INT. PASTELS RESTAURANT- NIGHT
An insanely expensive restaurant on the Upper East Side.
The decor is a mixture of chi-chi and rustic, with swagged
silk curtains, handwritten menus and pale pink tablecloths
decorated with arrangements of moss, twigs and hideous
exotic flowers. The clientele is young, wealthy and
confident, dressed in the height of late-eighties style:
pouffy Lacroix dresses, slinky Alaïa, Armani power suits.
Huge white porcelain plates descend on very pale pink linen
table cloths. Each of the entrees is a rectangle about four
inches square and look exactly alike.
You'll notice that my friends and I all look and behave in
a remarkably similar fashion, but there are subtle differences
between us. McDermott is the biggest asshole. Van
Patten is the yes man. Price is the most wired. I'm the
best looking. We all have light tans. Right now I'm in a
bad mood because this is not a good table, and Van Patten
keeps asking dumb, obvious questions about how to dress .
(Staring at retreating waiter)
Did he just take our plates away?
He took them away because the portions are so small he
probably thought we were finished. God, I hate this place.
This is a chicks' restaurant. Why aren't we at Dorsia?
Because Bateman won't give the maitre d' head.
Bateman throws a swizzle stick at him.
They don't have a good bathroom to do coke in.
Are you sure that's Paul Owen over there?
Yes. McDufus, I am.
He's handling the Fisher account.
INT. LIMOUSINE - NIGHT
Bateman is pouring vintage champagne into flutes. Price is
lighting up a cigar.
Last week I picked up this Vassar chick-
Oh God, I was there. I don't need to hear this
But I never told you what happened afterwards. So
okay, I pick up this Vassar chick at Tunnel-hot number, big
tits, great legs, this chick was a little hardbody-and so I
buy her a couple of champagne kirs and she's in the city on
spring break and she's practically blowing me in the
Chandelier Room and so I take her back to my place-
Whoa, wait. May I ask where Pamela is during all
Oh fuck you. I want a blowjob, Bate-man. I want a chick
who's gonna let me-
(Putting his hands over his ears)
I don't want to hear this. He's going to say something
You prude. Listen, we're not gonna invest in a co-op
together or jet down to Saint Bart's. I just want some
chick whose face I can sit on for thirty, forty minutes.
Price throws a cigar at McDermott, who catches it.
Anyway, so we're back at my place and listen to
this. She's had enough champagne by now to get a fucking
rhino tipsy, and get this-
She let you fuck her without a condom?
This is a Vassar girl. She's not from Queens. She
would only-are you ready?
She would only give me a handjob, and get this...she kept
her glove on.
The men sit in shocked, horrified silence.
ALL IN UNISON Never date a Vassar girl.
I'm shaking. You open it.
Bateman opens a tiny packet of coke.
Jeez. That's not a helluva lot, is it?
Maybe it's just the light.
Is he fucking selling it by the milligram? (He dips
the corner of his Amex card in the packet and takes a snort)
Oh my God...
It's a fucking milligram of Sweet'n Low!
Bateman dips his Amex in the envelope and snorts.
It's definitely weak but I have a feeling if we do
enough of it we'll be okay.
I want to get high off this; Bateman, not sprinkle it
on my fucking All-Bran.
The GUY IN STALL next door yells at them in an effeminate
GUY IN STALL
Could you keep it down, I'm trying to do drugs!
Price pounds his fist against the stall.
Calm down. Let's do it anyway
I guess you're right...
(Raising his voice)
THAT IS, IF THE FAGGOT IN THE NEXT STALL THINKS IT'S OKAY!
GUY IN STALL
(Trying to climb up against the aluminum divider)
No, FUCK YOU!!
(He collapses, panting against the stall door)
Sorry, dude. Steroids...Okay, let's do it.
That's the spirit.
They both dig their platinum Amex cards into the envelope
of white powder, shoveling it up their noses, then sticking
their fingers in to catch the residue and rubbing it into