The instant the light on 47th turns green the Jeep bounds out of its lane and charges forward.
When my light turns I race up to 51st, where the oncoming traffic forces me to wait to turn left.
I look over my shoulder down Park but I can't see the Jeep anywhere.
When I turn back around, it's idling next to me.
I shout out and immediately slam into an oncoming cab moving slowly down Park, almost falling off the bike, and noise is a blur, all I can really hear is my own panting, and when I lift the bike up I veer onto 51st ahead of the Jeep.
Fifty-first is backed up with major gridlock and I maneuver the Vespa onto the sidewalk but the Jeep doesn't care and careens right behind me, halfway on the street, its two right wheels riding the curb, and I'm yelling at people to get out of the way, the bike's wheels kicking up bursts of the confetti that litters the sidewalk in layers, businessmen lashing out at me with briefcases, cabdrivers shouting obscenities, blaring their horns at me, a domino effect.
The next light, at Fifth, is yellow. I rev up the Vespa and fly off the curb just as the traffic barreling down the avenue is about to slam into me, the sky dark and rolling behind it, the black Jeep stuck on the far side of the light.
Fashion Cafe is one block away and at Rockefeller and 51st I hop off the bike and run with it behind the mostly useless vinyl ropes that stand outside the doors keeping away no one because there's no one to keep away.
I'm gasping at Byana, the doorman this afternoon, to let me in.
"Did you see that?" I'm shouting. "Those ass**les tried to kill me."
"What else is new?" Byana shrugs. "So now you know."
"Listen, I'm just gonna wheel this in." I motion toward the bike. "Just let me leave it right inside here for ten minutes."
"Victor," Byana says, "what about that interview you promised me with Brian McNally?"
"Just give me ten minutes, Byana," I pant, wheeling the bike inside.
The black Jeep idles at the corner and I duck down to peer through the glass doors of Fashion Cafe, watching as it slowly makes the turn and disappears.
Jasmine, the hostess, sighs when she sees me move through the giant lens that doubles as a hallway and enter the main room of the restaurant.
"Jasmine," I say, holding my hands up. "Just ten, baby."
"Oh Victor, come on," Jasmine says, standing behind the hostess podium, cell phone in hand.
"I'm just gonna leave the bike there." I point back at the Vespa leaning against a wall near coat check.
'We're empty," she relents. "Go on in."
The whole place is totally deserted. Someone hollowly whistles "The Sunny Side of the Street" behind me and when I turn around nobody's there and I realize it could be the last notes of the new Pearl Jam song over the sound system but as I'm waiting for a new song to start it becomes apparent that it sounded too clear, the whistling was too human and I shrug it off and move deeper inside Fashion Cafe, past someone vacuuming confetti off the floor and a couple of bartenders changing shifts and a waitress adding up tips at the Mademoiselle booth.
The only person at any of the tables is a youngish guy with a Caesar hair cut looking like a thirtyish Ben Arnold, wearing sunglasses and what looks like a black three-button Agnes B. suit, sitting in the Vogue booth behind the fake Arc de Triomphe that hogs the middle of the main dining room. DJ X is looking a little too sharp this afternoon, though pretty sleek nonetheless.
He looks up questioningly, lowering the sunglasses, and then I take a semi-arrogant turn around the room before moving over to the booth.
He takes the sunglasses off and says, "Hello." He offers his hand.
"Hey, where's the baggy pants?" I sigh, slipping into the booth, lightly slapping the hand around. "Where's the oversized zigzag-print T-shirt? Where's the new issue of Urb? Where's that groovy mop of bleached chopped hair?"
"I'm sorry." He cocks his head. "I'm sorry, but what?"
"So here I am," I say, spreading my arms wide. "I exist. So will you do it or not?"
"Do... what?" He puts down a purple menu in the shape of a Hasselblad camera.
"One of the DJs we interviewed today actually wanted to play 'Do the Bartman,"' I moan. "He said it was 'unavoidable.' He said it was his 'signature' song. Can you believe how f**ked up the world is at this moment?"
The guy slowly reaches into his jacket and pulls out a card and hands it to me. I look at it, vaguely catch a name, F. Fred Palakon, and below that a phone number.