"Oh Patrick," she sighs. "I can't just leave. Aren't you having a good time?"
"Why can't you leave?" I ask. "Is it so unreasonable? You've been here long enough."
"Patrick, this is my Christmas party," she says. "Besides, the elves are going to sing 'O Tannenbaum' any minute now."
"Come on, Evelyn. Let's just get out of here." I'm on the verge of hysteria, panicked that Paul Owen or, worse, Marcus Halberstam is going to walk into the kitchen. "I want to take you away from all this."
"From all what?" she asks, then her eyes narrow. "You didn't like the Waldorf salad, did you?"
"I want to take you away from this," I say, motioning around the kitchen, spastic. "From sushi and elves and… stuff."
An elf walks into the kitchen, setting down a tray of dirty plates, and past him, over him, I can see Paul Owen leaning into Meredith, who's shouting something into his ear over the din of Christmas music, and he scans the room looking for someone, nodding, then Courtney walks into view and I grab Evelyn, bringing her even closer to me.
"Sushi? Elves? Patrick you're confusing me," Evelyn says. "And I don't appreciate it."
"Let's go." I'm squeezing her roughly, pulling her toward the back door. "Let's be daring for once. For just once in your life, Evelyn, be daring."
She stops, refusing to be pulled along, and then she starts smiling, considering my offer but only slightly won over.
"Come on…" I start whining. "Let this be my Christmas present."
"Oh ho, I was already at Brooks Brothers and–" she starts.
"Stop it. Come on, I want this," I say and then in a last, desperate attempt I smile flirtatiously, kissing her lightly on the lips, and add, "Mrs. Batsman?"
"Oh Patrick," she sighs, melting. "But what about cleanup?"
"The midgets'll do it," I assure her.
"But someone has to oversee it, honey."
"So choose an elf. Make that one over there the elf overseer," I say. "But let's go, now." I start pulling her toward the back door of the brownstone, her shoes squeaking as they slide across the Muscoli marble tile.
And then we're out the door, rushing down the alley adjacent to the brownstone, and I stop and peer around the corner to see if anyone we know is leaving or entering the party. We make a run for a limousine I think is Owen's, but I don't want to make Evelyn suspicious so I simply walk up to the closest one, open the door and push her in.
"Patrick," she squeals, pleased. "This is so naughty. And a limo–" I close the door on her and walk around the car and knock on the driver's window. The driver unrolls it.
"Hi," I say, holding out a hand. "Pat Bateman."
The driver just stares, an unlit cigar clenched in his mouth, first at my outstretched hand; then at my face, then at the top of my head.
"Pat Bateman," I repeat. "What, ah, what is it?"
He keeps looking at me. Tentatively I touch my hair to see if it's messed up or out of place and to my shock and surprise I feel two pairs of paper antlers. There are four antlers on my fucking head. I mutter, "Oh Jesus, whoa!" and tear them off, staring at them crumpled in my hands, horrified. I throw them on the ground, then turn back to the driver.
"So. Pat Bateman," I say, smoothing my hair back into place.
"Uh, yeah? Sid." He shrugs.
"Listen, Sid. Mr. Owen says we can take this car, so…" I stop, my breath steaming in the frozen air.
"Who's Mr. Owen?" Sid asks.
"Paul Owen. You know," I say. "Your customer."
"No. This is Mr. Barker's limo," he says. "Nice antlers though."
"Shit," I say, running around the limo to get Evelyn out of there before something bad happens, but it's too late. The second I open the door, Evelyn sticks her head out and squeals, "Patrick, darling, I love it. Champagne" – she holds up a bottle of Cristal in one hand and a gold box in the other – "and truffles too."
I grab her arm and yank her out, mumbling by way of an explanation, under my breath, "Wrong limo, take the truffles," and we head over to the next limousine. I open the door and guide Evelyn in, then move around to the front and knock on the driver's window. He unrolls it. He looks exactly like the other driver.
"Hi. Pat Batsman, " I say, holding out my hand.
"Yeah? Hi. Donald Trump. My wife Ivana's in the back," he says sarcastically, taking it.
"Hey, watch it," I warn. "Listen, Mr. Owen says we can take his car. I'm… oh damn. I mean I'm Marcus."
"You just said your name was Pat."
"No. I was wrong," I say sternly, staring directly at him. "I was wrong about my name being Pat. My name is Marcus. Marcus Halberstam."
"Now you're sure of this, right?" he asks.
"Listen, Mr. Owen said I can take his car for the night, so…" I stop. "You know, let's just get on with it."
"I think I should talk to Mr. Owen first," the driver says, amused, toying with me.
"No, wait!" I say, then calming down, "Listen, I'm… it's fine, really." I start chuckling to myself. "Mr. Owen is in a very, very bad mood."
"I'm not supposed to do this," the driver says without looking up at me. "It's totally illegal. No way. Give it up."
"Oh come on, man," I say.
"It's totally against company regulations," he says.
"Fuck company regulations," I bark out at him.
"Fuck company regulations?" he asks, nodding, smiling.
"Mr. Owen says it's okay," I say. "Maybe you're not listening."
"Nope. No can do." He shakes his head
I pause, stand up straight, run a hand over my face, breathe in and then lean back down. "Listen to me…" I breathe in again. "They've got midgets in there." I point with a thumb back at the brownstone. "Midgets who are about to sing 'O Tannenbaum'…" I look at him imploringly, begging for sympathy, at the same time looking appropriately frightened. "Do you know how scary that is? Elves" – I gulp – "harmonizing?" I pause, then quickly ask, "Think about it."
"Listen, mister–"
"Marcus," I remind him.
"Marcus. Whatever. I'm not gonna break the rules. I can't do anything about it. It's company rules. I'm not gonna break 'em."
We both lapse into silence. I sigh, look around, considering dragging Evelyn to the third limo, or maybe back to Barker's limo – he's a real asshole – but no, goddamnit, I want Owen's. Meanwhile the driver sighs to himself, "If the midgets want to sing, let them sing."
"Shit," I curse, taking out my gazelleskin wallet. "Here's a hundred." I hand him two fifties.
"Two hundred," he says.
'"This city sucks," I mutter, handing the money over.
"Where do you want to go?" he asks, taking the bills with a sigh, as he starts the limousine.
"Club Chernoble," I say, rushing to the back and opening the door.
"Yes sir," he shouts.
I hop in, shutting the door just as the driver peels away from Evelyn's brownstone toward Riverside Drive. Evelyn's sitting next to me while I'm catching my breath, wiping cold sweat off my brow with an Armani handkerchief. When I look over at her, she's on the verge of tears, her lips trembling, silent for once.
"You're startling me. What happened?" I am alarmed. "What… what did I do? The Waldorf salad was good. What else?"
"Oh Patrick," she sighs. "It's… lovely. I don't know what to say."
"Well…" I pause carefully. "I don't… either."
'This," she says, presenting me with a diamond necklace from Tiffany's, Meredith's present from Owen. "Well, help me put it on, darling. You're not the Grinch, honey."