Elimination Night - By Anonymous Page 0,66
IT’S AN ORDER!”
“SO DO I.”
“OH—HERE IS CHELSEA HOUSE.”
“LAST SUPPER!!”
“BAD NEWS COMING.”
“DAH-DAH-DAHHH!!”
Boris was still looking over my shoulder. “Hey, I don’t mean to pry,” he said, raising his palms and moving back to his side of the table. “But is that… the Joey—”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “It’s him.”
“Wow.”
“Not really. Look, I’m sorry, Boris, but I’m gonna have to get my balls to go. It’s a work thing.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“That’s very sweet, thank you.”
“One condition, though.”
“What?”
“We try this again next week.”
I’d never been to Maison Chelsea before, but I knew what was it—a private club, owned by a mysterious Frenchman, located on the penthouse level of Fortune Plaza, one of the few high-rise buildings to cast a shadow over Hollywood Boulevard.
Pretty much every Big Name in town is a member of Maison Chelsea, and it’s not hard to understand why: Paparazzi can’t get anywhere near the place (the entrance is on the twenty-eighth floor); the commitment to privacy is such that all electronic devices are banned, and regardless of how famous you are, you can take a maximum of only three guests. The latter ensures that membership of Maison Chelsea is vital to anyone with even the vaguest of social aspirations. Marriages have failed because one partner’s application to the club was accepted while the other’s was declined. Similarly, lifelong friendships have been severed.
I asked Boris to drop me off outside, only to discover after fifteen minutes of wandering aimlessly between illuminated palms in the courtyard that the elevator to the penthouse level was located in the underground garage. So down the steep driveway I went, ducking under the traffic barrier by the ticket machine, and ignoring the sign that read, “THIS IS NOT—REPEAT, NOT!—A PEDESTRIAN WALKWAY.” On the other side I encountered an amused-looking valet, who pointed me toward an unmarked glass doorway, barely visible between two black Maseratis. Beyond it was a small, dark lobby with two banks of elevators, an angular sofa—clearly designed for minimum comfort and maximum aesthetic value—and a reception desk. Downtempo electronica pulsed in the background.
“Bonjour and welcome to Maison Chelsea,” said one of the male receptionists. He was dressed like a Depression-era newsboy and didn’t sound the least bit French. He sounded British, in fact. (Just what I needed in my life: another Brit.)
“I’m meeting someone,” I offered. The way it came out sounded like an apology for my very presence. I was annoyed with myself for being so easily intimidated.
“And the member’s name?”
I had no idea if Mitch was the member, or Joey. Somehow, using Joey’s name seemed ridiculous.
“Mitch,” I said, my face now a boiling cauldron of shame.
“Last name?”
“McDonald.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
Several legitimate club members were now in line behind me. I could feel their pity.
“… what do you mean, no?” I asked.
“There’s no ‘Mitch McDonald.’”
“Can you try under Joey? Joey Lovecraft.”
The receptionist’s concentration intensified. Skepticism had also made itself plainly visible on his brow. He moved the nib of his fountain pen quickly down a list in the leather-bound signature book in front of him while making a diligent-sounding clucking noise. “Hmm,” he said to himself. “Well, I see that Mr. Lovecraft is expecting someone this evening. But I’m afraid… hmm, I’m only seeing a… Bill.”
“That’s me,” I said, relieved. “I’m Bill.”
“Oh, so you’re Bill?” said the receptionist, with only barely disguised sarcasm.
“Yes.”
“ID, please.”
The “please” was delivered with such contempt, “fuck you” might have sounded a bit friendlier.
I produced my wallet. Then I realized the problem.
“Well, my ID says, ‘Sasha,’” I began to explain. “But he calls me Bill.”
“Fascinating,” came the reply. “I’m sure there’s an absolutely hilarious backstory. You should tell me all about it another time. Take a seat. I’ll have someone look into this.”
“But—”
The receptionist gestured to the unwelcoming slab of foam in the corner.
Sighing, I sat down. Five minutes passed. My back started to hurt. Another five minutes. I stood up and walked around. At least a dozen other Maison Chelsea members came and went, each displaying or otherwise confirming their credentials with no effort whatsoever. They were from another world, these people: a taller, better-dressed, more beautiful world, in which everyone looks a bit like Wayne Shoreline. I sat down again. Okay, so this was getting miserable. I would have called Mitch and Joey, but all communication devices were banned. Then, at last—thank God—I overheard the receptionist discussing my case on the phone with an assistant manager upstairs. “If you get a moment,” he was saying, “could you ask Mr. Lovecraft to describe, ‘Bill’? Thanks.”
I’d been here—what?—forty minutes now.
The receptionist raised