Hookers and Blow.

First off, you should know that I work at the concierge desk in a luxury apartment complex in a mid-sized city. Secondly, you should know that when I go to work, I purposefully wear my glasses, tie my hair back, and look like a clean-cut, plainish, cherubic, non-sexualized, well-behaved and totally non-descript and ignorable member of the great army of service personnel that populate any mid-sized city.

On the whole, the residents of our building show a surprising amount of diversity in age, ethnicity, nationality, lifestyles and income levels (strange but true!), however, some of our residents certainly know how to party and have the means to party in style.

Most of the strange things that have happened here on my shift have occurred because of one resident in particular, a middle-aged investment tycoon who hit his peak during the Reagan administration, and seems to have kept the hair style as a souvenir. He is always 'on something' and frequently flaunts his sex workers in the lobby - one time stopping to remark to me about the date on his arm, "wouldn't it be great if she and I were together for real, and I wasn't paying her?"

He *is American Psycho.

Last January, he called called down to the front desk and said, "I've got a lady - a cleaning lady - coming over in a bit. I told her she could um, park in the back, so, can you let her in? Oh - and I might be in the shower, so um, if I'm in the shower... um, tell her I left the door open and she can just come in, ok?"

When she arived, her high heels topped by swarovski blinged-out blue jeans and matching gucci purse screamed, "I clean in style."

However, none of this had quite prepared me for tonight's adventure in generous decadence.

These last few weeks I've been putting in a considerable amount of overtime covering other people's summer vacations and other leaves of absence. I'm juggling a lot of other stuff right now too, and I'm kinda tired.

"You're here all the time these days!" American Psycho said as he screamed through the lobby on the way to his regular 8 o'clock bender.

"Yeah, everyone is on vacation," I replied, in a tone reserved especially for service industry workers looking to create polite but intentional conversational vacuums designed to drive people out the door and on their merry way.

"Well, you look tired!" he said in his wheeling-dealing, upbeat way. "Let me get you something to stay awake - I'll be right back."

"Oh no, seriously, I'm fine..." I started, but he was already in the elevator.

Five minutes later he was back again, and as he and his hair motored through the lobby on his long, skinny legs wrapped in acid wash blue jeans, he launched what appeared to be an empty pack of Parliment Lights onto my desk.

"Thanks," I told him, "Really, I'm fine, and I don't smoke."

"Just keep it," he said, already halfway out the front door.

I moved the packet to my waist, out of view of the cameras and anyone who should happen to wander through the lobby. I studied the cigarette packet and shook it. It felt empty, or at least I was fairly certain there were no cigarettes inside. I shook the pack and listened for pills. Nope. I waited for a few guests to leave the lobby. Then, still somewhat befuddled and anxious and now curious as hell, I opened the pack.

Empty.

"Nice joke, crackhead," I thought.

And then I spied a small plastic bag of cocaine.