Glamorama (27 page)

At my place the
Details
reporter leans against a column just hanging out, eyeing my every move while sucking on a raspberry-flavored narcotic lollipop, and there’s also a ton of assistants milling around, including this really muscular girl with a clip-on nose ring who places gels the colors of kiwi and lavender and pomegranate over lights, and the cameraman says “Hey Victor” in a Jamaican patois and he’s wearing a detachable ponytail because he didn’t have one earlier when I saw him on Bond Street this afternoon and he’s part Chippewa and the director of the segment, Mutt, is conferring with a VJ from MTV News and Mutt just kind of smiles at me and rubs the scars on his bicep caused from bust-ups on his Harley when I say, “Sorry I’m late—I got lost.”

“In your own … neighborhood?” he asks.

“The neighborhood is going through what is known as gent-rah-fah-cay-shun, so it’s getting, um, complicated.”

Mutt just kind of smiles at me and it’s freezing in the apartment and I’m slouching in a big pile of white satin pillows that the crew brought and some Japanese guy is filming the interview that MTV will be filming and another Japanese guy is taking photographs of the video crew and I start throwing out names of bands they should play over the segment when it airs: Supergrass, Menswear, Offspring, Phish, Liz Phair (“Supernova”), maybe Pearl Jam or Rage Against the Machine or even Imperial Teen. I’m so lost that I don’t even notice Mutt standing over me until he snaps his fingers twice right under my nose and I purse my lips and wink at him and wonder how cool I look in other people’s eyes.

“I’m going to smoke a big Cohiba during the interview,” I tell Mutt.

“You’re going to look like a big asshole during the interview.”

“Hey, don’t forget who you’re talking to.”

“MTV policy. No smoking. Advertisers don’t like it.”

“Yet you sell Trent Reznor’s hate to millions of unsuspecting youth. Tch-tch-tch.”

“I want to get out of here, so let’s start this thing.”

“I was chased through SoHo earlier tonight.”

“You’re not
that
popular, Victor.”

I buzz JD on my cell phone. “JD—find out who just chased me through SoHo.” I click off and since I’m in my element I’m all smiles so I call out to the really muscular girl with the clip-on nose ring, “Hey pussycat, you could hail a cab with that ass.”

“My name’s David,” he says. “Not Pussycat.”

“Whoa—you got that whole boy/girl thing going down,” I say, shivering.

“Who is this clown?” David asks the room.

“The same old story,” Mutt sighs. “Nobody, up-and-comer, star, has-been. Not necessarily in that order.”

“Hey, keep the vibe alive,” I say halfheartedly to nobody and then the makeup girl brushes my sideburns teasingly and I snarl “Don’t touch those” and then, in a more vacant mode, “Can somebody get me a Snapple?” It’s at this precise moment I finally notice the thing that’s totally lacking in my apartment: Cindy.

“Wait, wait a minute—where’s Cindy?”

“Cindy’s not conducting the interview,” Mutt says. “She’s just introducing it, in her own faux-inimitable style.”

“That sucks pretty majorly if you ask me,” I say, stunned.

“Does it?”

“I wouldn’t be sitting here now if I knew this earlier.”

“I doubt that.”

“Where the fuck is she?”

“In Beirut, at the opening of a new Planet Hollywood.”

“This is seriously demeaning.”

“Tough shit, you big baby.”

“That—gosh, Mutt—that really shocks me,” I say, tears welling up. “That really shocks me that you would talk that way to me.”

“Uh-huh.” Mutt closes his eyes, holds a viewfinder up to his ear.

“Okay.”

“Wait a minute, so wait .…” I look over at the VJ on his cell phone underneath a giant Nan Goldin that Chloe gave me for a Christmas present. “That pederast over there’s going to do it?” I’m asking, appalled. “That fag pederast?”

“Hey, what’s your life? A G-rated movie?”

“I don’t want to be interviewed by someone who is known in this business as a big fag pederast.”

