God Hates Us All

Then he opens the door, sucking all of the fear and disappointment out of the air.

It’s backstage at a rock concert born in the imagination of a horny teenage boy: beer cans, bottles of Jack half-drunk, rock nymphettes halfclothed. Guns N’ Roses blasting from a box radio on the kitchenette’s counter. A topless blonde sways to the music on top of the guy she’s got pinned to the couch, hypnotizing him with tits too perfect to be real. A Eurotrash dude with a clove cigarette and a brown jacket that might be sewn from the skins of baby deer cheers on two brunettes in stretchy miniskirts, asses so sculpted they should be in a museum, as they face off in a dance that makes the Lambada look like the Virginia Reel. The part of my brain that isn’t gaping like a tourist wonders why I can’t see any panty lines.

“Is that you?” comes a voice from an attached bedroom. I turn toward it in time to see a perfect female silhouette framed in the doorway against the sunlight, a trucker’s mud flap come to life. Then she steps into the room, and there’s nothing left to remind me of a trucker. Her eyelids seem to open a fraction of an inch higher than they should, leaving extra space for her eyes — radioactive blue, lively and intelligent. High cheekbones softened by pillowy lips and auburn hair that cascades in waves down to the small of her back. A body whose long legs and curves would have been a genius plastic surgeon’s signature work had they not been entirely the real thing. She’s wearing a concert tee with three-quarter sleeves, white panties, and nothing else. She looks at me quizzically. “You’re not Nate.”

Nate’s across the room with the Euro-dude, who’s reaching for his wallet. “No,” I reply, scrambling for an opening line. But I’m too slow.

“Well then close the damn door,” she says. By the time I step inside and close the door behind me, Nate is greeting her with a kiss.

“There’s my angel,” he says, twirling her around like a dancer. “I was just securing your degeneracy of choice.” He pulls her close, slips a $100 bill into the band of her panties, and spins her into me. We realize at the same time — and with roughly equal levels of embarrassment — that I’m expected to remove the cash from her intimates. We attend to the transaction with a minimum of eye contact.

“At least my degeneracy is all-natural,” she says.

I remove the bag of weed from my pocket and hand it to her.

“Now come on, sugar,” Nate says, raising an eyebrow toward the couch. “Artificial has its charms. Wouldn’t you say so, Clem?” The guy on the couch seems to agree, his reply muffled by the blonde’s bodacious endowments.

“You’re a pig,” says the silhouette, returning with the weed to whatever magical lair she emerged from. Nate grins and follows, stopping only to punch me on the shoulder.

“You’re the man,” he tells me. “Stay and party. I’ll bet Kristof will share.”

Across the room, the two brunettes — Kristof’s apparent bounty — interlock their tongues in a passionate kiss. I look down at my pager. It is barely eleven o’clock in the morning.

“I’ve got to get back to work.”

“Well, come on by after,” he says, closing the bedroom door behind him. “The party never ends.”

Six hours later, having ditched my sports jacket on a nearby fire escape, I walk back into the Chelsea. The man in the maybe-cashmere sweater sits behind the front desk, clearly in his natural element. He is the master of this environment.

Whether by optical illusion or some other arrangement, the light in the room actually seems to bend toward him.

I smile, wave as I’d seen Nate do, say “Hello, Herman!” and make for the stairs.

“I don’t baleeve we’ve met,” Herman says. His voice is what you might call “New York Authentic,” nasal and low-pitched, and amplifies his already potent dominion over the lobby. “Yuh wuh heah earliah, wit’ Nate.”

“I was just headed back upstairs to see him,” I reply. But my feet have stopped moving and the staircase — another optical illusion — seems to be moving farther away from me.

“No yuh not. Not unless yuh been vetted wit’ me fihst.”

“I didn’t realize this was that kind of joint,” I reply, a lame attempt at vaudeville humor. Something about the accent. “You want to see my calling card?”

“Huh,” he snorts. “Yuh tink I don’t know yuh a drug dealah?”

Ouch. I cycle through my brain for a response until a bell goes off. It’s the elevator. We both turn toward the opening doors. The silhouette is slightly different, but I know immediately it’s the same girl.

She steps into the lobby. Her wavy hair is slicked back, still wet from a shower. She’s wearing a Catholic schoolgirl miniskirt, 18-eye Doc Martens, and an oversized leather jacket that probably belongs to Nate.

“Hi,” I say, a little too eagerly.

“Hi,” she replies, politely concealing her inability to place me. Her radioactive blues are stony red.

“When I was here earlier. This morning. Nate told me to stop by the party later.”

“The party ended hours ago.” Herman looks down when she says this, apparently deeply saddened by the news.