entered my office. I remember this because I had just finished reading the caption in between the picture for a Scenario Spring '86, and the special thanks to Piedmont Airlines. Anyway, it read:
"To quicken a winter-wearing heart, follow a primal path with Norma Walters. Relax as you abandon all confinement. Here, the realm of senses takes over. Surrender to it and heed the call of her wildly geometric silk jacquard."
That means something.
There's a sharp throb behind my left eye.
Luis nods sympathetically. He tries to meet my eyes again. I do not let him.
"I'm profoundly depressed," I admit before muttering, "Life for me is just an endless black tunnel without any light. I'd like to care about something, but I just can't. Every day I just sink deeper and deeper into hopeless despair."
"So you did watch it." Price surmised.
"Was that from Jeff Martin?" Van Patten asked.
"No, you idiot. It's from Fred Graver." Price chided.
"Didn't he announce his name as Charlie Rubin?" Luis asked.
"Stage name. Sta-ge na-me," Price enunciates slowly, treating Luis as if he was hard of hearing, or possibly lobotomized. He does this gesture with his hand, writing out the letters in the air.
Then, with absolutely no buildup, Price levels a finger gun at my head.
I don't know whether to feign panic or surprise.
He jerks his wrist. Shooting.
Luis, catching on to the reference, raps the table with his knuckles once. "Meteorite," he blurts out excitedly.
Price has a grin that could probably be patented. Despite being on opposite ends of the table, they gave each other a high-five.
"Now," Price begins, leaning back into his bonded leather and wood office chair. "Seeing as how McDermott is out taking a piss—probably fell in—"
Van Patten snickers without looking up from his Vanity Fair. "A eulogy from Price. I'm sure he's touched."
Price ignores him. "In honor of his memory," he continues, "I'll ask a question he would've asked."
He pauses dramatically.
"Is she a hardbody?"
"... She's from a reputable agency," I say calmly while picking at a piece of nonexistent lint off my cuff. "Excellent recommendations from her previous employers."
"Jesus, Bateman. No one's asking for her résumé." Van Patten whines.
I think I'm going to buy that new antiperspirant deodorant—Dry Idea—I saw in the back of a Glamour magazine. It claims it's smoother than anything else while also offering more protection.
There's a knock on the door. Three quick knocks followed suit.
The four of us—Timothy Price, David Van Patten, Luis Carruthers, and myself—immediately straightened up.
Price, without looking up, grabs his folded New York magazine from the table and slips it inside his sports jacket, tucking it in between the lining and his side.
Van Patten wedges his Vanity Fair between the seat cushion and the arm panel of his chair. The corner still sticks out. I make a mental note to mock him for it later. Privately.
Luis fumbles with his tie, trying to straighten it. He swallows hard, nervous for no reason, and glances at me as if seeking silent approval.
I don't move. I adjust nothing. I don't need to.
Instead, I glance at Price. He raises an eyebrow before nodding.
"Come in," I call out.
I already know who it's not. It's not McDermott—because that fuckhead doesn't knock. No one invited to this conference room knocks.
The door opens.
My new, temporary secretary, Wednesday, steps inside.
Wednesday Addams is wearing a six-button double-breasted chalk-pinstriped suit. The suit being a deep navy blue color, and the chalk stripes are white.
It's abnormal.
But it didn't break Pierce & Pierce's dress code.
The jacket, I think, is tailored—with it having roped shoulders. Its lapels are wide, a bit more than four inches. Not peaked. Notched. There's a welted breast pocket and double besom waist pockets—both having no flaps. The sleeves have a two-button spaced cuff.
Underneath the jacket, she was wearing a white dress shirt with a semi-spread neck collar. I believe it complements her solid black tie knotted in a Half-Windsor. The trousers are single-pleated and with the hem being rolled up.
She's wearing a pair of ankle-length, plain-toed, polished black calfskin leather Chelsea boots. No zippers or velcro. It's a laceless slip-on. Double pull-tabs at the collar and tongue, with elasticated side panels.
I can't identify it.
The brands.
I can't identify it.
I make out no labels. I see no signature stitching. It's not Versace. Not Valentino. Nor is it Zegna. Not even Hugo Boss.
It. Does. Not. Belong. To. A. Brand.
It might not exist outside of her.
I glance down at my own tie. It matches my pocket square—I made sure it did.
Hers doesn't match because it wasn't paired with a pocket square.
But hers doesn't need to.
For a brief moment, I began to hate my tie.
Then, worse, I began to envy her tie.
