Girl

When I step out of the cab and onto the salty pavement in front of Pearce and Pearce, my headphones sputtering out the sounds of the newest Bon Jovi record, Slippery When Wet, I am annoyed to find that I am sweating, and that it has already permeated my starched Gucci shirt. It is embarrassing and incredible that even on the coldest of days in New York City, my psychosis has managed to shine through, at least as far as my underarms were concerned, and I feel my heart race as I witness a bum hold out his corroded hand to me and ask for change. He is old, feeble, and utterly disgusting, the filth of Western Civilization, and I know that one flick of my knife would end his pointless existence, and with his begging, his audacity to ask me, Patrick Bateman, for change, he is also begging to be massacred and left to die on the cold and unforgiving sidewalk.

I reach inside my Salvatore Ferragamo trench coat and finger the handle of a serrated knife, praying to the God that I don't believe in that the bum doesn't touch me. There was no possible way to avoid causing a commotion while killing this man in the middle of the day, and although the thought of being strapped into an electric chair fills me with a warm and ingratiating feeling, the thought of prison appeals to me much less. The bum, however, does not touch me, and a weight is lifted from my tanned and well-toned shoulders.

I wait at the elevator doors, and Jon Bon Jovi is wailing over booming electric guitars the lyrics to "Dead or Alive". I have been standing there in a trance for some time, fantasizing about the little brunette hardbody whose face I decimated with a baseball bat only the night before, when I realize I have not yet pressed the "Up" button. This is remedied when a long and slender finger, ended with long red nails, sinks into the white plastic of the console. I look over and spy a very beautiful, albeit strange, blonde hardbody. She is wearing a black Chanel pants suit, one which has been tailored to fit her curves, a white Valentino button-up and red tie, and red Dior heels. She wears thick rimmed Oliver Peoples glasses, and carries a black briefcase that I recognize as Jean Paul Gaultier, because I almost bought it at Neiman Marcus last week. Her well hi-lighted blonde hair is pulled into a tight bun, and her tunnel bangs hang just over her eyebrows. I realize, half with envy and half with admiration, that her strange fashion choice is unfashionably fashionable.

I wonder to myself what she is doing at this building, what business she could possibly have at this respected establishment. She is, after all, a woman, and as any self-respecting man knows, women do not belong at corporate offices. She could have been a secretary, but something told me she had already far surpassed the duties of a secretary. She finally turns to me and notices that I am staring, and there is a pause as she takes me in, then gives me a faint half-smile, which I begrudgingly return.

The elevator arrives and we both step in, and Jon Bon Jovi has moved on to "You Give Love a Bad Name." I press the button labeled 50, the highest and most distinguished floor, looking over to see if she has noticed. Her eyes dart towards it for only a moment, then back towards the elevator doors, which have not yet closed. She says nothing. I laugh to myself as I turn the impossibility of a woman who is not a secretary working on the 50th floor over in my head. I remove one side of my headphones, give her a dazzling and charming smile, then ask her, "What floor?" I hold the "Door Open" button so I will not have to press her button after the doors have shut.

She looks over at me and raises her eyebrows, smiling and revealing her own brilliantly white teeth. "The very same," she says, and I can tell that saying this gives her great pleasure. I imagine the sound her skull would make after a nail has entered the back of it.

I take my finger off of the "Door Open" button, and the great golden doors begin to close. Although I am still pretending to listen to my Walkman, I have muted the record in order to hear her breathing. Her perfect breasts heave up and down, greeting me through the button-up, and I wonder to myself if they are fake. She expels a long sigh, and I am totally taken aback when she speaks to me, her voice echoing in the marble elevator cab.

"I have always found gold and marble to be quite tacky together," she says in an indifferent tone, and I realize for the first time she has a bit of a Southern twang. I do not answer for a moment, wondering if I should pretend to have not heard her, or how she could possibly know that I have muted my record. When she looks over and sees me staring, I realize I have no choice but to answer her.

I clear my throat nervously. "I have to say that I disagree," I say with as much charm as I can muster. "I find gold and marble to be the epitome of taste and class, which are, after all, the essence of the American Dream." This is a lie, but there is a slight chance that she will report my insolence to the CEO of Pearce and Pearce, if that is indeed what she is here for. Spying, I mean.

She gives me a slight laugh and takes in my boy next door good looks, and I can tell that I have made a mistake in my previous statement. "You really feel that strongly about it?"

I open my mouth to answer her, but before I can, the cab stops at the 25th floor, and the golden doors open once again. A furious looking Timothy Bryce stands waiting on the other side, and he regards me quickly before stepping onto the elevator. I feel a twinge of jealousy when I realize that he is holding a cellular phone to his ear, and is having a difficult time with whomever might be on the other end. Bryce is wearing a gray Armani suit with a matching tie, a Dolce and Gabbana shirt, and black Hugo Boss dress shoes. He is carrying a custom made briefcase by Louis Vuitton. The hardbody takes a compact from her inside her jacket and studies her reflection.

"Look, I told you before Fischer, I'm simply booked for the rest of the week," he says irritatedly into the phone. "Perhaps we can do it next week...uh huh...listen, you're breaking up...I think it's the elevator, these things don't get very good reception on...what the fuck did you say to me?"

"He says you're a woman-stealing son of a bitch, and he'd like to throw you down the fucking elevator shaft, then stare down at your mutilated corpse and perhaps take a crowbar to your face. Or, at least, that's what I would like to do."

Bryce turns to me for a moment, not really looking at me and says, "I'm sorry Bateman, did you say something?" His eyes go dark again as he screams into the phone, "No you stupid asshole, not you!" He turns back to me quizzically.

I shrug. "I was asking if you wanted to go to Barcadia tonight, then added that that was what I would like to do."

He makes a face at me and begins to shake his head. "Batemen, I don't know what your erection with that place is all about, but honestly, no one goes there anymore," his focus turns back to his phone conversation. "No, if I thought you were even capable of getting an erection, I wouldn't even be speaking with you, you faggot!"

I laugh to myself as I have averted disaster once again. I hum to the now non-existent Bon Jovi tape, then realize with some discomfort that the blonde is staring at me. I look over at her from behind Bryce, and she looks at me over the top of her compact. She is smiling broadly. A small, yet unnoticeable shiver runs through me as I realize how loudly I explained to Bryce what I wanted to do to him. I avert my eyes from her steely gaze, which seems to be staring holes in my exterior. When the elevator doors open, I push in front of Bryce quickly and start down the hallway towards my office.

It is 8:50 AM. I am thinking of Jon Bon Jovi, I am thinking of the stair master, I am thinking of Evelyn and Bryce, I am thinking of the blonde hardbody on the elevator...