'Summer, 1985. 11:47 AM. Back at my apartment, the sterile hum of the air conditioner cutting through the silence like a scalpel. I’m sitting at my glass-topped desk, a tumbler of Lagavulin in hand, the amber liquid catching the light of the halogen lamps. My Fiorucci suit’s still creased from the night’s chaos, and I can’t shake the image of Dave fucking Parker—Pittsburgh Pirate legend, “Cobra,” the man who’s been tearing the Mets’ pitching to shreds at Shea this week. Twelve for fourteen. Four home runs. Eight extra-base hits. Numbers that make my portfolio look like a child’s piggy bank. I’m seething, but I’m also… mesmerized. He’s a god in cleats, and tonight, I was just another suit in his orbit.
The night started at Tunnel, that neon-slick cesspool of excess where Wall Street’s finest go to preen and snort their bonuses. I was with the usual crew—McDermott, Van Patten, Bryce—posturing over Cristal and arguing about whether the new Genesis album was genius or garbage. I’d just landed a reservation at Dorsia for next week, a coup I was milking for all it was worth, when he walked in. Dave Parker. The Cobra himself. Six-foot-five, built like a Greek statue carved from obsidian, striding through the club with a swagger that made every Brooks Brothers drone in the room look like they were auditioning for a mailroom gig. He was in town for the Pirates-Mets series, fresh off dismantling Darling and Gooden like they were high schoolers. The man was a wrecking ball, and you could feel the air shift when he entered, like the room was suddenly too small to contain him.
I spotted him at the bar, surrounded by a flock of models and hangers-on, his laugh booming over the thump of New Order’s “Blue Monday.” He was wearing a tailored silk shirt, unbuttoned just enough to show off a gold chain that screamed confidence, not desperation. No Rolex, no pretension—just raw, effortless cool. I hated him instantly, but I couldn’t look away. McDermott was droning on about some leveraged buyout, but I was fixated, watching Parker hold court, his massive hand dwarfing a bottle of Heineken, his grin sharp enough to cut glass. I had to get closer.
I ditched the group, smoothed my hair (perfectly slicked, as always), and made my way over, tossing out some line about catching the game at Shea. Parker turned, sized me up like I was a rookie reliever, and then—Christ—he smiled. Not the fake, toothy bullshit you get from investment bankers. A real smile, like he was in on some cosmic joke I’d never understand. “You saw that series, huh?” he said, voice like gravel and honey. “Mets didn’t know what hit ‘em.” I laughed, too loud, and offered to buy him a drink. He waved it off, said he was good, and somehow, we ended up talking.
We hit it off, or at least I thought we did. He was all charisma, anecdotes about Clemente and Stargell flowing like the scotch we ended up sharing at a corner booth. He talked about the game—about the feeling of crushing a fastball, the roar of the crowd, the way the ball just knew it was gone off his bat. I tried to keep up, dropping names like I was somebody, but every word out of my mouth felt hollow. I’m Patrick fucking Bateman—Pierce & Pierce, Yale, the whole package—and yet, next to him, I was nothing. A shadow in a $3,000 suit. His presence was titanic, a force of nature that made my carefully curated persona feel like a cheap knockoff. He didn’t need to posture or name-drop; he was the real deal, and everyone in that club knew it.
We ended up at some after-hours spot in the Meatpacking District, a grimy dive where he knew the bartender by name. He was still in control, still the center of gravity, while I was just along for the ride, clutching my drink like a lifeline. He told a story about facing Nolan Ryan in ’79, staring down a 104-mph fastball and fouling it off like it was nothing. I tried to counter with some bullshit about a deal I closed, but it landed like a wet rag. He didn’t care about my mergers or my expense account. He was above it all—above me. And the worst part? He wasn’t even trying. His cool was effortless, a natural extension of his dominance on the field, his larger-than-life aura. I wanted to hate him for it, but I couldn’t. I wanted to be him.
By 3 AM, we were back on the street, him heading to his hotel, me to my cab. He clapped me on the shoulder, said, “Stay cool, Wall Street,” and disappeared into the night. I stood there, the city’s pulse throbbing around me, feeling like I’d just been measured and found wanting. Back at my apartment now, I can’t stop replaying it. Dave Parker, the Cobra, is everything I’m not. He doesn’t need to fake it, doesn’t need to claw for status. He’s got that rare, untouchable quality—flair, game, presence—that no amount of money or bloodlust can buy. I’m surrounded by cronies, pions, and posers, all of us scrambling to outdo each other in this soulless game of capitalism, but Parker? He’s playing a different game entirely. And he’s winning.
I’m jealous—viciously, gnawingly jealous. I want to crack open his skull and steal whatever it is that makes him him. I want to wear his confidence like one of my Zegna suits, to wield his power like I wield my American Express. But I can’t. I’m trapped in this gilded cage, surrounded by glass and steel and meaningless deals, while he’s out there, a colossus, smashing homers and owning rooms without breaking a sweat. I’ll see him again tomorrow at Shea, probably hit another dinger, and I’ll be in the stands, just another suit, invisible next to his legend.
sets down the pen, drains the scotch, and stares at the skyline, the city’s lights mocking me with their cold indifference.
I need to return some videotapes.'
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