PRINT Summer 1994


I COULDN'T STAND Billy Sullivan the first time I met him. It was a few years ago, at a chic-ish sort of inner-circle dinner party of the kind I had lately been finding myself at the periphery of—a confab of art/fashion/magazine mavens. The food was superb. Anyway, I was the new blood and the whole thing had me internally thrashing with terror: everyone there had a history with each other, a certain élan, knew the names of roads in Amagansett. Billy seemed like some kind of leather-boy bullfrog, completely at home croaking away in this pond, where I felt like a turtle trying to make a small raft out of cigarettes rather than pulling into my shell and sinking down down down. (“Rigid” was my middle name.) Of course I resented his comfortableness: I felt like I was eavesdropping even when I was being spoken to directly; this guy worked the room like he was brushing his teeth. The odd thing is

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