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“You’re a philistine,” Capote says.
“You can’t tell me you actually liked that shit.”
“I did,” I say. “I thought it was disturbing.”
“Disturbing, but not in a good way,” Ryan says.
Capote laughs. “You can take the boy out of the suburbs but you can’t take the suburbs out of the boy.”
“I take serious offense to that comment,” Ryan cracks.
“I’m from the suburbs,” I say.
“Of course you are,” Capote says, with a certain amount of disdain.
“And you’re from someplace better?” I challenge him.
“Capote’s from an old Southern family, darlin’,” Ryan says, imitating Capote’s accent. “His grandmother fought off the Yankees. Which would make her about a hundred and fifty years old.”
“I never said my grandmother fought the Yankees. I said she told me never to marry one.”
“I guess that lets me out,” I comment, while Ryan snickers in appreciation.
The dinner is being held at the Jessens’ loft. It seems like ten years ago when L’il laughed at me for thinking the Jessens lived in a building without running water, but my early assessment isn’t far off. The building is a little scary. The freight elevator has a door that slides open manually, followed by one of those clanging wire gates. Inside is a crank to move the elevator up and down.
The operation of said elevator is a source of consternation. When we get in, five people are discussing the alternate possibility of finding the stairs.
“It’s terrible when people live in these places,” says a man with yellow hair.
“It’s cheap,” Ryan points out.
“Cheap shouldn’t mean dangerous.”
“What’s a little danger when you’re the most important artist in New York?” Capote says, with his usual arrogance.
“Oh my. You’re so macho,” the man replies. The lighting in the elevator is dim and when I turn around to take a closer look, I discover the speaker is none other than Bobby. The Bobby from the fashion show. Who promised me a reading in his space.
“Bobby,” I nearly shout.
He doesn’t recognize me at first. “Hello, yes, great to see you again,” he replies automatically.
“It’s me,” I insist. “Carrie Bradshaw?”
He suddenly remembers. “Of course! Carrie Bradshaw. The playwright.”
Capote snorts and, since no one else seems either capable or interested, takes over the operation of the crank. The elevator lurches upward with a sickening jolt that throws several of the occupants against the wall.
“I’m so happy I didn’t eat anything today,” remarks a woman in a long silver coat.
Capote manages to get the elevator reasonably close to the third story, meaning the doors open a couple of feet above the floor. Ever the gentleman, he hops out and extends his hand to the lady in the silver coat. Ryan gets out on his own, followed by Bobby, who jumps and falls to his knees. When it’s my turn, Capote hesitates, his arm poised midair.
“I’m fine,” I say, rejecting his offer.
“Come on, Carrie. Don’t be a jerk.”
“In other words, try being a lady,” I murmur, taking his hand.
“For once in your life.”
