Later. Dorsia, nine-thirty: Sean is half an hour late. The maître d’ refuses to seat me until my brother arrives. My worst fear—a reality. A prime booth across from the bar sits there, empty, waiting for Sean to grace it with his presence. My rage is controlled, barely, by a Xanax and an Absolut on the rocks. While taking a piss in the men’s room, I stare into a thin, weblike crack above the urinal’s handle and think to myself that if I were to disappear into that crack, say somehow miniaturize and slip into it, the odds are good that no one would notice I was gone. No… one… would… care. In fact some, if they noticed my absence, might feel an odd, indefinable sense of relief. This is true: the world is better off with some people gone. Our lives are not all interconnected. That theory is a crock. Some people truly do not need to be here. In fact one of them, my brother, Sean, is sitting in the booth he reserved when I come out of the men’s room after I’ve phoned the apartment and checked for messages (Evelyn’s suicidal, Courtney wants to buy a chow, Luis suggests dinner on Thursday). Sean is already chain-smoking, and I’m thinking to myself.Damn, why didn’t I request a table in the nonsmoking section? He’s shaking hands with the maître d’ as I walk over but doesn’t even bother to introduce us. I sit down and nod. Sean nods too, having already ordered a bottle of Cristal, knowing that I’m paying; also knowing, I’m sure, that I know he doesn’t drink champagne.

Sean, who is now twenty-three, went to Europe last fall, or at least this is what Charles Conroy said Sean told him, and though Charles did receive a substantial bill from the Plaza Athénée, the signature on the receipts didn’t match Sean’s and no one really seemed to know how long Sean was actually in France or even if he had spent real time there. Afterwards he bummed around, then reenrolled at Camden for about three weeks. Now he’s in Manhattan before flying to either Palm Beach or New Orleans. Predictably, tonight he’s alternately moody and insistently arrogant. He has also, I’ve just noticed, started to pluck his eyebrows. He no longer has only one. The overwhelming urge I have to mention this to him is quelled only by squeezing my hand into a fist so tightly that I break the skin on the palm of my hand and the biceps of my left arm bulges then rips through the cloth of the linen Armani shirt I have on.

“So you like this place?” he asks, grinning.

“My… favorite,” I joke through clenched teeth.

“Let’s order,” he says, not looking at me, waving to a hardbody, who brings over two menus and a wine list while smiling appreciatively at Sean, who in turn ignores her totally. I open the menu and—damnit— it’s not prix fixe, which means that Sean orders the lobster with caviar and peach ravioli as an appetizer and the blackened lobster with strawberry sauce as an entrée-the two most expensive items on the menu. I order the quail sashimi with grilled brioche and the baby soft-shell crabs with grape jelly. A hardbody opens the bottle of Cristal and pours it into crystal tumblers, which I guess is supposed to be cool. After she leaves, Sean notices me staring at him in a vaguely disapproving manner.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say.

“What… is… it… Patrick?” He spaces the words out, obnoxiously.

“Lobster to start with? And for an entrée?”

“What do you want me to order? The Pringle Potato Chip appetizer?”

“Two lobsters?”

“These matchbooks are slightly larger than the lobster they serve here,” he says. “Besides, I’m not that hungry.”

“Even more of a reason.”

“I’ll fax you an apology.”

“Still, Sean.”

“Rock ‘n’ roll—”

“I know, I know, rock ‘n’ roll, deal with it, right?” I say, holding up a hand while sipping the champagne. I wonder if it’s not too late to ask one of the waitresses to bring a piece of cake over here with a candle in it just to embarrass the shit out of him, to put the little bastard in his place—but instead I put the glass down and ask, “Listen, so, oh Jesus.” I breathe in, then force out, “What did you do today?”

“Played squash with Richard Lindquist.” He shrugs contemptuously. “Bought a tuxedo.”

“Nicholas Leigh and Charles Conroy want to know if you’re going to the Hamptons this summer.”

“Not if I can help it,” he says, shrugging.

A blond girl close enough to physical perfection, with big tits and a Les Misérables playbill in one hand, wearing a long rayon matte-jersey evening dress by Michael Kors from Bergdorf Goodman, Manolo Blahnik shoes and gold-plated chandelier earrings by Ricardo Siberno, stops by to say hello to Sean and though I would fuck this girl, Sean ignores her flirtatious manner and refuses to introduce me. During this encounter Sean is completely rude, yet the girl leaves smiling, raising a gloved hand. “We’ll be at Mortimer’s. Later.” He nods, staring at my water glass, then waves down a waiter and orders a Scotch, straight.

“Who was that?” I ask.

“Some babe who went to Stephens.”

“Where did you meet her?”

“Playing pool at M.K.” He shrugs.

“Is she a du Pont?” I ask.

“Why? Do you want her number?”

“No, I just wanted to know if she’s a du Pont.”

“She might be. I don’t know.” He lights another cigarette, a Parliament, with what looks like an eighteen-karat gold cigarette lighter from Tiffany’s. “She might be a friend of one of the du Ponts.”

I keep thinking of reasons why I’m sitting here, right now, tonight, with Sean, at Dorsia, but none come to mind. Just this infinitely recurring zero floats into view. After dinner—the food is small but very good; Sean touches nothing—I tell him that I have to meet Andrea Rothmere at Nell’s and if he wants espresso or dessert, he should order it now since I have to be downtown by midnight.

“Why rush?” he asks. “Nell’s isn’t that hip anymore.”

“Well.” I falter, quickly regain composure. “We’re just going to meet there. We’re really going to”—my mind races, lands on something—“Chernoble.” I take another sip of champagne from the tumbler.

“Big yawn. Really big yawn,” he says, scanning the room.

“Or Contraclub East. I can’t remember.”

“Out. Stone Age. Prehistory.” He laughs cynically.

Tense pause. “How would you know?”

“Rock ‘n’ roll.” He shrugs. “Deal with it.”

“Well, Sean where, do you go?”

Immediate answer. “Petty’s.”

“Oh yes,” I murmur, having forgotten that it was already open.

He whistles something, smokes a cigarette.

“We’re going to a party Donald Trump’s having,” I lie.

“Big fun. Very big fun.”

“Donald’s a nice guy. You should meet him,” I say. “I’ll… introduce you to him.”

“Really?” Sean asks, maybe hopefully, maybe not.

“Yeah, sure.” Oh, right.

Now, by the time I get the check… let’s see… pay it, take a cab back to my place, it will be almost midnight, which doesn’t give me enough time to return yesterday’s videotapes, so if I don’t stop by my place I can just go in and rent another videotape, though on my membership doesn’t it say that you can only take out three at a time? So this means last night I took out two (Body Double and Blond, Hot, Dead) so I could rent one more, but I’ve forgotten I’m also part of the Gold Circle Membership Plan, which means that if I’ve spent one thousand dollars (at least) in the last six months then I’m allowed to rent as many videos on any given night as I want, but if I still have two out now that might mean I can’t take any more out, Gold Circle Member or not, if the other ones haven’t been returned, but—

“Damien. You’re Damien,” I think I hear Sean mutter.

“What did you say?” I ask, looking up. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Nice tan,” he sighs. “I said nice tan.”

“Oh,” I say, still confused about the video thing. I look down—at what, my lap? “Uh, thanks.”