"People people people." I lift myhands up. "Is it possible to open this club without humiliatingourselves in the process?" I start to walk away. "BecauseI'm beginning to think it's not possible. Comprende?"

"Victor, oh my god, please," Bongo says as I walk away.

"Victor, wait up." Kenny Kenny follows, holding out a bagof croutons.

"It's just that this is all so . . . so .. . '89?" I blurt out.

"A fine year, Victor," Peyton says, trying to keep up withme. "A triumphant year!"

I stop, pause, then turn slowly to face him. Peyton stands therelooking hopefully up at me, quivering.

"Uh, Peyton, you're really whacked out, aren't you?" I askquietly.

Shamefully, Peyton nods as if coaxed. He looks away.

"You've had a pretty tough life, right?" I ask gently.

"Victor, please." JD steps in."Peyton was joking about the specks. We're not saving thespecks. I'm with you. They're just not worth it. They die."

While lighting a gargantuan joint, camcorder guy shoots out the hugeexpanse of French windows, the lens staring at a view of a leaflessUnion Square Park, at a truck with a massive Snapple logo driving by,limousines parked at a curb. We are moving down another set ofstairs, heading toward the bottom.

"Will someone please just give me one spontaneous act ofgoodness? Remove the specks. Bongo, go back to the kitchen. KennyKenny, you get a consolation prize. Peyton, make sure Kenny Kennygets a couple of colanders and a nice flat spatula." I wave themoff, glaring. We leave Kenny Kenny behind, on the verge of tears,rubbing a shaky hand over the tattoo of Casper the Friendly Ghost onhis bicep. "Ciao."

"Come on, Victor. The average life span ofa club is what—four weeks? By the time we close, no one's gonnanotice them."

"If that's your attitude, JD, there's the door."

"Oh Victor, let's be realistic—or atleast fake it. This isn't 1987 anymore."