So Bateman’s been AWOL for months until this morning, when he suddenly turns up at Pierce & Pierce like he hasn’t missed a day.
“Jesus, Bateman,” I say when I stop by to see what he has to say for himself. “You had us all scared to death. Where the hell have you been?”
“London,” he tells me. “I’ve been in London. I thought I saw Paul Allen.”
“So did you?” I ask. “See him, I mean?”
“No,” he says. “I didn’t see him. I did see this play called ‘American Psycho: The Musical,’ which had possibly the most absurd plot I’ve ever seen.”
“Right,” I say. “That’s the musical with the guy from Doctor Who. I would think that would be right up your alley.”
“Why would you think that?” he asks. “And why would you think that guy is a doctor?” he scoffs condescendingly. “He’s not even that ripped. He says he can do a thousand crunches a day, but I can do a thousand crunches a day, and he isn’t half as buff as I am.”
I start to ask Bateman why he thinks doctors have to be ripped, but it’s at this point I notice his head is bobbing a little like he’s been riding the London Eye for a couple months straight and I start to worry.
“Bateman, what’s wrong with you?” I ask. “Did you hit your head or something?”
“Did I hit my head?” he asks, absentmindedly. “No, I didn’t hit my head,” he says, weirdly, but then again, it’s Bateman, so it’s not really that weird.
“Well, all right,” I say haltingly. “Did you like the play, at least?”
“It was no ‘Oh Africa, Brave Africa,” he tells me, straight-faced. “Now that was a laugh riot.”
Oh, well. At least Bateman’s back, I guess, and it’s Friday.