Several Septembers ago I attended a party for Interview Magazine in hopes of speaking with the managing editor about a writing gig. He was an old timer like myself. I didn’t have high hopes, since I once threw him out of a nightclub, but I was an expert at walking back across burnt bridges. The soiree was held in a very unfinished hotel. The breathless crowd before the entrance of the construction site was ten deep in anticipation of a fabulous night. I pushed myself through the expectant enterees and told the bouncer that I was a guest of Adrian Dannett.
“And who are you?” The black-clad press secretary checked the list.
“I’m not on the list. I just got out of jail in Thailand.” I didn’t mentioned my penal stint had lasted 3 hours in the Cyber-Crime ACed offices.
“Oh.” She was about to tell the security to move me away from the ropes, when my dashing editor showed up behind me.
“He’s with me.” Adrian held his hand out to indicate that I was his guest. He was well-known on the scene and the ropes opened for us. I thanked the woman and we floated through a crowd aglow with the first big event of the fall season.
Faces, bodies, photographers.
I knew no one and even better no one knew me.
Adrian and I whisked up to the top floor by express elevator for sushi, champagne, and conversation. The DJ was playing trendy music from the 00s. Strobes blinded me on two occasions, as I inadvertently stood next to someone famous. Adrian introduced me to several artists from the 70s. We spoke of the dead and living. Speaking to the ditor was impossible. He was surrounded by more deserving mendicants. I retired to the bar and drank fast. Every waitress with sushi was my new best friend. I lasted an hour before feeling the call of my pumpkin truck. I shared the service elevator down with a beautiful blonde in jeans, who was in a claustrophobic panic.
“I hate elevators.”
“They were very terrifying in TOWERING INFERNO.” I had sat in the second row of the Ziegfield Theater for that film.
“I hate that film.” She rushed into the corner, face buried in the padding. On the ground floor she regained her composure. I held the door open with my hand, as Adrian said, “That was Stephanie Seymour.”
“Who?” The name meant something.
“The Victoria Secrets model.” Adrian rolled his eyes at my ignorance. Five years out of the country does wonders to your celebrity antennae. “Her boyfriend is building the hotel.”
“Fabulous.” It sounded like the right thing to say. I said goodnight and then took the subway to Brooklyn. No top models on my arm. No limo. No penthouse. Just the A train heading to Lafayette Street.