God Hates Us All

“Thank you, thank you,” she says with a curtsy.

“But would you believe that I still get nervous up there? Lame, I know, but I could really use a rooting section and with Nate out of town …”

“I’m there!” I say, grinning a little too much.

“Don’t get any ideas: I’m a good girl. But I can’t say the same for all of my friends. A roomful of beautiful, insecure women of questionable character. A guy like you might do all right.”

“‘A guy like me’? I believe I’ve just been insulted.”

She gently slaps my cheek. “Poor baby. There’ll be a pass for you at the door, if you can get over the hurt. Ray’s going too. Maybe you guys can share a cab.” She struts past me into the elevator.

She’s smiling as the doors close shut.

“You shud write a pome abut hah,” Herman chimes in, having caught the scene from his perch behind the desk.

“I just might,” I reply, scurrying out into the street to avoid further interrogation. I let my momentum carry me to Seventh Avenue, where I catch the train downtown.

DESPITE K.’S SUGGESTION, WE DON’T need a cab — it’s only a ten-block walk to the show, a former slaughterhouse in the Meatpacking District that’s been reclaimed as an “art space.” Like a true Dixie gentleman, Ray brings along a flask of Southern Comfort to warm us along the way, leaving us nicely lacquered by the time we take our seats. We hoot and holler when K. struts out for the first time, decked in a fluo-rescent green smock I couldn’t imagine ever seeing on a civilian. Like the true professional she is, she ignores us completely.

A half hour later — about twenty-five minutes after the novelty of seeing so many imperious beauties march in, spin, and march out again has run its course — I wake to the sound of applause. The fashion designer rides a supermodel stampede to the stage.

“Lucky dude,” I say.

“Tell that to his boyfriend,” Ray replies. “Now let’s have some fun.”

Which is when I begin striking out, and Ray starts yawning. He’s all the way up to seven before K. appears, having completed her circuit of the industry types Ray calls Big Swinging Dicks:

“Especially the women!” She’s still made up but dressed for downtown, having shed the Day-Glo smock in favor of a one-piece black velvet minidress and her 18-eye Docs.

“Yow!” Ray howls at her, pulling his hand back as if he’s been scorched. “You owned it, lady!” K. accepts the compliment with a curtsy and a smile.

“But I don’t know what they were thinking putting you in that rig with the Mork from Ork suspenders,” he continues. “You need tits for that one.”

“You’re an asshole,” K. says, but she’s laughing.

She looks to me for my reaction, which right now is to smile like a moron. When I fail to reply within a socially acceptable time frame, she throws me a lifeline. “A few of us are headed down to the Western.”

“The Western Diner,” Ray says. “Most ironically named restaurant in the world.”

It doesn’t take long to figure out what he means.

I’d noticed the Western Diner during my transactions with Union Square Charlie and, having seen the place only in daylight, been fooled by the name. Nobody’s dining; in fact, most of the patrons — models, club kids, and a smattering of minor celebrities with rapidly swiveling heads — are poster children for eating disorders. We skip through the velvet ropes, our entrance blazed by K. and two femmes with the faces of angels but names too important to share with me, landing us in a coveted corner booth. The ladies order something called mojitos and excuse themselves to go to the bathroom. “Riding the rails,” Ray says as they leave. “At least they’ll be horny. Which one do you want?”

“I guess K.’s out of bounds,” I venture.

“Waste of time. Nate doesn’t deserve her, but he’s got the whole rock star thing working for him.”

Ray wiggles his fingers in the air. “Chick voodoo.

He’s got his teeth in her like fucking Dracula.”

“I must have missed the fang marks.”

“They’re everywhere. Blood, heart, soul, and pussy. Whatever it is you want, you ain’t getting it from her.”

“In that case,” I suggest, “I’ll let you choose first.”

Ray shrugs. “I don’t even like white women. I need a little T’ang in my ’tang,” he says, stretching his eyes into slants to make his point. “But I don’t like going to bed hungry, either. Let’s just lay ’em as they play.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m locked into conversation with one of K.’s friends, a brunette who finally introduces herself as Stella. She’s locked into whatever’s going on behind me. After a few more swings and misses, I scan the crowd for Ray. He’s on the dance floor, taking advantage of the current disco revival to spin K.’s other friend around his shoulders like he’s John Travolta. Stella uses the brief distraction to slink over to a guy I recognize from the local news.

“So,” says K., returning from a buzz-maintenance session in the bathroom. “Looks like you and Stella are hitting it off.”

“A little too well. We’ve moved right through the passion and the hot sex into the long, awkward silences.”

“You said you worked fast.”