“You ever sleep with a guy, Victor?”

Remembering MTV’s new all-consuming the-entire-world-is-full-of-homos mentality, I smirk and semi-nod and choke out “Maybe” and then compose myself to add, “But now I am a strict heterosexual.” Long pause. “Devout, in fact.”

“I’ll alert the media.”

“You
are
the media, Mutt,” I exclaim. “You and the fag pederast VJ
are
the media.”

“Ever sleep with a fifteen-year-old?” Mutt asks tiredly.

“Girl?” Pause. “Maybe.”

“So?”

Trying to decipher what Mutt’s getting at, I pause, squinting, then yelp out, “What the fuck does
that
mean, bozo? Are you trying to make a point? Because it’s like, um, eluding me.”

The VJ comes over, all boyish smiles and Versace.

“He dates Chloe Byrnes,” Mutt says. “That’s all you really need to know.”

“Super,” the VJ says. “Can we work it in?”

“You
will
work it in,” I answer for Mutt. “And no questions about my father.”

“You’re shooting from the hip,” the VJ says. “And I like it.”

“And
I’m
camera ready.”

MTV: “So how does it feel to be the It Boy of the moment?”

ME: “Fame has a price tag but reality’s still a friend of mine.”

MTV: “How do you think other people perceive you?”

ME: “I’m a bad boy. I’m a legend. But in reality everything’s a big world party and there are no VIP rooms.”

MTV (pause, confusion): “But aren’t there three VIP rooms at your new club?”

ME: “Um … cut. Cut. Cut.”

Everyone huddles together and I explain the game plan—that I want to discuss my personal relationships with Robert Downey, Jr., Jennifer Aniston, Matt Dillon, Madonna, Latouse LaTrek and Dodi Fayed—and people finally nod, satisfied. Life moves on with a few soft-lob inquiries and a chance to be fashionably rude, which I grab.

MTV: “How was it guest-starring on ‘Beverly Hills 90210’?”

ME: “A classic cliché. Luke Perry looks like a little Nosferatu and Jason Priestley
is
a caterpillar.”

MTV: “Do you see yourself as a symbol of a new generation in America?”

ME: “Well, I represent a pretty big pie-wedge of the new generation. I’m maybe a symbol.” Pause. “An icon? No.” Longer pause. “Not yet.” Long pause. “Have I mentioned that I’m a Capricorn? Oh yeah, and I’m also for regaining the incentive to get this generation more involved in environmental issues.”

MTV: “That’s so cool.”

ME: “No,
you’re
so cool, dude.”

MTV: “But what do you picture when you envision your generation?”

ME: “At its worst? Two hundred dead-ass kids dressed like extras from
The Crow
dancing to C+C Music Factory.”

MTV: “And what do you think about this?”

ME (genuinely moved to be asked): “It stresses me out.”

MTV: “But aren’t the 1980s over? Don’t you think opening a club like this is a throwback to an era most people want to forget? Don’t kids want
less
opulence?”

ME: “Hey, this is a personal vision, man.” Pause. “No matter how commercial it, y’know,
feels
. And”—finally realizing something—“I just want to give something back to the community.” Pause. “I do it for the people.” Pause. “Man.”

MTV: “What are your thoughts on fashion?”

ME: “Fashion may be about insecurity but fashion is a good way to relieve tension.”

MTV (pause): “Really?”

ME: “I’m completely absorbed by fashion. I seek it. I
crave
it. Seven days a week, twenty-eight hours a day. Did I mention that I’m a Capricorn? Oh, and yeah—being the best at only one thing is counterproductive.”

MTV (long pause, mild confusion): “You and Chloe Byrnes have been together how long now?”

ME: “Time is meaningless when it comes down to Chloe. She defies time, man. I hope she has a long-term career as an actress-slash-model. She’s gorgeous and, er, is my … best friend.”

(Sounds of
Details
reporter laughing.)