What's even more worse than that—
I imagine what it would look like hanging loose, unknotted, and draped across my chair.
I push down the urge to slam my head onto the table.
She surveys the room. Her dark-brown eyes fixate on mine. Not in a flirtatious way. I don't blink. Neither does she.
I can feel it again, there's something crawling behind my eyes. I want to raise my hands and I want to scratch at my eyes. I want to dig in and pull.
I sit still.
She doesn't insinuate knowing anything. Instead, she peers directly into me, as if cataloging what parts of me have already started to rot.
"Mr. Bateman," she says in a neutral tone. "Your lunch appointment at Smith & Wollensky with Bernard Erlanger is in twenty minutes."
"If you'd like," she continues after a long pause, "I can call ahead and cancel. Let them know you've met with a sudden and tragic demise."
I'm astonished at how easily she said that. As if she was making a comment about the weather.
Luis tilts his head, confused and half-muttering. "'Sudan and traffic delays?'" He repeats. "God—I didn't know Bernard was flying out internationally. Is that why it's over lunch?"
Price doesn't answer his question. Van Patten has opened a folder and was mouthing something about overheads. No one makes a comment on what she actually said.
Wednesday nods faintly. Nothing strange had passed between us.
Price still hasn't said a word yet. He's staring, intently, at Wednesday's chest.
At first, I think he's eyeing her lewdly. I'm already preparing a reprimand in my head. But then, I follow his line of sight and I see what got him so silent. I catch it. A neat bundle of cigars (can it be called a bundle if it's just three?). Based on the band, which says Cohiba, I'd say it was a Cohiba Lancero. Longer than necessary, neatly rolled, easily eight inches. Medium-bodied. They were nestled snugly in her breast pocket.
His eyes were still locked on the pocket.
"Mind if I take one?" Price asks, finally speaking. He gestures lazily at the pocket. "Haven't had a real cigar since Carruthers started hawking those Dominican knockoffs out of his golf bag."
Luis flushes, instantly getting defensive. "That was one time! And they weren't even cigars—they were cigarettes. From Marlboro Lights. They're not even Dominican, they're based in Virginia!"
"No one cares," Van Patten yawns.
Wednesday, seemingly never hesitating, reaches into her pocket to take out a single cigar before handing it to Price. Like she's handing him a pen. No smile. No small comment.
He takes it with one hand, his right, while the other moves into the waist pocket of his jacket, reaching for his lighter. Half-distracted, he says, "Now, you wouldn't happen to have—?"
He stops midsentence.
He stares down at the cigar.
The cigar is already lit.
She carries pre-lit cigars in her breast pocket.
He blinks. Then mutters, "Hip."
That's all.
"Thank you, Wednesday," I say coolly—trying to act nonchalant.
I am very proud.
She nods, and then, noticing there was nothing left to say, exits.
The door clicks softly behind Wednesday. Click.
Price takes a puff from the cigar.
"Well," he exhaled, looking at the door, "I'm willing to forgive her for wearing those god-awful dress pants—"
"Not again," Van Patten mutters, burying his face into his hands.
"—but seriously, Bateman," Price turns back to me. "you're such a closet case."
I don't immediately respond. I check my watch. Not because I care about the time. But because it annoys him.
"For what?" I ask, dryly.
He points his lit cigar at me. "You've got your secretary wearing a men's suit. Are you trying to live out some drag fantasy? Is that in now?"
He doesn't stop. "Actually—serious question. Is she even a she? Or is she, like... what do you call it—transcendental? Cross-functional? What's the word?"
"Transgender?" Van Patten offers.
"Right. That." Price snaps his fingers. "Or a drag king. Maybe you've hired a drag king, Bateman."
I'm looking at Price's hairline. There's a faint ring of fluorescent light circling the top of his thinning scalp. It's severe. I'm reminded of an advertisement that played after the Patty Winters Show this morning. Something about the receding Atlantic coastline. Price's hairline reminds me of that. And Dracula.
I tell him so.
"Alright, Fag-ula," I smirk. "You're hairline looks like it came out of a Sharper Image catalog."
Price was caught off guard for a moment, before grinning.
"Touché, Bateman," he says, giving me a mock salute. "But if your assistant turns out to be packing more than a day planner, I expect a full confession over martinis at Harry's."
"I'll be sure to write it on the back of your Rogaine prescription."
Van Patten finally laughs.
So did Luis.
I look down at my day planner again. I've drawn a window. Or a door. I can't tell. It doesn't lead anywhere.