My Afternoon with Patrick Bateman’s Cousin

June 4, 2014 • Love & Sex

“You got anyone you can set Vance up with?”

I’m sitting on a set of patio furniture likely worth more than what I make in a year, basking in the unadulterated sun that this mansion’s 80 sprawling acres of land provides. A drop of sweat slides down my torso to settle near my waist. I look at Vance. I look at his friends. I consult my mental Rolodex of girls I hate enough to set up with this person.


Vance is the latest addition to our Sunday by the pool, an invitation I myself was extended this morning by a friend who has connections to billionaires and various Ivy leaguers I rarely come into contact with on my own accord. Social tourism. That’s why I’m here. Vance came in while I was in the middle of my catered lunch, where I had accidentally positioned myself practically half-naked across from what appeared to be a group of aged, polo-wearing fathers of the middle school hockey team that had also been invited to use the facilities. You know, like the full-sized indoor hockey rink down the hill, reached by a laborious stroll or by one of many golf carts driven by what I think rich people refer to as “the help.” For some reason, likely his seersucker pants and his button-down shirt and any other sartorial indication that this is a person who “summers”, I sense Vance would know what term to apply to the employees here. My family, however, never employed so much as a gardener, and the only time we had what I think you would call a nanny was when my parents got divorced and my mom went back to work. I think her name was Inga. She had a red SUV and farted during our drives to school. My mom fired her after she stuffed a chicken with ground beef. Which only took about two weeks.

Vance has gone into a lazy diatribe about how hard it is to meet a good girl in New York, though I hardly think that Vance is the type of person that attracts the type of sterling babe a better man might deserve. Recently, he’s been into “the daughters of ‘80s television stars,” all of whom have turned out to be “ugh, bitches” despite their apparently appealing access to trust funds and peripherally glamorous lifestyles. Then there was the girl he brought back from Los Angeles after having met her briefly in some place that should otherwise indicate a lacking of substance, taste, and intelligence. When he came back from work the first day of her weeklong stay, he found her (and his treasured glass desk) covered in cocoa butter and every episode of Oprah from the last three seasons saved on his TiVo. She hadn’t left the house all day, an observation he irritatingly vocalized, to which she responded with nothing but a blank, dumb stare.

My attention goes towards the pool, where two pretty teens—one of whom is the billionaire’s daughter and the other, the model the billionaire’s son is fucking. The hockey team has taken to the exercise compound, led by a young ginger boy—another one of the billionaire’s kids—who has been given license to drive the bigger of the golf carts. His eyes bulge as he speedily makes the turn around the pool. I wait eagerly for a wheel to catch, a vehicle to tip, limbs to flail, some sense of drama to give this place a narrative.

Vance has gone into another import story, about how he shipped some dunce in from Miami right before Christmas. He had second thoughts five minutes after she arrived; he ducked out to a friend’s place and said he had to leave town for a meeting. I think my ears start ringing because I can’t remember if he mentioned leaving her keys and letting her stay alone at his apartment or if he just left her to figure it out for herself. Twenty-degrees and snowing, regretting having ever said yes to his offer. A ho’s punishment.

While everyone laughs uproariously about these dating horror stories, I’m trying to figure out what about this guy is appealing to anyone. Between looks and dress and this appalling abrasive personality, the only thing I can possibly come up with is the only thing I have not yet seen: An Amex black card tucked into the fold a Goyard wallet, the initials “D.B.A.G” monogrammed on its front.

Photo courtesy of American Psycho. 

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