MTV: “There have been rumors that—”

ME: “Hey, maintaining a relationship is one of the difficulties of my job, babe.”

MTV: “Where did you meet?”

ME: “At a pre-Grammy dinner.”

MTV: “What did you say when you met?”

ME: “I said ‘Hey pussycat’ and then that I was—and still am—an aspiring male model of the year.”

MTV (after longish pause): “I can tell that you were in a, um, reflective mood that evening.”

ME: “Hey, success is loving yourself, and anyone who doesn’t think so can fuck off.”

MTV: “How old are you?”

ME: “Twentysomething.”

MTV: “No, really. Exact.”

ME: “Twen-ty-something.”

MTV: “What really pisses Victor Ward off?”

ME: “The fact that David Byrne named his new album after a ‘tea from Sri Lanka that’s sold in Britain.’ I swear to God I heard that somewhere and it drove me nuts.”

MTV (after polite laughter): “No. What
really
makes you mad? What really gets you angry?”

ME (long pause, thinking): “Well, recently, missing DJs, badly behaved bartenders, certain gossipy male models, the media’s treatment of celebs … um …”

MTV: “We were thinking more along the lines of the war in Bosnia or the AIDS epidemic or domestic terrorism. How about the current political situation?”

ME (long pause, tiny voice): “Sloppy Rollerbladers? … The words ‘dot com’? …”

MTV (long pause): “Anything else?”

ME (realizing something, relieved): “A mulatto, an albino, a mosquito, my libido.”

MTV (long pause): “Did you … understand the question?”

ME: “What do you mean by that?”

MTV: “Aren’t there things going on—”

ME (pissed): “Maybe you’ve misunderstood my answers.”

MTV: “Okay, forget it, um—”

ME: “Just move to the next question.”

MTV: “Oh, okay—”

ME: “Shoot.”

MTV (really long pause, then): “Have you ever wished that you could disappear from all this?”

8

Having no idea where my keys are I rush up to Chloe’s realizing we’re running late (also thinking, That’s cool) and Lauren Hynde opens the door and we stare at each other blankly until I say “You look … wonderful tonight” and she suddenly looks like she’s shot through with something like pain or maybe something else like maybe something by Versace and she opens the door wider so I can enter Chloe’s apartment where grunged-out Baxter Priestly’s sitting on the island in the kitchen with a mullet haircut and Oakley eyewear and he’s rolling a joint laced with Xanax and the Sci-Fi Channel is on in the background with the sound turned down and swanky dreampop coming from two ten-thousand-dollar speakers plays over it and Chloe’s standing next to Baxter eating a peppermint patty in the Todd Oldham dress and listening to Baxter say things like “I saw a bum with really great abs today” and thirteen bottles of mineral water are in various stages of emptiness on a marble countertop next to faxes sent that say I KNOW WHO YOU ARE AND I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING and the dozen French white tulips that I supposedly sent Chloe are in a giant crystal vase that someone named Susan Sontag gave her.

“You possess repartee in abundance, my friend,” I mutter, slapping Baxter’s shoulder, startling him out of his inanity, leaning in to kiss Chloe in the same movement, waiting for someone to comment on how chic I look. Behind me Lauren Hynde lingers by the door and Chloe says something like “The limo’s waiting on the street” and I nod okay and move sullenly into our bedroom, making sure Chloe catches the scowl I hurl at Baxter while he continues deseeding.

In my closet: white jeans, leather belts, leather bomber jacket, black
cowboy boots, a couple of black wool crepe suits, a dozen white shirts, a black turtleneck, crumpled silk pajamas, a high-class porno movie I’ve watched hundreds of times starring people who look just like us. I’m pretending to go through stuff until Chloe walks in seconds after I’ve crouched down inspecting a pair of sandals I bought in Barcelona at a Banana Republic.

“What’s the story?” I finally ask. “Where’s my three-snap blazer?”

“About what?” she asks back, tightly.