My Bookish Date - Robert P. Ottone

You are going on a date with a book character, it can be any character from any book, who is it and why?

A “date” is a very loose term. I asked Patrick Bateman to meet me at the Yale Club NYC, which he flat-out refused so instead we’re going to Flutie’s for a quick cocktail, then over to Crayons for dinner. There’s a rumor that Van Patten might show up at Tunnel later, but I doubt it, he was spotted in Stade about two weeks back.

Who asked who for the date?

Patrick and I had been meaning to discuss my latest work, a nonfiction piece about missing hedge fund schmucks, some of whom he knew personally, so thankfully he finally had some room on his schedule to sit down with me. 

Where are you going for the date and what are the plans?

By the time we get to Crayons, Patrick is on edge. He’s retired to the bathroom multiple times and upon each time he’s returned, his nostrils are flares and he seems to have the fire of creation burning within him. He’s jumpy. Rambling about something called “the Fisher account” and passing his card to every semi-attractive woman that walks by. On the back of each card, he uses a Mont Blanc pen to write “You’re a hardbody, call me” in barely-legible scrawl.

What are you wearing for the date?

Patrick sighed heavily when I showed up in my classic 80’s drape by Alan Flusser, a custom job made in Taiwan and shipped directly to me, courtesy of SuitClub NYC. I thought Bateman would just about keel over when he saw the lining of the blazer, blazing silk and nearly-glowing in the dim light of Tunnel.

“That suit …” Bateman began. “It’s truly something else.” He looked on the verge of frenzy and I’d never seen an in-shape man sweat so profusely.

It's been a great date, do you ask them in for coffee at the end of the date?

We head back to the American Gardens Building and in the elevator, Bateman tells me about how “that young actor from the bartending movie,” lives on the floor below him. When I ask him if he means Tom Cruise, he waves my question away, holds up a peace sign and smiles “Just say no.”

In his apartment, which has about the personality of the multitude of finance dimwits I’ve interviewed for this piece, I find myself on a remarkably uncomfortable couch, noticing tiny flecks of red splashed across the leather, almost pink in places. Bateman has promised me a Stoli and club, and I’m curious to actually get working on our interview.

I took a sip of the clear, glistening glass of booze and waited for Patrick to join me. He put on some music. “In Too Deep” by Genesis. Loud. I could barely hear anything besides Phil Collins’ relaxing voice echoing through the colorless, boring, expensive penthouse apartment.

The entire wall before me, a Robert Longo triptych from Men in the Cities loses focus a moment as a sharp, searing pain explodes from the top of my head. I feel warmth. A wetness of some kind bathes my face. I wonder for the briefest of moments whether I’m sweating when I pick up the scents of the evening. The duck at Crayons. The Belgian coffee at Flutie’s. The heavy perfume of the women and smell of sex steaming off the men at Tunnel.

Red drips down my nose and my vision goes dim. In the glass reflection of the triptych, I see my own image. A large handle protrudes from the top of my head. Bateman stands behind me, wearing a plastic raincoat. His face is flecked with red. Blood. My blood.

I smile, and my eyes tremble. I understand in that moment. It’s my final moment of understanding.