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                Patrick Bateman- Apr 09

During the middle of the day I’m having trouble bring up sales reports so I call the company tech support in Kansas City.  Most of our office in Kansas City is Mormon, including our friendly tech guy Jason.  To find the problem we set up an online meeting and he takes virtual control of my computer.  He fixes the problem and brings up the sales reports I need.  When he downloads the Excel documents it brings up my other downloads in a small Firefox window.
“And we have some of your other downlo- uh sorry that’s none of my business,” he says, closing out the window quickly.
I notice some torrent files are listed but I can’t imagine anything that I’ve downloaded that would spook him so bad.  When the meetings finished I check the downloads; the last one listed is the Portland band Starfucker.  I dial Jason’s number quickly.
“Hey Jason, I looked at my downloads.  Starfucker is actually a band.  I don’t know why they call themselves Starfucker, I mean it’s actually sort of West Coast, you know mellow type music...” I ramble on nonsensically.
I can’t imagine he believes me; it’s going to make the rounds of the Mormon office.

I bought a copy of American Psycho for the girl I’m dating.  After she finishes the novel she asks if the main character, Patrick Bateman, is the brother of Shaun from the movie Rules of Attraction.  I tell her he is, and she tells me she didn’t like the movie.
I read Rules of Attraction in college, but I had watched the movie several years earlier, long before I had even known who Brett Easton Ellis was.  Several other people have told me they feel the same as the girl.  It’s difficult for me to understand, it had been one of the most influential movies in my early high school years.  It made me want college; it was the prize waiting at the end of the race that was high school.  I thought college would be full of naked parties, fucking, debauchery, and to a degree it was, but not on the scale that I was ready for at that age.

A sign outside of Chicago, at the edge of where the city ends and cornfields begin reads, “Big Homes, Less Money, 9 Models.”  Gag me.

Another morning of Pepto-Bismol for breakfast, I don’t have any water to wash down the tablets so my mouth has that distinct pink aftertaste.  It’s only Monday, it will be a long week at this rate.

I’m hung-over with bed head and half asleep.  The fields are flooded so my customer and his employees are at his campground.  They’re digging a hole for a sceptic tank when I arrive.
“Hey Simon, how about a beer?” one of them asks.
“I’m pretty sure I drove drunk this morning, but yeah, I’ll have one.”
“Drink up,” he says tossing me a Busch Light.  “We only have fifty left.”

For months an Italian girl named Eugy, whom I first met in Prague, and later intimately in Chicago, has been trying to meet me again.  She’s studying at the University of Michigan, and manages to catch a ride with friends, and we make plans to meet at the W on Lakeshore.  I’m the first to arrive and I order a red wine at the bar.  Its fourteen bucks for a glass, which would be fine if this were Stockholm, but I feel cheated in Chicago.  I pay for the drink and flip through their cocktail book, they’re all cheaper.  I must have been ripped.  Fine, fine, I just need to survive tonight without an altercation or cheating sex with an average looking Italian girl with amazing tits. 

I meet Eugy the next morning because I ran out of the bar after getting turned on at four in the morning watching her walk to the bathrooms.  I was happy to go back to my heatless apartment, where I lay shivering in the sheets.  I was happy because I got away.  In the morning we go to a Starbucks, and I know she can sense my annoyance at being there.  We talk for about an hour before I drive her back to her hotel.  She sits in the front seat and tries to tell me that she likes me; I listen patiently but don’t affectionately.  She kisses me and I kiss her back but only for a second before ripping my head away.  I finally get her to leave after being illegally parked in front of the hotel for fifteen minutes while the rain becomes gradually stronger.

I escort a friend of mine to her med-school formal in Madison.  The party is made up of future doctors, they don’t go out often, and most get horribly drunk early in the formal.  They jump up and down on the dance floor, falling over themselves, passing out in piles of suit coats and jackets.  They’re all friendly, nicer than the business students I used to know. 

The next day I’m back in Chicago for a concert at Empty Bottle, a dive bar in Wicker Park.  Anni Rossi and Ferraby Lionheart open for Noah and the Whale.  I know the openers well, and before the concert I watched several Noah and the Whale videos on YouTube.  The videos resembled a Wes Anderson movie, the music itself pleasant but forgettable, and it fails to make me excited for the concert.   The openings bands play short sets and they both sound well but slightly lifeless.  Then Noah comes on and they’re stars, immediately I can tell they’re stars.  They sound better, clearer, faster, and with more emotion and life.  The members themselves are young and attractive, and their potential is evident.
“They’re manager must be fucking terrible, they deserve to be stars,” I shout to the date I brought to the concert.

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