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.On the stomach crunch machine I've gotten so I can do six sets of fifteen and on the biceps curl machine I do seven sets of ten.Before moving to the free weights I spend twenty minutes on the exercise bike while reading the new issue of Money magazine.Over at the free weights I do three sets of fifteen repetitions of leg extensions, leg curls and leg presses, then three sets and twenty repetitions of barbell curls, then three sets and twenty repetitions of bentover lateral raises for the rear deltoids and three sets and twenty repetitions of latissimus pulldowns, pulley rows, dead lifts and bent-over barbell rows.For the chest I do three sets and twenty reps of incline-bench presses.For the front deltoids I also do three sets of lateral raises and seated dumbbell presses.Finally, for the triceps I do three sets and twenty reps of cable pushdowns and close-grip bench presses.After more stretching exercises to cool down I take a quick hot shower and then head to the video store where I return two tapes I rented on Monday, She-Male Reformatory and Body Double, but I rerent Body Double because I want to watch it again tonight even though I know I won't have enough time to masturbate over the scene where the woman is getting drilled to death by a power drill since I have a date with Courtney at seven-thirty at Café Luxembourg.DateHeading home from working out at Xclusive, and after an intense shiatsu massage, I stop at a newsstand near my building, scanning the Adults Only rack with my Walkman still on, the soothing strains of Pachelbel's Canon somehow complementing the harshly lit, laminated photographs in the magazines I flip through.I buy Lesbian Vibrator Bitches and Cunt on Cunt along with the current Sports Illustrated and the new issue of Esquire, even though I subscribe to them and both have already arrived in the mail.I wait until the stand is empty to make my purchase.The vendor says something, motions toward his hook nose, while handing me the magazines along with my change.I lower the volume and lift one of the Walkman's earphones up and ask, "What?" He touches his nose again and in a thick, nearly impenetrable accent says, I think, "Nose uise bleding." I put my Bottega Veneta briefcase down and lift a finger up to my face.It comes away red, wet with blood I reach into my Hugo Boss overcoat and bring out a Polo handkerchief and wipe the blood away, nod my thanks, slip my Wayfarer aviator sunglasses back on and leave.Fucking Iranian.In the lobby of my building I stop at the front desk and try to get the attention of a black Hispanic doorman I don't recognize.He's on the phone to his wife or his dealer of some crack addict and stares at me as he nods, the phone cradled in the premature folds of his neck.When it dawns on him that I want to ask something, he sighs, rolls his eyes up and tells whoever is on the line to hold on."Yeah whatchooneed?" he mumbles."Yes," I begin, my tone as gentle and polite as I can possibly muster."Could you please tell the superintendent that I have a crack in my ceiling and…" I stop.He's looking at me as if I have overstepped some kind of unspoken boundary and I'm beginning to wonder what word confused him: certainly not crack, so what was it? Superintendent? Ceiling? Maybe even please?"Whatchoomean?" He sighs thickly, slumped back, still staring at me.I look down at the marble floor and also sigh and tell him, "Look.I don't know.Just tell the superintendent it's Bateman… in Ten I." When I bring my head back up to see if any of this has registered I'm greeted by the expressionless mask of the doorman's heavy, stupid face.I am a ghost to this man, I'm thinking.I am something unreal, something not quite tangible, yet still an obstacle of sorts and he nods, gets back on the phone, resumes speaking in a dialect totally alien to me.I collect my mail – Polo catalog, American Express bill, June Playboy, invitation to an office party at a new club called Bedlam – then walk to the elevator, step in while inspecting the Ralph Lauren brochure and press the button for my floor and then the Close Door button, but someone gets in right before the doors shut and instinctively I turn to say hello.It's the actor Tom Cruise, who lives in the penthouse, and as a courtesy, without asking him, I press the PH button and he nods thank you and keeps his eyes fixed on the numbers lighting up above the door in rapid succession.He is much shorter in person and he's wearing the same pair of black Wayfarers I have on
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